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hunnysnoops · 16 days ago

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˗ˋ𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕤ˊ˗

Chapter Fifteen- FINALE: Teenagers

Kyle Broflovski x Reader

I'm gonna go on living like I never met you; and it'll feel wrong at first, but I think I can forget you.

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Premise: You reach the end of a beginning.

Warnings: Crude language and humour / not spell checked

MASTERLIST

FINALE

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜��.

As the sun begins to set, you finally feel like you've woken from a dream. In the span of hours graduation had come and gone, the very thing you spent all these years looking forward to. It didn't feel the way that you thought it would. There were no tears, not in your eyes.

You remember applause somewhere in the audience and the sunlight blinding you beneath your grad cap, but you can't remember feeling anything other than fine. No overwhelming emotions took over your body to send you shaking with tears or laughing with joy. You couldn't speak, you could barely hum a tune.

The clapping had faded, life moved on, and the moment turned into a memory.

Now you sit on the steps of Clyde's back porch watching people who were no longer your peers jumping into pools and hugging drunken goodbyes. You were stuck in an odd limbo of being relieved that high school was over while simultaneously feeling like you had taken it all for granted.

Prom definitely didn't feel like it should've. A grade of students stuffed into a rented convention room with dim lighting, while your itchy dress poked and irritated your back. No one told you it would be like this, or maybe they did, and you never bothered to listen.

Inside was crammed with the life of the party. This one felt more bittersweet than all of the others.

Beside you, the wooden porch creaks and the weight of a body shifts to sit down beside you. To little surprise, it's your curly-headed boyfriend.

"Hey," He smiled, one hand gently resting on your thigh.

"How do you feel?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, how do you feel about everything that just happened?"

"Oh," He leans back, one hand running through his hair. "I feel pretty good, it's weird to process, but it's nice."

"Right... right..." You nod slowly, eyes squinting at Tolkien and Nichole playing chicken in the pool against Kenny and Butters. They must feel pretty good too.

"So-

"I had a dream last night," You interrupt without meaning to do so. You tug at the collar of your baggy, decrepit t-shirt.

"You remember it?"

You breathe out the dry, warm air coating your lungs. "I was in this dark forest, it was cold like mid-autumn, and the woods were so thick I could barely even see the starry sky between cracks of leaves and pine. I thought myself faster than usual, but when I looked down, I saw brown paws instead of feet."

"So you were a wolf?"

"A coyote," You corrected.

"Is this important?"

"Yes, very," You try to collect your thoughts before they all fall. "And um, I found this clearing after running, there was a soft, warm light peeking through the bushes. I stop and I see this little log cabin, it's beautifully crafted, and there's a cowboy on the porch. It's you, you're the cowboy. You're sipping a beer from a can."

"From a can?" He acts shocked, feigning surprise at this fact.

"Yes, not a bottle." You emphasize "I watched you, sitting in that chair, your flannel all messy, and that hat hiding your hair. You looked at me, too. I didn't scare you, or at least I don't think I did. You almost seemed like you were waiting on me." You take a breath, replaying the scene in your head like it was a memory: "I watched you put your beer down and I thought you might call me over, but you pick up a shotgun instead and shoot me between your eyes."

The real Kyle, grounded beside you, does seem truly shocked to hear this. He hadn't expected the story to "What?"

"You shot me." You repeat, "You didn't even bury me. You hung me out to bleed and went back to sipping your beer."

"I would never shoot you."

"You did."

"In a dream," He puts his hands up in defence, "I'm not taking responsibility for that."

"So what did you dream about?"

"You."

"Like you always do," It's teasing, but there isn't much humour in the truth.

"Yeah."

"Tell me," You press softly. Kyle takes the time to collect his thoughts, he looks almost lost as he does so like he's lost the sense of where he is. You grab his arm and shake him "Tell me!"

He chuckles softly "Okay, hang on," Kyle straightens himself out a bit "I was driving through a desert, there wasn't anything in sight. Maybe like a cactus or a tumble week here and there but it was mostly just road, mesas, and the sunset."

"Okay? Where am I?"

"You were walking along the side of the road with this massive backpack and a huge goofy sun hat with one of those straps on your chin. I slowed my car down and asked if you wanted a ride, you said 'sure' and got in my car."

