#chew me some medals

[pitlanepeach]

Gentle Thing | OP81 + LN4

Summary — They’ve always been something soft, something golden—Oscar and Elodie. But then came F1. Then came Lando Norris, with his fast mouth and wide blue eyes. And suddenly, it’s not just the two of them anymore, because that was never how their fairytale was supposed to end. They were always supposed to be three.

Pairing — Oscar Piastri x Original Female Character x Lando Norris (MMF)

Word Count — 7k

My Masterlist

Melbourne, 2013 - Age 11 + 12

Oscar had a busted lip and a fourth-place karting medal clenched in his fist, and Elodie was painting delicate sparkles onto a pair of old ballet flats on her bedroom floor.

“You’re not gonna win every time,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And fourth isn’t that bad. You still beat, like, sixteen other people to the line.”

Oscar flopped back on her bed with a choked moan. “I don’t like being fourth.”

“Fourth seems to like you.” She grinned at him.

He glared at her. “Don’t remind me. I hate it. I’ve decided that the number four is my mortal enemy. I never want to come fourth again.”

Elodie glanced at him over the rim of her rhinestone-covered sunglasses. They were heart shaped. “You look kind of cute with a split lip.”

He cracked a smile despite himself, and in doing so, re-split the cut that’d tentatively started to heal. “Do not.” He argued.

She sighed. “You do. If I didn’t know that it was from you tripping over your own kart, I’d assume you’d been in a fight. Bad-boys are hot.”

He just stared at her, his eyebrows pulling together in disbelief.

Elodie Jade, his best friend since nursery school, was wearing a pink cotton sundress, smudged with glue and glitter. Her legs were curled under her like a cat and she was surrounded by cheap craft supplies.

Oscar had dirt under his nails and a gravel burn on his arm. He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d put on a pair of clean boxer shorts.

“I don’t want to be a bad boy,” he muttered.

“I know,” she said, flipping one of the shoes over delicately. He leaned over to look at them. They looked good. Better than before. More… Elodie. ”What do you think?” She asked, chewing on her lip.

“Pretty.” He told her.

She beamed.

⸻

Melbourne, 2017 - Age 15 + 16

They celebrated Oscar’s first European test session with pizza. Sat around the table, Elodie had fabric swatches strewn all over the kitchen.

Oscar had engine grease under his fingernails.

Elodie had a sketchbook open and a stress breakout all across her forehead.

“I might not get in,” she whispered, like saying the words out loud might somehow make them more likely to come true. “They only take like, thirty students a year.”

Oscar gave her a look, folding his piece of pizza in order to eat it more effeciently. “You will.” He told her. She blinked at him, venerability flashing on her face, and he sighed. “I mean it,” he said. “You’re really good at this stuff.” He pointed at the mannequin in the corner of the kitchen. It was covered in sewing pins and layered with a million different textured fabrics.

Elodie rolled her eyes and gave a tiny laugh. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She teased.

“It’s not even top ten.” He argued flatly. But then he bumped his knee against hers under the table. And she adjusted her position so that she could wrap her ankle around his.

Her smile was soft. Careful. Neither of them had mentioned the kiss, nor since it had happened. Two weeks ago, behind the garage after his last race, when she’d grabbed his face like she was scared of herself and he’d kissed her back like it was something inevitable, not something downright terrifying.

It hadn’t happened again since. But things felt different between them now. The energy was charged, like a million little sparks of electricity was connecting them now.

A week later, when her acceptance letter appeared in her email, she called him first.

He picked up on the second ring, groggy in some hotel room three time zones away. “Elodie?” He grumbled.

“I got in.” She said on an exhale.

She heard the rustle of sheets, the shift in his voice as he sat up. “You did?”

“I did.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. Wide and unguarded. “Of course you did.”

⸻

Paris, 2019 - Age 17 + 18

Elodie’s first collection debuted at a small fashion week offshoot in Paris; nothing major, but enough to land a few editorials and a feature in a niche luxury magazine. She wore custom satin sling backs to every event. She barely slept.

She was seventeen. In Paris, that passed for adulthood—old enough to wear red lipstick and pretend she wasn’t still full of childlike naivety.

Oscar wasn’t there. He was in the middle of a race weekend in Italy. But he sent flowers. And a note.

“I love you.”

She kept the card in her purse for weeks, until it crumpled. Then she put it in the back of her phone case. Just because.

⸻

Barcelona, 2020 - Age 18 + 19

Oscar had just won his first F3 race.

Elodie was waiting outside the paddock entrance, wearing a dress he hadn’t seen before; white, with puffed sleeves and ribbon-tie shoulders.

“You’re going to be a world champion,” she said, as he leaned into her hug. Squeezed her.

He breathed in the scent of the same perfume she’d been wearing for years and track dust and something sweet, always something sweet, and pretended the words didn’t make his stomach twist. “Just focused on surviving this season,” he murmured into her hair.

She leaned up. Kissed him softly. “You’ll do more than that.“

⸻

Baku, 2021 - Age 19 + 20

Elodie had a migraine and a décolleté crisis. Oscar had a back-of-the-grid start and an angry press officer breathing down his neck.

He called her from the cool tile floor of his hotel bathroom, lying flat on his back with his legs propped up against the door, phone balanced on his chest. His voice was hollow with exhaustion. “Tell me something not about racing.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “I stabbed my finger trying to sew lace onto a bias-cut bodice. I bled on the muslin.”

Oscar smiled faintly, eyes closed. “That’s hot.”

“You’re weird.” She laughed.

“You knew that when you started dating me.” He retorted.

She sighed, dramatic and fond. “Don’t remind me.”

He could picture her perfectly, even thousands of miles away, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her Melbourne studio, hair up in a velvet ribbon, sleeves pushed to her elbows, surrounded by half-dressed mannequins and tangled threads. Probably in one of his old team shirts. Probably glowing, even under ugly fluorescent lights.

“What happened with the bodice?” He asked.

“It didn’t sit right on the model. I cut it three times and it still looked off. Like the neckline was holding a grudge.” She paused, then added more quietly, “I think I’m going to reshoot the whole thing. The photos are wrong. The lighting’s wrong. The girls don’t… they’re beautiful, but they don’t feel like they fit my brand.”

Oscar let the silence stretch for a second, then said, “branding is important. Reshoot it.” He agreed.

“You make it sound easy.” She complained.

“Because I’m clueless.” He told her flatly,

That earned a breath of a laugh, all musical and pretty. She shifted on the other end of the line; he could hear fabric rustle, something ceramic clink, probably a teacup or a wineglass. Depending on her mood.

“Are you okay?” She asked eventually, voice somehow gentler than usual. It was impressive, how he’d managed to make someone so soft and goddamn sweet fall in love with him.

Oscar pressed his thumb into the space between his eyebrows. “Grid penalty. Shit quali. Everyone’s thinking the same thing — ‘that Aussie boy is a shit racer’.”

“You’re not.” She retorted.

He grunted. “Yeah. I know. But it’s loud. All the time. Even when they’re not saying it, they’re thinking it.”

Elodie didn’t try to offer empty comfort. She knew him too well for that. Instead, she filled the silence with her presence. Her breathing. The soft rustle of paper. The click of a lighter—one of the candles, probably.

“I miss you,” he said finally.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. “I miss you too.”

He opened his eyes, blinking up at the ceiling light. “Will you still love me if I crash tomorrow?”

“I’ll love you even if you spin into a barrier and throw up in your helmet.” She chimed.

“You’re weird.” He shot her earlier words back at her.

“You knew what you were signing up for.”

Oscar smiled, and it felt easier. He could hear her smiling, too.

They talked for another ten minutes—about the espresso machine in her new studio that hissed like it was threatening to explode, about her satin samples arriving late, about whether she should start doing video content for her website (“Only if I can be your cameraman,” he smirked, and then, just as he predicted, she sharply told him that him and his oily hands were not welcome anywhere near her fabrics).

⸻

London, 2022

The news broke at 8am.

By 8:15, her phone was hot with notifications.

ALPINE ANNOUNCE OSCAR PIASTRI AS 2023 DRIVER ALONGSIDE GASLY

F2 SUPERSTAR PIASTRI ANNOUNCED AS PART OF ALPINE’S 2023 LINE-UP

He didn’t call. Not right away.

Elodie watched the digital chaos unfold from the couch in their London flat. Her inbox buzzed with emails she didn’t open; old friends sending their congratulations, Oscar’s old racing teammates asking her a million questions like they expected her to be able to answer all of them.

Her next runway show was in six weeks. Her dressmaker had the flu.

When her phone finally rang, blocked number, go figure, she picked up before the first ring finished.

“Oscar.” She said, immediately.

“I’m with Mark.” His voice was ragged. “It’s not true. I didn’t sign anything.”

“I know. You would’ve told me.” She said.

“They went public without telling me.”

She closed her eyes. “I know.”

“I’m gonna lose everything.” He breathed.

“No, you’re not.” She whispered.

He let out a sound that cracked halfway through. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or scream. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

She stared at one of the paint swatches on the wall. They couldn’t decide between eggshell blue and jade green. “Let Mark handle it. Stop blaming yourself. And then come home.”

⸻

Oscar let the door click shut behind him and dropped his keys into the strawberry-print bowl by the front door. The flat was quiet, lights low, warm, but not empty. Never empty.

He could smell bergamot and fabric glue, the unmistakable signature of Elodie in work mode. Therefore he headed straight to her studio, alternatively known as the spare bedroom, exactly where he knew she’d be.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, pins between her teeth, measuring tape slung around her neck, one wrist marked up with lipstick and foundation swatches from testing tones against fabric. Muslin mockups draped her mannequins like half-formed dreams. Pattern paper curled like petals around her.

She looked like everything he wanted to protect.

“Hi, baby,” she said, not looking up from the sizing chart that she was editing.

He didn’t answer. Just toed off his shoes and crossed the room in silence. Then, without a word, he sat on the floor in front of her and leaned back into the space between her knees, his shoulders brushing hers. Seeking warmth. Permission to fall apart, just a little.

Elodie blinked down at him, reading the lines in his face instantly.

Without speaking, she set her work aside and slid her fingers into his hair.

She combed through it slowly with her long, artsy nails, brushing it back from his eyes, the way she used to when they were kids and he came home from a karting trip with scraped-up knees, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

He exhaled shakily. She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, then another to his temple, and another at the corner of his jaw when he tilted his face toward her.

“I’m sorry this is all such a mess,” he said after a long silence, voice rough.

“Not your fault,” she murmured.

He gave a half-laugh, tired and tight. “Still feels like I’m failing. Trusted Alpine. Shouldn’t have.”

“Osc.” She whispered.

He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “you’re the only reason I’ve made it this far.”

Her hand paused against his head.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’ve built your brand, your vision, your whole world. You’re doing so well, Elodie. And I’m still here hoping this F1 thing finally makes me someone worth—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, voice cracking at the edges.

“Oscar.”

She leaned down toward him, eyes glassy with tears, and something twisted in his chest like a blade.

She wasn’t meant to cry. Elodie was meant to be light and elegance and all the soft, lovely things in the world. Seeing her like this—eyes shining, mouth trembling—felt like the universe folding in on itself.

It hurt. It hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.

She was too beautiful for sorrow. Too golden to be anything but happy.

“I haven’t made any real money,” he said quietly, feeling discomfort curl in his gut. “Not yet. And I want—God, I want to be able to give you something solid. A full, comfortable life. I want you to build your empire with silk and organza and not for one second have to worry about how we’re going to pay for your expensive fabric swatches.”

Elodie wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him into her chest, into her warmth. “You’ve already given me so much,” she said against his hair. “Your love. Your friendship. You.” She breathed delicately. “Oscar, I would live in a hobbit hole, or a tent in the woods, if it meant being with you.”

He was silent for a beat. “Did you see the tweet?”

She hummed. “Of course. I have your notifications turned on.”

He smirked, but it was hesitant. “It felt good.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “I bet. It was very sassy.”

He hesitated, the amusement wavering. “I might never make it to Formula One now. Might’ve burned too many bridges.”

She kissed the curve of his neck, soft and sure. “You will. Trust me.”

⸻

A Week Later - Melbourne, 2022

The evening air was warm, thick with the scent of salt and jasmine. Pale pink bougainvillaea curled over the railing like something out of a painting. The sky over St Kilda was soft watercolor gold, the sun bleeding into the horizon in quiet surrender.

Elodie sat curled on the top step in a white linen sundress, bare feet tucked beneath her, her hair pinned up with one of her mother’s old tortoiseshell clips. She looked like she belonged somewhere else, somewhere older, slower, more romantic. A character from a vintage novel, Oscar often thought, or the ghost of an eighteenth century ballerina.

There was a punnet of strawberries sat between them.

“I signed,” Oscar said, out of nowhere.

Elodie turned to him, eyes wide and impossibly clear. “I— What? Signed what?”

“With McLaren.” He said. “For 2023.”

She blinked once. Then twice. And then she smiled. Slowly. Radiantly. “You’re going to drive in Formula One,” she whispered, reverent and proud.

“I’m going to drive in Formula One.” He confirmed.

The words hung between them like starlight.

She didn’t cheer, didn’t gasp or throw herself into his arms. She just reached for his hand, gently—like it was instinct, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her palm was warm and soft against his. Her nails were painted a pale blush, her wrist dusted with the scent of gardenia, the diamond bracelet that hung off of her delicate wrist real and the most expensive thing he’s ever bought. He went into debt for it—but he’d never once regretted buying it.

She leaned forward until their foreheads touched, her long, painted lashes fluttering against his cheekbones.

“You did it,” she breathed against his cheek.

“Yeah.” He smiled.

The screen door creaked behind them.

“God, you two are terrible,” came Mark’s voice, fond and dry. “Can’t keep you apart for five minutes, ay?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. Elodie only turned slightly, offering the older man one of her serene, almost too-sweet smiles. “Hello, Mark.”

“Evening, angel,” he said, walking down the steps with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. “You look precious as always.” He teased.

“She doesn’t own anything without embroidery,” Oscar muttered, fond.

“I like pretty things,” Elodie replied simply. “And I like them even more when I’ve made them with my own hands.”

Mark snorted, crouching beside them and producing three slightly crushed paper cups from the depths of his jacket. “Alright, then. A toast. To Oscar, McLaren, the downfall of Alpine, and you, Elodie girl. You’ll be the prettiest WAG in the paddock.”

Oscar groaned, low and half-hearted.

Elodie blinked but smiled anyway. Oscar stared at her. The way her lips curved when she smiled, glossed and sparkling with flecks of glitter, caught the last bit of golden light like it was made for her.

Mark poured a generous splash of wine into two of the cups, then offered the third to Elodie. She took it with her fingertips, delicate and careful, and held it like it might bite.

She peered into it, nose wrinkling in the cutest little grimace.

“You don’t have to drink it,” Oscar murmured, leaning in, voice just for her.

Mark caught it. “Shit. Sorry, forgot.” Then, laughing, he pulled a can of Sprite out of his back pocket and handed it over.

Elodie beamed. “You’re my favourite person in the world.”

“Don’t tell Oscar,” Mark said with a wink.

She cracked the can open and leaned against Oscar’s side, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Her hair smelled like something citrusy and expensive, and he instinctively tilted his head so it brushed against hers.

Mark settled into the step below them, stretching his long legs out and launching into a story about his rookie season—something about a gearbox, a helicopter, and Jacques Villeneuve that probably wasn’t entirely legal.

Oscar only half listened.

His hand was resting over Elodie’s knee, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the soft cotton of her dress. Her fingers curled lightly around his wrist. The sky was going grey-blue now, city lights flickering on in the distance.

And for the first time in a long time, Oscar let himself feel it.

Pride.

Not just in the contract, though that felt surreal in its own right, but in everything that had gotten him here. The endless hours of sim work. The thousands of karting tracks and cheap medals and grazed knees—bruised eyes. The months at a time spent away from Elodie, feeling every single mile like a knife to his gut.

All of it. Every sacrifice, every near miss.

It had all come together to lead him here.

To this perfect girl with stardust lips and sun-kissed skin. To this quiet moment on a warm Melbourne night, sitting with the two people who’d believed in him without question since the very beginning. To the knowledge that he hadn’t just made it to Formula One—he’d made something for them.

A life. A future.

He squeezed Elodie’s knee gently. She glanced up, emerald eyes catching the light, and gave him a soft, warm stare.

Yeah, Oscar thought. This is what it’s all for.

—

Oscar meets Lando on his first day at MTC.

It’s awkward. Fumbling. Lando fidgets, practically vibrating as he talks, clearly still getting used to the idea of being the team’s senior driver. That’s fine; Oscar has no intention of being anyone’s second driver, so Lando will get over himself soon enough.

They spend a few hours working on the sim before Lando takes him to meet the engineers. Zak’s there—beaming, boisterous, all overzealous shoulder pats and rib-crushing squeezes of enthusiasm.

Lando clings. As soon as he realises Oscar is nice, friendly, and capable of holding a conversation despite being quiet, blunt, and a little stoic, he latches on. Doesn’t stray more than five feet away all day. Talks too fast, changes topics mid-sentence, and circles back like it makes sense. Oscar mostly just nods. He doesn’t mind it as much as he probably should.

They eat lunch together in the cafeteria. Lando leans over the table with sudden, serious focus.

“You’re not allowed to eat fish,” he says.

Oscar blinks. Frowns. “I wasn’t planning on it,” he replies slowly, confused but—strangely—willing to go along with it.

Lando nods like that settles it.

Oscar drives himself back to London in the evening, exhausted in the way that only first days and new environments can make you. Elodie’s in her studio when he gets in, barefoot on the hardwood, her hair twisted up in a silk scarf, glue fumes thick in the air. She’s hunched over a mannequin, hands full of pearl beading, soft music playing from the little speaker on her windowsill.

He pushes the nearest window open to clear the smell before crossing the room and bending to kiss her. She tastes like strawberries and green tea, her lips soft and glossed, and she hums against his mouth like he’s exactly what she needed.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along her cheek, already breathless.

She smiles, warm and dreamy, and the whole world sparkles at the edges.

“I missed you too.”

—

Elodie spends eight weeks hand-crafting her paddock outfit for Oscar’s first race as a Formula One driver in Bahrain.

It’s a labour of love—ivory silk, structured but soft, with a modest neckline and long, fluttering sleeves that catch on the breeze like petals. The beadwork is intricate, papaya-toned to match the McLaren livery, stitched in quiet, looping patterns down the cuffs and hem. Just above the curve of her hip, nestled into the folds of the fabric, is a tiny, hand-stitched OP81.

She steps into the paddock for the first time with her press pass clutched between two fingers, trying not to look as out of place as she feels. It’s loud and busy, the air dry and sun-hot, smelling of rubber and fuel and sunscreen.

Oscar waits for her at the McLaren hospitality entrance. He’s still in his civvy’s, shorts and a plain white t-shirt. He grins when he sees her. “You wore it.”

She smooths her skirt self-consciously. “Of course I did.”

His hand finds her waist. His thumb brushes the little OP81 like it’s a secret just for him.

They don’t get more than a few seconds before a voice interrupts—bright and slightly too loud, bouncing with energy. “Oh, hey!”

Lando Norris.

He’s flushed from the heat, curls damp at the edges, eyes wide behind dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. He skids to a halt in front of them, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

Oscar steps back a little, hand still on Elodie’s waist. “Lando, this is my girlfriend, Elodie.”

Lando blinks at her. Then blinks again. “Oh. You’re real.”

Elodie smiles, polite, a little hesitant. “Yes. I think so.”

“No, I just—he talks about you a lot,” Lando says quickly, shifting his weight. “Not in a weird way. Just—like, normal. Nice. Supportive.”

Oscar groans softly. Elodie purses her lips softly.

“I’ve heard a lot about you too,” she says, and it’s not a lie. Oscar had mumbled things about “a bit chaotic” and “kind of funny” and “I think he eats four chocolate croissants a day, I’m not sure how it’s even possible.”

Lando rocks back on his heels. “You look amazing. That dress is… like… I don’t even know what it is.”

“She made it,” Oscar tells him.

Lando’s eyebrows lift. “No way.”

She manages a small nod. “I did.”

Lando whistles, low and sincere. “You’re way too talented to be stuck with him.”

Oscar elbows him in the ribs, but it’s gentle. Familiar.

Elodie just smiles again. Soft, poised, unreadable. But when Oscar glances down, he can see the curve of her fingers tightening slightly around his wrist.

Later, when Lando finally wanders off (mid-sentence, distracted by something shiny and unusual near the garage entrance) Elodie watches him go with a curious tilt of her head.

“He’s… nice,” she says softly.

Oscar hums. “He grows on you.”

Her gaze lingers a moment longer. “He races with the number four, doesn’t he?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah.”

She laces their fingers together with quiet ease. “You never liked that number.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

They walk slowly, past tire trolleys and engineers and the familiar hum of a team preparing for a new season. Oscar shows her where she’ll sit, where she’ll be able to see his garage and the track.

He squeezes her fingers once. “No,” he agrees. “I’ve never liked it.”

Elodie smiles, lightly, knowingly, and tucks herself closer to his side. He doesn’t say it out loud, but she can feel it anyway.

Maybe that won’t be true for much longer.

—

Zandvoort, 2023

It started raining midway through FP3. The kind of sudden, wind-lashed downpour that turned everything slick and halted everything. Engineers ducked under awnings, pit crews scrambled to cover tyres, media teams rushed to save their equipment.

Elodie hadn’t moved.

She stood just under the edge of the overhang at Oscar’s garage, rain misting across her face, curls slipping free from the tortoiseshell comb at the back of her head. Her papaya-hued trench coat had darkened at the seams, damp fabric clinging to her sleeves like second skin.

Lando spotted her before anyone else did.

He paused halfway through a sip of Monster, blinking. Tilted his head slightly. “Is she—why is she just standing there?”

Oscar looked up from the telemetry monitor and followed his gaze.

“Elodie,” he said. Softly. Simply.

Lando waited for more. When it didn’t come, he turned toward him, brows raised.

“She likes the sound,” Oscar said after a moment. “And the smell. Of the rain.”

Lando frowned. “She’s gonna get drenched.”

But Oscar didn’t move.

And Lando, already in motion, realised, for the first time, how strange that was. The lack of tension. The stillness. Like Oscar was fully in tune with everything Elodie was feeling, seeing, hearing.

Elodie didn’t flinch when Lando stopped beside her. She only looked up with that small, gentle smile—the kind that made him feel oddly exposed. Her eyes were soft and storm-lit. Her lips glossed with the same faint shimmer that seemed to settle over everything she touched.

“Hi,” she said, voice light.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he offered, extending the McLaren umbrella toward her with both hands, like he didn’t quite trust himself to just hold it over her and not stare.

She blinked up at him. “I’m alright, Lando,” she said. “It’s only a bit of rain.”

He blinked back. “Yeah, but—wet, innit?”

There was a pause. And then—she giggled. Actually giggled. It was light and breathless, like wind chimes. Clear and sudden and completely, utterly unexpected.

He liked the sound of it far more than he should’ve.

Inside the garage, Oscar still hadn’t moved. Arms crossed. Helmet tucked under one elbow. Watching.

He didn’t feel angry. Or possessive. Or anything he was supposed to feel. And maybe that unsettled him more than anything else.

Because Elodie looked lovely in the rain.

Raindrops clung to the edge of her skin. Her cheeks were pink with cold. The coat hugged her frame in a way that made her look even smaller than she was, her embroidery catching faint glints of light beneath the grey sky. She looked like she’d been painted there. Dreamlike. Half-imagined.

Lando adjusted the umbrella, held it closer. His elbow brushed hers.

She didn’t move away.

“I heard you cracked a joke in the drivers’ briefing,” she said. Like she was continuing a conversation they’d already been having.

Lando winced. Smiled around an embarrassed grimace. His cheeks went a little red. “Did Oscar say it was bad?”

“He didn’t need to, Lando.”

She smiled again. Fully, this time. Wide. With teeth. And somehow, it hit him differently. He’d seen that smile before, in passing—on Oscar’s phone, in paddock photos. But not like this. Not when it was for him.

It was beautiful.

And suddenly, painfully, he knew it.

He forgot everything else for a second. The team radios, the storm warnings, the puddle slowly soaking into his races shoes.

She was just standing there—rain in her hair, glitter on her lips, saying his name like it meant something good.

And Oscar was still watching. Quiet. Still. Something flickering behind his eyes.

Lando swallowed, glanced at his teammate and then looked away just as quickly.

Oscar worked his jaw; four had always been his least favourite number—his six-month long fourth place curse when he’d still been in karts had made sure of that.

So why, now, could he picture it stitched right beside 81? Papaya thread. The soft curve of her embroidery font. A quiet, private claim.

OP81. LN4.

He turned away before he could think too hard about what that meant.

Walked further into the garage with his hands curled into loose fists, flexing open and closed in a rhythm he didn’t quite understand.

—

Lando sank onto the little padded bench at the back of the hospitality suite, still damp around the ankles, the McLaren umbrella propped uselessly by the wall. He stared at it like it might tell him something.

Something useful. Like what the hell he was doing.

She was Oscar’s girlfriend.

That was the headline. That was the full story. Had been from the moment they’d first met, when she’d said hi in her quiet, polite way, like it didn’t even occur to her that she might be worth noticing. And maybe that was the problem.

She didn’t seem to know. That she was worth noticing.

He kept thinking about the rain. The way it made her eyelashes stick together in little wet triangles. The way she’d tilted her head when he fumbled through telling her not to stand outside—wet, like an idiot—and how she’d just laughed all sweetly.

He liked the way she looked at people.

But mostly he just liked the way she looked at him.

Lando dragged a hand through his hair and groaned under his breath. Somewhere across the room, someone was talking about tyre degradation, and he tried—tried—to focus. He’d never had trouble focusing on racing before. Racing was simple. Clean. Numbers and instinct.

This wasn’t.

Oscar had said nothing. Had just stood there watching, cool and unreadable as always. Not jealous. Not angry.

Just watching.

That was worse, somehow. Because it meant there was no line being drawn. No boundary to respect. No solid ground to stand on.

There was a brief knock, then a head poking in—one of the engineers. “You coming to the debrief?”

Lando blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.”

He stood too fast and stumbled into the umbrella on the way out. It clattered to the floor behind him, and he didn’t stop to pick it up.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how she hadn’t stepped away.

And he didn’t know what that meant.

Not yet.

But he thought maybe Oscar did.

—

The flat smelled like garlic and basil. Warm bread, rain on a pavement. Elodie sat cross-legged on the kitchen bench, sketchbook balanced on her lap, pencil tucked between her fingers like it belonged there. She was wearing Oscar’s sweatshirt. The navy one with the loose hem and faded collar. Her hair was damp, curling where it dried against her neck.

Oscar set down her bowl without saying anything. Pasta with roasted tomato, soft white cheese melting at the edges. He poured her water—over ice, a piece of fresh mint.

Sat across from her.

She didn’t look up. Just kept sketching. Lines, flourishes, thread work. Something soft. Ornate.

Oscar watched her. Ate. The clink of cutlery, the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

“Dinner, Elodie,” he prompted eventually.

She looked up. “Mm. Thank you.”

They ate. Something French and slow playing from the little speaker near the stove. Her foot brushed his knee once. She didn’t notice. He didn’t move.

Then—

She turned slightly, already mid-thought. “Lan, do you…”

Pause.

Her head tilted. She stared at the empty seat on her left. Blinked once. “Oh,” she whispered.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

She looked down at her pasta. Bit her lip, soft and unthinking. “Sorry. I meant—”

“Lando?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

Oscar shrugged, like it was fine. Like he didn’t mind that they were sat here, just the two of them, eating dinner as they always had—and still, she’d turned to speak to someone who wasn’t even there. Like it had become muscle memory to expect him to be. Elbows on the table. Half a smile. Talking too loud about something too specific.

“He’s like that.” Oscar told her, quiet. “Clingy. Makes you think about him even when you shouldn't.”

Her fingers rested on the corner of her sketchbook. She didn’t speak, not at first. But he could see it in her—the flicker of thought. That little crease between her brows. Her teeth pressing gently into her lower lip.

Oscar leaned back in his chair. “Elodie.”

She blinked at him, her beautiful eyes shining. “Oscar.” She breathed.

They’d spent the first three race weekends of Oscar’s rookie season with Lando attached to them like a fifth limb. Traveling together, eating together, laughing together.

Hotel rooms that meant for two that ended up fitting three — Oscar and Elodie in the bed, Lando on the sofa (“I don’t really like being alone,” he’d said, once, and Elodie had hurt). Lando stealing the last of Elodie’s lip balm. Oscar accidentally wearing Lando’s boxers, and vice versa.

Now, it was quiet.

A lovely pasta. A one-on-one date night that mirrored a thousand they’d had before.

But suddenly it felt like there was a piece missing. A hyperactive, freckled, Monster-fuelled piece.

Elodie reached across the table, brushing her knuckles against the back of Oscar’s hand. Gentle. Like always. “I didn’t even realise,” she said softly. “That I was missing him.”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

They both already knew.

—

The hotel room was quiet.

Warm light filtered through linen curtains, brushing over the edge of the bed in pale, dusky streaks.

Oscar was on his side, propped up on one elbow. Elodie was tucked beside him, one leg thrown loosely over his hip, embroidery circle abandoned on the duvet. Her hair was still slightly damp from her shower, curling softly at her temples. She smelled like vanilla body oil and her expensive conditioner.

She always smelled lovely

The TV was playing something neither of them were paying much attention to—some old film, all long glances and black-and-white glamour. Oscar couldn’t tell if she’d chosen it for the aesthetic or if it had just been the first thing she’d clicked.

Elodie shifted slightly, gaze still fixed on the screen. Her thumb traced absent little arcs over Oscar’s ribs. His eyes fluttered shut.

Then the door slammed open.

They both startled. A thump, a muttered curse, and then Lando stumbled in, hoodie half-zipped, curls damp, cheeks splotched with red. “Sorry,” he said, breathless, kicking the door shut behind him. “Media stuff ran long. And then Jensen cornered me in the paddock.”

Elodie sat up a little, smiling, all warm and… Elodie. “Hi, Lando.”

Lando blinked at them on the bed, then dropped his bag to the floor with a heavy, tired thud. “Hi.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but shifted back just enough to make space. Elodie tugged the duvet up. Without another word, Lando dropped onto the mattress like he belonged there.

His head landed somewhere near Oscar’s knee. He exhaled hard, a long, whiny sigh. “I’m dying.”

“You qualified second,” Oscar said, voice low.

“I’m emotionally dying,” Lando clarified. “That’s different.”

Elodie’s hand found the curls at the back of his neck. She didn’t say anything, just combed through them gently, rhythmically. Lando made a small, pleased noise, somewhere between a sigh and a hum. His eyes slid closed.

Within minutes, he was asleep. Sprawled halfway across the bed, long limbs thrown out like a starfish, mouth open, one hand curled loosely around the edge of Elodie’s embroidery circle. There was a smear of engine oil on his jaw and his socks didn’t match. One of them had a hole.

Oscar didn’t move. Just lay back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Elodie reached for his hand under the blanket.

She squeezed it, gently.

And just like that, they were three again.

—

Lando gives up pretending six weeks later.

Its been six weeks of sharing hotel rooms, of tiptoeing around each other, of lingering touches that were too soft to be anything but an invitation, of pillow talk that lingered in the air even after the lights went out. Of awkward glances when Elodie and Oscar ask the front desk, “Do you have any bigger beds?” because they both knew the time would come. And yet, none of them quite dared to speak the words out loud.

But now, standing in the paddock in Austin, Lando can’t take it anymore.

He corners her, pulling her into the dark corner between the motorhomes, where no one can see them. There’s a strange sense of urgency in his chest, and the way her bohemian dress flows around her, catching the light just right, makes his stomach twist and curl.

She looks up at him, those wide eyes full of curiosity, maybe even a hint of sweet amusement. And that smile of hers, soft and knowing, makes him burn a little on the inside.

“I want to kiss Oscar,” he says before he even thinks about it. The words spill out, heavy with the weight of something he’s been carrying around without even knowing it. The confession hangs between them, unspoken, unasked for. But there it is.

She blinks at him, completely unfazed, and then her hand is on his face, feather-light, fingers brushing over his skin and tracing his moles. The touch is delicate. Her breath, tinged with peppermint, brushes his lips, and he feels like he’s drowning.

Is he even breathing? His chest tightens, and for a second, he swears his heart might stop. Or maybe it’s racing so fast that he’s having a heart attack. Either way, his body feels like it’s no longer his own.

Her eyes meet his, the silence between them is suddenly too loud. And then, with that perfect sweetness in her voice that always makes him feel like he’s being cradled by a cloud, she asks, “Do you want to kiss me too?”

Lando stops breathing. The question hangs there, soft and unexpected, curling around him like smoke. He blinks at her and his mind goes blank for a moment, and his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

But then, his head nods once. Just once. Small, almost imperceptible.

Elodie doesn’t move away. In fact, she steps closer, so close that he can feel the heat of her body against his. Her long, pretty fingernails linger at his jaw, the unreasonably soft pad of her thumb brushing the curve of his cheek.

Her smile softens.

Everything changes.

—

Glastonbury 2023

The sun had set, and the soft hum of evening wrapped itself around the quiet house. The three of them sat on the outdoor sofa, spread out in a comfortable, easy pile. Oscar’s legs were stretched out, his head resting on Elodie’s lap as she ran her fingers through his hair.