"Mhm."

"What?"

"I'm active listening."

"Um, okay," "And then you just kept rambling and telling me all of this stuff. I asked where you were from and then you put your sunhat on my head, opened the car door, and jumped out while it was still moving."

"And then what?"

"I kept driving."

"Right," You nod, looking back to the pool in front of you. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you keep driving?"

"Oh." He pauses "I'm not sure, I just did."

The night is thick with the scent of honeysuckle and smoke, a whiff of alchohal soaked breath every other minute. Kyle sits close, his copper hair is a tousled mess, the soft wreck only summer can make and it takes you back.

A year ago there was some kind of comfort in the way that you had this unspoken crush with him, the chase of it, and the thrill that sent your heart pounding.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket with unread texts about dorm assignments and road trips and friendships thaat wouldn't withstand the 527 miles to college. Everything is ahead of you. But still here you are, on the steps of a house you'll probably never return to, beside a boy who knows the shape of your laugh and the sound of your silence, and neither of you has said what needs to be said.

Kyle glances at you, just once, his freckles shadowed in the soft porch light. His lips part like he might say something like he might ask if you're leaving him behind. But instead, he offers a half-smile, crooked and aching, and turns back to the sky.

You pretend not to notice the way the fireworks catch in his eyes. You pretend not to notice that the air between you feels too full to breathe in and too thin to hold on to. You pretend it's enough, just for now, to be close.

"You look like you want to tell me something," You say with a half-hearted smile. Your eyelids feel heavy.

"Weird," He smiles back, lips pressed tight together.

The silence stretches once again and you swear you can't hear a thing dispite drunken shout, excited squeals, and the clink of bottles. Your world is still and noiseless.

Kyle's eyes dig into you but you can't bare to look at him. You are sure he can sense the dreadful plan in your heart. His gaze is so soft and gentle it would break you entirely to meet his eyes. So you pretend that you don't notice it at all.

You know he's waiting for you to look back at him which makes you concentrate intensely on a branch that lays limp against the green grass lawn. That's all you focus on. It's you and that branch. There is no Kyle. There is no future. It is you and the branch in the present, that's all there is but no distraction can cover something so cruel.

You stare down at your hands, fingers tangled in the fabric of your shorts. Kyle shifts beside you. You can feel the moment coming before it arrives, feel it swelling in your throat like an infected wound.

"I love you," he says, voice soft and certain.

"I think we should break up," you say, at the exact same time.

The words crash together midair like a car hitting you. You feel it before you see it: the way he reels, like you've taken the breath out of him. His face goes slack, then tightens fast with pain he doesn't have time to swallow. His freckles blur at the corners of your vision, and you want to say you're sorry, that it's not because you don't love him back. You do. Maybe too much.

The moment is broken by a blinding flash and camera shutter. When you blink away the light you find Heidi on the other side of a digital camera. She has caught the moment right before hurt pushes tears from your eyes. "Aww, cute!" Heidi flips the camera around so the two of you can see this vial image.

You can feel the image being trapped forever; your face turned slightly at the ground, guilt sharp in your jaw, and Kyle looking straight at you, eyes wide, still drowning in the words you just threw at him.

"Come on! Group photos!" She beckons you away from the porch and you stand at an instant, leaving Kyle to watch you leave before he slowly trails behind.

The next ten minutes are a blur of arms around shoulders, people shouting names, and forced grins under porch lights. You feel hands on your back, smell someone's beer breath in your hair, hear laughter that sounds like it belongs to someone else.

You don't look at Kyle.

Not once.

But in every photo, he's looking at you. Straight through the crowd, past the smiles and the flash. Like he's still trying to find the version of you that sat beside him five minutes ago, before you broke whatever you had with your bare, shaking hands.

"Are we done yet?" Stan asks from somewhere in the middle.

Heidi flips through the pictures "Let's get a silly one!" Everyone contorts their face or puts up bunny ears behind their friends but you stare blankly ahead ignoring Kyle's aching stare. "Okay," She gives a thumbs up.

You break away from Tolkien's arm slung around your shoulder and make a B-line to the door. The sides of your shirt are damp from the wet bodies pressed against you for photos sake. It's just as busy inside though it seems to be slightly more mellow with people sitting in circles to play drinking games or simply chat.

"Hey," You hear from behind you "Hey!" It's there and you hear it so loud that it reverberates through the back of your mind. "What was that?"

"Kyle, I had to," You turn around. It's hard to get the words out and looking into his shattered hazel eyes, that demeanour like he was a puppy that had been kicked half to death. You might have to crawl outside of yourself to sing.

"Why?" His eyebrows furrowed like each thought running through his head a worry. That was probably true.

"I..." you start, but the words fail, slippery and hollow in your mouth. "Kyle, I just-"

"You had that planned didn't you? And you couldn't even wait till the end of the summer?"

You take a breath and steal yourself "Yeah, I did." You wrap your arms around yourself like that might keep your ribs from splintering. He's right, and he's wrong.

"I love you," he says again, quieter now. "You know that, right?"

"I know."

He waits for something more and you can see him lose a little bit of hope with each second. "You can't even say it back?"

There's nothing that you can stay. You stare at him in silence and wait for him to fill in the blanks. There was so much thought yet so little behind this decision.

"If you want to leave, I'll never make you stay." He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment to push back tears.

You took this as your invitation to leave and turned. It wasn't like you had anything else to say, all you would to is stand there and pick at your skin.

You drive with your hands clenched tight around the wheel, the lines of the road smeared and bending through the blur of your tears. The radio plays low and meaningless- some song about holding on, about summer, about love- and it only makes everything worse. You don't change it. You just let it echo.

The streetlights pass like ghosts. Your throat aches from holding in sobs too big for your chest, and every time you blink, another tear slips free, hot and pointless. You try to breathe steady. You try not to picture his face or how stunned he looked, how betrayed. But it's there, etched behind your eyes like it's been branded.

You had got what you wanted and it felt awful. When you finally pull into the driveway, the house stands dark and still, tucked into the night like nothing happened. The porch light hums above the door. The air smells like grass and warm pavement, just like lat summer and every summer before. You were sure the scent would come to make you sick with nostalgia.

Inside, it's quiet. You kick off your shoes like you always do and pad softly the stairs like you always do. From behind your brother's closed door, you hear the faint, rhythmic clatter of buttons and a low, excited curse- some boss fight or battle, another world entirely. You know he's on call with Ike and you can imagine the news when he finds out you've left his brother long behind.

You head for your own room. Your fingers brush the doorknob. You could go in. Collapse into your bed and bury your face in your pillow and let the weight of tonight crush you, quietly, alone.

But you don't.

Instead, your feet carry you down the hall, slow and barefoot, to the room at the end where the light is off but the door is slightly open. You push it gently, the hinge creaking just enough to announce you.

Your parents are asleep, or half-asleep, the soft hush of breathing filling the space. You slip in like a whisper. Your mom stirs as you lift the corner of the comforter.

"Hey," she murmurs, voice low and warm with sleep. "What's wrong?"

You don't answer. You can't. Your lip trembles and your eyes spill over again, and you crawl between them, curling into the soft, familiar warmth of your mother's arms, the safe shape of your father's back turned gently toward you.

"None of my friends have braces anymore," It's all you can manage to choke out.

"Well, I'm sorry you can't make fun of Kyle for-

"We broke up." You dig your face into her collarbone, her soft hair gracing your face as a wet face presses tear drops into her shirt.

"Oh, Jellybean," Shee sighs slightly. You know in the back of her head she's thinking 'I told you so' but she gives the grace of softly caressing your hair.

"Eveeryone's talking about graduation and college. Everyone has their license and everyone's got their braces off. These kids I went to elementary school with are throwing up in bushes from drinking too much and I'm no better. I wasted my childhood trying to be a teenager and I wasted my teenage years trying to be an adult. There's no time left to be a teenager." It's what's. been nagging at you for the past you that. "I was just trying to grow up as fast as I could and now it's happened and I just want to go back," Your voice breaks as you dig your face deeper into the thin fabric "I wasted all my time- and I wasted Kyle's time too."

"If it made you happy it wasn't a waste of time," Her voice is soft, delicate like sun poking through chiffon curtains in the early morning.