Lando leaned back against the armrest, one leg draped over Oscar’s, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of Oscar’s hand. Elodie glanced up at Lando and blinked, expression open and full of unfiltered adoration, before her fingers shifted to trace the curve of his jaw.

Lando let his eyes flutter close at the touch.

Oscar shifted slightly, pulling his head from Elodie’s lap to tilt his face up toward Lando. Without a word, he leaned in, just a little, and Lando met him halfway. It was slow, soft, a kiss that lingered without pressure. And then, just as easily, Lando pulled back, turning to Elodie. Her smile was bright, her eyes soft, and before she could say anything, he leaned in to kiss her too, a gentle brush of lips that held no rush, no need for anything but the quiet certainty of this.

When he pulled back, Oscar was already watching, his gaze warm, appreciative; so fucking fond. His hand rested on Lando’s knee, fingers lightly tapping in a rhythm that didn’t need to be explained. Lando’s heart gave a little jolt, but it wasn’t the kind of thing he needed to figure out. Not now, not when everything was so perfectly easy.

Elodie leaned over to kiss Oscar on the cheek, then pressed her forehead to his. “It’s good,” she murmured, almost to herself. “This.”

Oscar nodded, lips curling into a soft smile as he kissed her cheek in return. “Perfect, I think.”

Lando sat back, his arm casually wrapping around both of them, pulling them closer.

Because they were both his now—and he could have them as close as he wanted. All the time. Forever.

—

Oscar didn’t hate the number four anymore.

It meant something different now. Something far more tender.

But—he thinks, staring at the photograph he has set as his iPhone wallpaper—maybe he’ll always prefer the number three.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Somewhere Between Chapters

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a rare day off, you escape to the park with a book and no plans, followed and joined by Bucky.

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: fluff; mutual pining

Author’s Note: Ahh I loved some pure fluff for a change again. Thank you for sending me this lovely request!! I hope you enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

You'd forgotten the way it felt to pause.

To inhale.

To just be.

And so when your mission schedule coughed up an unexpected day off - when the universe, in its infinite chaos, cracked open and let you go outside - you listened. You laced your boots, grabbed a book you'd been pretending to read for weeks, and walked until the city felt like a dream someone else was having.

The park smells like grass and laughter, and there is a soft breeze tracing letters across your skin like some sort of code you don’t need to decipher.

You find a bench under a flowering tree that doesn’t know how to stop blooming, and you sit, and you breathe.

The sky is soft today.

A blue that’s been washed too many times in the sink, but still looks beautiful. It hangs wide over the park, spills over the grass, and you feel it warming the top of your head.

You don’t want noise. Or missions. Or anyone asking you how you’re feeling because they already know the answer is complicated. You just want this. A park. A book. A sky.

And apparently, a Bucky Barnes.

You don’t notice him until he’s standing right in front of you and you turn a page that suddenly means nothing.

Bucky moves like guilt and history and poetry someone tried to erase. You didn’t see him coming. Didn’t see him watching. But there’s a silence following him. Something you always pick up - the subtle way the world makes space when he walks through it. You look up and your breath catches on his name.

His hair is slightly windswept. The clean-cut line of his jaw is staring right at you. He’s wearing that navy jacket you like, the one with the collar he keeps turning up when he’s pretending not to care what you think. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there as if it’s normal.

You don’t know what to do with your hands.

“Hey,” he then says, voice low and slightly raspy.

You tilt your head. “Did you follow me?”

“Nah,” he lies. “I was just walking.”

You look at him. At his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The slight slope of his shoulders. The shadows under his eyes he wears like war medals.

“You were following me,” you say, slightly amused but soft, as though the words might bruise if you breathe on them too hard.

He looks away, mouth twitching as if chewing on a confession. He shrugs. “Didn’t have anything else going on.”

Which is a lie. You know it. He’s always got something going on. Missions. Meetings. Therapy. Hunched broodingly over the kitchen counter. Steve breathing down his neck.

He chose to come here. He followed you. And maybe that shouldn’t make your heart flutter the way it does, but it does. It flutters like a page caught in wind.

“Can I sit?” he asks, pointing at the place right beside you.

You nod before your heartbeat remembers how to say no.

Bucky sits beside you. You hear him let out a breath.

You open your book again, but the words are blurring slightly. He’s warm beside you. A slow, solid warmth. Like safety, if safety had stubble and blue eyes that refused to meet yours.

You glance at him, but he’s looking at the book in your lap as if it holds answers. As if it holds you. “What’re you reading?”

You show him the cover. He nods as though it means something to him, but it doesn’t. You know it doesn’t.

“Read to me?” he asks quietly.

Your gaze falls to him.

He doesn’t look at you when he asks. Just stares straight ahead, as though the request might have been an accident. As though allowing you to simply ignore it.

But you don’t.

You nod. It’s all you can do. You start reading aloud, the words trembling slightly at first, but then softening with the wind.

Bucky listens with the kind of attention you might think he’d use only on a battlefield. When it’s about life and death. But he listens to you as if your words are a map, and he’s trying to find his way home through the sound of your voice.

At some point, you forget what the story is about.

Because you can feel his gaze on you. Not constant - just glancing. As if trying not to be obvious. As if memorizing your profile in stolen pieces. The curve of your cheek. The way your lips move when you say words like hope and light and tethered.

You pause to turn the page, and his fingers brush yours.

An accident, probably.

You keep reading anyway.

He leans back, one arm stretching across the back of the bench. As if it belongs near you. And every now and then, his fingers touch the sleeve of your shirt and your skin forgets how to be still.

He closes his eyes. Maybe wanting to remember the sound of your voice. Trying to memorize it, tuck it away, in case he doesn’t get to hear it again soon.

You steal a glance at him when you think he won’t notice.

But he notices. Of course, he does.

He opens his eyes, catches you looking, and instead of looking away, you both just hold your gazes there. Caught in the space between chapters. Between breaths. Between all the things you’ve never said out loud.

You want to tell him he didn’t need to come. That he could have stayed back at the tower. You want to tell him that this is your favorite kind of day and now it’s somehow better.

But all you say is, “You like it?”

He doesn’t look away from you when he answers. “Yeah.”

“A specific part?”

He swallows. “All of it.”

And maybe he means the book. Or the breeze. Or the way you sit beside him and read to him as if he’s not someone dangerous.

Maybe he just means you.

You don’t answer. Not with words. Just a smile. A real one. The kind that starts in your chest and climbs all the way to your eyes.

He shifts, a little closer, until your knees brush. Until the warmth of him sinks into your side and you feel less like one person and more like a sentence that finally found its ending.

And you keep reading.

Because it’s the only way to keep breathing.

Because if you stop, you might say all the things you’ve been carrying, and he might say them back.

And the world might turn around.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part three)

part three ; iced oat milk latte, no sweetener

warnings ; jungkook being a bitch, oc planning his murder once again </3

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; hi, hello, bonjour, hola, ciao!!!! before we get into this whole mess, i want to start by apologizing for the hunger games reference… i fear i am rereading the series and all i can offer up is metaphors and similes having to do with katniss everdeen

anyway! we get a tiny tiny peek into a nicer jk (before he snatches that back up in his paw real fast), we meet monroe in all her political glory, and we also meet Rosalie!!!!! she is kinda maybe important (i mean, did you even look at the index… homegirl has an extra dedicated to her) so pay ATTENTION to those good ol context clues

ok that’s all i have to offer besides hugs n kisses. MWAHHH

playlist here

series masterlist here

Mondays in Washington D.C are a bloodsport.

You’re essentially Katniss Everdeen with a college degree, wielding a Macbook Air and a slightly chewed Pilot G2 instead of a bow and arrow, and tragically, there’s no Peeta tossing you bread.

You’ve accepted your role in the arena — not because you’re necessarily winning this specific Monday (though rewriting a headline three times while simultaneously ghosting two former sources does deserve some kind of medal), but because in this moment, you recognize just how good you are at your job.

This Monday, with Jenna sitting across from you in the cafeteria, a small, satisfied smile curved upon her lips and an iced green tea creating its own little puddle on the table, you feel like you’ve just shot an arrow through the Gamemakers’ roast pig.

“You,” she says, pointing at you with a manicured finger, “are single-handedly keeping CNN afloat.”

You arch a brow, leaning back into the faux leather chair, “Just me? Not the seasoned journalists or the guy in graphics who hasn’t taken a day off since the Obama years?”

“Okay, yes, but they didn’t just lock down the most exclusive interview of all time while also managing two live hits in one afternoon.” Her eyes are sparkling as she takes a sip of her watered-down concoction. “Honestly, if I were five years younger and less emotionally stable, I'd be deeply threatened by you.”

You grin, warmth flooding your chest. You’ve always admired Jenna; beyond her credentials, which includes three promotions before the age of 30, she also knows how to wield power with elegance.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” she settles her drink back down on the table. “You have been on fire lately. Monroe, the security reform story, that exclusive with Whitford’s aide… I’ve gotta say, you’re giving me a run for my money.”

The cafeteria isn’t busy at this time of day. There’s a few lingering presences, some interns loitering by the salad bar while they talk about happy hour plans neither of you will be invited to.

Your 1-on-1’s with Jenna have always been incredibly informal; the two of you opt to sit in the lunchroom, discuss any updates to stories you’re chasing down, and she pretends that she needs to edit anything you write even though she trusts you more than her own husband.

“Well, Monroe kinda fell in my lap,” you shrug. “Sheer stroke of luck.”

Jenna laughs, a full-bellied one that makes you feel like maybe you can breathe a little today. Hell, maybe you’ll take that “mental health walk” you keep scheduling on your calendar but happen to neglect every time it rolls around.

“I don’t even care,” she shakes her head. “I needed something real meaty this month. If I have to greenlight another story about the president’s favorite dog breed, I will walk into the Potomac.”

“Tell me again why you keep me around?” you tease.

“You might be the only person left who doesn’t make me regret going into journalism.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere, Jenna.”

She takes the hair tie off her wrist and pretends to launch it at you, and you both fall into a fit of giggles before she sits up suddenly like she just remembered she left her curling iron on. “Oh! Before I forget, the gala’s Friday.”

You pause in your tracks. Full record scratch, pause, tape spooling, rewinding. “The what now?”

“You know, the White House Correspondents gala. Annual festival of denial. Open bar, basically prom for people who peaked at Model UN? Ringing any bells?”

It’s actually ringing so many bells you feel like you’re in church. It’s Washington’s annual act of self-congratulation. Officially, it’s the White House Correspondents’ Dinner Afterparty, but everyone calls it what it is: White House Prom. A glitzy, overfunded fever dream where senators and editors and press reps drink bourbon under chandeliers, interns get stuck holding coats, and everyone pretends they haven’t been arguing over bylines all year.

A night where policy meets pageantry and somehow always ends with someone crying in the bathroom over budget cuts.

You groan obnoxiously. “God. Is that already here? I thought we canceled it after last year’s incident.”

“You mean when a Reuters editor sang ‘WAP’ on a table? Yeah, no. Tradition lives on.”

“I swear if I have to talk to one more sweaty political aide about how much they ‘respect the hell out of my work,’ I’m going to fake an international assignment.” True story, unfortunately.

You watch behind Jenna as the interns file out of the lunchroom after playing with lettuce and gossiping for five minutes straight.

“Still at the Hay Adams?” you follow up.

“Ballroom this year,” Jenna confirms. “Bigger space.”

You nod, mostly to yourself. It’s not mandatory, but it’s expected. Like flossing. Or staying neutral on Twitter.

“Yippee,” you grit out in faux excitement. “Lucky us.”

Jenna hums, then leans in with the type of expression normally reserved for the latest staffer-on-staffer affair. Your spine automatically mirrors her posture, because this is Washington and you can never predict what’ll come out of her mouth, even if it’s just about someone's bad Botox.

“Also, I probably shouldn’t be saying this yet..” she trails off, inspecting her nail polish, then glancing around as if the interns never fled the room. “...But you’re being considered for the next internal bump.”

You blink. “Bump?” Cocaine at this hour seems like overkill.

“Promotion,” she clarifies. “Senior Correspondent.”

Your whole body locks up, brain short-circuiting for a second before kicking into high gear.

You can’t tell if this is because of the Monroe thing or the Whitford aide or the years you’ve spent out-scooping your colleagues while surviving on six hours of sleep. Probably all of the above.

Either way, your heart is breakdancing. You’re really trying to look like it isn’t.

“That’s…” you nod slowly. “Cool.”

Cool. Cool? That’s what you go with? Jesus Christ. You sound like a hungover intern.

“Would you want to interview for it?” she asks amusedly.

Would you—

Okay. No. No squealing. No weird excited noises. No blacking out. Breathe and say something coherent that conveys hunger, capability, and an IQ higher than 119.

“I’d be open to it,” you say, like a person who hasn’t already mentally rewritten her resume and picked out what she’s wearing for the panel interview.

Jenna smirks knowingly. “Nice. I’ll let higher-ups know.”

“Does… anyone else know?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don’t necessarily know who you’re alluding to. Maybe Emma, maybe that guy Paul who sits two rows away from you and is always blasting NPR in his AirPods.

“If you’re asking if we’re evaluating anyone else for this, the answer is I don’t know,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “But… they do need my approval to go through, and I haven’t put anyone up for review yet.”

The ‘except for you’ is silent.

She pushes back her chair, grabs her mostly waterlogged green tea, now just a cup of sadness and regret. You follow her lead, still feeling slightly shell-shocked in the best possible way.

Walking out of the worn-down cafeteria with her, shoes tapping against the tile, mind already spinning with possibilities, you feel oddly at peace.

And maybe that’s why you love Mondays in D.C so much.

Not because they’re easy or slow or remotely tolerable.

But because sometimes, they remind you of exactly who the hell you are.

And that, makes the bloodsport kind of worth it.

The chair squeaks every time you shift, which wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t the only sound in the room.

The White House has many rooms. Historic ones, important ones, also some where actual history is made. This is not one of those rooms. This is one of the weird, vaguely depressing interview rooms they trot out for second-tier people. You know, deputy communications directors, committee aides. That one Assistant Secretary who went viral for being hot, then immediately got canceled for a tweet he wrote in 2011 about dogs wearing pants.

An overpriced chandelier slightly swings above you, lighting the space aggressively. Your chair is wooden, tilted approximately 97 degrees like it wants you to develop scoliosis.

Still, you made it. You’re here. Not even fashionably early. Stupidly early.

You blame the adrenaline. Your meeting with Jenna earlier left you jittery, and no, it had nothing to do with the four Celsius’ you ingested. The notebook in your lap, which currently looks like it’s been through six war rooms, is overflowing with questions — some carefully workshopped with Jenna, others you came up with alone while brushing your teeth this morning.

Your leg bounces. You flip a page, then flip it back. Your eyes fight to look at the clock without looking at the clock.

This is fine. You like prep time. You thrive on prep time.

The door creaks open behind you, and your heartbeat does a weird little thump thump behind your ribs. Your body refuses to swivel in the chair in case it’s her.

Here we go. Monroe. Congresswoman. Possibly the key to that promotion Jenna has promised you on a silver platter. Maybe, if you’re really lucky, Jungkook got hit by a car and you’ll be running this interview slot on your own. Time to sit up straight, flash your professional smile, channel your inner Barbara Walters and—

“Wow. Early. Didn’t know that was your thing.”

You slump completely into your chair.

Did the car you just imagined hitting him take a wrong turn?

You don’t dare turn to look at him, instead pretending to be incredibly invested in the chicken scratch on your notepad. “Wow. Late. Makes sense that’s your thing.’

The door closes behind him, and you hear him set his bag down by the entrance. “You know she’s not supposed to be here for another five minutes, right?”

You roll your eyes so hard you give yourself a minor headache. “That’s five minutes of prep time.”

There are approximately seven billion people on this planet. This is the one you’re stuck sharing a congresswoman with.

God is testing you.

Jungkook rounds your chair, and for a moment you prepare for impact — some offhand comment, a smug smile, a challenge disguised as a compliment. Standard procedure.

But instead, something cold and plastic materializes right in front of your face.

You blink away the blurriness of the object in front of you.

It’s a coffee cup. In his hand. Inches from your nose.

“What the fuck is that?” you ask, recoiling slightly like he just tried to hand you a live animal.

He sets it down on the table in front of you with dramatic flair. “Your coffee.”

You stare at it. Then at him. Then back at it. “You don’t even know what I drink.”

He doesn’t flinch at that. “Isn’t it still that iced oat milk latte thing? No sweetener?”

Your soul briefly detaches from your body.

“How—”

“You used to order it every day before Public Policy, and then show up with it half-empty already,” He shrugs casually like that isn’t deranged information to remember. “It stuck.”

What the actual fuck is going on?

He takes a sip of his own drink — hot, probably black, the beverage of overconfident men who think bitterness builds character. “Still think you’re weird for drinking something that tastes like oat-flavored water with no sugar, but hey. To each their own.”

You’re still staring at the cup.

“Why did you bring me this?” you ask, voice flat, because this feels off-brand. He’s not… nice. He’s Jungkook. He’s that dude you just imagined getting run over by a car, and then the car backed up and ran over him again while you smiled gleefully. “Is it poisoned?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans. “I stopped at the cafe and asked for the rat poison special. It’s just a little something to take the edge off.”

You level him with a look. He grins wider, those two bunny teeth poking out beneath his top lip. Bastard. He’s so… so.. (and when you find the right words, you’ll scream them from the rooftop.)

Then he finally sinks into the chair next to you and stretches out like this is a coffee date and not a battle for professional supremacy.

“I want a fair game,” he states matter-of-factly, eyes flicking toward the empty seat Monroe will soon occupy. “Need you caffeinated for that.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy internally malfunctioning.

Because here’s the thing: he shouldn’t know that. About the oat milk (or the existence of it in general.) The lack of sweetener. The whole personality trait of a drink you depend on like a life jacket.

He shouldn’t remember.

Yet there it is. Sitting on the table, condensation gathering.

You cross your leg over the other and force yourself to look unimpressed. “You really came in here with a performance-enhancing latte to try and make me nervous?”

He smirks. “Is it working?”

Absolutely.

“Only because I’m wondering when the side effects kick in.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, and you hate the way your stomach sort of flutters. Like it forgot whose side it was on.

You pick up the cup anyway. Take a sip. Might as well see if he remembered the extra shot of espresso—

Damn it.

It’s perfect.

It’s exactly what Jenna brings you each morning.

There’s so much more you want to say but it all shrivels up on your tongue and dies.

He nods toward the cup. “Well?” he asks. “Up to your standards?

You pause mid-sip, raise a brow. “It’s drinkable. Could use a little poison though.”

“That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me,” he smiles widely, although you and him both know that was the farthest thing from a compliment.

“Don’t get used to it.” You let the straw clack gently against the lid. “I’m sure you’ll say something idiotic in the next thirty seconds to cancel it out.”

You think he’ll fight you on it like he’s been fighting you on everything since the first time you met. But he just smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, “Probably. But you’ll still drink the coffee.”

“Mm. Haven’t decided just how disturbed I am that you remembered my order from college.”

“I’m disturbed you’re still drinking it,” he shoots back. “Sounds like it tastes like shit.”

You’re about to launch into some detailed rebuttal involving Jungkook’s questionable taste in everything from shirt choice to headline structure to coffee orders when you hear the rusty doorknob turning.

This time, however, it’s not Jungkook barreling through the entrance.

Congresswoman Monroe hovers under the threshold of the room, stepping into it cautiously. At the noise, you and Jungkook both shoot up from your chairs like students caught gossiping mid-lecture.

She’s maybe mid-40s, though her face suggests she made a very lucrative deal with time around 31. Her dark hair is pulled back into a low, sleek ponytail, wearing a navy pantsuit that probably costs more than your entire student loan debt.

She pulls off her Celine sunglasses in one fluid motion — what is it with people on the Hill wearing sunglasses indoors? — and tucks them into her bag, giving you both a long once-over. You feel quite small under her gaze, despite her being shorter than you.

“Wow,” she raises a brow, “Look at that. The youth still believes in chivalry.”

You want to extend a hand to her for her to shake, but decide against it when you calculate the distance still between you two. “It felt appropriate. It’s nice to meet you, Congresswoman. We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”

She snorts at that, clearly entertained, “Well, I believe it was my overachieving press rep who lured you here, not I. He seems to have a way with words to convince two of the biggest outlets to speak to me off the record.”

Ah, yes. Who could forget the ever-so-eloquent Mark? You hope he’s doing better than when you last saw him.

“It’s no problem, really,” Jungkook reassures. “I know this story is fresh, so we’ll take anything.”

Monroe seems to accept that answer, striding forward and taking her seat across from you two with ease. You and Jungkook share a quick look before sitting back down, both your notebooks flipping open almost immediately. You want to say you know exactly where to start, but considering the circumstances, nothing feels sufficient.

She crosses her legs, leans back in her chair and looks between the two of you as if pondering which one of you will be brave enough to speak first.

Clearly, it won’t be you.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Jungkook’s fingers twirl around his pen thoughtfully, like he’s John Hancock about to sign the Declaration of Independence, “Walk us through how you and Delgado got involved in the first place.”

You resist the urge to groan out loud. Classic Jungkook; start at square one, build some cute little narrative arc, win hearts and minds while you’re over here looking like you’re the world’s most submissive little sidekick. He’s laying groundwork like this is some Netflix docuseries and he’s the charming narrator.

You have approximately twelve smoking-gun questions and a left eye that’s starting to twitch.

Before Monroe can answer, she raises a hand. “Confirming this is off the record, right?”

Both you and Jungkook shoot your hands up in defense, as to prove there’s not some top secret recorder clutched in your palms. You answer quickly, “Completely.”

She gives you a look like she doesn’t fully believe you, but she’s too tired to care. Then she shakes her head in approval, crossing her hands and placing them atop her knees like she’s preparing to read from some memoir. “Well, it started like they always do. Good intentions but terrible, terrible execution.”

You immediately start scribbling, handwriting resembling of someone who’s having a medical emergency.

She goes on, “He said he needed to review the vote count with me. Said it couldn’t wait. Silly me for thinking he meant actual numbers.”

Your brain is already fifteen steps ahead, questions lining up in your head like little soldiers. You’ve done enough research on the story to know this much is true: it was more than just one night.

“So.. you weren’t aware there were eyes in the hallway when you left his office later that night?” you cut in before Jungkook can deliver a follow-up, because no way is he getting the juicy stuff first.

Monroe snorts, “I was aware of a lot of things. Surveillance interns weren’t one of them.”

Jungkook glances up from his Moleskine. “Intern had good timing.”

“Depends on who you ask” she responds drily.

“So when did it actually start?” Jungkook shifts forward in his chair, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. “A one time incident doesn’t usually come with three months of scheduling overlaps.”

Jungkook: 2. You: 1

“It doesn’t..” Monroe pauses, half for dramatic effect and half for introspection. “But clearly you’ve had some time to look at my calendar, so why don’t you tell me when you think it started?”

“Honestly,” you begin, flipping pages in the back of your mind, trying to remember that article you read three hours ago that dictated the timeline with color-coded graphs and blurry pictures. “I think it was back in June? July?”

She doesn’t answer that, just hums thoughtfully.

“Care to clarify how far back?” Your hand betrays you, reaching for the iced coffee on the table in front of you that has boiled down to some sad mixture of water, oat milk, and espresso.

Her lips twitch. “Far enough that I should’ve known better.”

You set the coffee back down after a prolonged sip. Beside you, you feel Jungkook’s beady little eyes trained on you. “Who else knew?”

“And who else was covering it up?” Jungkook jumps in.

It becomes a full-on ping pong match. You’re not even waiting for answers before volleying the next question. There’s something about an agreement, about Mark having an inkling, talk of going public before actually getting the chance to. You’re incredibly disappointed this isn’t on the record — this is the spiciest conversation you’ve had in years on the Hill. Jungkook seems just as intrigued as you, his own notepad filling up faster than quicksand.

It’s a dual — a bloodless one, for sure, but still mildly entertaining. Your cramping hand and the part of you that wants to scream every time he throws in a follow-up that actually adds value makes things slightly more complicated, though.

Worse: he’s enjoying this. Visibly.

And, okay, you’ll admit this much — you’re enjoying it too. Just a little. In the way you enjoy debating and working with someone who’s actually worth your time. In the way your competitive little brain lights up like oh, this again? Yeah, let’s fucking go.

You ask something else — who’s to say what it’s actually about? You just had to get it out before he did — and Monroe chuckles. “You two always like this?”

She seems quite amused by the two of you.

You open your mouth to say no, because professionalism or whatever. But then Jungkook shrugs and replies, “Sometimes. We’ve gotten better.”

No, you haven’t, but right now that’s neither here nor there.

“Well, at least I know I’m in capable hands,” Monroe beams at you two, the first real sign of human emotion you’ve captured from her since she sat down.

Capable is one way to put it, that’s for sure.

He looks over at you again (you might have to get a restraining order. This is now the tenth time and you’re starting to get scared.) It’s more in a this is fun, isn’t it? way. Which, ugh. Maybe it is. You’d never admit it but the absolute thrill of chasing a story with someone who also appreciates the highs that come with this job, while still trying to one-up each other? Yeah. It scratches a very specific, very messed-up part of your brain.

Still, he doesn’t get to win.

You lean forward, diverting back to the story at hand. “Just to clarify, did he ever explicitly threaten you with exposure if you ended things?”

Monroe’s gaze sharpens. “He didn’t need to. You don’t get involved with someone like Delgado without knowing he’s always got a spare knife somewhere.”

You write that line down so fast your pen nearly flies out of your hand. Jungkook mutters under his breath, “Jesus.”

The buzz of a timer goes off, jolting you and Jungkook upright like someone just yelled “Ten-hut!” to both of you. Monroe seems satisfied with that noise, opening her bag and retrieving her sunglasses from the depths, perching them on the bridge of her nose. “Well, that’s all we’ve got time for today, I presume? I’m sure Mark will be in touch soon for follow-ups.”

In some way, you think you’ll miss her. She might be the only congresswoman on the Hill that doesn’t have some 30-inch ruler up her ass.

“Of course,” Jungkook stands up on command, outstretching his own hand for her to shake. You follow suit like a lost puppy. She shakes both of your sweaty palms before acknowledging you both silently and heading towards the door, slamming it shut behind her.

In unison, you and Jungkook slink back down in your respective chairs, still in some weird post-interview daze. You’re not even looking at him. Not even a glance. Because glancing means acknowledging, and acknowledging means reacting, and you don’t do that.

Except, okay. Maybe you glance. Briefly. It’s for intel.

Weirdly, you don’t hate the way it feels to share something with him this closely. You both got exactly what you needed — the honest truth, a story that’s so compelling Shakespeare couldn’t even spin up this kind of narrative.

You don’t dare acknowledge that thought either. You bury it deeply. Somewhere right next to the memory of him bringing you your coffee.

When it’s nighttime in Washington D.C, it’s like a different dimension opens up and swallows the Earth.

Bars are filled to the brim with overexcited interns and senators on the prowl for their next cheating scandal. Coats are tossed across barstools like forgotten souvenirs. Chalices of beer are raised in the air as if people returned from a long day at the frontlines.

There’s some kind of magic that comes with it, like anything can happen because you’re finally not at your desk.

You’ve just turned off the lamp on your desk when your phone starts buzzing with urgency. See: magical. Anyone who knows you knows better than to call on a weekday night.

The only person who doesn’t know better, would be Rosalie, your best friend from college. Even the buzzing feels distinctly like her. As in, it’s probably not life or death but it’s definitely dramatic and may or may not have some form of light alcoholism attached to it.

You glance down at your phone screen, contact photo still the same blurry selfie she took freshman year wearing a tiara and threatening to drop out because your dorm had “zero aesthetic.”

You hesitate for exactly one second. It’s late. You’re tired. Your brain still smells like that cursed interview room from earlier and your notes from Monroe are a chaotic mess of arrows, question marks, and multiple phrases in all caps.

But, then again, it’s Rosalie. And when Rosalie calls, something ridiculous always follows. Like night after day. Like impulse after Amazon Prime.

Plus, you kind of want to give into the magic.

You swipe to answer, pressing the phone to your ear and scooping your bag onto your shoulder. “You’re either drunk, shopping, or about to fake your own death again. Which is it?”

Her voice bursts through the speaker, words rushing out. “Okay, rude. First of all, I never fake anything except for, like, orgasms and excitement about family obligated dinners. Second of all, surprise bitch!”

You furrow your brows in confusion, moving towards the exit of the CNN press room. “What?”

“I'm in D.C!” She shrieks like this is some normal update and not a major plot twist.

“You—what?”

“Like right now. I’m here. I just landed. I’m with Daddy.”

The first time you met her, she also referred to her father as ‘Daddy.’ It deeply troubles you, but you’ve come to learn there is literally no other way to name the man who’s a diplomat with a literal castle in Scotland.

“You were in London this morning,” you deadpan, struggling to do the mental math on time zones and emissions and mileage. You step out into the hallway, leaning against a cold wall.

“Yes, and now I'm here, on the hunt for a martini. It’s called globalization, babe.”

You cover your face with one hand and let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. Rosalie has been your best friend-slash-financial cautionary tale-slash-roommate since freshman year at Columbia. Your first true peek into what money could look like when it wasn’t tied to survival. She grew up with private jets and trust funds and the kind of skincare routine that requires a prescription and personal esthetician.

You grew up with coffee from a deli and a FAFSA login engraved in your mind.

Somehow, your friendship works.

Maybe it was the way she made everything feel like a movie. Or the fact that she’d once threatened to sue your econ professor on your behalf because the “curve is misogynistic.”

But mostly, it was how she always made space for you.

Even if that space is currently filled with credit card debt, half-finished Master’s degrees, and a shocking amount of vintage Balenciaga.

You sigh, already smiling. “Rosalie, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I just told you! I’m with Daddy, he had some kinda thing. International diplomacy or rich people drama, I don’t know, I tuned out. But I’m here, I miss your face, and you sound like you’re one day away from a nervous breakdown.”

She really does know you like the back of her hand.

“I literally am.”

“See? All the more reason to get drinks. I’m thinking an extra dirty martini for me, a vodka soda for you..” You can practically hear the puppy dog eyes she has on display right now.

“I could be convinced.” You readjust your bag on your shoulder, staring solemnly at the end of the hallway.

“Okay, this is me convincing you,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “I’ll pay.”

Perk #2000 of having a rich best friend.

“You got me there.” You’re now fully laughing, the sound echoing off the hallway, phone still pressed to your ear like you’re back in college, sneaking calls in between lectures to give unsolicited advice to her on her most recent love interest.

“Come onnnn, let’s be messy.” She pleads. You glance again down the ominous hallway. Your shoes are killing you today. Your brain is fried, eyes burning after hours of staring at words and headlines and formatting.

Still, none of it sounds that bad when you think of Rosalie and a really crisp vodka soda with two limes.

“Text me the place,” you’re already bracing for impact. “But if you order anything that comes with edible glitter again, I’m leaving.”

“You’re the best,” she exhales a breath as if she’s been holding it the whole time you’ve been on the phone, “Love you!”

There’s a disconnecting sound on the other end of the line, and you bring your phone down from your ear to stare at it in front of you. Nighttime in D.C always feels like this: the first lick of ice cream on a summers day, a comforting hug from a parent after months of separation, toes digging in the warm sand. Magical, and full of possibility.

The moose head is definitely judging you.

Mounted above the bar like a taxidermist’s wet dream, it stares down at you with cold, glassy eyes and antlers the size of a small aircraft. It’s wearing a sequined top hat for reasons unknown, and honestly, it’s the most stable thing in the room right now.

The bar name Rosalie texted you an hour earlier serves cocktails with unpronounceable bitters and has dim lighting that makes your outfit look ten times better than it actually is (and also doing a hell of a job at concealing your under eye bags.) The high-top table you two are perched at smells faintly of citrus zest, her YSL perfume and spilled liquor.

Even the leather booths and black matte menus screams place that is trying way too hard to stay afloat in D.C’s nightlife climate. There is a very specific brand of person who goes to these bars, and you and the moose are both trying to figure out if you fit the bill.

To your dismay, your vodka soda is alarmingly strong, which is unfortunate because you ordered it specifically as a keep-it-together drink. Sober-adjacent. Instead, it tastes like the blonde bartender at the front is going through the world’s most devastating breakup.

You’re a quarter through it and already considering whether food would be helpful or if you'll just end up eating three-dollar-sign fries you didn’t mean to order.

Across from you, Rosalie’s swirling her (extra) dirty martini, rambling on and on about her recent trip to London. Something about the fog or the rain. You watch her as she animatedly speaks, fur-trimmed coat moving with every flick of her wrist.

“Okay…” she says, one olive skewered dramatically on a stick between her fingers. “This city is like, aggressively serious. Everyone looks like they’re walking to a meeting even at 8 PM at night. What’s that about?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, swirling your own black straw around the rim of your drink, trying to dilute the vodka, “Probably some senate fundraiser going on a block away.”

Rosalie gasps, “That is so unsexy. Vibes here are rough.”

Only Rosalie would refer to the nation’s capital as ‘unsexy.’ You respect the brutal honesty; she’s not entirely wrong. The city is overrun by middle-aged fathers and misogynistic women. If that doesn’t scream unsexy, you’re not sure what does.