You let out a shaky breath and let the sobs consume you whole. You wish you felt better but you are still shaking in the arms of your mother.

"And I'll tell you this right now. You never stop being a teenager the way you never stop being a kid. Bits and pieces of you from every stage of your life come together to make you this beautiful person. You know how your dad lights up whenever someone talks about lacrosse? He played it all through highschool and college, he doesn't play it now but it's still a part of him. Your uncle knows too much about werewolves, he had a phase in middle school. Those weird emo bands you love? Even if you decide you hate them one day, you'll remember all of the fun you had listening to them, and showing them to your friends, or the comfort it brought you."

You sniffle, using the back of your hand to wipe away dribbles pf tears down your cheeks "It just hit me that I have to grow up."

"You've been growing up," Your mom tucks a strand of hair behind your ear "So has Kyle, Weston, and Ike. Me and your dad are growing up."

"But I don't want to keep changing."

"We have to change, it's just uncomfortable because you've never been there before." It's dark and you can barely make out her sillouhette but you still know the tenderness in her eyes. Your dad is loudly snoring and though it should make you laugh, it's comforting. It reminds you of movie nights where you would all fall asleep on the couch and awake to snorting from your father. "Your still a girl who lives with her parents. You can put your worries on hold for a minute."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Eat a bowl of cereal and watch a movie. You're just a kid."

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

Your car is packed with the most essential items, that to you was a minimum of five fuzzy throw blankets. The August heat clings to your skin, slick and insistent, and you swipe the back of your hand across your brow. Weston and Ike are hunched beside the car, catching their breath like they've just run laps. Boys, both of them, lanky and dramatic.

"Don't die on me now," you snap, hands on hips. "It's two boxes. You'll live."

Weston groans exaggeratedly. "I think my spine is broken."

"You don't have a spine," you shoot back. "You're a worm with a celsius addiction."

"Yeah, fuck you," He mutters under his breath so your parents won't hear. This is the last time in awhile you would get to degrade someone with no consequence. The way Weston always looks to you for approval even when he's red faced from yelling at you, you think you might miss it, but you don't know for sure yet.

Your mom pulls you in first, arms tight and familiar, her fingers running through your hair one last time. She smells like lavender and laundry detergent and safety. Your dad's hug is shorter but just as fierce. His voice is a murmur by your ear: "Call when you get there. And if anything's wrong. Anything at all." You nod against his shoulder and force a smile you don't really feel.

"Anything," Your dad reiterates though he's already a sobbing mess trying to pull himself together. His face is scrunched up in an uncomfortable way that makes you want to squirm, a level of emotion you weren't too used to seeing from him.

Gerald and Sheila hug you for a brief moment. Gerald was the once who taaught you how to parralel park in their driveway. It's comfortable and familiar, this is a moment you are sure you'll think back to often.

Kyle hung back. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to to. Give you a hug or a wave. He didn't want to get a swift punch to the throat. You take the steps toward him and though it startles, he remains cool.

He hasn't cut his hair since graduation and it curls slightly over his ears now, messier than you remember. Or maybe exactly how you remember, but from years ago, a version of him who didn't quite know you yet.

You hug him.

His arms fit around you like muscle memory. His arms circle your waist and yours go around his shoulders and you don't breathe for a second. His shirt smells like sun and old cologne and a hundred nights in your driveway, whispering about the future like it was something you'd both step into together.

You press your lips to the side of his neck, just under his jaw. A soft kiss. Barely anything. But it feels like everything. He tenses, then exhales. You swallow the lump in your throat and let go before the tears push through.

You pull back "I'll see you next summer?"

"I'll see you next summer." He confirms.

And then you open the door, slide into the driver's seat, and wave through the window. The engine rumbles to life beneath your hands.

You're doing it. You're leaving.

But God, it hurts.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The sun is brutal overhead, baking the turf into molton lava. Your shirt is already clinging to your back, your thighs aching in that good way, it's sharp and earned. The whistle blasts, and you launch into the next drill, a one-touch pass to sprint and shoot.

The ball rebounds off a teammate's cleat. You sprint forward, aim without thinking, and let it fly.

It connects. Just not with the net.

With Alex's head.

He was a guy in your statistics class. You had known him but barely, all you knew was he had a wicked tan and a movie star smile.

The thwack is loud. Echoes across the field like a gunshot. He drops instantly, sprawling onto the grass, hands clutching his forehead.

For half a second, you snort. It's instinctive. The sound escapes your mouth before you can stop it- this little wheeze of disbelief. You half-turn to make a joke to the others but they're staring at you. No one's laughing. They aren't like your friends back home. One girl's even mid-step like she's about to sprint to him. Your smile dies on your face.

"Shit, sorry," you gasp, already running over. "Dude, are you-"

He's still on the ground, blinking up at the sky, squinting against the sun. Then he grins.

"That was the most violent header I've ever taken."

You exhale, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, dropping into a crouch beside him. "Well how many have you taken?"

"Maybe like a dozen?" His tone is playful but the squinting of his eyes tells you that you've really taken one out of him.

"Then this one won't make a difference."

"Right, I didn't think about that."

"Do you think at all?" It was meant o be a joke but came off far more harsh than intended "Sorry. Do you remember your name?"

"Alex, and... unfortunately, you're right."

You shake your head, half-relieved, half-scolding. He grins wider.

"You've got a hell of a kick," he says, still lying flat on the field.

You nudge his shoulder, light but apologetic. "You've got a hell of a face. Sorry I tried to break it."

He laughs again. Your teammates are starting to relax, their attention drifting back to the coach. You're still kneeling beside him when he finally pushes himself up with a groan.

You smile again.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The night was sticky with heat and laughter, the kind that clung to skin and hair and wove its way into the threads of your clothes like smoke. The woods were alive with bodies- shoulders brushing, drinks passed from hand to hand, some half-empty, some spilled at your feet. This was the kind of scene you had been seeking out, the thing you expected from the college experience.

You followed your roommate into the clearing, the kind carved out by years of teenagers dragging logs into circles and forgetting their wrappers and cans behind. Music bled through someone's cheap speaker, too loud in some pockets of the trees, a whisper in others. It was all movement- firelight flickering off sweaty foreheads, boys tossing rocks into the dark just to hear them land.

Your roommate chattedd at rrandom while you clutche the drink in hand, the condesation bbiting at you fingers tips. All of these acne scared people seemed so beautiful bathed in the light of a bonfire. Everything was more beautiful in the light of a bonfire.

You saw Alex then. His profile lit up every time he turned toward the fire, golden light painting across his cheekbones and catching in his lashes. He was leaned back on his hands, some red Solo cup swaying dangerously between his knees. He looked relaxed, but not in the way most boys did here—not slouched with disinterest or soaked in beer, but in that easy, solid way that makes you want to sit near someone without knowing why.

You thought he hadn't seen you. You were wrong. Your roommate gives you a wink before waddling elsewhere.

"Hey!" he called, his smile unmistakable even from across the clearing. You blinked, startled, then waved stiffly. Your throat dried. His friends barely noticed when he stood and walked toward you, kicking up bits of dirt and ash with his shoes. His shirt was dark and wrinkled, probably slept in, the collar stretched a little like someone had tugged on it. Your heart shuddered strangely at the thought that it might've been a girl.

"Hi," You sounded shy. It was so unlike you.

"Taking a break from nailing people in the head?"

"For now, I got a big day ahead of me tomorrow."

He huffs a laugh and it feels like a victory "I guess I'm not special if you're doing it to everyone."

"Only deserving people."

"I'm deserving?"

"Yeah, I guess you are."

There was a pause. A breath. The music trembled in the trees. You watched him watching you, his eyes skimming your face, but not the way others did. Not like they were trying to peel something off of you. More like he was gently brushing dust away from a painting someone had forgotten in an attic.

"So, still adjusting?" He asks.

"Yeah. Sometimes I wake up and I forget I'm not home." Those moment would send you into a little bit of a panic "You?"

"It's so weird not being covered in dog hair all of the time," He smiles.

"Well, I'm sure I could find some for you."

"I would so appreciate that."

"I'll get to work then."

A burst of laughter exploded behind you. Some drunk guy tripping into the firepit's edge. You didn't flinch. Alex did. "Or we could walk?" he asked, gesturing with his chin toward the darker path where the trees swallowed sound. "It's loud."