“You picked the place,” you mock, rolling your eyes.

“Well, yeah, but I was going for hot, mysterious energy, not—” she gestures wildly around the room. “—whatever this is.”

You look around. There’s a man in a vest swirling around an old-fashioned and a woman arguing with headphones on while sipping from a wine glass. “Rosalie, this is the most you bar I’ve ever been to.”

She almost turns as pale as a ghost. “This can’t be my brand.”

You can’t help but laugh, sinking deeper into your chair. It could be argued this is her entire brand; picking out places that will hand you a check worth more than your electricity bill for three months.

“So,” she begins, dramatically perching her chin in her hand, “how’s your glamorous life at the White House? Any closer to marrying a diplomat’s son?”

“Unfortunately not,” you take a sip of your vodka soda and grimace. “However the other day I did make prolonged eye contact with an intern. Although he might’ve been 20, so unsure if that counts.”

She nods like that checks out. “Oof. That’s not a good sign. Are you on any dating apps?”

Her expression twists in excitement, clearly holding out for some cute politically correct love story. You don’t have the heart to tell her that the only thing you’ve shown affection to in the past few months is a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

“Nah, you know me,” You stare down at your drink as you speak quickly to avoid her piercing gaze. “Enough about that, though. I heard you were maybe, kind of, accidentally starting a wellness brand?”

Rosalie perks up a little at that, although you can tell she doesn’t necessarily appreciate the segway from your dating life to her varying business ventures. “Well, Daddy’s investors wanted me to pick a niche, which is so toxic, because I believe in trying anything once.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

Rosalie’s business ventures have ranged from ‘mildly unhinged’ to ‘legally gray.’ In the last three years alone, she’s tried to launch a gemstone-infused bottled water line (now banned in three countries), an app that was supposed to match influencers with “friends” for Coachella, and a cashmere dog sweater subscription box that somehow lost her family $12,000 despite only having five customers — three of which were her own dogs.

It’s safe to say her being enrolled in graduate school was the unrivaled alternative.

She once asked you to invest in one of her projects. You bestowed upon her $5 and a random penny that had two heads on it.

“I’m a woman of many multitudes,” she explains with alarming speed. “You can’t put me in a box. One week I’m into adaptogens, the next I want to sell lingerie to housewives. You know how I get.”

“Rosalie,” you let out a noise resembling a snort. “This is all deeply unserious.”

“Exactly.” She plucks an olive off the wooden toothpick, popping it in her mouth. “But it’s fine. Daddy said if I stop spending money, he’ll really consider funding my wellness brand. So right now I need to chill the fuck out and realign my values.”

You don’t think she really understands what it means to realign her values.

“So… you’re basically unemployed.”

She gasps, slapping a hand over her heart. “How dare you use that word.”

You grin into your drink. It’s so easy to fall back into a rhythm with her. Even if she lives in a totally different universe. Even if she has never once felt the need to check her bank account before ordering a $22 cocktail.

Her lips press against the rim of her glass before she places it back down hesitantly. “You know, you really should get back out there.”

You should've known better than to assume this topic of conversation was done.

Out of the corner of your eye, you make eye contact with the moose. His (and you’ve decided it’s a male, bedazzled hat and all) eyes swallow you whole.

You tilt your head back towards the high ceilings to avoid catching Rosalie’s or the moose's eyes. “I’m perfectly fine in here.”

She doesn’t acknowledge your pun. “When’s the last time you’ve even had sex, you little virgin?”

Ha ha.

You actually laugh out loud. Which is probably not the response she was hoping for but — be serious.

When was the last time you had sex? Does emotional disassociation count?

Because if you’re going by strict technicalities, it was that one-night stand a few months ago when Emma dragged you out, told you to just “pick a guy,” and you went with the first one who made a semi-decent joke and could name one recent foreign policy.

It was… fine. Forgettable in the way dry toast is.

You’re pretty sure he called you babe halfway through and you pretended not to hear it because you were already nauseous from the amount of vodka sodas you consumed that night.

“Sex is a social construct used to avoid real human connection.”

You smile indignantly at your best friend, crossing your arms over your chest. There’s satisfaction rippling through your body. Try arguing with that one, Rosa—

“How long are you going to avoid real human connection before you end up all alone, surrounded by ten cats and all my wellness supplements?”

Okay, rude. A wake-up call at this hour isn’t really necessary. She sounds much too invested in this for your liking.

Statistically speaking, you are on track to die with your phone in one hand and a highlighter in the other. But also? You kind of don’t care.

You're good at exactly two things in this life: 1) your job and 2) being right, neither of which you plan on giving up any time soon. You’re not about to emotionally babysit a man who wears loafers without socks or tells you he’s “big on communication” but flinches when you ask what his ex’s name is.

Relationships are cute for people like Rosalie, who have time to dabble in them. You are booked out for the foreseeable future.

“You know I don’t care about that stuff.” You decide that’s an appropriate response to her worrying. “I just.. value my alone time. And you’ve seen how hard I work. I don’t have time to date.”

“What about your coworkers?” she muses casually. “Surely one of them, with the same work ethic as you, is a good option.”

You nearly choke on your drink so violently that the moose head looks concerned.

“What?” Rosalie blinks at you with full sincerity. “I’m just saying—it seems efficient. You could like, hold hands while rage-writing about the president.”

You stare at her blankly. “I’d rather go on a silent meditation retreat with Mitch McConnell.”

“You’re being dramatic. Walk me through the options,” She sits up straighter, voice rising at the end of her sentence.

“Okay…” you exhale, already regretting everything. “There’s Andrew, but he clips his nails at his desk and I can’t unhear it. It’s like ASMR for serial killers.”

She grimaces, tapping her polished nail against her glass. “Ew.”

“There’s Gavin, who’s technically married but also keeps asking if I’ve ever been to Greece in spring, so that feels like a no.”

Now that you’re running through the roster out loud, it’s pretty devastating.

“Paul.”

You say the name with hope attached to it, and Rosalie leans forward in anticipation, like she’s already envisioning her maid of honor dress and your pastel wedding invitations. “But.. he calls Slack ‘the Slack’ and that gave me the ick. Plus, he also listens to NPR, so that’s another minus.”

Rosalie groans and sets her forehead down on the table like this is your fault. “God, your workplace is bleak. What’s the point of being employed if you can’t seduce someone with a respectable title?”

“Believe it or not, I do actually work so I can get paid.” You take a sip of your drink, which has simmered down to a pool of vodka and watered-down soda.

She lifts her head from the table, “Not one hot little office romance? A private kiss in an elevator? Anything to feel alive?”

She’s really overestimating the Hill’s penchant for romance.

You give her a long look. “I write about current events. That is my version of a hot little office romance.”

She snorts, then tilts her head at you knowingly. Uh-oh. You know that look. It’s the look she gave you in college before she asked if she could set you up with her cousin, the 7th Earl of Douglas. “Wait.. do you still work with that guy?”

Your stomach drops. Like an elevator going down one floor too fast. “What guy?”

You’re playing dumb, which is not usually your move. But you are. Aggressively and visibly.

Rosalie shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You know, that guy from college. What was his name.. Jungkook?”

Damn her. You really need to stop telling her your work stories. Not that it matters anyway. She’s known him the same unfortunate amount of time you have.

You shift slightly in your seat. It’s a tiny readjustment but you’re fidgeting, leg crossing the other way, hand playing with your straw like it’s suddenly fascinating.

You absolutely do not glance at the moose for help.

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

Rosalie arches a brow. “He’s still as hot as he was back then. I saw his post on Instagram last week. Those cheekbones still working overtime, eh?”

You force a laugh, struggling to banish any and all flashes of his cheekbones that are currently flitting through your mind like pages of a scrapbook. They are oddly nice. But knowing him, he probably gets cheek filler or something. “I guess. If you’re into that whole overly symmetrical thing.”

“Who isn’t into it?” She picks up her martini glass, taking a massive gulp.

You can’t respond. You’re too busy hyper-focusing on your vodka soda and trying not to remember a very specific Friday night freshman year. One where you walked into some random room at the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity house with jungle juice in one hand, only to—

Nope. Not going down that road.

Following in her footsteps, you take a big sip of your drink. Rosalie doesn’t notice the way your leg is slightly bouncing under the table. Or if she does, she’s sparing you the embarrassment. “I always thought he’d go into modeling or something,” she tosses her jet-black hair over her shoulder. “Didn’t peg him as someone who would go into politics.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “even the devil wants press credentials.”

“Bet he still looks good in a suit though.”

Now it’s your turn to drop your head onto the tabletop.

Sure, maybe there are people out there with actual problems. Real ones. People who’ve lost their homes, who don’t know where their next meal will come from, who aren’t currently sipping overpriced vodka sodas while side-eyeing a moose in a hat. Compared to them, this whole moment is an insult.

And yet, in this precise, horrifying pocket of time, you genuinely can’t imagine a worse fate than Rosalie fawning over Jungkook like he’s a misunderstood bad boy.

If you’re being all Psychology 101 about your feelings (which you got an A in, so you are), you’re still annoyed about the coffee he brought you earlier. How dare he remember things about you like he’s some poor excuse of a friend. You don’t want to be seen, or be known, especially by him.

You lift your head up, sip the last of your drink, ignore the knot forming somewhere behind your ribs.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat and force the tightest smile your face can manage without cramping. “tell me more about those edible face masks you texted me about last week. Those sounded questionable.”

But Rosalie is a martini deep, so she leans forward across the table before you can finish the pivot. Her fur coat bunches against the edge, nails curling. “So, is there any chance he’s going to be at work tomorrow?”

“What?”

“Jungkook.” She looks at you like you're the crazy one. “Will he be there?”

You squint at her, like maybe if you narrow your eyes hard enough, the words will rearrange into something more coherent. “It’s a weekday. I assume so, unless he’s decided to pursue his dream of becoming a shirtless travel vlogger.”

“Perfect,” she leans back against the chair now. “I’ll be here a few more days.”

“I—what? Wait. Hold on. No.”

She pouts dramatically. “Why not?”

You sputter, and you feel your right eye beginning to twitch. “Wha—Why not?? Rosalie, what do you mean why not?”

“I mean,” she looks genuinely baffled. That makes two of you. “I’m single, he’s single, you work with him… you can’t not set us up just because you’re being weird.”

You’re about to flip this table over. “I’m not— what? I’m not being weird.”

She plays with the toothpick that used to hold her olives. “You do this thing sometimes where you act all chill but then your eye starts to twitch.”

You stare at her, openly horrified. “Rosalie, I do not. No—okay, look. First of all, I do not matchmake. That’s not in my skillset. I can barely order dinner for two without freaking out.”

You abruptly realize your hands are clenched in your lap, and the inside of your cheek is sore from how hard you’re biting it.

Okay — maybe you should let her fuck him. She’s an adult. You’re not her keeper, and thank God you’re not his either. You have no legal or emotional stake in this whatsoever.

But then you think about it for more than six seconds and suddenly the idea feels… bad. Like ethically bad. Cosmically cursed. Like watching someone about to pet a tiger because it looks “soft.”

Besides, why would you want to subject her to that kind of torture? Why would you offer her up to the emotional rollercoaster that is Jungkook when you’re barely surviving it yourself? Honestly, it would be cruel. A hate crime.

She gazes at you. You are going to start screaming spontaneously any minute now.

“Okay.. but like, why can’t you just help me out here?”

You sit there poker-faced. Your brain — already operating at half-capacity thanks to the vodka soda and the emotional trauma of this conversation — halts all function. You open your mouth, praying something logical will come out. A thoughtful excuse. A real reason. Maybe even a full monologue about professionalism or the fact that he drives you insane on a daily basis.

Instead, what tumbles out is, “Heard he gave someone on the Hill a STD.”

Silence.

It’s like every patron in the bar took a vow to participate in a well-timed moment of silence.

“Wait, what?”

You swallow thickly, saliva going down like molasses. “Yeah. I mean, don’t quote me or anything. But, you know how it is. Rumors.”

The words feel like wet socks in your mouth.

You eye her carefully, waiting for the inevitable laugh. But it never comes. “Oh,” she says, drawn out like she’s having a That’s So Raven-level flashback. “I mean, it’s not like we haven’t— “

She stops herself. Bats her eyelashes. Smiles quickly. “So, you were talking about my edible face masks?”

You go along with it. You’re not about to ask what she almost said.

You both brush past it like the moose above you isn’t watching in real-time.

Stirring your straw around the edge of your glass, you become aware of how warm the bar feels, how loud it’s gotten, how your face is doing that thing where it tries to stay neutral but ends up folding in on itself.

You don’t know when you became a liar. As a White House correspondent, your entire career was built on integrity and ethics. This is new territory for you.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. She can obviously have him. She can have his cheekbones and his annoying woodsy cologne that makes you irrationally upset and his coffee-bringing habits.

Take it all. Godspeed, Rosalie.

Something about being in the office with a minor hangover feels like a crime against humanity. A petty offense punishable by being trapped under fluorescent lights while liquor seeps out of your skin.

Every time Paul from two rows over makes eye contact with you, you feel a fresh wave of nausea roll through your body like a bad remix of last night’s (multiple) vodka sodas.

You don’t even know what he wants. Maybe he heard how you eliminated him last night from your list of potential suitors at the office. He probably can also smell the vodka dripping from your pores but that’s a separate story.

Your night, as it would only happen, ended with four more vodka sodas after the first one had been downed and topics of conversation that should never be repeated in a public setting. Apparently you also tried to steal the moose’s hat. So, yeah. Not really doing your finest this Tuesday morning.

You try to focus on your inbox, which is currently ten emails deep and pulsing with the words URGENT and MONROE EDITS. Tentatively, you open one. Close it. Open another. Realize it’s the same email. Close it again.

All higher brain power has been disabled until further notice. It’s just rotating between memories of Rosalie’s fur coat, the moose head, and the vague threat of vomit in the back of your throat.

Unfortunately, Jungkook sneaks his way in there too.

Which, no. You are not going to sit and think about whether Rosalie ended up DMing him. You’re not donating energy to the possibility of her sliding into his messages with a “hey stranger.” You’re not even remembering the comment she made on the curb outside while waiting for her Uber about “needing to reconnect with old friends.”

Everything is totally fine. (And you’re on the right track — your Advil is starting to kick in.)

“You look like you died at a party and were revived by the ghost of hangovers past,” Emma says as she plops into her chair next to you, placing her chocolate chip muffin on the desk. She had already been here when you arrived ten minutes past 9 AM, but retreated to the cafeteria for a breakfast pick-me-up.

You can’t even crane your neck to look over at her. “I think I’m being judged by Paul.”

Emma leans to peek over her desk. “He’s wearing those weird loafers again. He doesn’t get to judge anyone.”

“I think I’m sweating vodka.” You keep going down your list of woes.

Emma snorts at that. “Rough night?”

Another email gets opened but promptly exited out of. “Very. Met up with my college best friend.”

“The rich girl?” She pushes her glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose, re-opening her laptop.

“Yup,” you sigh. “Still rich.”

“Goals.”

You nod in agreement, fingertips hovering over your keyboard. “I wanted to be her when I was 19. Still kind of do.”

“If I had her money, I’d have fake boobs and a villa in Greece. I’d never answer an email again. I’d float off the grid on a yacht,” Emma muses dreamily, placing her chin in the crook of her palm.

“Instead, I’m here,” your mouth opens with the beginning stages of a yawn. “Rotting, in need of electrolytes. If I know her as well as I think I do, she’s probably getting a massage right now.”

Emma lets out a noise that resembles the familiar sound of laughter, opening up a new window on her laptop to resume her previous tasks. You stare blankly at your own screen. It mocks you with a NBC article you plan to tear to shreds and a to-do list you’re checking off just to say you did something, like the sheer motion will jog your brain into gear.

The cycle goes as such: open a new tab, skim an article, close it, reopen it ten seconds later because you already forgot what was said.

There’s this new policy rollout you’re chasing that’s somehow both deeply boring and disastrous. Two weeks ago, you had dinner with Kara Devlin, a junior legislative aide and some overachiever from Brown, and you pried as much intel as you could from her like a raccoon rummaging through garbage. She had given you a whole lot of nothing, but there was one quote you’ve been holding hostage.

Your eyes brush past a few local blogs. The Times. Politico. That one freelancer who insists on formatting his substack like a ransom note.

And then, you land on Fox. It’s not like you’re looking for suffering, but you might as well round out the masochism.

Your finger slowly moves down the touchpad of your laptop, scrolling down. Half of your mind is still hungover, the other half is trying to remember if you actually did Doordash those electrolyte packets to the building or if you just thought about it aggressively.

The article’s whatever. The usual. Misleading title, blurry infographics, some ominous use of the word “patriotic.” You’re on complete and utter auto-pilot, eyes glazed over in mild disgust, until—

Jungkook Jeon, Contributor.

Your finger freezes on the scroll pad. Aggressively go back up to the top. You sit up so fast you nearly dislocate your vertebrae. Your attention is piqued — not because he has any insight you particularly care about, not for policy clarity, but so that later, you can roast the living hell out of whatever lazy, metaphor-mixing nonsense he’s about to pass off as journalism.

You reread the opening lines again. Something about bipartisan stalling, vague reference to committee strategy, a few recycled phrases.. blah, blah, blah.

There’s a giggle that’s threatening to bubble up from your chest. It’s like the universe knew you needed this. You leisurely continue to scroll, unable to control the smile on your face.

Wait.

What did that line just say?

Your brain turns on like someone flipped the light switch in a haunted house.

There’s a quote nestled in the middle of the article. In big, bold letters, signed off with the name Kara Devlin.

Your smile gets wiped off your face in three seconds flat. Leaning into your screen, you murmur the quote under your breath: “The strategy for the senate is not to all agree to the same policy, but see how many back out due to its democratic ties. That’ll reveal where everyone’s intentions lie.”

No, no, no. That’s your quote. That’s Kara Devlin’s direct words, told to you under the flickering lights of a diner in Maryland after acceptable work hours. It’s now sitting in Jungkook’s article, chopped up and thrown in like seasoning.

Your hangover drops so far down the totem pole it’s practically underground.

You sit back in your chair, hands firmly gripping the armrest, mouth slightly open like you just witnessed a murder but aren’t sure who to call.

Three things immediately occur to you:

The writing is fine. But you would have tightened it, maybe removed some passive verbs, flipped the framing..

His quote placement is clunky. It’s shoved in there as if it’s not the backbone of the piece.

WHAT THE FUCK.

You reread the quote so many times it burns into your retina. Fuck Kara Devlin. Even after you paid for her three appetizers and her milkshake, she turned around and gave it up to Jungkook. She’s a slut (politically).

Emma glances over. “You okay over there?”

You’re too busy calculating how fast you can walk over to the Fox press room without murdering someone on the way to respond.

“Helloooo? Earth to [Y/N]?” She waves her hand in front of your face.

Your voice takes a second to boot back up, like an old car on a cold morning. “He used my quote.”

“Who?” she asks, dropping into the tone she uses for gossip.

You reluctantly swivel the laptop screen towards her like you’re presenting the murder weapon. “Jungkook. He wrote this piece and used my quote from Kara Devlin.”

Emma narrows her eyes at the article, lips moving as she whispers the words on the screen under her breath. Once she’s done, she gasps in horror, “Kara? Like the girl you took out to dinner?”

“The very one.”

“Oh, god.” She pushes your laptop away from her in disgust. “Even after you emotionally groomed her into trusting you?”

“Okay, maybe don’t say ‘emotionally groomed.’ But yes. Her.”

“Are we sure it’s the same one?” Emma offers.

“Of course I’m sure!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “I was sitting right there across from her as she droned on and on about some other policy issue until this just fell in my lap.”

“Damn,” Emma shakes her head, lets out a tsk.

“How the hell did he even get his hands on it?” You slump in your chair, hands now covering your face.

Emma shrugs unknowingly. “Did Kara get hacked? Maybe Jungkook planted a wire in your bag?”

Both are plausible.

You groan loudly, “It’s not even just the quote that kills me. The placement is ludacris. He just shoved it in there like it’s… like it’s a garnish. It’s chives, Emma. He used my quote like chives.”

Emma winces, “That’s deep.”

“Now his stupid little name is tied to that quote.” Not to mention, you’ll also have to go on a wild goose chase for a new one.

Emma begins to unwrap her muffin that was lying untouched, “Do you want me to go slash his tires? I’ll wear a mask.”

“I’m not saying yes,” you mumble, “but I’m also not saying no.”

She drones on about her master attack plan, while you sit glued to your seat. Fine, you’ll admit it — this little cat-and-mouse game you and Jungkook play has always been fun. It’s fun in the way verbal sparring is, or how lighting a match just to watch it burn could technically be considered a hobby.

It’s not like you haven’t gotten your licks in before — stolen a quote here, intercepted a question there, once maybe ‘accidentally’ deleted his name off a media RSVP list.

But Kara Devlin was yours. She was earned.

Emma is still mid-rant about slashproof ski masks and the technical logistics of a ‘light’ tire slash, when you glance at the clock in the corner of your screen.

And then time slows.

It’s 10:02 AM.

Ten. Zero. Two.

Your pulse spikes, hair on the back of your neck standing up. You freeze completely like maybe time will reverse itself out of pity.

“Emma,” you cut her off mid-sentence. “I gotta go. Meeting. 10:30 AM.”

She blinks at you. “Oh! What kind of meeting?”

You’re already shoving your notebook into your bag with the panic of someone being chased, breathlessly speaking. “Legislative aide. Some Senate bill, I don’t know. It’s across the lawn, you know how long it fucking takes to get there.”

Emma pulls a face. “Oof. That’s rough. If you speed walk, you’ll make it by 10:25.”

You stuff your laptop into your bag too, nearly drop your phone, do a full spin because you can’t find your badge and then find it pinned to your pants pocket like a dumbass.

“Okay,” you mutter. “Okayokayokay. No time to dwell. I’ll process the theft later, either in therapy or in the bathtub with wine.”

Emma’s holding back a laugh, “Well. Let me know if you need company while you do that.”

God, she’s great. What an upstanding woman.

With that, you’re gone, storming out of the press room. Your bag keeps smacking your hip, hangover faintly lingering. You speed past a group of interns who part like the Red Sea, interrupting their morning gossip session.

You are an organized and professional woman who has simply spiraled about a journalist stealing your source and forgotten about a government meeting. It happens.

Today is going great. Perfect. Fantastic.

You burst through the glass doors, sun suddenly too bright on your skin. The air smells like fresh landscaping.

Usually, you love this part. This little stroll across the lawn, the strut in front of a stunning backdrop of democracy and white buildings that gleam. Normally, you take it all in.

Not today though. Today, you are head down, hair sticking to the nape of your neck, puffs of air inhaled into your lungs at an alarming rate. You break into a half-jog across the lawn, cursing your choice of shoes and the existence of time itself. Somewhere in the distance, a tourist points at you, probably thinking you’re someone important. You are not. You’re just late.

You're almost there, you can see the building rearing its ugly head. You’ll have about five minutes to fetch some water but it’ll do. Honestly, you’ve made great time, so that’s something to celebrate.

And then — you hear it. Your voice, off in the distance, echoing across the expanse of the lawn,

Weird. Not totally impossible, but unsettling.

You blink a few times, slow your pace, and instinctively whip your head in a few different directions like you’re the supporting character in a horror movie who’s about to get the axe.

Did you die? Did the hangover finally win? Is this what the afterlife is, a loop of your own voice haunting you across the lawn?

It really does sound exactly like you.

You peer up at the sky, as if God or maybe Jenna is pulling some weird power move. Like surprise! Time for a self-awareness ambush. Let’s listen to you talk for a change!

You slow to a crawling speed, confused and slightly nauseous. This could be a hallucination.

But then… you see it.

On the steps of the west wing entrance, past the security gate, near one of the stone benches, you spot a man with broad shoulders, back facing you. Watching something on a laptop that contains your voice.

You walk even slower than humanly possible, tiptoeing as you get closer. You realize he’s watching the press pool from a few weeks ago. You don’t remember which one exactly, they all blend together.

The inconspicuous man chuckles to himself.

Who the hell is that?

You take a few half-steps forward like getting closer will make any of this make sense. Just a casual stroll, nothing to see here. A curious taxpayer.

Squinting a little harder as the sun hits at an odd angle, you see a notepad perched in his lap, pen in hand.

That’s kind of sweet. Someone clearly looks up to you. Maybe it’s that intern you made prolonged eye contact with.

Oh. Oh.

He picks up his pen again, and you see them. The tattoos that litter his knuckles, clear as daylight.

You know those tattoos. You’ve known those tattoos since freshman year of college.

They look a lot like Jungkook—

Jungkook is sitting on the steps of the West Wing in broad sunlight, watching your press pool questions on his laptop like he’s studying you.

A gasp escapes you, and you slap a hand over your mouth but it's too late.

His head jerks around so fast he almost flings the notepad off his thighs. Those eyes widen when he locks them with yours, like a deer in headlights.

There’s probably a good two seconds that go by where you just stare at each other. Frozen in this very weird, dramatic standoff. Stuck in that horrible moment of recognition, like when your ex appears in your Hinge likes or you walk in on your sibling watching a thirst trap.

“What in the fuck are you doing?” you ask slowly, voice sharp and cold.

He flinches at your tone. “Jesus Christ, could you not sneak up on me like that?”

You creep forward, inching toward him like you’re hiding a knife behind your back. “Sneak up on you? You’re the one sitting on the steps in broad daylight studying my voice like a weirdo.”

Jungkook shuts his notebook quickly, “I’m not studying it—”

“Oh, really?” you snap, marching closer. You’re hovering over him now, your shadow looming on his body. “So you just casually watch old press briefings, skip to my questions and take notes for fun?”

Jungkook stands now, placing his notebook next to his laptop on the step. “Okay, relax. I was prepping.”

It’s annoying how much taller he is now that he’s face-to-face with you.

“Prepping?” you echo. “Prepping for what, exactly?”

“I was seeing how you phrase your questions,” he replies flatly. “It’s not illegal. You’re not copyrighted.”

You laugh sarcastically. You don’t know what compels you to stand there and say more. By all means, you should flip him off and walk away. Let him watch. Never think about it again. But you do the opposite. “Are you kidding me right now? You stole a quote from my source —which by the way, fuck you for that— and now you’re out here trying to take notes on my question phrasing?”

He shrugs casually. “What do you want me to say? You’re good.”

Yeah, you know. It’s how you got into Columbia. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, and yet somehow it does because he’s the one saying it, enough to stun you.

“Oh, fuck off. You don’t get to plagiarize my source and then compliment me.”

He walks down a step, still towering over you. “I didn’t plagiarize. I just published what I found.”

Your ears are ringing. “That’s your justification?”

“Wasn’t theft, just initiative.”

And it’s the way he says things like this, like the world exists to conform to all his desires, that sends you spiraling into a cocktail of blind rage and envy. When you’ve been losing things to Jungkook for as long as you have, you live in a constant state of acceptance that never really ends. It’s in how you brace yourself whenever his name is on lists outside of bulletin boards, how you sometimes catch yourself expecting to lose before you’ve begun trying.

All you can muster up is a heaving sigh before you reach down and slam the laptop shut, pausing your own voice mid-question.

He looks mildly offended. “Was that necessary?”

You gape at him, words barely forming, because the audacity is just so constant with this man. “What are you even doing here?” you gesture to the area. “Sitting here like some creepy ghost?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Don’t you dare use the constitution on me right now.”

“I like sitting here,” he says innocently. “I think here.”

You deadpan. “You… think here.”

“Yes.”

“In public.”

“God forbid I like to remember what this place is supposed to be about,” He raises his hands in defense.

“Oh good lord.”

“It helps,” he continues, completely ignoring you. “When I’m burnt out or pissed off or just need a minute to think, I come here. It reminds me why I got into politics in the first place.”

You scoff. “Which was..?”

He looks back toward the Capitol dome, eyes squinting like he’s about to say something that belongs on one of those mugs from the White House gift shop that you got your mom four years ago. “To do something that actually mattered,” he says. “To write about the government in a way that reminds people they’re still human. That we’re all humans.”

Now this monologue reminds you why you hate the guy. Who cares if he’s handsome or insightful or tall? He has deduced your career to a Pinterest-esque quote about journalism.

“Wow.” You start to slow clap, the sound of your palms slapping echoing across the lawn. “So poetic. Inspiring, really.”

He cocks his head, waiting for you to finish being theatrical.

“And also,” you put your claps away. Better to save them for your chat with the legislative aide, which you really should be getting to. “to apparently steal my tone, quote my sources, and stalk my voice.”

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like I said, you’re good. Sorry I noticed.”

You clench your jaw, body buzzing. “Whatever. Enjoy your little identity theft picnic.”

You spin on your heel and march off toward the building you were actually supposed to be at. Your steps are fast, eyes trained ahead.

Even as your fists are clenched, you can’t stop the thing rising up behind your ribs. The stupid, aching realization that Jungkook has been watching you.

Like you’re the only one worth keeping up with.

You hate it all. You should demand CNN to scrub all footage. But none of it really matters because what you hate most viscerally, is that your brain whispers something treasonous like: at least he gets it.

Your face burns, heart pounding as you push past the wooden doors of the old building in the West Wing.

You hope the wind swallows him whole. And maybe his stupid notebook too.

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

[fuqnia]

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

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

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

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

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

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

“Eric, are you even listening to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t enough. Not for tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frowning, you sent another message, this time individually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cartman’s dorm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chewed on your lip, your hands twisting together.

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

You gave him a wary glance. “Do I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You beamed. "And?"

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

You blinked. "Wait, Heidi Turner?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frowned slightly. "That’s it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cartman lost his shit.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet… he wasn’t laughing now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would it be bad?

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

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

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

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

His tapping stopped. His knee stilled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What the fuck?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t leaning in. You were frozen.

Your nails scrunched into his sheets, gripping them so tightly your knuckles ached. Your knees pressed against his thighs, but he still didn’t move, didn’t react, just kept his arms lazily folded behind his head like this was the most boring thing in the world.

Your heart pounded, your chest tight, your stomach in knots so tangled you weren’t sure they’d ever come undone. Every inch of you burned—your face, your ears, your throat. You bit your lip, forcing yourself to look away from him, because if you didn’t, you were going to lose your fucking nerve.

Your hands curled even tighter in the fabric beneath you. Your breath came out shakier than you wanted it to.

"I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?"

It barely sounded like your own voice. More like a confession. A plea. A desperate attempt to reclaim some control over this situation.

Cartman exhaled slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than before, not as sharp, not as full of smug amusement. "Yeah. Okay."

You sucked in a breath, held it for a second too long, then forced yourself to move. Your fingers tightened against the fabric as you leaned in, hesitating, second-guessing, trying to remember how this was supposed to go.

Cartman didn’t move. He didn’t lean in, didn’t pull back, didn’t do anything. He just sat there, watching you closely, his knee bouncing slightly, his lips parting like he was about to say something. The words never came. His eyes flicked between yours, waiting.

Your breath stuttered as your lips ghosted over his, close enough to feel the warmth of him, the faintest brush of skin against skin. The contact was barely there, just a whisper of a touch, but your entire body tensed, a fresh wave of nerves rushing through you.

Finally, you pressed your lips against his.

Warmth. That was the first thing you registered. His lips were softer than you expected, slightly chapped, but they yielded against yours. Your whole body locked up, too stiff, too rigid, unsure if you should move or stay still, afraid to do anything wrong. 

A split second later, panic flared through you, a sudden, horrible realization that you had no idea what you were doing. The thought hit you so hard that your brain completely short-circuited. Without meaning to, you moved too fast, tilting your head abruptly, leaning in deeper without any coordination.

Your forehead smacked into his with a dull, painful thud.

Cartman grunted, jerking back as the impact hit him, his whole body recoiling as your lips barely managed to stay connected for a fraction of a second longer. Pain shot through your skull, making you wince, but the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the fact that it had happened at all.

The silence that followed lasted less than a second before Cartman burst out laughing.

He collapsed backward onto the bed, one hand slapping against his chest while the other clutched his forehead. His laughter came out in uneven gasps, his whole body shaking as he let out a sharp wheeze between laughs. "What the actual fuck was that?"

You felt your stomach drop, humiliation crashing over you all at once. Your hands flew to your face, pressing hard against your cheeks in some desperate attempt to hide. "Shut up," you choked out, your voice high and strained as the heat in your face burned unbearably.

Cartman only laughed harder, his entire body still shaking as he tried and failed to compose himself. "Dude, you just—you fucking headbutted me mid-kiss! What the fuck were you even doing?" His breath hitched as another wheeze escaped him, his face red from laughing too hard.

You groaned, curling in on yourself as the weight of your embarrassment became unbearable. "I don’t know! I panicked! It just happened!"

Cartman rolled onto his side, still laughing, wiping at his eyes like he had just witnessed the funniest thing in the world. "Oh my god, I wish I got that on camera. You’re actually the worst fucking kisser in human history."

You smacked his arm hard, making him jolt slightly, but he didn’t stop grinning. "Stop fucking laughing," you snapped, barely able to meet his gaze.

"I can’t," he wheezed, still shaking. "That was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced."

Groaning again, you flopped onto his mattress, covering your face with both hands as your mortification reached its peak. "This is literally my nightmare," you mumbled against the fabric.