"Sure," you said.

He walked beside you, his hand brushing yours once, twice, but never quite taking it. The path curved around the edge of the party, where the glow of the fire dimmed into shadows, and the night began to whisper again.

"I've been meaning to ask," he said, slow, as if the words were stones he was arranging into a careful line. "Do you have a boyfriend back home?"

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The restaurant is warm in that overcompensating, too-much-heater kind of way that makes your cheeks red and the tips of your fingers sting when you first walk in. Outside, the snow's coming down in that quiet, theatrical way, the kind that turns parking lots and strip malls into something tender and picturesque, like they're part of a dream you only half-remember.

You hadn't meant to stay for the break. You told yourself it wasn't a big deal; too much to do, too far to travel, and besides, your professors assigned a stack of readings like they forgot students had places to go. But the truth was quieter than that, more pathetic. You didn't want to walk into a home that had rearranged itself without you. So you didn't go. You stayed.

Alex didn't say much when you told him. Just nodded once and offered to take you out. Somewhere nice. Somewhere not your desk or the library or your dorm room with its buzzing heater and the roommates you barely saw anymore.

The table between you is scattered with plates; half-eaten pasta, a salad you forgot you ordered, a small cup of olives he keeps pushing toward you like he's determined you'll learn to like them. You're mid-forkful when it slips out. Just a flicker of sarcasm, nothing cruel. At least, you didn't think it was.

He's telling a story about something dumb his roommate did. You lean back, swirling the last of your drink. "Wow," you say, smirking. "Birds of a feather, huh?"

You say it like a tease. Like you've said worse. Like you've both dished it out in late-night walks back from campus or tucked under a shared blanket on his dorm bed while the snow tapped the windows like a song you almost knew the words to.

But he stills.

It's subtle. His hand pauses on his glass. He doesn't look up right away. When he does, the humor is gone from his face, scraped clean like a plate you weren't finished with.

The air shifts. You feel it in your shoulders first. In the part of your chest that always knows when something has gone wrong even before your head does.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, but it's too controlled. Too stiff. He looks down at his plate, pushes a piece of chicken around with his fork. "Nothing."

"No, seriously," You press.

"It's just-" He takes a moment to compose his thoughts "Birds of a feather?"

"It's a joke."

"All of your jokes just come out so mean," He pokes around his dish "It gets to a point. Like, is this what you really think?"

Your smile falters. The haze of warmth and familiarity you'd been soaking in like bathwater goes thin and cold. You open your mouth, then close it again. Because it was a little shitty. Not on purpose, but maybe that doesn't matter.

"I'm sorry," You could feel the shame creeping in "I didn't mean it, I've just always been like that. It's what I'm used to."

"Right."

You don't say anything after that. Not for a while.

You press your fork into the remains of your pasta, carving little lines through the creamy sauce without lifting a bite. Across from you, Alex drinks his water too quickly. You hear the faint clink of the ice shifting in his glass and it's the loudest sound between you.

The silence isn't comfortable; not like the quiet you've shared with him before. Not like walking back from his place in the cold with your hands buried deep in your coat pockets and your breath clouding the air between you. This one is heavy, like the weight of something you didn't mean to drop but shattered anyway.

You'd meant it as a joke. Something light. A stupid comment tossed out with a smile and a flick of your eyes, the way you used to with Kyle, with your brother, with people who lived inside your rhythm.

But Alex doesn't banter. Not like that. He's earnest in a way that leaves you feeling exposed. Like trying to be clever in a room that's too quiet. Like speaking in a language no one else knows.

You glance up. He's staring down at his plate like it might rescue him. You watch his jaw shift slightly, like he's chewing something over in his head; maybe your words, maybe something else. Maybe the space you've left him hanging in.

And you feel it, then. That slow-curling heat of embarrassment crawling up your neck and behind your ears. Your tongue feels too big in your mouth. Your throat too tight to say anything that wouldn't come out wrong.

So you don't speak either.

The waiter comes by, refills the water, asks if you're still working on things. Alex says, "Yeah," though neither of you has taken a bite in minutes. You smile up at him politely, and it feels like a lie. You can feel your face doing the right thing, but it doesn't belong to you.

The silence settles. Long and flat. You want to reach across it, say something easy to stitch over the rip. It was a joke. You don't get me. I don't know how to say things nicely when I'm nervous. I like you and I don't know what to do with it.

But all of that feels too sharp. Too real. Too much.

So you just sit there. Watching the candle between you flicker. Watching the winter night press up against the windows.

And for the first time since that ball slammed into his head and he laughed with his whole chest, you feel like you're sitting across from a stranger.

He sets his napkin down too carefully. It's folded like he wants it to look casual, like this is just dinner and he's just stepping away for a moment, but there's something about the way he won't quite meet your eyes that makes your stomach knot before you even understand why.

"I'm just gonna run to the bathroom," he says.

You nod, too quickly, too relieved for something to interrupt the silence. "Okay."

And then he's gone.

You check your phone. A couple of notifications from your roommate, a joke from Weston that you don't understand, and an email you won't read. You scroll through them all anyway. You reread the menu for no reason. You finish your water.

The candle between you has melted lower.

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

You glance toward the hallway by the bar, where the bathrooms are tucked behind a chipped wooden door and a framed poster of wine pairings. Nothing.

You crane your neck, then straighten your back. Try not to look desperate, but the silence is thick again and you feel stupid in it. The waiter comes by, this time quieter, as if he can tell something's shifted. You ask if he's seen your date. He hasn't. You force a little laugh. "Probably just plugged up."

The waiter squirms at this comment and laughs awkwardly before shuffling away.

ou turn in your seat, flag a man near the entrance, someone on his way to the restroom. You give him a nervous smile, try to pretend you're not asking the question you're asking.

"Sorry-uh, weird favor. Can you check if there's a guy in there? Tall, black sweater, brown hair?"

He gives you a look -more curious than cruel- and nods. Slips inside.

You sit still, nails biting into the linen of the tablecloth, the warmth of the restaurant suddenly unbearable against your skin.

When he returns, the man shrugs. "No one in there."

You blink at him. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "Empty."

Your mouth goes dry.

You reach for your phone. Open your texts to Alex.

You: Everything okay?

The message doesn't send.

You try again.

You: What's up?

Nothing.

You: Okay fuck you too

You: {Message Deleted}

You stare at the screen. A red exclamation point. You press his name at the top of the chat, heart racing and your thumb freezes.

Blocked.

Just like that.

No noise. No goodbye. No excuse or explanation.

Just vanished.

The waiter comes by again. You can't look at him. You murmur, "Yeah, I'll take the bill," and pull your wallet out with fingers that tremble. You do the math without really seeing the numbers. You leave more tip than you need to because you're humiliated and too tired to split hairs.

Outside, the cold greets you like a slap. You'd worn the wrong coat—cuter than it is warm—and the snow has only gotten heavier. It crunches beneath your shoes, seeps through the seams.

He was your ride.

Of course he was your ride.

You walk. Not because you want to. Not because you're strong or brave or anything else someone might write about later but because you have no other option. Taxi wasn't in the broke student budget after the resturant bill and all of the Pink Whitney you had bought.

It's cold as anticipated but nowhere near as cold as it was back in South Park. God you were wishing you went back for break.

The walk back to campus feels longer than it should. Snow has piled up into drifts along the sidewalks, clinging to your jeans and biting through the thin fabric at your ankles. Your ears burn from the cold, your fingers are stiff, and your legs ache in that slow, deep way that has more to do with your heart than your muscles.

Every step is heavy. Your coat's soaked through at the shoulders. You haven't felt your nose in half an hour.

By the time the dorm building comes into view, just a dim orange rectangle blinking like a dying star, you're too numb to be relieved. You push through the front door, leave tracks of slush across the tile, ignore the security desk and the vending machines glowing like a carnival in a graveyard. You take the stairs because the elevator is always broken and you don't trust the flickering light inside.

When you round the corner to your floor, you hear it. A low thud. A muffled noise—almost rhythmic.

And then, there it is.

A sock. On the doorknob.

It was only fair. You coulddn't break in and cut them off, not when you promised your roommate the dorm to herself for the night.

You don't knock. Don't try to guilt her out of it.

You just sink down.