Cartman was still grinning when he nudged your knee with his, his amusement refusing to fade completely. "Alright, alright," he said, his voice still uneven from how hard he had been laughing. "Come on, round two. We’re fixing that disaster."

Your breath hitched as you peeked through your fingers, face still burning as you turned your head just enough to see him. He was still sitting close, still too warm, still looking at you like this wasn’t a big deal. His usual smirk had softened just slightly, not enough to be gone completely, but enough that you hesitated, your pulse loud in your ears.

He tilted his head, his eyes flicking over your face like he was assessing whether you were about to bolt. "Unless you wanna go out there and actually do that to Damien."

You groaned again, shoving at his arm without any real force. Cartman barely moved, his body rocking slightly from the push, but it only made him laugh harder. His grin stretched across his face, smug and entertained, his breath still uneven from how hard he had been wheezing earlier.

"Dude, I swear to God," he cackled, wiping at his eyes. "You’re actually fucking hopeless."

Your face burned even hotter, frustration mixing with the embarrassment still lingering in your chest. You sat up, fixing him with a glare, your body buzzing with leftover adrenaline. "Shut the fuck up, Eric," you snapped. "You’re not exactly helping."

He snorted, shaking his head. "Not my fault you have the coordination of a fucking potato."

You sucked in a deep breath, gritting your teeth, then shifted closer to him. His smirk twitched slightly, but he didn’t move back. His knee bumped against yours, his hands resting loosely in his lap as he watched you move in, his expression expectant, still cocky, but waiting.

You hesitated, just for a second. Then, before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in.

This time, Cartman actually leaned in too.

Your lips met again, and for a few seconds, everything in your brain finally shut off. It was fine. It was normal. It was a kiss. His lips were warm, softer than you expected, and he wasn’t stiff or uncomfortable—he actually kissed you back. His mouth moved against yours, slow, almost lazy, like he wasn’t putting in effort but wasn’t pulling away either.

For a moment, it felt like you were actually doing it right.

Then, you got too eager.

Your hands gripped his hoodie, your body pressing forward slightly, and before you could stop yourself, you shoved your tongue into his mouth with zero finesse, no build-up, nothing.

Cartman jerked back so violently he nearly fell off the bed. "What the fuck—" His entire body recoiled, his hands shooting up to shove at your shoulders as he burst into laughter, his face twisting in disgust. "Oh my God, dude!"

You barely had time to react before he screamed. A full-volume, head-thrown-back scream like he was being murdered, except it was punctuated by uncontrollable laughter. He practically collapsed, rolling onto his side, clutching his stomach as he gasped for breath, still shaking from how hard he was laughing.

"What the fuck was that?" he wheezed, his entire body rocking with laughter. "Why did you fucking—oh my God, dude, I think you licked my uvula!"

Your eyes widened in horror. "I did not!"

"You fucking did!" He kept laughing, slapping a hand against his knee, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "You tried to eat my whole goddamn mouth!"

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at his face. "Shut up!"

He barely even felt it. He was too far gone, still curled up, still gasping between laughs. "Dude, holy shit—"

"I panicked!" you shrieked, hands flying to your face as the mortification crushed you. "I thought that’s what you were supposed to do!"

Cartman rolled onto his back, clutching his chest, still laughing. "Not like that!" He gasped, finally catching enough breath to form a sentence, though his grin never faded. "Jesus Christ, dude, that was—I swear to God—that was a fucking assault."

You groaned so loudly you thought you might actually explode. "This was a mistake."

Cartman wiped at his eyes, breath still uneven. "Yeah, for me," he muttered, shaking his head. "Holy fuck, that was awful."

You wanted to crawl into the floor and disappear. Every inch of you was burning, your hands twitching with the overwhelming urge to either punch Cartman in the face or throw yourself out the nearest window. He was still laughing, his body shaking as he wiped at his eyes, looking like he had just witnessed the funniest thing in his entire life.

But then, somewhere between his wheezes, his gaze flicked over to you, and his laughter slowed just enough for him to actually see you. Your face was completely flushed, your shoulders tense, your hands balled into fists against his sheets. You weren’t just embarrassed—you were humiliated. Your lips pressed together tightly, your chest rising and falling unevenly, your eyes locked onto a spot on the floor, avoiding him entirely.

Cartman let out one last chuckle before exhaling, rolling his shoulders like he was forcing himself to calm down. He was still grinning, but when he spoke, his voice had dropped slightly, losing some of the teasing edge. "Alright, dude, relax," he muttered, sitting up straighter. "It wasn’t that bad."

You whipped your head toward him, glaring. "Are you fucking kidding me? You screamed."

Cartman snorted, smirking. "Yeah, because you literally invaded my mouth like a fucking alien parasite."

Your stomach clenched with embarrassment all over again, and you groaned, pressing your hands over your face. "I knew this was a bad idea."

"Okay, first of all," Cartman said, nudging your knee with his, "if you were that bad, I wouldn’t be offering to fix it, now would I?"

You peeked at him through your fingers. "Fix it?"

He rolled his eyes like you were an idiot. "Yes, fix it, dumbass. You wanted practice, right? So let’s practice. One more time."

You froze, your whole body tensing again. "I—what?"

Cartman huffed, shifting slightly so he was facing you more directly. "Look, I know you’re a fucking overthinker, so let’s just get this part out of the way before you start spiraling again. You don’t just shove your tongue in immediately, alright? Start slow. Let the other person meet you halfway. You gotta give them time to react to it, or else you’re just… I don’t know, assaulting their esophagus."

You groaned again, feeling the mortification creep up your spine. "Jesus Christ, Eric—"

"I’m helping you," he cut in, raising an eyebrow. "You asked for this, remember?"

Your mouth opened, then shut again. He had a point. You had asked for this. You had wanted to make sure you didn’t humiliate yourself in front of Damien. And despite all his teasing, Cartman was actually… helping. In his own, completely asshole way.

You took a slow breath, shaking out your hands before looking back at him. "Alright. One more time."

Cartman smirked. "One more time."

You swallowed hard, nodding, your breath coming a little unsteadily as you shifted closer to him. The space between you disappeared fast, the heat of his body pressing against yours as you adjusted your position on the bed. Cartman didn’t lean away, didn’t make another joke, didn’t ruin the moment with some last-minute insult. Instead, he moved toward you too, his weight shifting on the mattress as his arm settled close to your side, brushing against your hip.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, loud and distracting, your skin prickling with nervous anticipation. He was close now, his face inches from yours, his body radiating warmth, the scent of his hoodie—clean detergent, cheap cologne, something distinctly him—filling the tiny space between you. He exhaled through his nose, his usual bravado dialed down into something calmer, more focused. His gaze flickered over your face once, then he murmured, voice quiet and unusually soft, “Just relax.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

Cartman leaned in first, the movement so natural, so uncharacteristically slow that you barely registered it happening before his lips were on yours. There was no hesitation in the way he kissed you. His lips met yours with an ease that sent another shiver down your back, warm and firm, neither too demanding nor too hesitant. Unlike last time, there was no awkward fumbling, no nervous hovering, no disaster waiting to happen. He kissed you like he knew exactly what he was doing, like this wasn’t just some stupid favor or some joke waiting to be made.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself against him. His lips moved against yours, setting a pace that was easy to follow, smooth and controlled, guiding you without words, without teasing. His mouth was warm, the way he kissed you slow but assured, like he was giving you space to figure it out, letting you fall into step with him instead of forcing it.

The heat curled low in your stomach as you gripped the hoodie tighter, pressing forward on instinct, your chest brushing against his. A quiet sound slipped from you, barely audible, but it was enough for Cartman to react. His breathing changed just slightly, a barely-there hitch as he angled his head, moving against you with a little more purpose. His fingers twitched against the bed, his knuckles brushing the fabric like he had the urge to move them but was still holding back.

You weren’t holding back.

Your body leaned in more, closing any remaining space between you. Your hands clenched the hoodie tighter as you moved with him, your lips parting just slightly against his. His reaction was immediate, meeting you halfway, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach twist with nerves. The movement of his lips against yours was slow but firm, not impatient, but deliberate, like he was waiting for you to catch up, waiting for you to relax into it the way he had told you to.

Your pulse thundered under your skin, the warmth of him pressing into you, his mouth sliding against yours, his scent surrounding you. The smallest graze of his tongue barely brushed against yours, light and unintrusive, more of a suggestion than anything. Your body tensed before it melted, the shift happening all at once, your fingers curling even tighter in his hoodie as you let yourself lean into it. A noise bubbled up in your throat before you could stop it, soft and breathy, breaking against his mouth.

Cartman made a low sound, something close to a hum, like he had felt that reaction more than he had heard it. His posture changed, his weight settling more fully into the mattress, his head tilting just slightly, enough that the kiss turned deeper, slower. Your heart hammered as your grip on him tightened, your hands twisting into the fabric like letting go wasn’t even an option.

Your body felt too warm, your skin buzzing, your lips tingling with the press of his, the slide of breath between you. Every nerve felt on edge, oversensitive, your mind clouded with nothing but the feeling of his mouth moving against yours. Your breathing was uneven, your lips parting a little more, chasing the kiss without thinking. The moment stretched, neither of you pulling away, neither of you hesitating, neither of you making it into a joke.

Cartman was the first to break it, pulling back just enough to put space between you, though not much. His breath was still uneven, his lips slightly red from the kiss, his face a little flushed, but his expression was difficult to read. His eyes flickered over your face like he was trying to process something before he exhaled sharply, his mouth pressing into a firm line for a second. His tongue swiped over his lower lip once before he leaned away fully, his posture shifting back into something looser, like he was willing himself to act normal again.

He stretched his arms over his head, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice rougher than usual, like the words were slow to come out. “That was better.”

Your mind was still reeling, your body buzzing with the lingering sensation of Cartman’s lips against yours. It had been your first real kiss—the first one that actually felt right, the first one that hadn’t been awkward fumbling or a complete disaster. Your breath was still unsteady, your fingers tingling, your skin warm from how close the two of you had been just moments ago.

You blinked at him, your thoughts slow and tangled, but as the realization settled in—you had actually done it, and you hadn’t completely sucked—a wide, breathless smile spread across your face. Before you could stop yourself, you lunged forward, throwing your arms around him and crushing him into a tight hug.

"Thank you," you mumbled against his shoulder, squeezing him so hard that he rocked slightly where he sat. "You’re still an asshole, but you’re a good friend. Damien won’t know what hit him."

Cartman let out a strangled grunt, his whole body tensing at the sudden contact. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, shifting under your weight but making no real effort to push you off. "Why the fuck are you hugging me—"

"Because I love you," you said, tightening your grip. "Platonically. Mostly."

His hands finally came up, not to return the hug, but to pry you off him. "Alright, get off me, you needy bitch. I just did you the biggest favor of your life, and now you’re trying to suffocate me?"

You laughed, leaning back but still grinning at him, the weight in your chest lighter than it had been all day. "Relax, coach. I was showing gratitude."

Cartman rolled his eyes, smoothing down his hoodie like you had personally offended him. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just don’t go getting all emotional about it. It was a favor, not a fucking Hallmark movie."

"You sure?" You smirked, tilting your head as you nudged his leg with yours. "That was a pretty good kiss. Almost seemed like you enjoyed it."

His expression immediately soured. His jaw tensed, his nose scrunched up slightly, and his eyes narrowed in a way that told you you had just hit a nerve. "Shut the fuck up."

You snickered, standing from the bed, your heart still beating a little too fast, your lips still tingling from the kiss. 

"Hey," Cartman muttered, not quite looking at you, but not ignoring you either. His hands twitched against his hoodie, gripping the fabric for a second before relaxing. "Don’t fucking waste that, alright? If you go in there and kiss that goth bastard like a fucking goldfish, I’m revoking your practice rights."

The corner of your mouth twitched, something warm settling in your chest at the way he was still looking out for you, even if he had to disguise it with his usual smugness. "Noted, coach. I’ll make you proud."

"You better," he grumbled, turning away with a huff. His leg bounced slightly, a subtle twitch in his posture that hadn’t been there before, but you didn’t comment on it.

You turned toward your bag, pulling it onto your lap as you dug around for your phone. The screen lit up, the time staring back at you, reminding you just how little time you had before your date. Your reflection in the dark screen caught your attention, and you frowned, leaning in slightly.

Your lipstick was smudged.

Your stomach flipped, a fresh wave of heat creeping up your neck. You hadn't even thought about that. You had been so wrapped up in everything—your nerves, your panic, the way Cartman had kissed you without turning it into a joke—that you hadn't even considered the fact that there would be evidence of it left on your face.

Cartman hadn’t said anything either.

You swallowed, pushing the thought aside as you reached for your makeup bag. Unzipping it quickly, you pulled out your lip tint, tilting your phone slightly so you could use the reflection to fix it. You swiped the color back over your lips carefully, blending it in, trying to make sure it didn’t look like you had just been making out with someone minutes before going on a date.

Behind you, Cartman shifted on the bed, the mattress creaking slightly as he moved. You could still feel his presence, still sense the way he was watching you even if you weren’t looking directly at him. The air in the room felt different now, heavier in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

As you smoothed out the last of your lip tint, you finally glanced back at him. He was leaning back on his hands now, his posture forced into something casual, but there was something off about the way he was looking at you. His eyes flicked from your lips back to your phone, like he was pretending he hadn’t been paying attention.

You pressed your lips together, making sure the color was even before stuffing the tint back into your bag. "Alright," you muttered, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. "I should probably go."

Cartman let out a short breath, his knee still bouncing. "Yeah," he muttered, nodding. "Go knock your little goth boyfriend on his ass."

You laughed, shaking your head as you adjusted the strap of your purse. The nerves that had been eating away at you all day had finally settled, and for the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe. As you turned back toward Cartman, something caught your eye, making you pause.

There was a faint smudge of color on his lips, barely noticeable, but unmistakable. Your lipstick had transferred onto his mouth.

Your stomach flipped, and before you could think twice, you stepped closer. "Oh, hold on," you said, already reaching out.

Cartman barely had time to react before your fingers brushed against his lips. His whole body tensed at the contact, his shoulders locking up as his eyes widened slightly before snapping into a glare.

"Hey, what the fuck—" His voice was muffled against your fingers as you wiped at the stain, rubbing your thumb over the corner of his mouth. His lips twitched, like he wanted to bare his teeth at you but was holding himself back.

"You got my lipstick on you," you said, grinning as you swiped at it again, this time more thoroughly.

Cartman jerked his head back, his scowl deepening, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes, something unsettled. "So fucking what? Let me rock it."

Snorting, you grabbed his chin before he could pull away completely, tilting his face back toward you. "Oh my god, hold still," you said, laughing through your words as you rubbed away the last of the color.

He let out a dramatic groan, tilting his head back even further like you were torturing him. "Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking annoying," he grumbled, but he wasn’t actually stopping you. His hands stayed planted against the bed, his knee had stopped bouncing, and he was letting you touch him without his usual exaggerated resistance. His face was warm under your fingers, his skin slightly flushed, his lips pressed into a tight line like he was biting back more words than usual.

You wiped at the last bit of color, giving a satisfied hum. "There. Much better."

Cartman opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then he hesitated. His gaze flicked over your face, and for a moment, he wasn’t glaring, wasn’t smirking, wasn’t wearing the usual amused look he always had when he was about to say something shitty. His jaw tensed slightly, his lips parting just enough, like he was waiting for you to move away first.

That was when you realized how close you were.

Your hand was still resting against his chin, your fingers brushing the side of his face. He wasn’t leaning into the touch, but he wasn’t pulling away either. His breathing wasn’t as even as it had been before, his shoulders locked in place like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

You quickly pulled your hand back, rubbing your fingers against the sleeve of your cardigan like that would somehow erase the moment. "Now you don’t look like you’ve been making out with someone before my date," you said, clearing your throat as you took a step back.

Cartman scoffed, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. "Please, I could have pulled it off."

You smirked, grabbing your phone again as you adjusted your bag. "Oh yeah? Next time, I’ll use red. See how bold you’re willing to be."

His expression twitched, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before his usual irritation took over. His scowl deepened, but he didn’t fire back as quickly as he normally would have. His lips pressed into a firm line, his hands tightening where they rested on the bed before he exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Alright, I’m actually leaving now," you said, heading toward the door.

He let out a breath, shifting back on the bed, his arms crossing over his chest again. "Yeah, yeah. Try not to fucking embarrass yourself out there."

As you reached for the handle, you turned to look at him one last time. He was still in the same spot, still sitting with his arms crossed, but his expression wasn’t as relaxed as he was trying to make it seem. His jaw was set, his eyes slightly narrowed, his lips still pursed like he had words forming but wasn’t saying them.

You smirked anyways, flipping him off as you opened the door. "No promises."

He didn’t respond right away. He watched you for a second longer, his leg bouncing slightly, his fingers drumming against his hoodie, before looking away.

You didn’t wait for anything else before stepping out.

It had been a few days since your date, and Cartman had heard every detail. You had texted him nonstop, sending updates like you were narrating some once-in-a-lifetime event. Damien had been charming, paid for dinner, walked you back to your dorm, and to top it all off, he kissed you at the end of the night. You had ended the last text with I didn’t headbutt him!!! and way too many emojis.

Cartman had left you on read.

Now, he was walking back from trivia night with Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Butters, hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his hoodie. He kept his head down, barely listening as the others picked apart everything they got wrong that night. Normally, he would have been leading that charge, shitting on Kyle for the answers he got wrong, calling Stan an idiot for second-guessing himself, making fun of Butters for celebrating a lucky guess. But tonight, he wasn’t in the mood.

Kenny must have noticed, because as they crossed the street back toward campus, he shot Cartman a look. “Dude, what’s up with you? You’ve been quiet all night.”

Cartman scowled, barely glancing at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Kyle scoffed. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’ve barely said a word for two hours? That’s insane considering how much you love to talk out of your ass about how bad we are at trivia.”

“You are bad at trivia,” Cartman muttered, kicking at a stray rock on the sidewalk. “That’s just a fucking fact.”

“Yeah, but usually you won’t shut up about it,” Stan pointed out, zipping up his jacket as the cold night air rolled through. “Didn’t even talk shit when Kyle said the wrong answer on that Star Wars question.”

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude. I just wasn’t in the mood.”

Kenny smirked, watching him a little too closely. “You still thinking about her date?”

Cartman’s stomach twisted. His hands clenched in his hoodie pocket, fingers gripping the fabric so tight he thought the seams might pop. He didn’t look at Kenny, just scoffed. “Oh my God, you’re all fucking obsessed,” he said, his voice sharper than he intended. “I don’t give a shit about her date, alright? Why the fuck would I? That goth motherfucker can have her. I don’t care.”

Kenny’s smirk widened slightly, and Stan and Kyle exchanged a glance. Butters, who had been quiet up until now, let out a nervous laugh. “Golly, fellas, maybe Eric’s just real tired! I mean, we have had a long day—”

“Shut the fuck up, Butters,” Cartman snapped.

Kyle exhaled, shaking his head. “Dude. Just admit it.”

Cartman frowned. “Admit what?”

Kenny nudged him with his elbow, grinning. “That you’re jealous as fuck.”

Cartman stopped walking.

The others took a few more steps before realizing and turning back to face him. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, arms crossed, his expression shifting through several emotions in real time before settling on something defensive and pissed off.

“Ohhh, fuck you, Kenny,” he said, shaking his head. “You guys are so fucking stupid, I swear to God.”

Kenny chuckled, unfazed. “Then why’d you stop walking?”

Cartman’s jaw tightened. “Because I’m surrounded by dumbasses, clearly.”

Stan, Kyle, and Kenny all looked at each other, the amusement in their faces only growing.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “So if you don’t care, why haven’t you roasted her about it yet?”

Cartman opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

They were still watching him, waiting for a response, waiting for him to snap back with some insult, waiting for him to say anything.

He should have. He had wanted to. He had wanted to roast you for your stupid texts, for how excited you had been, for how you had sent him a play-by-play of the night like it was the best thing that had ever happened to you. He had wanted to tell you that you were being fucking embarrassing, that Damien probably thought you were desperate, that you were putting way too much stock into one date. He had wanted to call you a loser for the emoji spam alone.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, he had left you on read.

His fingers curled tighter into his hoodie as he forced out a smirk. “Because I don’t care,” he said, throwing his arms out like this whole conversation was ridiculous. “I mean, shit, dude, good for her! She’s finally not a fucking virgin loser anymore! Should I be proud? Should I send the goth motherfucker a congrats text? Frame her first date certificate?”

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Bro.”

“What?!”

Stan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Dude, if you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t be getting so defensive about it.”

Cartman scoffed, turning back toward campus, walking faster. “You guys are fucking annoying.”

Kyle groaned, following after him. “Oh my God, you are so full of shit.”

Cartman ignored him, keeping his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes fixed ahead. He could feel them looking at him, could hear the stupid smirks in their voices, could tell they thought they had him all figured out.

This wasn’t jealousy. It was annoyance. You had taken up so much of his time with your stupid date prep, freaked out to him about how nervous you were, dragged him into your dumb little crisis, and now you were off making out with some goth asshole and acting like it was the best night of your life.

Kenny caught up beside him, walking a little too casually. “You sure you don’t care?”

Cartman didn’t look at him. His jaw was still tight, his fingers still curled into his hoodie, his stomach still unsettled from the memory of your last text.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “I’m sure.”

Kenny hummed like he didn’t believe him. “Alright.”

Cartman didn’t say anything else. He kept walking, kept his hands in his pockets, kept his face neutral. The others let it go after that, but the weight in his chest didn’t.

He wasn’t jealous.

He wasn’t.

The bass thumped through the walls, the air thick with the smell of alcohol, cheap weed, and too many bodies crammed into one house. The party was in full swing, people laughing too loud, red solo cups littering every surface, the usual chaos of a Friday night in college. You leaned against the wall in the farthest corner of the room, holding your drink close as you nodded along to what Damien was saying.

For the past couple of weeks, you had been trying to hang out with Eric, trying to call, trying to text, but he kept brushing you off. Every attempt was met with short responses, sarcastic excuses, or straight-up ghosting. Busy, got shit to do, go bother your goth boyfriend. Sometimes he wouldn’t even respond at all.

You wanted to believe it was just Eric being Eric, that he was always like this, that he had a habit of being a lazy piece of shit when it came to effort in friendships. But it didn’t feel like that this time. It felt deliberate.

You had seen him on campus plenty, sitting with the guys at lunch, lounging in the dorm common areas, playing video games with Kenny. He wasn’t busy. He was just avoiding you.

And the worst part? You had no clue why.

Damien’s voice pulled you back to the present. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he took a sip from his cup. “Something on your mind?”

You blinked, adjusting your grip on your drink, forcing yourself to focus. You had dressed for Damien tonight, picked an outfit that leaned heavier into his style—dark mesh, layered silver jewelry, the deep, smoky eye makeup you knew he liked. You wanted to impress him, to make sure you fit next to him, to look like you belonged at his side.

Smiling, you shook your head. “Nah, just a little tired.”

Damien studied you for a second, his sharp, gray eyes dragging over your face, his expression difficult to place. His lips were slightly parted like he was debating whether to push for more, but he didn’t ask again. He was good at that—holding back just enough to make you wonder, keeping his emotions measured, never giving too much away. That mystery had drawn you to him in the first place, made you curious, made you want to know what went on beneath the quiet, confident exterior.

His smirk widened slightly, his gaze dipping lower as he took another sip of his drink before leaning in, lowering his voice. “Well, if you need a way to wake up, I can think of a few.”

His hand brushed against your hip, the touch light but lingering, his fingers pressing just enough to send a small shiver through you.

Excitement sparked in your chest, your heart picking up a little at the attention. He had been flirty before, but not like this, not this direct, not this confident in his intentions. You liked it. You had spent weeks wondering if he really liked you as much as you liked him, if you were overthinking things, if you should make the first move. But now, he was right here, taking that step for you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup as warmth spread through your body, nerves mixing with anticipation. He was watching you closely, waiting for your reaction, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knew you weren’t going to pull away.

You opened your mouth to respond, your pulse quickening, but before you could say anything, your eyes flicked past Damien’s shoulder, and your stomach twisted.

Through the crowd, the front door swung open, letting in a short gust of cold air that swept through the entryway. Kyle stepped in first, followed by Stan, who was already glancing around like he was trying to spot someone. Kenny trailed behind them, hood still up despite being indoors, his cup already full—probably grabbed from the porch table on the way in.

And then Cartman walked in.

His shoulders were slouched, hands stuffed into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie, the same gray one you always saw him in when he didn’t want to deal with people. His mouth was set in a flat line, not a scowl, but close. He wasn’t saying anything to the others, just following behind like he hadn’t even really wanted to come in the first place.

You weren’t sure why you were surprised. You’d known they were going to be here. You’d heard Stan mention it earlier in the week, maybe even twice. It wasn’t like this party was exclusive. It was one of those open-invite things—just a bunch of people piling into a too-small house, half for the drinks and half for the excuse to say they had plans.

Damien shifted beside you. He must’ve followed your gaze, because his voice dropped just slightly. “You good?”

You turned back to him too quickly, your expression too forced. “Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

He didn’t look convinced.

You glanced over again, trying to be subtle. Cartman was still by the door, standing slightly off to the side while Stan and Kyle greeted someone. Kenny had already disappeared into the kitchen. Cartman’s gaze swept lazily over the room before landing—too quickly—on you.

It was barely a second. He looked, blinked, and then looked away just as fast. Like he hadn’t seen anything. Like you weren’t there at all.

The feeling that hit your chest was sharp and immediate, a little flash of heat behind your ribs that left you stunned more than hurt. You didn’t know what you’d expected—eye contact, a nod, even one of his usual shitty expressions—but not that. Not that total dismissal.

You forced a breath out through your nose, lifted your drink, and took a long sip, letting the vodka burn away the rest of whatever you were feeling. When you turned back to Damien, your face was already rearranged into a smile.

“So, yeah,” you said, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation like nothing had happened. “You were saying something about your band getting a show?”

Damien didn’t press. He raised his eyebrows slightly, like he’d caught your shift in tone but wasn’t going to call it out. Instead, he leaned in again, his voice smooth and easy. “Yeah, it’s next Friday. Small venue, some DIY place in the Heights, but the lineup’s decent. You should come. I’ll put you on the list.”

You nodded, focusing on the way his hand brushed your arm as he spoke. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He smiled, just slightly, a soft curve of his mouth that seemed rare on him. The music behind you shifted to something heavier, a distorted bassline shaking the walls, and Damien leaned in a little closer to hear you better. You kept talking, letting the conversation move from music to classes to some weird sociology reading you both had hated last week. Slowly, the tension in your body started to ease again.

But it didn’t last. You spotted Kyle out of the corner of your eye before he reached you, Stan trailing just behind him. They wove through the crowd, eyes locked on you and Damien, and even from a distance you could tell something was off.

They stopped a few feet away, standing just close enough to make it clear they weren’t just passing by.

“Hey,” Kyle said, a little too casual, his eyes flicking between you and Damien. “Didn’t know you guys were here.”

You lifted your cup a little, giving them a half-smile. “Yeah, we’ve been here a while.”

Stan didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at Damien, then back at you, his mouth tightening slightly.

Damien leaned back against the wall, sipping from his drink. “Sup.”

Kyle nodded slowly, but his posture was tight. Not hostile, not openly rude, but stiff in that way that made it obvious he was holding something back. “Didn’t realize you two were… hanging out again.”

Damien let out a soft breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. “You guys always check up on her like this?”

Kyle’s jaw shifted slightly, but he didn’t break eye contact. “When we need to.”

You straightened up a bit, shoulders tightening. “Okay. I don’t need babysitting.”

“Didn’t say you did,” Kyle said, his tone still calm, but his eyes sharp.

Stan looked like he wanted to say something more, but held it back, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.

You opened your mouth to press them further, frustration building in your chest, but the moment slipped away as your eyes caught movement across the room. Cartman had reappeared in the crowd, standing just far enough away that you could see him clearly through the shifting bodies and dim, uneven lighting. He was alone, leaning slightly against the wall near the hallway entrance, one hand wrapped tightly around a red plastic cup. The curve of the cup bent where his fingers dug into it, like he didn’t realize how tightly he was holding it—or maybe he did.

His eyes were fixed on you. Not glancing. Not casually scanning the room. Watching.

He didn’t look at Kyle. He didn’t look at Damien, even as he stood right next to you. He wasn’t looking at Stan, or at the argument building quietly in front of you. His gaze didn’t shift. It stayed exactly where it had been. Right on you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your own cup, the condensation on the plastic sticking to your skin. Around you, the conversation carried on, though it had lost its clarity. Kyle was asking Damien how long you’d been “talking,” his voice laced with subtle judgment, like he was trying to phrase something ugly in a way that still sounded polite. Stan was quieter, but more direct, asking if Damien was just having fun or if he actually gave a shit. Damien, true to form, didn’t look rattled. He shrugged, the smallest smirk tugging at his mouth, his arms still relaxed even as their tone shifted. He didn’t take the bait.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure what had been said last. Your eyes were still locked across the room, where Cartman stood like a goddamn storm cloud in human form, drink in hand, not blinking, not smiling, not moving. His mouth was set in that tight line you knew too well, the muscles in his jaw working as he clenched it like he was holding back something sharp.

That was when Kenny reappeared beside him, slipping out of the kitchen with a drink in one hand and a half-eaten brownie in the other. He started talking to Cartman right away, his tone bright and animated, using wide gestures like he was halfway through retelling a stupid story.

But Cartman didn’t answer. He didn’t even glance at him.

Kenny slowed, visibly confused, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Cartman’s face. Then, slowly, he followed his line of sight—tracked it across the room, through the crowd, until his gaze landed on you.

The smirk that curled on Kenny’s face was instant and unmistakable. Then he lifted his arm and, in that loud, unbothered way only Kenny could get away with, shouted across the house, “Yo! Lover girl! What the hell are you doing all the way over there? Get over here already!”

The words cut through the music and the noise like a blade. A few people turned to look, and someone nearby laughed. You heard a fake wolf-whistle off to the side, followed by a chorus of low, amused murmurs.

Your entire body went rigid, heat flaring in your face so fast it was dizzying. You felt it crawl up your neck, blooming under your skin, impossible to hide.

Across the room, Cartman’s stare finally broke—but only long enough to shoot Kenny a look so cutting and cold it could’ve sliced the tension in half. It wasn’t loud or over-the-top, no sarcastic sigh or dramatic eye-roll, just that narrowed, scathing look he always gave when he was two seconds from losing his patience.

You stood stiffly against the wall, your drink still clutched in both hands, the condensation from the plastic cup seeping into your palms. The blood still hadn’t left your face, and when you finally turned your head, you caught Stan, Kyle, and Damien all watching you.

Stan’s expression was pinched with quiet concern, eyes flicking from you to Cartman and back like he was trying to do the math in his head and didn’t like what it added up to. Kyle was a little less subtle, looking between you and Damien with that tight-lipped, half-skeptical frown of his, as if he was trying to decide if he should say something or just stay out of it. Damien, by contrast, stood perfectly still beside you, his fingers tapping slowly against his drink, not tense exactly, but no longer relaxed either.

Kenny, picking up on the frozen standoff from across the room, muttered something to Cartman and nudged him with his elbow. Cartman didn’t move, his stare fixed somewhere in the middle distance. But Kenny nudged him again, harder this time, and finally Cartman shifted his weight and followed Kenny through the crowd, reluctantly dragging himself toward your corner of the party like it was the last place on Earth he wanted to be.

When they reached you, Kenny took the lead, his usual grin in place as he raised his drink in a mock-toast and nodded at Damien like this was all perfectly normal. “Hey, dude.”

Damien looked at Kenny briefly, gave a polite nod, and then turned his attention to Cartman, who still hadn’t said a word. He stood just behind Kenny, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other gripping his drink like he was imagining crushing it.

You watched the whole thing unfold like you weren’t even part of it.

Cartman’s eyes finally lifted to meet Damien’s. The silence stretched long enough that even Stan looked like he was about to say something just to fill it.

Damien raised an eyebrow, his tone cool but dry. “You gonna keep looking at me like that, or do you want to take a picture?”

Cartman’s lip curled, not quite a smile. “Why? So you can hang it in your sad little dorm full of Joy Division posters and half-dead succulents?”

Kenny let out a sharp laugh and then immediately tried to stifle it behind his drink.

Damien didn’t flinch. “I don’t hang pictures of people I’m not interested in. You might, though. You seem the type to print out people’s selfies and stab thumbtacks through the eyes.”

Cartman stepped forward just slightly, his smirk turning sharper. “Oh, that’s cute. You memorize that one on your way over here? I bet you practice your insults in the mirror, don’t you? Like, ohhh, what would really impress her tonight—should I bring up her failed talking stages? Or maybe name-drop a band nobody likes?”

Stan looked up toward the ceiling and exhaled like he wanted to leave his body.

Kyle muttered under his breath, “Here we fucking go.”

Damien straightened just slightly, calm but not backing off. “You want to make this about me? Fine. But you’ve been dodging her calls for two weeks straight and now you show up to a party just to hover in a corner and glare at me like I killed your cat. Grow up.”

Cartman’s face twitched, not a full reaction, but enough that the silence following Damien’s words felt heavier than it should have. For a second, it almost looked like he might walk away. His jaw clenched. His shoulders shifted.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cartman said, lifting his hand like he was about to recite a script. “Forgive me for not rolling out the red carpet for Damien Fucking Dark-Aesthetic, King of Brooding One-Liners. Didn’t realize I was competing with a guy who probably gets hard to Bauhaus and writes poetry about the moon.”

You blinked, slowly, as the words left his mouth. Competing?

That was the part that stuck. Not the insults. Not the typical Cartman-style meltdown or the way his voice got louder the more unhinged he sounded. Competing.

Competing with Damien?

Damien looked like he was already preparing a response, the kind that came clipped and venom-laced and probably just as dramatic as Cartman's. He inhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he was going to start with something measured and end it with a kill shot—

But you finally stepped forward.

“What the fuck is happening right now?”

Your voice cut clean through the tension, and for a moment, all of them went still. Cartman stopped mid-breath, his mouth half-open like he was ready to keep going. Damien’s expression didn’t change much, but he looked at you now instead of through Cartman. Even Stan, who had been trying his hardest not to get dragged in, shifted his weight uneasily.

Kyle, never one to miss an opportunity, snorted. “You tell us. This dude’s melting down in real time.”

Cartman’s head whipped toward him instantly. “Shut the fuck up, Jew.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “God, you are so fucking original.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for not wanting to watch her make out with fucking Dracula while I stand here like a dumbass!”

“That’s not what’s happening!” Kyle snapped. “You’re being a freak, as usual!”

“Eat shit, Kyle!”

“Eat better shit, Cartman!”

You groaned, already reaching for Cartman’s arm. He tried to resist for a half second, still gesturing wildly toward Kyle, his mouth mid-rant, but you were already grabbing his wrist and pulling.

“Okay. That’s enough. Come here,” you muttered, dragging him away from the group before someone threw a punch or shattered a bottle.

Cartman sputtered. “What? Where the fuck are we going?”

“Away from them,” you said, not bothering to look back. “Before you embarrass yourself any worse.”

“I’m not embarrassing myself, he’s just—”

“Cartman.”

You said his name flat, final, without the bite as you pulled him into the kitchen with more force than necessary. You didn’t let go until you were both tucked into the farthest corner by the back door. The overhead lights were harsh, too bright after the haze of the party. A few people milled around, talking over the music and pouring drinks, but the corner was quiet enough. You let go of him abruptly and stepped back, heat crawling up your neck from how much of a scene had already been made.

He was already looking at you, arms crossed, mouth in a tense, crooked line that wasn’t quite a smirk. There was no apology in his face, no hint of regret. Just that typical guarded expression he always wore when he didn’t want to be read.

You stared up at him, your voice sharp. “What the fuck was that back there?”

He didn’t blink. “That? That was me trying to help before you started grinding on that guy like a fucking music video.”

You recoiled slightly. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Cartman raised his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, clearly unbothered. “You were two seconds from asking him to read you his diary over a Joy Division record.”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, Eric. We were just talking.”

He scoffed. “Right. Just talking. That’s why his hand was practically in your back pocket.”

You could feel your jaw clenching. “You don’t get to act like this after ignoring me for two fucking weeks. Where do you get off?”

Cartman’s expression didn’t flinch, but something flickered in his eyes—quick, fleeting. Still, he shoved it down fast. “Maybe if you weren’t blowing up my phone like a needy ex, I would’ve answered one of your fifty texts.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Needy ex?”

“I mean, come on,” he said, stepping forward, voice rising slightly. “You texted me about Damien’s outfit. Twice. And when I didn’t answer, you sent me a playlist. A fucking playlist, dude.”

You could feel your face flush—not from embarrassment, but from how goddamn infuriating he was. “Because I thought you cared! Because you’re my best friend and I wanted to talk to you!”

He rolled his eyes, mouth twitching into a grin that had too much teeth and none of the usual humor. “No, you wanted someone to gas you up. That’s all I’ve been lately, right? Personal hype man. Walking ego boost.”

You stared at him, stunned. “That’s not fair.”

Cartman let out a dry laugh and turned toward the counter for a second, hand raking through his hair, frustration clearly simmering just beneath the surface. “Yeah? Well, maybe if you weren’t so busy treating me like your emotional support dog, I would’ve answered. But no. I’m just supposed to sit there and nod along while you swoon over some Hot Topic wet dream.”

“Jesus, Eric. You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re dramatic,” he shot back, turning to face you again. “I don’t answer for a few days and suddenly I’m the villain? You ever think maybe you were suffocating me?”

That one landed hard. You stepped back, your mouth slightly open. “Suffocating you?”

He didn’t blink. “Yeah. I gave you space. You had your little romance thing going on. I figured I’d back off, let you live your goth girl fantasy.”

You shook your head slowly. “No. You iced me out. You didn’t even give me a chance to know what was going on. You picked a fight, ignored me, and now you’re acting like I forced you to.”

“I didn’t force anything,” he said, shrugging again. “You made choices. I made mine.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, that familiar sting crawling up the back of your throat—not from guilt, but from the way he had flipped everything so completely that for a moment, you actually started questioning if this really was your fault.

“You’re twisting this,” you said quietly.

He didn’t respond. He just leaned back against the counter, eyes shifting toward the doorway like he was ready to be done with the conversation, like he’d spoken his twisted version of the truth and expected you to take it as fact. The arrogance of it sat in his posture—his crossed arms, the dismissive tilt of his head, the slight curve to his mouth that wasn’t a smirk but looked too damn close. He was trying to look calm, like this wasn’t a big deal. But his fingers were twitching against his hoodie, and he couldn’t keep still for long.

Your chest tightened. Your mouth felt dry. You’d come into this expecting a fight, maybe some messy apology if you could pull it out of him. But not this—this passive deflection, this gaslighting, this refusal to even acknowledge what you were really upset about.

“God,” you muttered, voice cracking around the edges. “You’re such a fucking coward.”

He flinched, just slightly. Not enough to admit it. But his jaw flexed. His shoulders pulled tighter.

“Yeah? Takes one to know one,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes.

The ache behind your eyes swelled suddenly, and before you could stop it, the tears started. You tried to blink them back, to keep your chin high, but it was no use. You turned your face away, one hand lifting to wipe your cheek, hoping he didn’t see—but of course he did.

Cartman let out a breath, sharp and annoyed, but quieter than usual. His arms dropped to his sides, his whole posture sagging. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

He pushed off the counter and grabbed your wrist—not rough, but not exactly gentle either. He didn’t explain where he was taking you. He didn’t even ask. He just tugged you along behind him, away from the harsh kitchen light and the muffled sound of the party, down a narrow hallway you didn’t even realize was there. You let him. You didn’t have the strength to fight him off, not when your throat was tight and your face was still wet.

The hallway was narrow and dim, ending in a plain wooden door tucked behind a hanging sheet that looked like it had been used to block off storage. Cartman pushed it open without hesitation and guided you inside.

It was a utility room, maybe. Not quite a basement, not quite a closet. The smell of old wood and detergent lingered in the air, and a single cracked window let in the faintest bit of outside light. A narrow wooden bench ran along one side of the wall, and there were boxes stacked in the corner, some with labels that had long since faded. It was quiet—blissfully, heavily quiet.

He shut the door behind him with a soft click. The noise of the party dulled to a low, distant throb.

You stood there in the silence, arms wrapped around yourself, your face burning with leftover embarrassment. Your throat hurt from how long you’d been holding it all in. He didn’t say anything right away. He stood near the door, hands shoved in the front pocket of his hoodie, his shoulders slightly hunched like even he didn’t know what to do now.

“I wasn’t trying to make you cry,” he muttered, his voice quieter than before.

You let out a shaky breath and turned to face him. “But you did. You humiliated me. You made me feel like I was crazy for caring.”

His brow furrowed, and he looked at you now—really looked. His eyes were dark and restless, like he was working through what to say, but everything sounded wrong. He wasn’t smirking anymore. His mouth was pulled tight at the corners, and his usual defensiveness had cracked, just enough to see that he wasn’t as composed as he pretended.

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” he said eventually, voice low, like each word came out reluctantly. “I didn’t want to hear about how happy you were. Not when I was just… there. Watching it happen.”

You frowned, anger simmering again beneath the hurt. “Then why didn’t you just say that? Why did you make it my fault? Why are you always doing that—twisting things, making me feel like I’m crazy for being upset?”

He didn’t deny it. His eyes dropped to the floor, his jaw set, but his shoulders tensed like the weight of your words hit harder than he expected.

“Because it’s easier,” he muttered. “It’s easier to piss you off than admit I give a fuck.”

Your chest tightened again, and your voice cracked as it left your mouth. “So you’d rather make me feel like shit than just admit you care?”

He looked up slowly, and this time, there was no mockery in his expression. His brows pulled in, lips parted like he was about to speak and didn’t trust what would come out. He looked torn, like he wanted to defend himself but didn’t know how without making it worse.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” he said finally. “You’re acting like I’ve got this figured out, like I know how to handle it when someone I—” He stopped himself, cutting the sentence off mid-thought, shaking his head like he could erase the rest of it before it slipped out. “I panicked, okay? I panicked, and I pushed you away before you could do it first.”

Your eyes burned again. “I wasn’t going to.”

His mouth pressed into a tight line. “Yeah, well. You didn’t say that either.”

He stepped closer—hesitant, deliberate. His hands were clenched in his hoodie again, and he stopped a few inches from you.

“You’re not crazy,” he muttered, voice rough. “You’re just the only person I actually give a shit about. And that scares the fuck out of me.”

You let out a shaky, breathless sound, part laugh, part exhale, like the tension in your chest had finally cracked just enough to let something softer in. It wasn’t a full laugh, not really, but it was enough. You wiped under your eyes with the sleeve of your cardigan and shook your head a little, looking at him through the leftover tears.

“That’s not true,” you murmured, voice still thin but steadier now. “You care about Kenny. And Stan. And Kyle, even if you pretend to hate him every other day.”

Cartman gave a long, exaggerated sigh, tipping his head back like the ceiling had just insulted him personally. “Ugh, don’t remind me. The fuck do you think this is, some after-school special?”

You rolled your eyes, but a weak smile tugged at your mouth, and he saw it—his own shoulders relaxing slightly. He looked less tense now, less coiled, like the edge had been filed off the worst of his pride.

“Alright,” he said, dragging his hands down his face with a groan. “Fine. I’m an asshole. Happy?”

You gave him a look. “Not if you say it like that.”

He dropped his hands and looked at you properly this time, his expression more serious than you were used to. There was still a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes, but it was buried now, dulled beneath the weight of something more honest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words sounded weird coming out of him, like they didn’t quite fit his mouth. “For being a dick. For not answering. For making it your problem when I was the one being... whatever.”

You blinked, surprised that he didn’t immediately follow it with a joke, but he didn’t. He just stood there, watching you, waiting. That was the most unnerving part—he meant it. Or he was trying to.

“I’ll listen,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you wanna talk about Damien. Or whatever the fuck. I won’t make fun of it. Not unless he shows up in a cape or starts writing you poems about death or something, in which case, I make no promises.”

Your smile widened, slow and cautious but real. “You always make fun of things.”

“Yeah, well. I’m growing,” he said, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Character development. It’s disgusting.”

You laughed, not loud, but genuine, the sound easing the last of the tension between you. A smile spread across your face—finally real, not forced through frustration or tears. You looked up at him, the corners of your eyes still slightly damp, but no longer stinging.

Without saying anything, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Cartman stiffened at first, like he always did when someone touched him without warning, but it only lasted a second. His arms came around you hesitantly, like he was trying to figure out where to place his hands. One settled around your lower back, the other hovered like he wasn’t sure if this was allowed, but eventually gave in and pulled you closer. He wasn’t the best hugger—he held too tightly, too awkwardly—but it still made your chest feel lighter.

You squeezed him tighter and buried your face briefly against the shoulder of his hoodie. “Let’s sit,” you murmured. “I have so much to tell you about Damien.”

He pulled back slightly, enough to look at you, his brow already twitching like he was regretting his apology.

“Ugh,” he groaned dramatically, dragging out the word as he let you lead him toward the wooden bench along the wall. “This is my punishment, huh? I make one emotional breakthrough and now I get to listen to you gush about Count Fuckula for an hour?”

You laughed again as you sat down, brushing your hair out of your face. “You said you’d listen.”

“Yeah, but I also say I’m gonna stop eating cheese after midnight and that hasn’t happened either.”

Still, he sat next to you, elbow brushing yours, legs slightly spread the way he always sat—like he took up more space than necessary, like claiming the area was the only way to feel in control. You nudged his knee with yours.

“You’re not getting out of this,” you said, pulling your legs up and turning toward him slightly. “I’m talking eyeliner, playlists, the way he held my hand—”

Cartman groaned again, but there was no bite behind it. “Jesus Christ. Fine. Go ahead. Let’s hear it. Make me regret every choice I’ve ever made.”

You leaned back against the wall, your knees pulled up toward your chest as you smiled through Cartman's exaggerated groaning. His hand was fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, jaw tense in that way it always was when he was pretending not to care.

"Okay," you said, settling in. "So you know that playlist I sent you? The one with the weird French synth-pop?”

Cartman grunted. “I didn’t listen to it.”

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, laughing anyway. “Well, Damien did. He knew like half the songs already. Apparently, his mom was some former club DJ or something, which is... weirdly cool? And we’ve just been... I don’t know. Talking. A lot.”

Cartman didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze lingering.

“He’s not what I expected,” you continued, more softly now. “I thought he was going to be kind of pretentious—and, okay, yeah, he kind of is—but he’s also funny. In a dry way. And weirdly sweet? Like he brought me coffee before our 9 a.m. class the other day because he knew I hadn’t slept.”

Cartman let out a long breath, staring at the floor. “Sounds riveting.”

You ignored him. “And we’ve been hanging out more. Alone. Like, at his place.” You paused, watching his reaction from the corner of your eye. “And I think it’s kind of getting serious. Or close to it, maybe. And I’m... excited.”

Cartman finally looked at you, and his brows were pulled together, mouth set in a flat line. “Excited.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “Like. I don’t know. I haven’t really... done anything before. But I want to. With him. And it’s terrifying, because I have no idea what I’m doing, and he’s been with people, and I don’t want to mess it up or make it awkward. I’ve been overthinking it, obviously, but—”

“You’re gonna have sex with him?”

The question wasn’t really a question.

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. “I mean... yeah. Probably. Not, like, right away. But we’ve talked about it, and—"

Cartman scoffed, sharp and loud. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You sat up straighter, frowning. “What?”

“I bring you here, I apologize, I listen, and then you turn around and say, ‘Hey, Cartman, just a heads-up, I’m planning to fuck Count Dracula sometime next week.’”

Your face twisted in confusion. “Why are you mad? You said you’d listen. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Yeah, I said I’d listen. Not that I wanted a front-row seat to you skipping off into goth dick wonderland.”

“You’re being an asshole again,” you said, flatly.

He laughed, bitter and humorless. “And you’re being fucking delusional. You think that guy’s gonna take care of you? You think he gives a shit past the eyeliner and the sob stories about how he doesn’t talk to his dad?”

“That’s not fair,” you snapped, voice rising. “You don’t know him.”

“I know the type,” Cartman muttered, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I know how guys like that work. They say just enough cool poetic shit to get you into bed, and then they’re gone.”

Your stomach turned, a mix of rage and confusion and guilt flaring at once. “Why are you acting like this? You disappeared for weeks. You’re the one who picked a fight with me. And now I’m trying to tell you the truth, and you’re punishing me for it.”

“I’m warning you,” he said, his voice lower now, sharper. “Because I know how this ends. And you’re gonna come running to me after he fucks off, and I’m supposed to just sit there and help you pick up the pieces like always.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that!” you yelled. “I never asked you to do any of it!”

Cartman stared at you, his face hard, but his eyes flickered—something sharp giving way to something else, something smaller, more wounded, but he didn’t let it show for long.

You breathed hard, chest rising and falling, unsure if you were angry or hurt or both. Probably both. Maybe worse.

“Fine,” he said, after a long pause, his voice quieter but more bitter. “Go be with him. But don’t come crying to me when he ruins it.”

You swallowed, hard, blinking through the heat building behind your eyes again. “I didn’t expect you to be proud of me, Eric. But I thought you’d at least try not to make it about you.”

Cartman threw his head back and let out a loud, dramatic groan that echoed off the walls. “Jesus Christ, are you kidding me? I’m not making this about me. You’re the one who dragged me into this little private confessional just to give me the play-by-play of your descent into goth-boy dick hell.”

You recoiled, your face flushing with both embarrassment and anger. “I didn’t drag you. You dragged me. You’re the one who yanked me out of the kitchen like you had something to say, and now you’re acting like I forced you to listen to me.”

“I thought we were talking! Like, for real! Not—whatever this is! You crying and me sitting here hearing about how excited you are to lose your virginity to some dude who wears scarves indoors.”

You clenched your fists in your lap, breathing sharp. “You’re seriously mad that I opened up to you?”

“I’m mad because it’s you, and you don’t even fucking see it,” he snapped, slapping his hand against the wall behind him like he needed to release it somewhere. “You’re sitting here acting like this is just some cute milestone, like it’s no big deal, and I’m the only one being honest about what that means.”

“I know what it means,” you said, your voice rising now too. “You think I’m not thinking about it every goddamn second? You think I’m not terrified? You think it’s been fun sitting on this, wondering if I’m going to fuck it up and embarrass myself and have no one to talk to about it because the only person I want to talk to keeps ghosting me every time he gets weird and petty?”

Cartman flinched—barely—but it was there. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, like he didn’t want to see the way your voice cracked on the last word.

“I’m a virgin,” you said flatly, your voice sharper now, steadier even as your chest tightened. “This is all new for me. I’m scared, Eric. I don’t know what I’m doing. And you—you’ve never told me anything. You’ve been on dates. You’ve been with people. But whenever I ask, you either lie or make some dumb joke and change the subject.”

Cartman muttered something under his breath and turned toward the wall again.

“What?” you demanded. “Say it.”

He turned back slowly, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think you wanted to know.”

“Of course I wanted to know!” you shouted. “You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to be the one I can talk to about this shit. But instead, you go cold, shut me out, and then show up tonight acting like I betrayed you just by moving on with my life.”

He stared at you like he couldn’t decide whether to shout back or walk out, his chest rising and falling in tight, uneven breaths. His face was red, mouth twisted like he wanted to scream or spit or maybe laugh in that cruel, bitter way he always did when he felt cornered.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said eventually, but there was no conviction in it. “You never asked. Not really.”

“You never let me in.” You leaned forward, voice cracking again, softer now. “You’ve been shutting me out for years, Eric. You act like you know everything, like you’re always ten steps ahead of everyone, but the truth is, you don’t know how to be vulnerable without turning it into a joke. And I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m going to get.”

You kept going. “This is all new for me, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing. And you never talk about your own experiences, so I’ve got nothing to compare it to. You’ve been through this. You’ve done all of it. But you act like I’m insane for asking you about it.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, his fingers tugging at the edge of his hoodie sleeve. “Maybe I don’t wanna give a play-by-play of every time I got felt up behind the bleachers. Sorry.”

“That’s not what I’m asking for,” you said, eyes narrowing. “I just wanted to talk to you. Not read another blog post or watch another video telling me to ‘trust my instincts.’ I wanted to hear it from someone who knows me. From you.”

He was still avoiding your eyes. His knee bounced slightly, jaw tight. “It’s awkward,” he said finally, his tone quieter, more measured. “The first time. It’s never smooth. You’re thinking too much. You forget half of what you planned. Your brain just... blanks. You kinda just learn by screwing it up a little less every time.”

You didn’t interrupt. You sat there, listening—really listening. His posture was tense, his shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to shield himself from how personal it all sounded out loud.

“But it’s not about doing it right,” he continued. “It’s about paying attention. Slowing down. You notice how they react. What they like. If you can’t read the room, you’re screwed. Literally.”

You let out a soft, nervous laugh that you immediately regretted, biting your lip as you nodded. “So basically, I’m doomed.”

Cartman snorted. “Probably.”

You bumped his knee with yours, and his lips twitched slightly. Not quite a smile, but not a smirk either. His face had softened just a little, the usual tightness around his eyes fading.

The silence between you settled. Not entirely comfortable, but less strained. You glanced down at your lap, where your hands were clenched together, thumbs fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. There was a question hovering in the back of your throat, one you didn’t even know how to phrase properly. You weren’t going to say it out loud—not directly—but it tugged at you anyway, quietly begging to surface.

“I just...” you started, faltering. You didn’t look at him. “I kind of wish I could practice. Just... not go into it completely blind.”

Cartman looked over at you, his brows pulling together slightly. “What, like run drills? Flashcards?”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He was quiet again, but his body tensed slightly, the muscles in his jaw shifting. His eyes didn’t leave you now. His voice, when he finally spoke, was slower—lower, cautious. “You thinking about asking Damien to... what? Walk you through it like a tutorial?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. God, no. That would make it worse. He already knows what he’s doing. And I don’t want to ruin it by—by freezing up or doing it all wrong.”

Cartman blinked slowly, and you watched the realization settle in. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. But his face changed. The smugness disappeared like a light switch had flipped—his eyebrows knitting in slow confusion, his lips parting as if a half-thought protest had caught somewhere between his teeth. For once, he was actually quiet.

He shifted back on the bench. Not away, just enough to lean against the wall again, arms crossing his chest like he needed something to do with his hands before he said anything too real.

“You’re not talking about kissing,” he said, voice lower now, drawn out in that tone he used when he was already three steps ahead. “We already did that.”

You didn’t say anything.

He tilted his head, blinking slow, and you could see the exact moment it clicked. His brows lifted, just slightly. Not in surprise—he didn’t look shocked anymore. He looked entertained.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, smiling now, but it wasn’t nice. “You wanna practice sex stuff. On me.”

Your stomach twisted into a full-blown knot. You felt your entire body tense, heat rushing up your neck like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not—no. I just meant... I don’t know.”

He barked out a laugh and leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. “You’re kidding. You’re not kidding. Jesus Christ. I leave you alone for five minutes and suddenly you’re asking if I’ll let you climb on top of me for training.”

You buried your face in your hands. “You are the worst person I could have told.”

He grinned, wolfish now. “You mean the best. Come on—this is fucking gold. You wanna do like... what? A trial run? I’m gonna need a syllabus.”

You didn’t look up. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, far too pleased with himself. “If you hated me, you’d be asking Kyle. Or someone emotionally available. Instead, you’re here. With me. Hoping I’ll let you dry hump me like a crash test dummy before goth boy decides to whip it out.”

You groaned into your hands.

“I mean, fuck,” he said, laughing now. “You’ve really hit rock bottom, huh?”

“Can you be serious for once in your goddamn life?” you snapped, finally lifting your head. “This isn’t just some joke.”

He paused. The laughter stopped, just for a moment. His expression didn’t drop entirely, but it changed—his eyes narrowed, mouth twitching like he was weighing how far he could push before you actually cracked.

You didn’t look away. “You said it earlier. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what I’m doing. And I’m tired of feeling like I’m supposed to already know.”

He sat up straighter, his smug posture relaxing, just slightly.

You exhaled. “I’m not asking you to—do anything. Not all the way. But I don’t want the first time anyone touches me to be when I’m already halfway naked and scared out of my mind. I want to know how it’s supposed to feel. I want to not be shocked.”

Cartman was quiet. His mouth parted, but no sound came out at first.

Then, slowly, the edge returned—but dulled. His grin wasn’t sharp now. Just crooked. Cautious.

“And you want me to be the one to teach you?” he asked, voice not as smug as before, but still skeptical. “Like I’m the... what? The prep course before you go full honors with Damien?”

You held his stare. “You’re the only person I wouldn’t feel stupid in front of.”

That shut him up.

Cartman looked at you like he was seeing something he didn’t quite know how to process. His fingers drummed once against his arm, then stilled.

“You’re seriously gonna make me be the responsible one, huh?” he muttered, voice low, more tired than mocking. The usual sharpness was gone. He sat still, the bounce in his leg finally quiet. His eyes were steady on yours, like he was bracing for whatever you were about to say.

You bit your lip. It wasn’t a conscious move, just instinct. Like if you didn’t, your voice might shake when it came out. “You don’t have to,” you said softly. “I mean, really. If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to.”

Cartman let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re acting like I’m being drafted.” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossing lazily over his chest. “Look—this doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s a weird-ass room at a college party. You said you wanted to try stuff. So try it. I’m not gonna freak out and write poetry about it or whatever.”

He was trying to play it off—he always did—but his posture wasn’t loose. His arms were crossed too tightly, fingers digging into the opposite sleeve, knuckles flexing every few seconds like he didn’t know where to put his hands now that they might actually be needed for something.

He wasn’t looking at your mouth anymore. He was watching your eyes, waiting. Watching for the first sign that you’d change your mind and bolt.

You took a breath and nodded, slower this time. “Okay.”

He nodded back, once, like he’d been expecting you to say that but still needed to hear it out loud.

There was a pause—long enough for the air to shift again. He uncrossed his arms, glanced down at the space between your knees, and scratched the side of his neck like he didn’t want you to notice his hands were shaking just slightly.

“Alright,” he muttered. “So, uh. What first?”

You scrunched up your face, the nerves bubbling into something closer to frustration—or maybe just embarrassment. You pulled your knees in slightly, arms hugging yourself for a second before you turned toward him. “How am I supposed to know, dude?” you muttered, shooting him a glare that didn’t hold any real heat. “You’re the one who knows this shit. Not me.”

Cartman let out a sharp bark of a laugh, the sound echoing off the cold cinderblock walls. “Wow. So you’re throwing yourself at me and making me do the planning? Unbelievable.” He shook his head, settling back against the wall like he owned the whole damn room now. “God, I should start charging for this. Make a little side hustle. Teach virgins how not to cry during foreplay.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the way your lips curled into a smile. That familiar smugness was back in his tone, the same asshole bravado he’d always used to cover anything remotely real—but it didn’t push you away. If anything, it grounded you. The teasing, the mean little jabs—it was him. And somehow, that made everything feel safer.

You scooched closer on the crate you’d both claimed as seating, the wooden slats creaking beneath the weight shift. Your knee knocked gently into his, and you didn’t move away. The air was heavier now, thicker in the space between your bodies. The party noises on the other side of the wall were faint, like they belonged to someone else's night. Here, the silence felt personal. Kind of electric.

Your heart was thudding, but it wasn’t fear exactly. Not anymore. It was something else—something tighter in your chest, but warm. Excitement, maybe. Stupid, reckless excitement. The kind you didn’t want to name yet.

You looked over at him, and your voice was quieter now, but still laced with that nervous edge. “So… we should kiss now, right?”

His eyes flicked to yours, and he grinned—wide, crooked, borderline cocky. He tilted his head, squinting like he was pretending to think it over, dragging out the moment just to be annoying. “Well, I mean, if we’re following the official tutorial, yeah. That’d be step one. Unless you’d rather jump straight to simulated grinding, but I think that’s more advanced.”

You shoved his shoulder without any real force. “I swear to God, I will leave.”

“Relax,” he said, still grinning. “You’re paying for this lesson in blushes and dignity, remember?”

You gave him a look, but you didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned in closer.

He didn’t joke again. Not right away. He just looked at you—still smug, yeah, but his smile had softened around the edges. His posture had, too. He wasn’t holding himself quite so tightly anymore.

And he was waiting. You could feel it. Even under the teasing, even through the walls he never really dropped, there was something careful in the way he stayed still—like he was leaving space for you to choose.

You leaned in, slower this time. No laughter in your chest. No panic in your throat. Your breath caught halfway up and stayed there, suspended as you tilted your head just enough to align with his. His lips were parted, the corners of his mouth twitching. His eyes were half-lidded, watching you.

You didn’t touch him. Not yet. Just leaned close until your mouth hovered over his, your nose brushing his, your forehead almost pressing to his. You were so close you could feel his breath, warm against your skin, could see the faint crease between his brows, the way he was holding perfectly still like his body didn’t trust him to react naturally.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked, voice quiet, not because you were scared, but because anything louder might have cracked the moment open too fast.

He didn’t give you a yes. He didn’t give you anything that easy. Just made a low sound deep in his throat, like he couldn’t believe you were asking, like it annoyed him that you needed the confirmation at all.

But he didn’t move. So you kissed him.

Your lips moved against his slow and soft, your hand barely lifting to rest against the edge of his thigh for balance. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t grab at you, either. Just tilted his head slightly to meet you better, his mouth parting just enough to press back, matching your pace. Like he was letting you take the lead, but not totally surrendering to it.

There was something about it that made your chest feel tight—not in a bad way, just in that way where your body recognized the shift before your brain could catch up.

When you finally pulled back, your breath came shallow, your pulse thrumming behind your ears. You blinked at him slowly, and he stared back—his mouth still parted, eyes darker now, like he was still piecing together what just happened.

He exhaled, not quite a sigh, but close. “You’re really leaning into this roleplay, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You wanna shut up for two seconds?”

Cartman shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he couldn’t stop it. His hands were clenched lightly in his lap now, and when he spoke again, the smugness didn’t quite land.

“You didn’t suck that time,” he said.

You smiled, more out of instinct than pride, and rolled your eyes with a soft scoff. “Great. High praise coming from you.”

Before he could toss something smug back, you leaned in again. This time with less hesitation, more heat humming under your skin. Your hand brushed the side of his jaw as your lips found his once more, mouths pressing together in a kiss that landed heavier than the first. Not rushed, but fuller. More sure of itself.

He didn’t pull away. His hands were still resting in his lap, caught somewhere between tension and restraint. But you moved. Carefully at first, then with more purpose. You shifted forward on the crate until your knees brushed the outside of his thighs, and you hesitated for just a second—just long enough to make sure he didn’t tense or flinch. Then you swung one leg over and settled on his lap.

His breath caught. Not loud, not exaggerated, but you felt it. Felt it in the way his chest stiffened under yours, in the way his fingers twitched where they hovered awkwardly near your hips, unsure if he should touch or stay frozen.

Your knees tightened against his sides, and the pressure in your chest bloomed into a full-on rush of warmth—like this was it, like you were doing the thing now. The thing that had felt so untouchable before, locked behind everyone else's experience but never yours. Your hands slid into his hair, and you tilted your hips, just slightly, testing the weight of your body over his.

It was clumsy. Uncoordinated. You didn’t know exactly what you were doing—just mimicking the rhythm you'd seen in scenes from movies, read in passages late at night you never admitted to rereading. You moved your hips again, slow, pressing down into his lap.

Cartman broke the kiss with a sudden inhale, his hands finally flying up to your waist—not forceful, not pushing you off, but definitely halting your movement. His eyes were wide, blinking hard, his mouth still parted as he stared up at you like you’d just slapped him and kissed him at the same time.

“Whoa—okay,” he said, voice hoarse, tighter than usual. “What—what are you doing?”

You stared back, breath a little shaky now, the heat still high in your chest. “I thought… that’s what I was supposed to do.”

His grip stayed firm at your sides, not moving. His brows were drawn tight now, confusion mixing with something else. Not disgust, not discomfort—but surprise. Honest, unfiltered surprise. Like the reality of what was happening had only just caught up to him.

He blinked once, hard, and swallowed. His voice came out low and uneven, like it took effort just to string the words together. “Are you—like, actually doing this? Like for real?”

You opened your mouth to answer, the nerves rushing back in your chest all at once. “I mean, I thought we were just—”

But before you could finish, he leaned up and kissed you. No warning this time, no room to think, just the sudden press of his mouth on yours. His hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, dragging you down harder into his lap like he’d finally let go of whatever restraint had been holding him in place.

His lips moved against yours with more intent, his breath quick and hot. He didn’t speak, didn’t smirk, didn’t give you any more time to second-guess what you were doing. He just held you there and rolled his hips up into yours, like he was trying to feel everything at once.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers tightening in his hoodie. Your knees squeezed around his sides as your body jolted slightly from the pressure. He did it again, this time with more purpose, more tension behind it, like the motion had startled even him the first time, but now he couldn’t stop.

You broke the kiss with a shaky breath, head tilting slightly as you looked down at him. His cheeks were flushed pink, the color creeping up his neck and into the tips of his ears. His eyes were darker, wide but focused, like he couldn’t look anywhere but at you now. 

His hands were still on your waist, steady but stiff. Not gripping. Not pulling. Just there—hovering on the edge of movement, like he was waiting for a cue you hadn’t given him yet.

“…You’re really good at kissing,” you said finally, voice soft, a little unsteady, but real. The words felt stupid the second they left your mouth, but you needed to break the silence. Needed to say something.

His mouth twitched like he was going to say something cocky—maybe fire off a line—but he didn’t. He just blinked, eyes flicking away for half a second like the compliment made him short-circuit.

You leaned in again before he could recover, and kissed him gently. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers fisting into the fabric of his hoodie as you deepened the kiss, your body rocking forward instinctively. You didn’t know what you were doing—you were just following a thought, a hunch, a thread of something you'd read or overheard. That when guys were into it, their bodies gave them away.

You shifted again, subtly, adjusting how you were sitting on him. Your hips pressed down a little harder than before.

He stilled.

His mouth stuttered against yours, then pulled back suddenly, breath catching as he looked at you with wide, startled eyes.

“…Are you—what are you doing?”

You froze.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it made your scalp prickle. “Nothing,” you said quickly, voice higher than it should’ve been. “I wasn’t—I mean, I just moved. I didn’t—”

Cartman stared at you, eyes narrowed slightly. There was a long, weighted pause.

He sighed, long and loud, like you were making him suffer for something that had been your idea to begin with. His hands lifted from your waist, dragging over his face before settling back into his lap.

“I’ll eat you out,” he muttered.

Your brain stalled.

“What?”

He rolled his eyes, cheeks still pink but his tone returning to its usual impatient cadence. “I said I’ll go down on you. Jesus. You’re the one who wanted to practice, aren’t you?”

You blinked at him, completely stunned, every thought in your head disintegrating into white noise.

He raised his eyebrows, like this was your fault. “Well? You want experience or not?”

You stared at him, still straddling the crate, your hands gripping the edge beside your thighs like the wood might steady you. Your mouth opened, but the words tripped over each other before they even made it out.

“I mean—shouldn’t I—I thought I was supposed to go down on you first or something,” you blurted, your voice breaking somewhere in the middle. “Like that’s how it usually goes, right? I mean, it’s not like I—God, I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

Cartman groaned, long and theatrical, as he pushed himself up from the crate and dropped to his knees in front of you. The shift was fast and natural, like he didn’t even have to think about it. Like this wasn’t new for him. Like being between someone’s legs didn’t make his heart stutter the way yours was threatening to.

“Oh my God, shut up,” he muttered, already reaching to guide your knees apart.

You blinked, your pulse roaring in your ears. “Wait, I’m just—I’m saying, I thought that’s what guys wanted—”

Cartman looked up at you, his hands braced on either side of your thighs now, fingers firm against the crate. His voice was flat, but not cold. More like he was exhausted by the fact that you were still talking.

“You’re not doing this for me,” he said. “That’s not the point.”

You stared at him, stunned silent.

“It’s more important you figure out what you like,” he continued, eyes meeting yours with a kind of frank intensity that made your chest tighten. “How else are you supposed to tell Damien what to do if you don’t even know what works for you?”

You swallowed.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice lower now. “It’s not about doing it perfectly. It’s about not freezing up. Not pretending you’re fine when you’re not. And the only way to do that is if you’ve already felt it before. If you’ve already done this.”

Your breath hitched. His hands were still on the crate, his knees pressing into the floor like he wasn’t thinking about what he looked like or how bizarre this situation might’ve seemed from the outside.

You felt dizzy. Nervous. But also steadying—like the ground wasn’t entirely falling out from under you.

“Okay,” you said, quietly.

His eyes flicked up again, and he waited.

You nodded.

He moved immediately, fingers pressing to the top of your knees. Just the weight of his hands made you tense up again, thighs jumping like your brain hadn’t caught up to what was happening. You tried not to react, tried to play it cool, but you were already gripping the edge of the crate like your life depended on it, your palms slick and twitching. He paused for maybe half a second, his thumbs shifting against your skin, then let out a dry snort.

“Jesus. Chill out. I’m not gonna bite.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat felt locked, your mouth too dry to speak, and your heart was hammering behind your ribs like you’d run a mile uphill. You stared at his hands, watched them move slowly up your legs, felt every inch of heat they left behind as your skirt bunched higher with each inch. It didn’t even feel real. None of this felt real. It felt like something stupid and insane that you would probably lose sleep over for the rest of your life, even if it wasn’t happening yet.

Cartman’s fingers hit the waistband of your tights and he paused again.

“…Can I pull these down?” His voice was quieter now, not soft exactly, but not smug either. Like the edge had dulled just slightly, like even he wasn’t sure how to play this.

You gave another tiny nod, trying not to look at him. You were already flushed head to toe, your chest burning hot under your clothes, your thighs trembling like the cold had found a way into your bones. You weren’t cold, though. If anything, you felt like your skin was overheating, too many nerves firing at once. His hands hooked the fabric, and you squeezed your eyes shut for a second as he started pulling.

He went slow, which almost made it worse. His fingers dragged the waistband down over your hips in little jerky movements, like he wasn’t used to doing this while someone watched. The tights stuck for a second at your knees and he muttered something under his breath—probably about the fabric, or you, or both—but didn’t ask for help. He just kept going until the fabric pooled around your ankles and your thighs were completely exposed.

He made a sound. Just a short exhale. Not a laugh. Not a word. Like something got caught in his throat and he wasn’t going to try and explain it.

“…Wow,” he said finally. He didn’t say it like a compliment. More like he didn’t know what else to do with the silence.

You wanted to die. Actually, genuinely, die. Your arms curled tight around your midsection before you even noticed, fingers gripping your sleeves, shoulders hunched like you could physically shrink out of this moment. You weren’t even looking at him. You couldn’t. You just stared straight ahead, face burning, hands twitching with the effort it took not to cover yourself up again.

Cartman shifted on the floor. You heard the sound of his hoodie sleeve brushing his jeans as he adjusted his grip on the ground. Then he cleared his throat.

“You’re, uh… you weren’t kidding about the nervous thing.” His voice was casual, but too casual. Like he was talking just to fill the air. “Your legs are, like, shaking.”

You laughed once. It came out broken and way too loud for the room. “Oh my God. Shut up.”

He didn’t push. He didn’t say anything for a second. His hands stayed planted against the floor. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel him staring. Not in a gross way. Not greedy or weird. Just… focused. Weirdly quiet.

Then, after a beat: “Can I take these off?”

It took you a second to realize he was talking about your underwear.

Your whole body tensed. You nodded again before your mouth could decide if it was allowed to say the word yes without completely falling apart.

Cartman shifted forward on his knees. His hands came back up and his fingers slipped under the waistband. You swallowed hard, bracing your arms tighter across your stomach as the fabric peeled away from your skin, damp and clinging. You hated how much it stuck, how the elastic dragged down with a soft little sound you couldn’t unhear. He didn’t say anything. Not a word. Not a joke. Not even a grunt. He just kept going until they were off, until they joined your tights in a crumpled mess around your ankles.

You were bare now. Just sitting there. Skirt shoved up, legs open, completely exposed. It didn’t feel sexy. It didn’t feel cool or mysterious or even rebellious. You just felt stupid. You felt seen, and not in the good way.

You risked a glance down at him. His face was tight—jaw clenched, mouth drawn in a line, eyes fixed squarely between your legs. His expression was unread—no. Tense. He looked tense. Like he was trying to process a thought and it wouldn’t come all the way out. His brows were furrowed, just slightly, and he wasn’t blinking enough.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out thick.

“…This is so fucking weird.”

You exhaled, loud and nervous. “Yeah.”

“No, like—” He rubbed the side of his face, the blush now fully visible under his eyes and spreading across his cheeks. “I don’t know what the fuck I expected, but this—” He gestured vaguely. “This is a lot.”

You swallowed hard and nodded, eyes locked on the floor again. “You can back out if you want.”

He scoffed. “Are you serious?”

You flinched. “I just meant—if it’s too weird, I get it.”

There was a pause. His knees shifted again, pressing closer between yours.

“I’m not backing out,” he muttered.

Your fingers flexed in your sleeves again, knuckles burning. You felt like you were going to melt into the floor and disappear. You wanted to say something cool. Something normal. Instead, you blurted: “Do I look... weird?”

He blinked, caught off-guard. His lips twitched, not a smile, more like a short circuit. “What the hell does that even mean?”

You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. “Like—I don’t know! I’ve never had anyone look at me like this before, okay? Maybe my thighs look weird or my stomach’s all bunched or—God, I don’t know.”

He looked up finally. His face was still pink. His mouth twitched again, but this time, it stayed crooked.

“You’re such a freak.”

You opened your mouth to snap at him, but then he leaned in.

His palms slid up your thighs again, warmer now, more sure. His breath hit your skin, slow and steady, and the second it did, you forgot whatever insult you’d been about to throw back at him. You forgot your name. You forgot how to sit still.

“Okay,” Cartman muttered, and his voice was barely a voice now. “Okay. I’m gonna start.”

You nodded again, hands curled into fists, whole body so tense you thought your teeth might shatter.

You could feel Cartman lean in—slow and steady, like he was trying not to spook you. His breath hit your skin first, hot and damp, brushing the inside of your thigh like a warning. And then you snapped—knees slamming shut on instinct like a mousetrap. Your whole body jerked back against the crate, arms curling in tighter across your stomach, breath hitching hard in your chest.

He froze.

For a second, nothing happened. Then you heard him exhale, sharp through his nose, and when you dared to glance down, he was looking up at you—eyebrows raised, face somewhere between concern and smug amusement, like he was half-ready to ask if you were okay and half-ready to make fun of you for flinching like he was a dentist about to go in with a drill.

“Uh,” he said, blinking slowly, “so… guess that’s a no on the tongue thing, huh?”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice muffled and pathetic. “I just—freaked out. I didn’t mean to—”

Cartman sat back a little, not retreating entirely, just giving you some space. “Dude, relax,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t kick me in the teeth or anything. Yet.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. His eyes flicked up to your face and then back down again, and when he spoke next, his voice was different—rougher, a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure how to say any of this without making it worse.

“Okay, look. We’ll start slower.” He shifted forward again, his knees brushing yours. “No mouth stuff. Yet.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Oh my God, don’t call it that.”

“What, you want me to say cunnilingus?” He wiggled his eyebrows, mock-posh. “Because I will.”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder weakly, but he didn’t budge. He just let the joke sit there, giving you a second to breathe, then dropped his voice again—low, casual, like he was just explaining something normal and not offering to get you off in a weird basement closet.

“I’ll use my fingers, alright? That’s it. Just that. It’s less freaky.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes skimming over your knees. “It’s gonna feel weird at first. Probably. But that’s normal. You’ll be fine.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry, heartbeat climbing again like it hadn’t already been trying to explode through your ribs. “What… um. What do I do?”

He blinked, startled by the question. “You… just sit there?”

You stared at him.

Cartman groaned, exasperated. “I mean—you don’t have to do anything, alright? I’ll go slow. You tell me if anything feels weird or bad or you hate it or whatever.” He paused. “And don’t do that thing where you say you’re fine but you’re obviously not, because I can tell when you’re lying, you’re really fucking bad at it.”

You felt your face heat up even more. “Okay.”

His hands hovered near your knees again, not quite touching. “Can I?”

You hesitated—just a second—then nodded. This time, you didn’t snap your legs shut.

He let out a slow breath, like even he had been bracing for a repeat. Then he leaned in, hands moving to rest gently on your thighs, thumbs brushing soft arcs across your skin. It was still careful, still clumsy in a way—like he was used to doing this behind a movie theater or in a car, not kneeling in front of someone who was watching him like he might vanish.

You looked down at him again, your breathing shallow, chest tight like it couldn’t hold a full inhale. He looked different like this. Focused. Not grinning, not making jokes, not performing. Just watching you. Checking in. And for once, not filling the silence with bullshit.

Then his hand moved.

Slow. Careful. His fingers skimmed up your thigh with this weird sort of caution, like he was testing the floorboards before stepping. Every inch he covered sent a jolt straight up your spine. Not like electricity—more like gravity tightening. Your breath caught. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You didn’t even blink.

His fingers dipped between your legs, hesitating there for a split second, and then—

You jerked.

Just a little. A twitch. A sharp breath sucked through your teeth the second one of his fingers slid into the slick heat of your folds and pressed gently, curiously, like he wasn’t even sure he should be allowed to be there. The noise that came out of you wasn’t a word, wasn’t anything useful. It was soft, broken—half a gasp, half something else entirely. You bit down hard on your lip, face burning so hot you could feel it pulsing behind your ears.

Cartman didn’t tease you. He didn’t even smirk.

Instead, he murmured, quiet and low, “Yeah, that’s it. You’re good.”

His eyes flicked up, catching your face. You couldn’t meet them. Your head tilted down, hair falling forward like a shield, your hands still death-gripping the edge of the crate under your thighs. You could feel your own pulse fluttering in your stomach, in your throat, everywhere. It was too much. All of it.

His finger dragged through the slick slowly, rubbing up and down, tracing the shape of you like he was memorizing it. His hand wasn’t shaking, but you could tell he was holding back—applying only the lightest pressure, not rushing anything, just letting the motion settle in until your thighs started twitching with every pass.

“Still okay?” he asked, not looking up this time, voice quiet.

You nodded quickly, still biting your lip, face fully on fire now. “Y-Yeah. Just—feels weird.”

“Good weird or freak-out weird?”

You made another noise. Frustrated. Flustered. Your hips shifted without meaning to, a tiny roll into his hand, like your body was starting to answer before your brain could.

“Okay, that’s good,” he said, and his voice wasn’t cocky.

He pressed in closer now, two fingers rubbing gently up and down the slick center of you. He found your clit after a few tries—missed it once, twice, then landed on it, and your legs jumped so hard he actually froze.

You whimpered and squeezed your eyes shut. “Sorry—sorry, I just—”

“No, that’s good,” he said quickly. “That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

You cracked one eye open. He was looking at you again, a weird tightness in his brow like he didn’t want to screw it up. His cheeks were red, but not from laughing. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, and he was breathing through his nose in short little huffs, like he was the one trying not to freak out.

He went back in with more purpose now, rubbing small, careful circles over your clit. Not fast, not rough, just steady. Your whole body responded like a switch had flipped. Your hips twitched, your thighs tensed, and your breath came faster without warning.

“Dude,” Cartman muttered under his breath, like he couldn’t help it. “You’re really—”

He didn’t finish. You were glad. You might’ve died on the spot if he had.

Instead, he kept going, watching your face now like it was a scoreboard. Like every stutter in your breath was telling him something. His fingers didn’t stop. Didn’t fumble. You started to breathe harder, sharper. Your thighs squeezed around his arm, and he didn’t pull away.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured. “Just keep breathing. Don’t freak out. You’re fine.”

You nodded, or tried to. It barely counted—more of a twitch, like your whole body had condensed into this tight, shivery bundle of nerves and heat and you weren’t sure which part of you could still respond in full sentences. You could feel your breath stuttering out of your chest, quick and thin, and your hands were still balled up so hard your fingers ached. But you nodded.

Cartman shifted a little closer, his other hand steadying itself on your thigh, and his voice dropped lower—still calm, but with that edge creeping back in. A hint of something smug.

“Okay,” he muttered, glancing down. “Gonna put a finger in now.”

Your head snapped up before you could think about it. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, like he’d been waiting for you to react exactly like that.

You blinked, face burning even hotter. “...Okay.”

Except it barely came out. More of a whimper. Just a tiny, breathy sound like your voice had folded under pressure and given up halfway through.

But Cartman didn’t laugh. He didn’t even raise his eyebrows. He just gave this short little nod—practical, almost clinical—and looked back down, focused again. You felt the shift in his hand as he adjusted, and then—

The pressure hit before the sensation did. One finger, slowly, pushing in through the heat and wetness, and your whole body tensed like you’d been jolted awake. The stretch was… different. Not painful. Just new. A dragging ache that made your back arch, made your hips twitch, made your lips part around a sound you couldn’t stop.

You moaned. Quiet, shaky.

Cartman’s head snapped up instantly.

His eyes met yours, wide for just a second—caught somewhere between startled and smug—and then he grinned. Big. Stupid. That old shit-eating smirk like it had been waiting just under the surface.

“Oh my God,” he said, voice low but smug as hell. “Did you just moan?”

You slapped both hands over your face. “Shut up.”

“No, no, hang on—” His grin widened. “That was you, wasn’t it? That little noise? Like ‘mmnh—’” He mimicked you horribly, voice pitched high and ridiculous. “Jesus, dude, I didn’t even move yet.”

You groaned, curling forward, face buried in your hands like you could maybe muffle the heat crawling up your neck. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he said, and now he sounded like himself again—cocky, relentless, riding the high of embarrassing you like it was a personal hobby. “You’re just mad ‘cause I’m good at this.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, but the second you did, you felt him shift again—and his finger moved.

Your breath caught.

He watched your face, smirk still tugging at his mouth, but his eyes sharper now, tracking the way your lips parted, the way your thighs twitched. He moved again—deeper this time, slow and careful, curling just slightly on instinct—and you whined, your voice cracking halfway out of your throat.

His grin twitched.

“…Okay, yeah,” he muttered. “That was definitely a moan.”

“Cartman—” You tried to say his name like a warning, but it came out more like a whimper.

“What? I’m helping. You’re the one losing it over one finger.” He pumped it in again, shallow but smooth, the wet sound of it filling the quiet like it wanted to humiliate you on his behalf. “God, Damien’s gonna break you.”

You slapped his shoulder. Weakly. “I swear to God—”

He laughed under his breath, barely dodging your hand, still grinning like he’d just won a bet. But his pace didn’t change. You could feel your breath catching faster now, feel something coiling tight in your stomach. His finger curled again, just slightly, and your whole body jolted—hips twitching, breath catching, another moan dragging out of your mouth before you could even try to bite it back.

Cartman’s grin dropped a little.

He looked up at you again—still smug, still clearly enjoying the power trip—but his eyes flickered over your face like he was recalibrating. Like maybe he hadn’t actually expected it to work this well.

He shifted his hand again, the heel of his palm brushing higher, closer to your clit, and your back arched in response.

“…Shit,” he muttered. Not cocky this time. Just surprised.

You were already shaking. Knees wobbling. Hands gripping the crate like you were afraid you’d lift off the floor if you let go. You could barely breathe, and he hadn’t even added a second finger yet.

“Still good?” he asked, and this time, it didn’t sound like teasing.

You nodded, barely able to get the word out. “Y-Yeah. Just… don’t stop.”

Cartman laughed.

It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—low and short and so fucking smug it made your skin crawl. He didn’t even try to hide how amused he was. He leaned in a little, palm pressing heavier against your thigh as he tilted his head and grinned up at you like he’d just caught you mid-fall and decided to let you keep tumbling.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, mouth curled into a full-on smirk now. “You’re so fucking gone already. One finger and you’re begging.”

You flinched like he’d hit a nerve—and maybe he had, because it was true, and hearing it out loud made the heat in your face flare so bad you were pretty sure you could boil alive in it. You looked away immediately, eyes darting to the wall like it could give you cover, but it didn’t matter. He was still watching you. Still moving.

And then he added another.

Your whole body locked up for half a second—back arching, thighs twitching as he pushed in slow, the stretch sharper this time, more intense. You gasped, not even meaning to, the sound escaping before you could think, and Cartman snorted like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“There it is,” he said, fingers curling just a little. “That’s what I was waiting for.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, fast, trying to smother the next noise before it got out. Your eyes were wide, chest rising in sharp, unsteady jerks, heart pounding like it was trying to claw out of your ribs. His fingers moved again—pushing in deep, then dragging back slow, steady, relentless. You bit into your palm, trying to breathe through your nose, trying to stay quiet, but your hips were already twitching again, chasing the pressure without thinking.

“You really thought you were gonna handle Damien without panicking,” Cartman muttered, voice thick with amusement. “You can’t even handle me.”

You whimpered, shaking your head even though you weren’t sure what you were denying. The words didn’t come. They couldn’t. Your throat was tight, your mind blank, your whole body focused on the slow, rhythmic thrust of his fingers and the heat crawling up your spine like it was going to swallow you whole.

And Cartman just kept grinning.

“God,” he muttered, more to himself now. “You’re soaked. It’s like a fucking Slip N’ Slide down here.”

You made a sound—somewhere between a moan and a sob—and clapped your hand tighter over your mouth, as if that would somehow erase the noise. As if he hadn’t already heard all of it. As if he wasn’t getting off on the way you were trying so hard to hold it together.

He leaned in closer, smirk pressing sharp against the edge of his voice.

“What?” he said, almost whispering now. “You embarrassed?”

You nodded frantically, eyes squeezed shut, face burning so bad it felt like it might crack open from the heat.

Cartman snorted again, his thumb brushing the top of your thigh, way too close to everything.

“Good.”

You didn’t flinch this time. You didn’t hide. Slowly, you lowered your hand from your mouth and looked down at him, the flickering overhead light catching the gloss in your eyes. There was no witty comeback, no dramatic gasp, no fake outrage like you’d usually hurl his way when he pushed too far. Your lip was trembling faintly, your breathing shallow and fast, and your face—flushed and vulnerable—was twisted up in this awkward, pleading kind of uncertainty.

And Cartman saw all of it.

His hands stilled. His fingers, still buried inside you, stopped moving like they’d hit a wall. He blinked once, not confused, not oblivious, but like he’d just registered it fully—what this actually was. His mouth parted, eyes flicking over your face again, slower this time, less sure of himself. You weren’t just squirming and gasping and biting your lip because you were turned on. You were trying not to freak out. You were trusting him with a part of yourself you hadn’t even figured out yet, and he’d been riding that like it was a joke.

He exhaled slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was rough but different—stripped down, quieter, steadier. “You’re doing good.” His eyes didn’t drop. He held your gaze, his brow furrowed in the kind of awkward, unspoken apology that only Cartman could manage—like the words themselves were too hard to form, but the meaning was still there in the way his voice softened, in the way he wasn’t smirking anymore.

You blinked quickly, heat stinging at the corners of your eyes again, and gave a small, shaky smile. Nodded. Just barely. That was all he needed.

He dipped his head lower without saying anything else, mouth brushing over your thigh first—slow and steady, like he was letting you feel each inch of him as he shifted. 

Your whole body flinched, breath hitching hard in your throat. He didn’t hesitate this time. His tongue was hot, dragging slow through the wet mess between your thighs like he was trying to feel out every reaction you couldn’t verbalize. He didn’t tease, didn’t joke, didn’t say a single smug word. He just held you open—one hand braced on your thigh, the other still inside you, fingers curled slightly, resting there while his mouth took over.

“Fuck—” The word broke out of you, hoarse and high-pitched. “Eric—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. His fingers shifted slightly inside you, curling deeper, finding a spot that made your stomach lurch and your back arch. His mouth worked in time with the motion, lips slick and focused, tongue moving in tight, practiced circles until your breathing was just soft, broken gasps layered one over the other.

Your voice cracked before the words made it out. “Fuck—Eric, I’m—” You couldn’t even finish. You felt your whole body start to curl in on itself, like every muscle was bracing. “I’m gonna cum—oh my god—I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop. But you felt the shift in his rhythm, the way his tongue slowed just slightly, pressing in deeper instead of faster, dragging that moment out like he knew exactly how close you were and wanted to hold you right there. You whimpered, eyes wide, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud as your hands clenched hard in your lap, fingers digging into your own sleeves like they might anchor you.

And then he spoke—his voice low and breathy against your skin, but smug as ever.

“Oh, now you’re gonna cum?” he muttered, not bothering to lift his head. “You sure? I don’t wanna, like, mess up the vibe if you’re just being dramatic again.”

The words hit you like a slap and a punchline all at once. Your face flamed hotter, your throat catching around a choked breath, and your whole body seized up like it wanted to crawl backward out of itself. “Shut the fuck up,” you gasped, the sentence barely coherent through the noise in your head. “I swear to god—”

But you never got the rest out.

His fingers curled, sharp and perfect, hitting deep, and his tongue flicked fast and focused over your clit with this ruthless consistency that knocked every thought clean out of your brain. The tension broke in a flash—fast, full, and overwhelming. Your thighs clamped down around his head on instinct, your hips jolting forward as your body locked up and came hard, every nerve alight and spasming with a heat you hadn’t known you could feel. You moaned—loud, unfiltered, torn straight from your throat—and there was no covering it this time.

Your body shuddered, legs trembling, stomach jumping in helpless aftershocks, and through all of it Cartman stayed exactly where he was. He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. His mouth kept working you through it, tongue dragging slow and heavy now like he was licking the last of it from you, like he wanted the mess, like he’d been waiting for it.

And then the realization hit.

Your face went cold first, then hot again in a full wave of red that swept up your neck and hit behind your ears. Your eyes flew open. You blinked at the ceiling like it might somehow undo what just happened, like the warehouse lights above might offer you an exit from your own body.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, voice ragged and too loud. “I just—Eric—I came on your fucking face—”

Cartman finally leaned back, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth in one slow swipe. His chin glistened. His lips were shiny. He looked up at you with this totally shameless expression, eyes lit up like you’d handed him a trophy he hadn’t even asked for. His smirk spread slow and stupid, cocky in a way that made your stomach turn and your skin crawl in equal measure.

“Yeah,” he said, like he’d just confirmed something obvious. “You did.”

You covered your face with both hands again and let out a noise that wasn’t a word, wasn’t even a proper groan—just a mortified sound from somewhere deep in your chest as your body tried to collapse into itself and disappear.

Cartman was still looking at you, clearly enjoying himself. You didn’t have the strength to glare. You barely had the strength to sit up. All you could do was stay folded in, thighs still twitching, breathing uneven, the taste of your own orgasm still thick in the air and his fucking grin burned into your eyelids.

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

[on-a-lucky-tide]

teehee its my birthday buuuuuut i am here clawing for nikprice on the ground like a chicken. anyway i wonder how would a nikprice drunk confession go. i just love that trope to death lol

It's your birthday? Happy birthday, mate! A small gift...

Price gets a medal and then gets drunk at the after party. Nik is surprised to hear what he has to say. No one else - and I mean, no one else - is.

cw: alcohol, drunken kiss.

"I hate these bloody things," Price mumbled into his scotch, staring bleary-eyed at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His speech had been short, concise, and he had spent the majority of it talking about the bravery and dedication of his Task Force. The rest of 'em had prattled on for ages about themselves, preening their egos with the new metal on their chests.

"It is a party in your honour, captain. You did a brave thing. And," Nik leaned back to pluck a canapé from the tray of a passing waitress, "there is free food." He pulled the honey-soaked sausage off the cocktail stick and chucked it in the air, catching it in his open mouth, much to the consternation of a gaggle of RAF officers nearby.

None of them were brave enough to let Nikolai see or hear what they thought of him, because they had all heard enough whispers of his service record to steer well clear. Even top brass were scared enough of him to overlook his multiple active Interpol arrest warrants so that he could attend.

Price smiled as Nik chewed, clearly pleased with his feat of dexterity, and then proceeded to slosh his scotch all over himself as he leaned his elbow against the bar... but missed said bar by about an inch and a half. "Bollocks," he growled, as expensive alcohol soaked into the equally expensive wool of his number one uniform.

Nik chuckled, snatching up a handful of serviettes from the bar. "I am starting to think you are a lightweight," he said, swivelling around in his bar stool so that his knees bracketed Price's, a folded serviette pressed to Price's chest to soak out some of the scotch.

"'M not," Price... slurred, fuck, maybe he was. "You wearin' cologne?"

"Da, number one majesté impériale."

"Sounds posh," Price said, lifting his scotch for another swig.

"Hm, it is $215,000 a bottle."

Price choked on his drink, spluttering it back into the glass. "You spent nearly four times my salary on some cologne?" He wheezed.

"It is a special occasion."

"Bloody fucking christ, Nik. It's a medal ceremony, not a bloody coronation."

"It is more important to me," Nik said, "because it is you."

Price felt his cheeks and ears warm. It didn't help that Nik's big hands were still on his chest, careful to pluck away the stray fibres of serviette from where it clung to the damp wool. This close, Price couldn't help but stare.

Fuck, he was so... handsome.

Nik had made an effort to look, and smell, his best. In his expensive tailored three-piece, no tie, because... well, who would be brave enough to tell Nikolai to put on a fuckin' tie? The open top button gave Price a really good view of his chest hair peeking through at the top. Oh, fuckin'... Hot, it was hot in here. Damn uniform.

"Careful, captain, you will fall," Nik said softly, palm pressed to the centre of Price's chest. Price had been leaning forward. Leering. Oh, this was embarrassing. He cleared his throat, shuffled back, and beckoned the barman over for a refill.

Two more glasses, one of vodka and another of scotch, and Price chanced a glance over at Nik again. "Thanks... for, uh, coming to this. The boys like the schmoozin', Simon doesn't stay longer than the talks, don't blame him, but, I, uh..."

"You find it hard to navigate the politics because you are honest and they," Nik waved his hand vaguely around the room, "are not."

Price smiled faintly. "Yeah, guess so. Full of compliments today, Nik. Man might get the wrong idea."

"Or... the right idea."

Price froze with the glass halfway up to his mouth. Even through the drunken dog, he managed to parse the meaning behind that. In payment, however, his brain had decided to bury his entire knowledge of the English language, so all he could do was make a small noise in the back of his throat, which he smothered with a large mouthful of scotch.

Nik hadn't turned in his stool, his knees still spread wide either side of Price's, and Price wanted to shuffle a little closer. He wanted those hands back on his chest, and he wanted... Christ, he just wanted. He had wanted for a long fuckin' time.

"Here," Nik said, sliding a plate of sausages over to Price. "It will absorb some of the scotch."

"Urf, naw, can't stomach that shit..."

"Then we shall go elsewhere."

"Wot?"

"Come, captain. The sergeants left for the clubs ten minutes ago."

"They did? Bastards..."

"Da. I will get your coat."

The fresh evening air hit Price like a sledge hammer to the face, and he was pretty sure he would have fallen in the gutter without Nikolai to lean on. He was intimately aware of the strong arm around his waist, one of his hands clinging onto Nik's expensive wool coat as they staggered into the local Maccy D's for a Big Mac and chicken nugget share box.

Nik paid for it, flashing his most charming smile at the young girl behind the counter as he collected the highly decorated SAS captain from where he was clinging onto a nearby condiments bench for support, takeaway bag in hand.

They ended up sat on a bench by the Thames, dressed to the nines, Nik smelling of thousand dollar cologne as he wolfed down over-salted MacDonald's chips at Price's side, and Price couldn't stop staring at him.

Nik could be anywhere else. Anywhere. He could be partying with the wealthiest men and women in the world, walking among the elite, and yet here he was sitting in London eating shitty fast food with a drunk soldier. He chose Price every time. Every time. Price felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. "Nikolai..."

"Da, captain."

"I think I love you."

Nik grinned, huffing a soft chuckle. "Mmhm."

"No, no," Price swiped his beret off, which had somehow managed to cling onto his head while they had staggered through the mean streets of Westminster. "I... I'm serious. I... I love you. Have for, uh," he hiccuped, fucking hiccuped, tried to recover by puffing into his clenched fist, "...have for a while," he squeaked. Oh, fuck, was that indigestion?

Nik put his box of chicken nuggets aside and turned, arm draped over the back of the bench. He slid a gloved hand under Price's chin and turned his head up. Seconds later, they were kissing. Fucking... Nik's fucking lips were on Price's and, and...

Price hiccuped again.

Nik chuckled into his mouth, before drawing away to smooth his thumb through Price's beard. "This is not how I imagined it, but it is... somehow, right."

Price's face was bright red, he could feel it burning, and his eyes were wide. "You, uh... You..."

"For many, many years, solnyshko."

"We've... that's a... a long time." Price said softly.

"I am a patient man. And you are worth waiting for."

After that, Price didn't really recall much. The MacDonald's hit the deck and Price climbed Nikolai like a bloody tree. They ended up in his hotel room, with Nik's expensive suit and Price's (honestly, perhaps slightly less) expensive uniform on the floor. It might have gone further than boyish fumbling if Price hadn't fallen asleep face down in the pillows after saying he didn't want to take advantage of Nik in his current state. Nik had chuckled at that and laid down next to him, stroking his hair.

Price woke up in the morning with a sore head and a dry mouth, and found Nik sitting by the open window in a hotel dressing gown. "Nik, did I..."

"Nyet, captain. You were an absolute gentleman." Nik put the newspaper aside and took his glasses off, delivering the waiting pint of water and aspirin to Prices hands. "Do you... remember what you said?"

Price's cheeks reddened. "Yeah, look, I'll understand if--"

He didn't get to finish. Nik kissed him squarely on his stupid mouth, stroking a big palm through his hair. When he drew back, he hummed softly. "Drink that and then we will go to breakfast," he said, walking away. Price couldn't help but stare as the dressing gown slid down his broad back, revealing a full arse framed in black boxers. "And brush your teeth."

Price downed the water and staggered from beneath the duvet. He was ready to head down within ten minutes, desperate for a strong coffee and a greasy sarnie. Unfortunately, the rest of his task force, Los Vaqueros, Chimera, Laswell and a handful of her agents happened to be in the dining room already.

"Eyy, there he is!" Gaz called, toasting his mug of coffee.

Soap looked round, glanced at Nik and then back at Price. "Fuckin' finally."

Laswell rested her chin on her palm. "Bagged your man then, Nik. Well done."

Price blinked, squinting in the bright morning light. "So you all--"

Simon walked past, his plate heaped with bacon and eggs, and shoved a coffee into his captain's hand before patting his shoulder. "Yeah. Everyone did 'cept you."

Price looked at Nik for help, only to receive a shrug and a quirked eyebrow before Nik wandered off to the buffet.

"Bloody bastards," Price muttered, glancing at each triumphant face, thumbs up and smirk, before slumping into a nearby chair. Bloody. Bastards

[woso-dreamzzz]

Legacy

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: The public's reaction to you

The first time Pernille and Magda realise that the public truly knows about you is when the picture of Magda placing her third-place World Cup medal around your neck, goes viral.

It even overshadows the image of them kissing.

It's one thing to have been in a semi-secret, semi-private relationship but it's a completely different thing to have a secret lovechild from the relationship.

Magda reposts the picture of her medal around your neck on her Instagram and writes a sappy caption to round it off. Pernille laughs at the proud look on her partner's face as you fidget in her lap and try to eat your Mystery Machine toy.

"Hey, no, princesse," Magda says, trying to pull it out of your mouth but you've got quite a strong grip on it and clamp down.

"She can't swallow it, Magda," Pernille says," Let her chew. At least it's not your fingers."

"Oh, please," Magda replies with a smile," Like she would bite me."

"Your funeral."

Magda rolls her eyes as you stop drooling around your toy in favour of running it over your arms. Her phone blows up with notifications from the Instagram post and she scrolls through it all as Pernille starts spoon-feeding you your lunch.

"Are you really that popular?" Pernille teases as Magda's phone chimes again.

"More like princesse is," Magda says," Everyone's gushing over her."

A fond smile appears on Pernille's face as she wipes some mess off your cheek. "Oh, yeah? What are they saying?"

"That she's an absolute cutie," Magda replies, scrolling through all the comments.

"That's it? Just a cutie?"

"Well, Frido's commented, calling her a little monster again."

"Moster and her monster." Pernille shakes her head fondly.

Frido adores you and, even as little as you are, you love her just as much back.

"Does she look like me?" Magda asks suddenly," Everyone says she looks like me."

"In her face," Pernille confirms, tilting your head to properly look," Those Eriksson genes are strong."

"Well..." It's not exactly the greatest of compliments but it still makes Magda feel all mushy inside. "I am Swedish."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Pernille's teasing her but Magda doesn't have an answer so she goes back to scrolling through the comments.

"They're calling her our secret lovechild."

"She is our secret lovechild."

You whine slightly when Pernille tries to feed you more, turning your head away.

"She's not a secret!" Magda exclaims," Just...Just..."

"A secret?"

"She's not!"

"What else are they saying?" Pernille takes a baby wipe to your face to clean it off.

"That she's a future Sweden star."

"Ha! Yes, they're right. She is a future Denmark star."

Magda tries to shrug casually but she's got a smirk on her face that Pernille both hates and loves.

"You can't blame them for making that assumption. The only picture they have her in is my jersey. My Sweden jersey."

"Well," Pernille hoists you up on her hip as you gently coo and reach for your toy again," We'll just have to snap a picture in my Denmark shirt. That'll put the world to rights again."

Magda laughs with Pernille until her phone vibrates again and then the laughter turns to a groan.

"What?"

"Twitter's got a hold of it now."

[swappetf11]

They used to call him Big G.

Gregor Dalton. 6’4”, 300 pounds of bad attitude and beer weight. A barrel of a man with a red-blonde beard so thick it practically had its own zip code, arms like hams, and a gut that hung over his duty belt like a second badge. His scalp was half-bald, ringed with tufts of sunburned orange hair slicked down with sweat and neglect. His eyes—cold, small, pale—hid under thick brows and a permanent scowl. His voice was a mix of gravel and bile, often used to bark orders or chew someone out, especially if they were brown and on the wrong side of the fence.

He wasn’t just a border patrol agent—he was the border patrol agent. A legend. Gruff. Abusive. Proud of it. Everyone on the force knew not to cross him, and no one wanted to ride with him on long shifts unless they liked hearing words that made their stomachs churn.

He didn’t just detain migrants—he broke them down.

“Get on the fuckin’ ground!”

“You think you can just sneak into my country?”

“You speak English? No? Then shut up!”

He’d slam their faces into the dirt, zip-tie them too tight, make them sit in the sun for hours. Sometimes he’d flick his cigarette ash at them. He didn’t care if they were women or kids. If they crossed the line, they were trespassers, criminals, filth.

“Don’t wanna get treated like animals?” he’d growl. “Then stay in your cage.”

And yet he believed he was doing good. He saw the job as sacred. Saw the border as a wall between order and chaos. He hated coyotes—those smug bastards who sold hope and death in equal measure. And he hated how the routes kept changing, how every time they cracked down on one tunnel or one trail, five more popped up like snakes from the dirt.

So when the higher-ups summoned him to the black site outside El Paso, he thought it was for commendation. Another medal. Another pat on the back.

Instead, they told him:

“You’re going under.”

Gregor blinked. “The hell does that mean?”

“You’re being placed in Rancho Silencio,” the man in the windbreaker said. “Durango. Rural town. The cartel’s established new smuggling paths through the region. People. Drugs. Coyotes are adapting. You’re going in to learn how they work. Blend in. Observe. Report.”

He laughed so hard he wheezed. “You want me to play fuckin’ dress-up as some beaner hillbilly and sniff out tunnels?”

“You’ll be transformed.”

Gregor’s face went dark.

“This is ‘cause I broke that Guatemalan’s jaw last month, huh?” he hissed. “Because I made that Honduran bitch piss herself when I yanked her kid?”

Silence.

“We’ve selected you because you’re effective,” the suit said flatly. “But to continue being effective, you must become the enemy.”

The rage boiled in him. Become the enemy. He clenched his fists, chest heaving under his sweat-stained undershirt.

“You’re gonna turn Big G into some taco-slinging campesino. This is humiliation.”

The female tech interrupted, calm and clinical. “This is necessary.”

They stripped him down. Watched him grumble and spit as he peeled off his uniform, revealing rolls of pale flesh, sunburnt and freckled. His arms looked like raw roast pork, glistening with sweat and red hair. His legs were thick and hairy, with thighs that chafed with every step. He stood there in a paper gown, his manhood hanging fat and pale between his legs, red bush tangled above.

Gregor had never felt more exposed.

“Drink this,” the tech said, handing him a glowing green vial.

He hesitated. Then, bitterly, he growled, “Fuck it.”

The potion burned like molten metal. It hit his gut like a hammer and exploded outward. He doubled over, gasping, clutching the table as his insides twisted like a snake was coiling in his belly.

“AHHH—fuck—what the fuck—!”

Then came the change.

His massive frame crumpled, bones cracking like firewood under an axe. His spine shrank. His gut melted, rolling away into nothing as his chest and shoulders collapsed inward, losing bulk and girth. His legs shortened, cracked, reshaped—his feet pulling back like a tape measure snapping shut.

“¡Madre… MADREEEEE!” he screamed, in Spanish, the voice pouring from his lips like it had always been there.

He tried to say What the hell? but what came out was:

“¿Qué… qué verga me está pasando, güey?”

His hands were different now—smaller, darker, callused in places they never were. His skin rippled with heat, peeling away layers of pink and freckle, shifting to a golden brown, then deeper. Dusty. Earth-worn. The skin of someone who’d worked under the Mexican sun their whole life.

His red beard began to itch—then fall out in clumps. He gasped, watching the wiry orange hairs drift down like autumn leaves. In their place, black stubble sprouted fast and thick. His scalp—once balding—tingled with pressure as black hair burst from it, dense and bristled, styled like it had just been clipped by a guy named Chuy who charged fifty pesos and used a straight razor.

Gregor’s lips swelled slightly, his cheekbones sharpened, and his nose broadened at the bridge. He stumbled forward, panting, sweat pouring off his body. His gut was gone. His back was lean, shoulders tight. His thighs were firm now, strong, compact. He stood maybe 5’6”, with the body of a man who carried bricks, not a badge.

And then—

His teeth began to fall out.

He howled. The sound was animal. He spat blood, watching his old crooked, yellow teeth hit the floor in a mess of gum tissue and drool.

“¡NO! ¡NOOO!”

New teeth grew in fast—pushing out sharp and white. A bit uneven. Real. Not American dental perfection. Teeth that had chewed tortillas, sunflower seeds, and weed stems.

His cock had changed, too. No longer pale and chubby, it was darker, narrower, but heavy and veiny, with thick, swinging balls that hung low between his thighs like they’d been there for decades. When he moved, they bounced with that familiar masculine sway—but they weren’t his. Not Gregor’s.

He panted. The stench of his new sweat filled the room—richer, muskier. A body that didn’t wear deodorant, that worked hard, that smelled like sex and dust and heat.

When he opened his mouth again, he didn’t speak English. He couldn’t.

“Yo… yo soy… Álvaro… ¿no?” he whispered.

The techs nodded. “Yes. Álvaro Medina. Born in Rancho Silencio. You’ve smoked weed since you were fifteen. You work odd jobs. You know how to listen. You don’t draw attention.”

They handed him jeans. A faded brown flannel. Cheap cowboy boots. A belt with a cracked leather buckle.

He dressed slowly. Every motion felt wrong—but familiar. He reached down and tugged the crotch of his jeans up. The denim hugged his thighs. His new bulge sat heavy between his legs. When he walked, it swung.

The mirror didn’t show Big G.

It showed a short Mexican man in his early 30s. Warm brown eyes, black hair in a clean fade, a dusting of stubble on his cheeks and upper lip. A mouth that naturally turned down at the corners. The face of a man who’d seen enough.

His new gait was quiet, nimble. No longer a stomping bully. His shoulders rolled differently. He looked… wary. He looked real.

They handed him a joint.

“You’re gonna need it,” the tech said. “You’re Álvaro now.”

He lit it without thinking. Held the smoke deep. Exhaled slow.

And as the high settled in his lungs, he heard the whisper of coyotes in the back of his head—names, faces, paths carved through dry creeks and abandoned tunnels. His mission pulsed behind his temples like a forgotten dream.

Gregor was still in there, buried, raging.

But Álvaro Medina took another drag and muttered in a voice thick with smoke and certainty:

“Vamos a ver cómo chingados se mueven esta vez.”

The first time Álvaro caught his reflection—really caught it—was when he stepped into the narrow metal washroom outside the facility, barefoot, the floor cold beneath his smaller, roughened soles. The joint still clung between his fingers, burning slow. The flannel shirt they gave him stuck to his damp back, a film of sweat caught between cloth and skin. His new jeans hugged his thighs, the denim still stiff, smelling faintly of old soap and dust. And underneath, tight against his hips, a pair of faded gray briefs that had clearly seen years of wash. They were a bit snug, the elastic curling slightly, pressing in around the base of his cock where his thick new shaft curved to the left, balls hanging low and pendulous in the cramped pouch.

His hand trembled as he pushed the door open. He wasn’t used to feeling small.

Everything felt too big now. The ceiling seemed higher. The sink farther. The stall too tall, too cold. His gait—once a wide lumbering stomp—had narrowed. His hips shifted differently, his knees bent more. He moved like a man built for maneuvering, for ducking under fences and sliding through brush, not for throwing weight around. The boots clicked on the tile with a sharper rhythm, his steps lighter, quieter.

The mirror above the sink wasn’t kind. But it was honest.

He stepped close.

A man stared back—rounder face, sun-warmed skin, eyes dark and rich with shadow. His lips were slightly chapped, the corners cracked. His stubble was thick, black, hugging his jawline tight. His ears sat closer to his head. His brow furrowed differently now—less harsh, more suspicious, like someone who’d spent years watching his back.

“I… I look like I sell oranges on the side of the road,” he muttered in Spanish.

And he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

He blinked, heart stuttering. The words weren’t English. They weren’t translated either. They were the only thing that came out. Pure reflex.

He dropped the joint, squashed it under his boot. The smoke lingered in the room, earthy and sweet. He grimaced.

“I hate this shit,” he said aloud, again in Spanish. “Smells like dead grass and cheap decisions.”

He was still aware of Big G—Gregor—in this moment. Could still feel the anger curling in his chest. Could still remember the way he used to glare down at migrants, sneer at addicts. He remembered slamming a kid into the hood of the truck for lighting a blunt during processing. He’d spat on the floor and called him trash.

And now he stood in a pair of borrowed briefs, smoke curling around his stubble, lungs filled with that same junk, a thick weight between his thighs that didn’t belong to him, in a stranger’s body that felt like home.

He stared at his hand. Callused in different places. Fingers longer. Nails different. He flexed.

Then reached up, running his fingers along his jaw, over the dark stubble. His beard used to be coarse, a wild fire of red. Now it was tightly packed and felt like velvet thorns. His scalp—he rubbed it, gritting his teeth—thick with hair. His bald patch was gone. He had a fade now. A damn fade.

He chuckled bitterly, still in Spanish.

“I used to mock guys with hair like this. Fuckin’ gang bangers. Now I look like I just stepped out of a cantina with two grams of coke in my sock.”

He ran water into the sink. Splashed his face. Watched the beads roll down his darker skin. It clung differently. Held heat longer. Smelled different too—earthy, like clay and sweat.

His hand slid instinctively down to the waistband of his briefs.

“Dios…” he muttered, palming the weight of his new package. “These balls are gonna kill my back.”

They were heavy. Long, meaty, pulled low by gravity and heat. His cock lay thick against his thigh, curved just enough that he had to adjust it in the jeans every time he moved. He shifted awkwardly, pressing a hand against his fly.

“I used to laugh at these guys walking around with their dicks swinging like they owned the world,” he muttered. “Now I walk like that.”

He pulled open the door and stepped back into the hallway. A mirror along the side wall reflected his full figure. He looked—young. Maybe early thirties. Hard years, but nothing like the red-faced monster he’d once been. He used to waddle when he walked. Now he moved. There was rhythm in his hips, a purposeful bounce in his step. His shoulders rolled with quiet confidence. His whole body said: “I’ve done time. I’ve worked hard. I know who I am.”

He didn’t.

But in about 12 hours, he would.

Because the memories were fading already.

The thoughts of Gregor—his face, his full name, his boots, the gravel of his voice—they were dissolving. Like smoke.

Already Álvaro couldn’t remember his old phone number. Or the name of his ex-wife. The memory of beating a teenager during an arrest? Blurry now. He remembered the blood. But not the name. Not the face.

He stepped outside, the air warmer now. The smell of diesel and dry grass filled his lungs

He lit another joint. Didn’t cough this time.

And then he said, in perfect, relaxed Spanish, staring out toward the hills:

“I wonder if Carlos is still working the arroyo. I bet the new path cuts north.”

He didn’t know where that thought came from.

But it felt right.

He didn’t dream.

When Álvaro woke up, his mouth was dry. A thick layer of sweat clung to his chest, his shirt twisted around his torso like he’d been rolling for hours. The fan overhead clicked rhythmically, slow, mechanical. It was early. Still dark outside the barred window. Somewhere, a rooster called in the distance, muffled by the heavy concrete walls.

He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. His fingers felt… different. Thicker knuckles. Slight curve in the nails. His skin was darker. Dry. Familiar.

He blinked a few times and looked around. A twin mattress, a chipped sink, faded curtains with some cartoon lemons printed on them. The house was quiet, still. In the silence, there was no alarm. No sound of the city. Just birds and the faint buzz of insects warming up for the day.

His stomach growled.

He swung his legs off the bed, felt the smooth concrete under his bare soles. The fan ticked. The heat was already rising.

He scratched his chest absentmindedly—and paused.

His hand grazed over a new terrain. The skin was taut, the chest flatter, leaner than he expected. The hair there was short, sparse, wiry. Black.

He looked down, lifting his shirt. His skin was bronze, brown, sun-warmed. His abs—not ripped, but defined—tightened when he shifted. The line of black hair trailed down toward the waistband of the briefs he was wearing: grey, old, tight. They hugged his hips closely, the pouch heavy and full between his thighs. His cock rested to the left, long and relaxed, with his balls hanging like ripe fruit, already sweaty from the heat.

He breathed in slowly.

This was his body. It felt right. Familiar.

But something tugged in the back of his head. A name. A whisper.

G… Gre…

Gone. It evaporated.

He stood up, stretched, arms reaching overhead. He caught his reflection in the window glass.

Thicker neck. Buzzed black hair. Jaw square with a tight shadow of stubble that clung to his cheeks and upper lip. A small mole on his right cheekbone. Brown eyes, the kind people didn’t remember clearly but trusted anyway. His shoulders were broader now in proportion to his shorter frame—strong, solid. A man who worked with his hands.

He turned sideways. Looked at the shape of his body in the mirror on the wall. His ass had filled out, rounded and firm under the snug cotton briefs. His thighs were powerful, thighs that had carried weight and moved through tight places. His calves were muscular, legs shorter than he expected, but they moved fluidly.

He walked back and forth across the room.

Light steps. Quick. Not heavy.

His old gait—if it had existed—was gone.

He paused in front of the mirror.

“Soy… ¿Álvaro?” he asked, half-laughing, half-startled.

(“I’m… Álvaro?”)

It didn’t feel wrong. The name sat on his tongue like a worn pebble, smooth from years of use.

Then, memory struck.

A room. Cold and bright. White tiles. The hum of machines.

The transfer facility.

He saw it in flickers.

He’d been standing there in just that robe—white, thin, open at the chest. His old body had been taken from him. They’d given him clothes—used jeans, a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, a pair of boots dusty with wear. He’d felt it all shift, his body changing, bones cracking, voice dropping into a quick, northern accent.

There had been mirrors there, too.

He remembered standing with his arms at his sides, sweat still dripping down his back. A tech had told him, “Look natural.”

“What does that mean?” he’d asked, his voice already softer, more nasal.

“Be you. Be Álvaro,” the tech said, then lifted a camera.

He had stood, one boot forward, hand on his hip, and tilted his chin slightly. And the shutter snapped.

Flash.

Then they printed the ID.

Álvaro Medina Estrada

32 años

CURP: AEM920711HMCLSR09

Santiago Papasquiaro, Durango

The photo showed him exactly as he looked now—tired, weathered, but composed. The kind of face that had seen hard work, too much sun, and still managed to nod politely when addressed. A man who could disappear in a crowd. A man whose backstory didn’t need explanation.

He remembered walking the halls of the facility after that. His boots clicking. His shoulders naturally hunched, one hand resting on the beltline of his jeans like it had always been there. He’d spit to the side and muttered,

“Hace calor, cabrón.”

(“It’s hot as hell, man.”)

No one corrected him. It was right. His mannerisms had already changed. He scratched the back of his neck with his pinky extended slightly. He coughed after smoking and muttered a “pinche madre” like he’d been cursing that way for decades.

It wasn’t Gregor who walked out of the transfer facility. It was Álvaro.

Now, standing in the morning light of his small house, Álvaro poured water from the cracked jug into the kettle, placed it on the rusted burner, and yawned.

He didn’t miss the old voice. Or the old body.

But when he caught a flash of himself in the mirror again, he hesitated.

He touched his cheek. Rubbed his stubble.

His eyes narrowed.

“Te pareces a alguien,” he whispered to himself.

(“You look like someone…”)

But who, he couldn’t say.

He turned from the mirror. The kettle hissed.

He muttered, “Primero café… luego trabajo.”

(“First coffee… then work.”)

And Álvaro Medina got on with his day.

The morning sun pushed its way through the faded lemon-print curtains as Álvaro stood in front of the mirror, barefoot and bare-assed. The fan overhead ticked slow circles, casting lazy shadows across his chest. The heat had started already, clinging to his skin in a humid, earthy sheen. He’d just dried himself off with a threadbare towel, steam still lingering from the kettle on the stove and the quick splash-bath from the cracked basin.

His body—his body—felt loose and warm, like he’d worn it all his life. He scratched under his belly, fingers brushing over the thick black hair that fanned out from the base of his stomach and bloomed into a natural, unkempt bush. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t trimmed. It was right. Coarse and sweaty and deeply him. His cock rested heavy against his thigh, limp and long, while his balls swung low, pendulous, their weight undeniable.

He turned, eyeing the way they hung—low and proud, sweating in the heat of the morning.

“Puta madre,” he muttered with a half-smile, lifting them in his palm. “Estos huevos cuelgan como campanas.”

(“Fucking hell. These balls hang like church bells.”)

He let them drop, and they swung, a slow, humid rhythm like two sacks of grain shifting beneath him.

He bent down to grab his briefs—gray, stretched at the waistband—and carefully stuffed himself in, adjusting his shaft so it didn’t bend awkwardly to the side. His balls took a second to settle, one dropping lower than the other, pressed against the soft cotton. He gave them one last tug before pulling on his jeans.

They were tight around the thighs, worn-in just right. When he pulled the zipper up, the bulge at his crotch was impossible to ignore. Not obscene, but present. Honest. Worked. He threw on a tank top, the armpits already stiff with yesterday’s sweat, and stepped into his boots.

No mirror check. No hesitation. This was Álvaro.

At the counter, he took out the tin. It used to be a cough drop container, now full of crumpled, sweet-smelling mota. He unrolled a small square of paper, licked his finger, and began rolling. The weed crumbled easily under his fingertips, sticking just enough to form a tight roll. His fingers worked fast—practice that didn’t make sense if you asked him to explain it. But they knew. His body knew.

He licked the paper, sealed the joint, and tapped it twice against the tin. Then he sparked it, taking a slow, full drag through pursed lips, his cheeks hollowing as the smoke filled his lungs.

The taste was earthy, sweet, mellow. It hit the back of his throat and settled in his chest like a heavy sigh.

He exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Así empieza un buen día.”

(“That’s how a good day starts.”)

Outside, the dirt kicked up as the truck pulled in. A beat-up Chevy with one door in primer gray. Inside: Manuel, a thick-necked man with a permanent scowl and three gold teeth. Álvaro flicked the joint into the ash dish by the door, grabbed his bag, and stepped out, the morning heat wrapping around him like a blanket.

“Listo, carnal?” Manuel grunted.

(“Ready, bro?”)

“Simón. Vamos por el canal viejo.”

(“Yeah. Let’s hit the old canal.”)

They drove past the dry canal beds, bouncing over unpaved paths, dust swallowing the tires. Álvaro leaned out the window, elbow resting on the frame, eyes sharp but relaxed.

He knew these roads. Not because someone told him. But because they were in his bones now.

They pulled into a shaded grove, where three men waited. Gaunt, sunburned, eyes hollow but hopeful. A woman cradled a toddler with cracked lips. No bags. No food. Just them.

“Cuatro esta vez,” Manuel said. “Van hasta la cueva, después los recoge el otro lado.”

(“Four this time. They go up to the cave. Someone picks them up past it.”)

Álvaro jumped down from the truck, cracking his neck.

“No hablen. No griten. Caminamos rápido,” he said to them calmly.

(“Don’t talk. Don’t yell. We walk fast.”)

He passed them each a small pouch of water, then checked his waistband for the knife. Not for fighting—but for cutting through fences if needed. His gait was light as he walked. His boots didn’t stomp. They slid over gravel and dry earth, careful not to kick up sound.

The group followed.

And Álvaro moved forward—not as a man pretending to be someone else.

But as Álvaro Medina, coyote. Smoker. Northern son of dust.

And the memory of Gregor Dalton?

Just a vapor in the wind behind him.

[ladykailitha]

Of Butterflies and Backstrokes Part 3

Hey, darlings! We are back again!! Next week I'll start uploading this on Mondays instead of Tuesdays so that Hellfire can be posted on Fridays so that it doesn't get swamped by the WIP Wednesday overflow. See here for further explanation.

We introduce the kids and Eddie finds out what happened to Steve.

Pt 1 Pt 2

~

Steve could feel a migraine coming on the second he saw Tommy Hagan coming toward him purposefully.

Which meant another parent had complained about him. He fought the urge to take off his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Steve held up his hand when Tommy got to him and went to open his god damned mouth. “I’m going to stop you before you even get started, Tommy. If Joyce doesn’t give a shit, than neither should you!”

“Beijing was two years ago, Steve,” Tommy huffed angrily. “So what, you hit your head. Get. Over. It.”

“Yeah, I hit my head so hard I blacked out,” Steve snapped back.

Tommy scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I know I was there.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t even fucking medal, Tommy,” he growled. “I nearly drowned. This wasn’t just some little slip in the shower. I hit my head so hard they weren’t sure my vision would come back, asshole. It was traumatic. I don’t know why you can’t understand that!”

Suddenly Carol and Nicole were pulling at Tommy’s arms, muttering soothing words to get him to back down. Tommy glared at him for a moment before he shook the girls off and walked away even more pissed than when he came over.

“Sorry about him,” Nicole said after Carol hurried after him to try and calm him down. “Not all of us think like that.”

Steve just shrugged. He was used to Tommy’s anger about what happened. It was like salt over a wound every time he started up about it. Because, yeah, before all this Tommy and he were friends. Damn good ones, too.

“I think he’s still messed up about the accident,” Nicole muttered. “He feels guilty that he was forced to compete while you were in the hospital. Which lets be honest is probably why he didn’t do well. So if you lay off the medal thing, I’ll try and convince him to drop the pool thing.”

Steve shoulders sagged in defeat. “Yeah, I guess. He started it though.”

She laughed and then shook her head. “Never change, Steve Harrington, the absolute bitch that you are.”

Steve just grinned at her. She shook her head again and walked away. Just as she was leaving Robin came up and put her hand on his shoulder.

“You might have report him to Joyce,” she muttered. “I know you don’t want to, but it looked like he wanted to hit you.”

He chewed on lip and let out a sigh. “If he hits me, I’ll report him then.”

Robin just sighed, she knew it was fight she wasn’t going to win. Steve still had loyalty to Tommy even though they weren’t friends anymore. Well...to be more accurate, he was loyal to a former teammate from his last Olympics.

Hell, there was only one teammate that Steve didn’t owe loyalty to, and he had made it quite clear no one was allowed to even bring that guy up.

“Come on, dingus,” she said instead. “We have the babes class.”

Steve perked up and grinned. The infant and toddler class was his favorite. He loved the squeals of laughter when they learned to love the water as much as he did. He loved the tears of shock and joy when parents saw their little swimming away in the water for the first time.

~

Eddie was gearing up to run for Joyce when he saw Hagan get in Steve’s face.

“Hagan at it again?” Murray sneered.

Eddie turned to look at his supervisor. The older man had his hands shoved in his pockets and was watching the scene with the dull fascination of someone who’s seen this shit go down one too many times.

“I have so many questions,” he admitted, “so I’m not sure I can answer that for you.”

Murray turned his dull attention to Eddie and blinked at him a moment. “How do you not know?”

“I heard Beijing and team,” Eddie said with a shrug, “so I assume it has something to do with the 2008 Olympics. But, man. I’m a poor kid from a trailer park. We don’t always have a TV, you know?”

Murray blinked at him a moment. “Huh. So you really don’t know. Interesting. Very interesting.”

“You going to tell me about it?” Eddie asked in a huff, “Or are you just going to stand there and look smug about knowing something I don’t?”

“At least tell me you know that Steve and Tommy were in the Olympics,” Murray said, rolling his eyes.

“Well I do now!” Eddie huffed. He was getting really irritated with Murray and if he didn’t tell him what was going on, he was going to snatch that stupid looking toupee right off his fucking head.

Murray grabbed his wrist and pulled him with him. Eddie let out a squawk, struggling to keep his feet. He was short little bastard, but apparently he was strong. They stopped in front of a display case and it were several photos, trophies, and certificates.

There smiling in the center picture were Tommy and Steve in swim caps that had their names and the American flag against the dark blue. They looked so happy. Steve was holding up a gold medal and Tommy was holding up a silver. Underneath it read the caption: “Two Hometown Heroes Bring Home Medals”.

“That’s cute.” Eddie tilted his head at the picture. “So what happened in 2012?”

“Steve slipped and fell in his first event,” Murray explained, “hitting his head on the side of the pool.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He did vaguely remember there being talk of an Olympian who got hurt badly and couldn’t compete. But he didn’t know it was Steve.

“Is that why he stays to the kiddie pools?” Eddie asked, feeling numb.

Murray rocked back on his heels. “Uh huh.”

Eddie nodded and then excused himself back to work. His dislike for Tommy grew with each step he took away from that display case.

Whatever guilt he did or did not feel, Tommy still had no right to harass Steve about his fears. That was a shit thing to do, especially since they were supposedly friends before all this.

~

Steve didn’t know why he agreed to this.

He sighed.

Yes he did. It was a favor to Joyce for putting up with all his bullshit. So here he was on a Saturday morning, helping her get ready for her youngest son’s eleventh birthday party. Why they wanted a swim party literally three days before they started the beginners class, he didn’t know. But he was going to try and make the best of it anyway.

He opened up the door that led to the kiddie pool and got out tables to place on the far end of the room away from the water. Joyce came in with balloons and streamers, which Steve helped her put up.

He was helping her carry the last of the food in when he saw it. He stopped dead in his tracks and watched as the new guy, Eddie, doing laps in the pool.

Joyce, who was carrying the cake, stopped next to him. “He’s good, huh?”

Steve shook his head head to clear out the cobwebs. He nodded and followed her back into the kiddie pool room. He mixed the soda and Kool-aid and then went to change. But again he saw Eddie had changed from a regular breaststroke to the butterfly.

His throat dried on the spot, which was a miracle considering that it was fucking humid in the pool area.

God, if he was judging his form, he would have given him an 8.7. It was rough, to be sure, but it was better than Tommy’s and butterfly used to be his specialty. The door to the hallway swung up and Nancy and Jonathan came in with Robin right behind them.

That shook him out of his daze and he trotted to the men’s changing room. He quickly changed and showered before he went back out there. He couldn’t have his heads in the clouds. He was lifeguarding kids today. He needed to focus.

And so he did. It was just like swimming. He cut off the noise in his head. The roar of his thoughts were pushed back, he could deal with them later.

Just then the kids arrived.

Will first, surrounded by his friends, Dustin, Lucas, and Mike, his step-sister Ellie, and her best friend Max.

Six kids in all. Which is why Joyce needed an extra pair of eyes. And three extra arms at this point.

Will stopped in front of the cake in awe. It was shaped like a dolphin, the kid’s favorite animal of the moment. It would probably change next week. But for now, it was perfect.

“Mom!” Will cried. “It’s awesome!”

Joyce gave him a hug. “I’m glad you approve. Now you and your friends go get changed. Robin will be helping the girls and Steve will be watching over the boys. For the duration of this party you will obey them like you obey me, okay? This is really important.”

“Because being around a large body of water is dangerous,” Ellie said solemnly, nodding her head.

Joyce smiled down at her. “That’s right. Now go on. The sooner you get changed, the sooner the party can start!”

The kids turned on their heels and dashed into the changing rooms where Robin and Steve were waiting.

The two girls came out first. Ellie in a purple bathing suit with pink flowers on it and Max in a red and black two piece halter top swim set. Ellie had her hair pulled back in a high pony tail, while Max had braided pigtails.

They each had a cupcake while they waited for the boys.

Soon enough all four boys came barreling out with Steve shouting behind them. “Don’t run or you can’t swim!”

They slowed to a fast walk, so Steve let out a pained sigh as they crowded the food table. Dustin was in a floral Hawaiian print board shorts, Lucas’s were blue with rogange stripes on the side. Mike was wearing red swim trunks, and the birthday boy was was wearing neon green trunks.

They looked new, which meant that Joyce was able to spring for them. Even with two incomes, Joyce and Hopper combined still made less then the assholes they paid to coach their precious darlings. Especially on a cop’s salary.

Eddie came up behind Steve. “What’s going on here?”

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jeez!”

Eddie cackled. “Sorry, I thought you saw me.”

“It’s Joyce’s son Will’s birthday party,” Steve said, keeping his eyes on the rowdy kids. “She asked Robin and me to watch them. Well...she is paying us for this. But it’s still a favor.”

“Why not Jonathan or Nancy or any of the lifeguards?” Eddie asked, toweling his hair.

Steve took his eye off them for a second to look at him and nearly swallowed his own tongue. He was only in black board shorts. He had two tattoos on his chest, a spider and some demon head. Water slid down the tattoos, past his navel to pool on the top of the shorts. He gulped.

“Because the party runs until noon,” Steve explained once he got his eyes back in his head. “And as it’s a Saturday in the middle of the hottest part of the summer, it’s all hands on deck. And since we trainers don’t have classes on Saturday for that reason...Plus no eleven year old wants his big brother there with his girlfriend. It’s ‘uncool’.” He used air quotes for the last word.

“So you and Robin get the fun of watching little hellions run around like chickens with there heads cut off.”

Steve nodded and turned back to watching the kids. They were screaming and splashing around.

Eddie patted him on the shoulder. “Better you than me, man.” He looked up at the clock. “And that’s my pool time for the week. See you on Monday, Harrington.”

Steve pursed his lips and nodded. Afraid that he was going to blurt out something about Eddie’s swimming.

Shit.

Steve was just going to have to show up with Robin next week for the staff swim. He closed his eyes and then opened them when there was a large splash.

“Hey, no pushing!” he barked.

~

Tag List: CLOSED

Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

1-@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @chameleonhair @sadisticaltarts @dreamercec @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @mac-attack19

10- @aol19 @eriquin @tartarusknight @gloomysoup

[bidisasterevankinard]

48!!!!! Dancing!!! Yessss

I think it's not exactly what you expected but pls enjoy <3333

Big disadvantage of being a good firefighter with the medal and a lot of articles and news mentions of your name and therefore a lot of Instagram fans too, it’s the need to participate in the annual clown Ball where all the Chiefs suck and kiss cocks and asses of rich assholes. And you have to smile and talk to them, so they can think about putting their breakfast money in your department. 

Buck can’t even talk to anyone he’d actually enjoyed. Or took off the fucking suit in the fucking heat. Even the evening breeze doesn’t help. He wants to run till he sees a familiar huge back. He hasn't met Tommy since the… since Bobby’s funerals, but man kept his distance and no matter how painful it was that day Buck respected it.

Figuring he can chew some fruits, he comes to the table too, drinking all the remaining champagne in one go. He needs some liquid bravery. 

“They should suck it less to the Governor. He’ll anyway give this new budget money from new tax to cops, not us,” Buck says as a greeting, then smiles when Tommy looks at him, “you look stunning.”

And Tommy does. Dark purple, deep eggplant close to black suits Tommy. Especially because he definitely didn't cut the paycheck of his tailor. The suit looks like it was made just for Tommy. Only his Adonis body can be as beautiful to wear it. 

“You look great too, Evan,” the man smiles shyly at him. “How have you been?”

And that is the question. Buck was waiting for the one from someone for months. It never came. He stopped wondering about this himself. He doesn’t have an answer.

He shrugs, “I’m setting up in my new apartment.”

“Must have been hard to say goodbye to the house? ”

“Not really. Losing the loft was harder. It was mine. I wasn’t subletting. And even through all the ghosts you left after you it felt good,” Buck bites his cheek. The anger on Tommy started to come more recently. For all he said and did or didn’t.  For all Buck did and didn’t. For everything they’ve lost. “Have a good night, Tommy.”

“Wait,” Tommy grabs his hand, “let’s dance. Will save us from all the ass kissing.”

“You love to kiss ass too much to use it in a bad way.”

Tommy smirks, “I love it only if I like the one whose ass I kiss.”

They find a good place on the dance floor. But Buck doesn’t know what to do next. They never danced together. Not even at home.

Tommy takes his hand, putting it behind his neck, mirroring it with his hand and holds his other hand in his up.

“Is that ok?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, taking in the music and trying not to think how close Tommy’s lips are to his.

The familiar words reach him.

“It was in ‘Pretty woman’. Roxette ‘It must have been love’.”

Feels feeting. He thought he and Tommy must have been in love. But it’s over now. It all he wanted and now he lives without love of his life.

“Yes,” Tommy nods.

They keep dancing. Buck wants it to never end. But life is not a fairytale. Not for him.

The song ends. He kisses Tommy’s cheek. “Thank you for this dance.” He leaves.

At home he cries, falling on the bed in his stupid suit.

Next day he watches romcoms on repeat, wishing he lived in one. The knock comes just when Alex and Henry kiss for the first time.

“Tommy?”

“Do you need new ghosts of me here?”

He leans on his door. He wants to know what the fuck is going on the the head of this man.

“I want our new memories. I don’t want ghosts. I have too many of them.”

“Good.”

Next thing Buck knows his lips are on Tommy’s.

[ripeindecember]

Little oneshot thing based on this post because Nico-Will soulmateism makes me wanting to chew plastic (in a good way)

He’s born Wilfred Alexander Semper, on a hot day in the late summer of 1929, in Sioux City, Iowa. 

He’s born breech. It’s a hard labor. Dangerous. He doesn’t cry when he comes out - not at first. The doctor spends a long time trying to get his little lungs working until finally, finally, he lets out a tiny whimper, and everyone in the room breathes a sigh of relief. 

The doctor hands him off to his father, so he can help his mother with the afterbirth.

His father was a gunnery captain in the Great War, stationed near the Seine, before his birth. He holds his son, (all of his sons, really,) like they’re made of spun glass. “Hello, Will,” His father murmurs, christening him with the new nickname, here just minutes after his birth. “A man of few words already, I see.” 

Will stares back at him, baby-blues shining with unshed tears, and whimpers softly again. 

— — — 

His childhood is rough and tumble, but they’re always okay. 

The depression is hard, but his dad doesn’t lose his job. A pay-cut, maybe, but no-one in Sioux City would be willing to fire Dr. Semper, medaled war hero, and only dentist for miles. 

He remembers once, his parents talking in hushed tones about a hotel in Washington DC getting hit by lightning. How his dad thought it was actually the Germans, how he was afraid they were going back to war. How his mom said that wasn’t going to happen. 

Then, a harbor gets bombed.

Will can recall, years later, his Mother, gray faced, and his Dad, with his mouth pressed into a stern line, crowded around the radio, telling him and Mark to go to their shared room, because he was twelve and Mark was fifteen, and they didn’t need to hear this, not right now.

Lloyd was eighteen, though. He got to stay. 

Two days later, when Will and Mark are throwing a baseball outside, there’s a fight. His Mom and Dad are yelling, and so is Lloyd. He doesn’t know what it’s about at the time. 

Three years later, when a soldier comes to the door, and Will’s Mom falls to her knees with a wail, as his Dad accepts a small box and a slip of paper with a white face and trembling hands, Will understands why they were fighting. 

They have the same fight with Mark that night. Mark, freshly eighteen, and so passionate, so hot headed, so deeply loving for his brother, wants revenge.

He comes home the same way Lloyd did seven months later. 

— — —

Will decides that he can’t do that to his family again. He can’t try to follow in his Father’s war hero footsteps, and come home as a medal in a box and a slip of paper. 

He turns 18 in 1947. Goes to college for biology. Doesn’t meet anyone, doesn’t get married like so many of his friends do. He moves to San Francisco instead.  

He gets a job teaching at a middle school. 

It’s enjoyable. The people he teaches with are fun. He goes to staff parties, makes friends.

Some of the single, female teachers flirt with him politely. He doesn’t know why, but he rejects them, just as politely. 

He makes close friends with the gym teacher, Francis. They go for drinks after school, sometimes. 

“Do you ever feel,” Francis says quietly, one of those times that they’re out. “That you can’t find anyone?”

Will tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“It’s like…” Francis continues. “I know I should like the women who talk to me. I do. They’re great friends. But it’s like something isn’t right.”  

“Do you think,” Will leans in close, lowering his voice. “That you’re a homosexual?”

Francis laughs at that under his breath. “No, it's not that. I know some guys who are,” He cuts his eyes to Will in an appraising motion. “But it’s like a feelings feeling. Like I'm a double-timing a person I don’t know.” 

“Like there’s someone you belong to, but they don’t know it yet.” 

Francis nods his head. “Exactly.” 

“All the time.” Will responds. “Like there’s this piece of me that’s missing, and I don’t know where it is, or how to find it. Like it’s been locked away somewhere that I’m not allowed to go. So I just have to exist without it.”

“Like a trained horse without a jockey,” Francis snorts.

“Yeah.” 

— — —

Will and Francis stay close friends. 

San Francisco changes. People get looser, dress looser, act looser. 

On the weekends, Will makes short-lived friends in parks, clubs, and bars.

People - men and women - with long black hair and big, brown eyes. He climbs into their beds and leaves before sunrise. He doesn’t look back, and tries not to look into it.

A month before he turns forty, Francis shows up to his house with good weed, a good bottle of liquor, and they watch Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walk on the moon. 

— — —

Francis is doing his best impression of Nixon, saying “I am not a crook!” in a wheedling little voice when the school principal steps into the lounge.

“Mr. Semper?” He interrupts.

Will looks up. “Yeah?”

“Your Mother is on the phone. It’s important.” The principal’s eyes are sad. 

Will’s heart drops into his feet. He knows what this is. He leans over and grabs the receiver off the wall, and raises it to his ear with a shaking hand. “Mama?”

“Oh, Will, baby,” she cries. “It’s your Father, he-”

“When?”

“This morning,” She sniffles out. “Stroke.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he whispers into the phone.

— — — 

Will’s Mom moves in with him, after his Dad dies. 

“So there’s no one in your life?” She asks him curiously, one afternoon.

“I’ve got you,” He deflects.

— — —

He’s distracted, driving home. He’d rolled a TV into the classroom, so his students could watch the launch of the Challenger shuttle, only for it to blow up on screen. He’d spent the rest of class comforting them.

It’s hard, dealing with gruesome death. Especially at thirteen years old.

So he doesn’t notice the light at the intersection turning red when he pulls up. He doesn’t notice the other car, barreling down his little hatchback. It takes a second to register that his car flips.

He doesn’t scream when he’s in the air. When his neck breaks, he doesn’t feel it.

— — — 

“Hello, Wilfred.” A soft, deep voice greets, from high above him. He looks up, and is greeted with a face that's all angles and pale skin.

“Where am I?” He asks. He looks out over a landscape of black sand and sagging poplar trees, growing next to a river that flows milky white. 

“The afterlife.” The man explains. “Behind you is Elysium. In front of you is the River Lethe.” 

Will blinks. “I was baptized. I should be in Heaven.” 

The tall man sighs, and purses his lips. “Believe me, I know. It was a nightmare of paperwork, getting you here.”

“Why am I here, then?”

“I have… an offer for you.”

“An offer?”

“Yes. You were alone, your whole life, were you not? You felt as if there was something missing. I’m offering you a do-over. Where I can assure you, that this time, you will not be alone. That something will not be missing. I can promise you that.”

Will stares up at the man, with his angular face, and something inside of him aches. “How? Why?”

“It is for selfish reasons.” The man admits. “But we will both benefit, in the end.” 

“What do I do?”

“You must swim in the river. I will take care of everything from there”

He looks from the man’s face, and into the calm, milky-white current. It calls to him, like a gentle lullaby. 

Wilfred Alexander Semper, who died on January 28th, 1986, at the age of 56, goes into the river. 

— — — 

He’s born William Andrew Solace, on a hot day in the late summer of 1999, in Pflugerville, Texas.

He screams his way into the world so loudly that the attending nurse swears up and down that the windows rattled in their panes. 

“Hi, baby,” his Mom says with a watery laugh, once he’s placed in her arms. She clings to him tight and kisses the tears off of his angry, little red face.

“Death would turn his head at a yell that loud,” The doctor jokes. 

His mom laughs again, exhausted. He blinks his eyes open, and they catch in the sun, radiant baby-blues. “If he’s anything like me,” she murmurs confidently, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “I bet he could get death to fall in love with him.” 

[auckie]

Thank you to everyone who’s ever shown me anything they liked, everyone who’s shared beauty with me, or tried to make a connection. I appreciate you immensely. And will remember you.

*closes my eyes and shuts my laptop, then turns around to a suitcase in front of me. I’m dressed in a suit, with some military medals on a sash I’m wearing, none of which are mine, all of which are stolen valor. I open the case, which now appears to contain what could be a gun. I carefully take out a very long object and then turn around back to my computer, turning on the desktop and opening a streaming website. I take the object and bring it to my mouth, as the recording light for the webcam turns on. I take a huuuuuge bite of a giant foot long hotdog and get mustard alllll over my nice suit and all the medals as the twitch chat starts going wild— some begging me not to do it, other egging me on. I smile and chew like a fat baby as the scary stupid slowed down version of smile or whatever they used for the uhh is it river? No hes the one who died. the joawuin pheonix joker beknfs ro plau and the camera pans out then fades ro jlack, and in bit joker foont it aays HOTDOG FROM BASBEBALL GAMW dude whenever i make a tumblr post the fuckint autocorrwxr atops workint does thay haooen to anupne else??!*

[stevenssacrab]

Good Neighbor

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*

Summary: Seeing your neighbor constantly ordering takeout inspires you to offer him a home-cooked meal and your company.

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.1k

a/n: As promised, one that isn't about Mr. Steven Grant. Hope someone out there appreciates the fallout 4 reference in the title lol. There will be a part 2 so look out for that soon! Hope y'all like it!

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*

Part 2

Bucky sighs as he submits the 4th DoorDash order of the week.

“There’s no way this is good for me,” he groaned loudly, tossing his phone to the side and throwing his head back on the sofa when a heavenly aroma hit his nose.

“Ugh, there goes Y/N cooking again,” he says, slightly annoyed at himself; he quietly steps out into the hallway, seeking more of the godly scent coming from your apartment. Bucky has been entranced by your cooking abilities; somehow, you find the willpower to make a delicious home-cooked meal every day; he doesn’t know how you do it.

You hum softly to yourself as you pull out your chicken pot pie. You loved this recipe, but it, unfortunately, served 8+ people, and you didn’t know that many people, so you just picked at it throughout the week, but this time was different; you noticed that your handsome neighbor Bucky is always ordering take out, you can’t imagine a night he didn’t order something in, so you’ve decided to be a good friendly neighbor and offer him some, it would go to waste anyways so might as well give it away, and if it meant you would get to talk to Bucky, you figured it wouldn’t hurt.

Knock knock, you tap lightly on his door, suddenly having second thoughts, but before you can change your mind, Bucky opens the door.

“Hey, what’s up?” He says, only slightly confused

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you say, holding your hand out. Bucky shakes your hand, and you don’t miss how rough his hand feels against yours, how your hands fit together like puzzle pieces.

“Bucky,” he says, looking at you with a hint of something you can’t quite grasp.

“I made some chicken pot pie, and I have tons left over; I was wondering if you wanted what’s left. I see all the takeout and thought it may have been a while since you had a home-cooked meal.” You say, your eyes widening suddenly. “N-Not that I’m like watching you or something. You laugh awkwardly, eyes shifting everywhere. “I just happened to notice and.”

“Y/N, it's okay. I know what you meant,” he smiles at you.

“Come in, please,” he says, stepping aside to let you in.

“Okay,” you say shyly, slowly crossing the threshold into this home; it was much homier than you imagined. You were not sure what exactly you expected, but it wasn’t this; it was decorated with army medals and pictures of other Avengers enjoying life; it was odd seeing everyone superheroes, in regular clothes, having beers and singing karaoke, everyone being so ordinary. It was refreshing to see; it really humanized them for you. It, of course, never slipped your mind who Bucky was, but to you, he was always your neighbor who ordered too much takeout and had loud get-togethers.

“This smells so good, Y/N,” he beams, practically drooling over the pie.

“I’m glad you think so; it tastes even better,” you wink. Bucky looks away, smiling shyly. He leads you into his kitchen, placing the food at the breakfast bar. He pulls out your chair for you before he seats himself, digging in immediately.

“UGH, this is so fucking good,” he shouts, with a mouth full of food. “Oh, sorry, this is so good.” he laughs, shoving more food into his mouth.

“Mmm, what is this crust made out of?” He asks, chewing slowly, dissecting the flavors, and trying to pinpoint it.

“Cheddar and thyme,” you beam proudly, enjoying his reactions to the meal.

“Ugh, my god, genius.” He says lowly, “So, does your boyfriend love your cooking too?” He asks

“Oh, haha, no boyfriend, it’s just me,” you laugh awkwardly.

“No way, I’d marry you if it meant I got to eat like a king every day,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I might have to take you up on that offer,” you flirted back. Bucky practically licks the plate clean; he pushes the plate away and smacks the table in triumph.

“Amazing,” he chirps happily, gently patting his stomach, absolutely glowing.

“Thank you, you’re too kind.” you blush at his praise and stand up, clearing your throat before speaking.

“I should get going; I’ll see you around, Bucky,” you say, gently squeezing his arm.

“Yeah, hope I can see you again.” He says slowly, hoping you pick up his suggestion; you walk across the hallway, giving one last smile before closing the door.

It’s been a week since you gave him your pot pie. Every meal you’ve made, you wanted to provide some, but you didn’t wanna weird him out

It was raining, too, so you decided it was a good day for some classic French onion soup, only this time, you wouldn’t bring your leftovers; you would have dinner with Bucky. You are dressed in a yellow floral print dress that landed just above the knees. Giving yourself one last look in the mirror before walking across the hall, you gently knock on the door.

“I’m coming!” Bucky shouts, and you faintly hear footsteps coming closer. Bucky quickly swings the door open.

“Oh, Y/N! Hey, whatcha got there?” Bucky asks, looking down at the pot you have in your hands.

“French onion soup,” you say proudly, holding your head high. “With a baguette,” you added happily.

“Hell yeah! Come in, come in,” he says excitedly, stepping aside.

You pour yourself and Bucky, as he waits excitedly, absolutely beaming, gently place the bowl before him and hand him a few slices of baguette.

“I hope you like it,” you smile nervously; you sit next to Bucky, wiping your sweat palms on your dress.

“This looks amazing, Y/N,” he says, smiling down at the food, picking up a spoonful of soup, and blowing on it before eating.

“Oh my god,” he says as soon as it hits the palate, Concern growing deep in your chest. “He hates it, oh my god,” you say to yourself.

“Y-you don’t like it?” You ask timidly, pulling his bowl away from him, shame feeling every part of your body, “this was a stupid idea,” you say under your breath, but loud enough that Bucky hears you; he grabs the hand, pulling away tightly, you gasp; looking up at Bucky nervously

“Don’t say that,” he said firmly, realizing he was still holding your hand; he cleared his throat and let your hand go.

“I just mean it’s good, better than good; it’s incredible,” he admits cautiously, reaching for another spoonful.

“Oh, haha,” you laugh, feeling the tension melt away.

Bucky wastes no time scarfing down the food, and of course, going back for seconds, you smile to yourself, pleased with his reactions.

“Ugh, that was marvelous,” he said, rubbing his belly happily; you both sat on the sofa in comfortable silence. You remember when you first built up the courage to offer him your leftovers; you never imagined it would lead to this: having dinner with your handsome neighbor.

“Do you wanna make dinner at my place next week?” you asked suddenly before you changed your mind.

“I’d love to.” Bucky smiled back at you.

[lewistoferrari]

What are your favorite attributes about Gaz?

And what are some that may drive you bonkers? (I’m sorry, but I would encourage him to swap out sunflower seeds for the cigarettes lol)

- well for one he’s pretty

- his intelligence and the fact that he knows he’s big brained (it’s how he gets shit done and succeeds, was the only one in his rti class to escape)

- his sense of humor & sarcasm

- the way he questions things before diving in head first

- he knows when a rule needs to broken

- he’s very determined and hardworking (he didn’t receive those medals for being pretty. he’s not the king of evasion for nothing)

- this video (you see the way he struggles with morality)

- his loyalty

also might as well share my fav quotes

“everyone talks about the physical aspect of being in the SAS, but my job is mostly mental. give me a guy who's got his mindset right, over a guy who's twice as fit any day of the week." it’s brain over brawn

“you wanna translate that from bullshit to english?” had me giggling.

and yeah he can get of rid of them cigarettes. chew some gum or something

[lorifragolina]

October - A birthday

Pairing: none Rating: T WC: 2547 Ao3: October - A birthday Ongoing series: Hawkins Elementary - A new chapter every Sunday! Steve's POV

This is the fourth entry for my @steddiebingo card, prompt: Metallica

A little snipped below!

Steve had to check the direction another time on Danny’s papers, because the street where he parked his car didn’t match the idea he still had about Eddie’s whereabouts. 

He wasn’t completely innocent either, because first of all he forgot to give the kid the cardboard medal he cut for the winner of the drawing contest, and second, he could have waited until Monday, but he was too curious about the kid, his story and his relationship with Eddie, whom, even if he wandered on the schools hallways at least two times a day, had been extremely difficult to find “casually”. And he was being a good teacher, wasn’t he?, giving the kid the opportunity to celebrate with his family during the whole weekend.

The street was a typical suburban cul-de-sac, a prolongation of Cherry Oak that he remembered smaller from when he lived in Hawkins, a completely different landscape than the trailer he knew as Eddie’s house when they were teenagers. 

The gate on the front yard was decorated with colorful balloons and a blasted Metallica tune, a little out of place with the setting, came from the back of the house. He could hear the kid's shrieks and also saw a couple of them running around the house, wielding some sticks like swords. 

“Munson” said the mailbox near the gate, so he knew he was at the correct house. He pushed the little gate and a group of bells jingled softly; suddenly, he decided he could wait for another occasion, as was evident that there was a party in the house and he felt like an intruder.

However, before he could walk away, the front door opened and an old man, with the cig dangling on his mouth and a baseball hat, looked at him, half curious and half surprised.

“Yes?” he said, gazing at Steve with narrow eyes. 

Steve, obviously, recognized Wayne Munson, Eddie’s uncle; he appeared older, of course, but not that older, he was almost the same. He was a little surprised he didn’t recognize him.

He couldn’t run away anymore, so he just waved a hand and smiled.

Wayne raised his eyebrow in a sudden realization.

“Aren’t you the Harrington’s kid?” he asked, vaguely surprised.

“Hello, Mr Munson…” Steve cleared his truth. “Yes… it’s me, I’m… I’m Danny’s teacher actually, I have a… but I say you are a little busy, maybe I can wait until…”

“Of course!” exclaimed Wayne, with a gravelly voice while he still chewed the cig. “I remember you. Come on! Come on in!”

Steve sighed and opened the gate, making the bells jingling. 

“They told me about you,” continued Wayne, driving him inside a pretty living room with some toys on the floor and a kitchen that, despite the cans and sandwiches and plates and glasses, appeared loved and tidy, then Wayne opened a glass door and they came out in the back garden. 

[generic-whumperz]

Wyatt (Character Sheet)

Picrew

Playlist | Masterlist | Character Info |

⚠️Proceed with caution, Wyatt is a Grade-A asshole⚠️

Here's a lengthy list of his TWs in lieu of a character overview. This is everything you need to know; when I use #cw Wyatt, it encases the following:

Murderer and mock executioner

Slaver (although, in his defense, he did not buy one, his mom willed him one)

Torturer

Rapist and sexual sadist with a blood kink (hematolagnia)

Gaslighter™️

Misogynist and egotistical predator who objectifies, demonizes, and degrades those he views as lesser (which is damn-near everyone)

Has anger issues and can’t chooses not to control his temper. Exploiter and raging narcissist (has anti-social personality tendencies + probably some other shit but I’m not a psychologist) who victimizes himself in every scenario despite him being the canonical villain in every sense of the word—he would win a gold medal in mental gymnastics.

Mentally, physically, verbally, and emotionally abusive. Bully and mean-spirited, humiliates people for fun (especially The Aid).

Drug addict and alcoholic, smokes weed (the only chill thing he does) and cigarettes, chews tobacco, consumes copious amounts of cocaine cut with meth and/or who knows what, and has picked up the habit of consuming Mystic blood (no, he's not a vampire, just a hematolagniac) to get out-of-this-world high he now can’t function without. Uppers > Downers.

Dabbles in cannibalism (a few times, but it does happen, so on the TWs it goes because wtf)

Porn addict

Gambling addict

Absent father

Mommy issues, Daddy issues, was abused and neglected as a child but never processed it healthily and sought help, so now he's just a menace to society and repeating fucked up trauma/abuse cycles (hello generational trauma). Has major beef with his older brother, Waylon, and was horrible to his younger sister, Winny, when they were kids.

Drunk driver (shouldn’t be driving because DUIs)

Owns firearms and weapons but definitely shouldn’t (although everyone does in Apocamerica)

Spoiled rich guy with a complex, doesn't accept "no" as an answer

Pretty much the worst person you'd ever have the misfortune of meeting

All-in-all: bastard-ass, creepy, intimate, sadistic Whumper

Full name: Wyatt Wilder Sullivan (Wy)

Role: main antagonist, Whumper

Date of Birth & sign: April 16, 1975 (56-57), Aries (story takes place in the year 2032)

Gender: cis-male

Sexuality: thinks of himself as just hetero, but falls under general sadism and dominance.

Height: 6'10"

Weight/body type/build: approx. 350lbs (I'm bad at guessing weight, take this with a grain of salt). Giant, solid build. Broad-shouldered, burly, and more heavy-set with a semi-prominent beer gut. In his youth was more brawny and muscular, now is a bit more flabby cause the only work out he’s doing is running to the liquor store, but still maintains a bulky physique.

Hometown: San Diego, CA

Family Members: Sullivan family tree. Has a daughter, Haylee, with ex-wife (how the fuck was this man even ever married is beyond me). Lost visitation rights to see his daughter and blames the Aid for it, but has made no effort to be a better person and reach out. Lives with The Aid in Eleanor's old house.

Left/right handed: right

Fav genre of music & anthem: classic rock, Ramblin' Gamblin' Man by Bob Seger

Occupation: trust-fund nepo baby. Used to be head of logistics security for family business. Now claims to be in finance and an investor (really sir, during the apocalypse?), and self-proclaims himself as a professional gambler and "independent media producer" (makes torture porn for fellow pervs on the internet—again, during the apocalypse no less). Barely graduated high school.

Ethnicity (+ American): Italian, French, Greek, North and West European, English

Hair color & length: ashy brown, silver-striped, cut short, combed to the right to hide his cow lick. Uses pomade. Facial hair: grown-out chevron mustache; rest of face clean shaven but gets 4 o'clock shadow soon after. Usually has stubble since he shaves about once a week. Body hair: moderately hairy with chest hair.

Hygiene: leaves much to be desired. Showers when sober enough to do so—or more so is sober enough to care that he reeks of BO, cigs, and beer, or after he's woken up in a pile of his vomit. Poor oral hygiene from chewing tobacco, drug use, smoking, and alcohol; thinks whiskey counts as mouthwash. Teeth yellowed and crooked with irritated, swollen-looking gums (from drugs and lack of daily care). He’s just a hot mess. The Aid has tried to clean this man up, but Wyatt ain’t having it.

Eye color: wide-set icy blue, downturned, deep sunken eyes under protruding brow.

Skin tone: light, apricot-colored skin with warm, reddish undertones. Face usually red and puffy (substance abuse)

Facial features: wide, triangle-shaped head. Thin-lipped downturned mouth. Prominent, hawkish, and rubescent nose. Arched, bushy eyebrows. Bigger ears with droopy lobes. Broad and heavy chin, slight underbite. From age, substance abuse, and lack of skin care (+ living in a dry climate): frown lines, forehead lines, crow's feet, blush-burned and puffy cheeks from constant flushing

Mannerisms: always scowling and glaring. Sniffling and wiping nose. Clearing throat. Hocking loogies and spitting chew in an old beer can. Scrunches nose with curling upper lip. Pinches bridge of nose. Loud, overly dramatic sighing. Tsks a lot. Grinds teeth. Rubs chin with index finger, rubs forehead with back of hand. Loud, heavy steps when walking. Crosses arms. Sucks teeth. Uses height to initiate others and takes up a lot of space. Constantly smokes cigs and probably has a beer in hand. When loaded and buzzing: jittery manic energy, crazy eyes, random face twitches. Bursts of movement in sporadic jolts, such as slapping or pounding fists on a table/nearest object.

Nervous ticks: nervousness presents more as nervous anger or agitation. Throws things. Grunts. Yells. Curses. Kicks, hits, punches whatever is closest to him (or uses his human punching bag, The Aid). Long car rides with blaring music, reckless driving. Tries to self-soothe by doing lines or watching porn.

Posture: carefree but domineering. He acts like he owns the place wherever he's at.

Style: basic T-shirt, collared cotton shirt with jeans and boots, casual leather oxford shoes (Dr. Martens), plain jackets. Very basic, solid-colored clothing, no fancy patterns or fun colors. Will wear a suit on occasion, but isn’t happy about it.

Health: amazingly, he hasn't had a heart attack (yet). Has had a fair share of overdoses. How is his liver still working? He doesn't take care of himself physically or mentally and should be dead, but he has the durability of a cockroach. Please drop dead

Piercings/tattoos: none

Birthmarks/scars: refer to the scar chart below that totally isn't an autopsy template (shout out to my boy for fucking Wyatt up as much as he has, I'm proud of you bby!)

Language(s): English

Personality: domineering, addictive, disagreeable, aggressive & argumentative, selfish, short-tempered, reckless, greedy, narcissistic, possessive, cruel, dishonest, grouchy, moody, violent, vulgar, prideful, dismissive, unpredictable, cold, impulsive, over-indulgent, jealous

Vices: addicted to everything he can get his hands on. Hardcore addict, and latest fixation is Mystic Blood cut with coke. Drinks more alcohol than water. Will fight and fuck his way to get what he wants. Will thrash and destroy everything when pissed off, then makes The Aid clean it up and beat him up if he doesn't do it fast enough; likes to wind down with a foot rub and/or full body massage from The Aid (*gag*).

Voice: gravelly with a tinge of teasing sarcasm, it ranges from monotone to raucous and taut. After a night of bruising and boozing, it can sound more strained and raspy/horse. (In my head he sounds something like Thomas Church?)

Smells like: as described from this scrapped excerpt left on the cutting room floor: "On a good day, Wyatt smelt of generically fragranced clean linen laundry detergent, slightly masked by an ever-present light odor of dewy sweat, salted sunflower seeds, and worn-off Old Spice. On a bad day, he reeked of one part odious stress sweat, three parts foul breath—a coalesced stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and beef jerky."

Face claim(s): John Goodman (I'M SORRY JOHN), but specifically these pictures below. Honorary mention, Douglas M. Griffin.

Character inspiration: Jonathan "Black Jack" Randall (Outlander), Ramsey Bolton (GOT), diabolical combination of Homelander and Billy Butcher (The Boys). Biggest YIKES.

Other: irredeemable POS; please openly hate this man; he's made to be shit on. That being said, as I mentioned many times above, Wyatt struggles with substance abuse, and there are references to drug use in text. But just to be crystal clear, he is not a bad person because he uses substances, and I do not intend to vilify individuals dealing with substance abuse. His purpose aims to illustrate the destructive nature of addiction—the monster it can create—the compounding impact of unaddressed trauma, and the correlation between the two. (I come from a long line of addicts and have lost family members due to overdoses; this is how I’m dealing with it; you don’t need to like how I’m going about it, but I don’t need anyone getting on my ass about it either. I’m working through some shit. To me, Wyatt is the personification of the disease of addiction and how it will drown anyone it comes in contact with.)

While the drugs exacerbate his behavior, it's important to note that he was already struggling with personal issues and has fully embraced his negative traits, and is incredibly self-destructive. Wyatt is a complex character, albeit a deeply flawed one who consistently makes poor choices and is a massive piece of shit. But deep down, he’s a sad, unfulfilled man who got the shit end of the stick and is the byproduct of bad parenting and abuse himself. He is not for the faint of heart; I think his character inspos say all you need to know about the kind of person he is. But still, fuck him.

Cursed mood board

Honorary tag request: @whumped-by-glitter

[paracosmic-sims]

My top 24(?) screenies from 2024!

Tagged by the lovely @changingplumbob, thank you Kirsty <3

I literally don't know if I even have taken 24 screenshots this year. Let's see...

1, 2 and 3: Some screencaps from a photoshoot I did with my revamped simself. I have MANY variations - check it out, none of those are the one on my current profile picture, or with...

4: Oh Kinha, that's cheating! That is an edit, not a sceenshot! Shhh! I literally don't think I have enough screenies to make this post. Anyways, once I can figure out how to do my tags and navigation posts, expect to see this one in my pinned <3

5: An outfit I made for Sienna that I needed to save for other kiddos too! It's so cute!

6: Vlad. What are you DOING walking around Evergreen Harbor? Not even on my lot, since Journey Delight - the founder of my personal Whimsy Legacy challenge - doesn't even have a house at this point. Just... passing by. It was like... the second night? Anyways, appreciate how marvelous this woman is (and how wacky the sims can be sometimes)

7: Speaking of personal legacy challenges, here's Hendrix Baccinus, the Mint of my NSB save. (The light makes him look blue-ish, but I swear it's mint.)

Look at him. Hot. Handsome. The male quota of this post. He is a baby and a pathetic wet cat of a man. This mfer tried to kill himself! (No joke, he autonomouslt went swimming when his energy was low on Sulani, because he was burnt out. Dude, sims used to be able to juggle a job and an Uni degree!)

I still love him <3

8, 9 and 10: Obligatory Arielly Vespertinai appreciation. Look at her. Gorgeous. My baby. Watcher's favorite (little chew toy nomnomnomnom) <3

Have you seen her? yes? Well, go look again. Until you're mesmerized enough to forfeit your entire mortal posessions to this siren of a woman. Nobody understands the amount of adoration I hold specifically for this little bean. She could kill me and I would still thank her. She consumes my thoughts almost daily even though I have an entire cast to think about so I can support your story babygirl unleash my brain!!!

Also, obligatory gloating that this woman was elected Bronze Medal in @simblorbo-bracket's 2024 SIMBLR SEXYMAN TOURNAMENT. Yes, you heard it right. She's a Sexyman. And is the Sexiest™ of the human competitors.

11: Speaking of Vespertinai's, a draft of Arielly's mom, Elysiann! Still unsure if I want them biologically related or adoptive (makes some sense with part of the lore, screws some other part. UGH.)

don't be fooled, this woman has SUCH a resting bitch face outside of CAS.

12: And on that resting bitch face note, Scione Vespertinai! Ari's younger sister, of whom I have shared custody with @momoception <3 (because someone in her game needed to simp over Lucius Holt, and given I'm his #1 fan in the real world...)

Could you tell my game's eyelashes were still broken on those last 2 pics?

13, 14 and 15: Enough of sim pics for a while, appreciate Elio Alvoretter's (aka, Ari's bestfriend, partner, and overall soulmate) (no, literally.) room. I'm insanely proud of it even if it drove me majorly crazy at some points.

(We do NOT talk about the small desk under the desk. It was fixed after.)

16: On the topic of building, a little bar decoration I made using TOOL. It took me longer than you'd expect.

17: Okay, back to sims because it's all I have at this point. I forgot this cutie's name, but she never really left CAS despite this picture. She was for a BC that never really happened, so I'm saving her for another opportunity. Maybe a spouse for one of my families. Maybe a founder for another legacy? She's kinda packed with CC, so I don't think I'll ever set her for dl.

18 and 19: Some of my girlies for other simmers! Moxie and Apolline were some of the ones I had the most fun doing, and I think that the unused photos deserve a place to shine too.

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Unfortunately, the most I could is still short by 5. But then again, 2024 was THE year for me, in terms of personal growth, so TS4 kinda fell behind (a LOT. Some of those pics have literal months of gaps between them)

I am not sure who has been tagged already or not, but if you're seeing this and you want to participate (even again), you're tagged!