Right there in the hallway, you slide your back against the wall until you're sitting on the scratchy carpet. You hug your knees to your chest, shivering, and let your breath come slow and uneven. Your jeans stick to your skin. Your fingers burn as they thaw.

You pull out your phone. The screen glows bright and cold. It's almost comforting.

You open Instagram.

The first thing that pops up is a group picture from back home- Weston grinning like a fool at some bonfire, cheeks flushed, sparks flying in the background. He's wearing the hoodie you left behind.

Tolkien with a scenic picture of his stunning backyard view. Kenny's awful photos of the most boring items he found so intresting. Red's monthly photo dump with a picture of herself included. Another photo-Kyle with his arm around some girl you don't recognize. Her smile is blinding. His hand is on her waist, loose and familiar.

Your thumb pauses over the image, but you don't click it.

Story after story, post after post. Laughter. Parties. Hot chocolate in stupid mugs and matching pajamas and ugly Christmas sweaters. The world you used to be part of, now flickering in curated, cropped corners.

You scroll, not sure if you're hoping to find something that hurts or something that doesn't.

A notification flashes.

It's nothing. Just a discount code.

You let your head fall back against the wall and close your eyes.

Inside your room, the bed creaks. Someone laughs breathlessly. The sock holds firm on the doorknob.

And you sit there-wet, cold, humiliated-with the sound of someone else's night tangled up in the silence of your own.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The summer air feels different back home. Thick with cut grass and warm pavement and the sound of sprinklers ticking lazily in every second yard. You forgot how it smells—how it feels—to wake up to birds instead of traffic, to walk barefoot through a yard without worrying what's underfoot. It almost doesn't feel real, like slipping into an old sweatshirt that doesn't fit the same but still smells like you.

You're in your familiar and friendly backyard, the two of you folded into lawn chairs that have seen better days, sipping lukewarm iced coffee and swatting at bugs with the slow, unbothered movements of people who grew up in places like this. The sun is setting in strips of gold through the trees, and someone down the street is playing a playlist full of songs you used to love and now pretend to hate.

Bebe's telling you about her last minute hookup with Clyde, always on again. You laugh, lean back, let your head loll to the side as you take her in. Her perfectly manicured nails. The way each curl framed her face. Her voice is something steady in a world that keeps tilting.

You're happy. Or something close enough to pass for it.

Then Ike comes around the side of the house, still all knees and elbows, like he hasn't quite caught up with his growth spurts. He's holding a can of root beer, shirtless, and yelling something about Weston cheating in a game you weren't invited to.

You grin at him, lazy. "Put a shirt on, you freak."

He flips you off without looking, then flops onto the grass beside Bebe, cracking open his drink.

It takes you a second. You tap your foot against the leg of your chair. Say nothing. Then something tight in your chest pushes the words up before you can second guess them.

"So," you say, eyes locked on a dragonfly hovering near the fence. "How's Kyle?"

The question lands heavy. Too casual. Too late. It's the first time you've asked since getting back, and everyone knows it.

Ike doesn't answer right away. He picks at the label on his can.

"He's up at Matt's cabin," he finally says. "Left like... end of June, I think?"

You nod, pretending that doesn't sting. "Cool. Just for the week?"

"Nah," Ike says. "All summer. He's working out there. Helping build a dock or a garage or something. He's not coming back until, like, mid-August."

You blink. That's when you leave. So he had lied last August when he said he would see you next summer. Surely he wasn't thinking about it the same way you were. No. He was occupied with Matt and that stupid girl he had his arm around during winter break.

"Oh," you say. Quiet. You try to keep your face still. "Cool. That's so cool."

"Yeah."

"I wish I had a friend with a cabin, then I wouldn't have to see your horrifying face." You smile like you always had while poking and prodding at the young boy but it feels so forced now.

"Uh, yeah," He makes a tightlipped face resembling a frog before scattering off to join your brother.

"Jesus," Bebe looks almost disgusted "We need to find you someone to move on with."

You had already tried that and now you had to move on from him too. Still just to put this to rest before it even wakes, you answer "Yeah, you're right."

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The score's tied. The crowd is thunder. Rain has soaked the field into a pit of slick earth and shredded grass, but you don't feel the cold anymore. You don't feel anything but the fire in your legs and the sound of your own breath roaring in your ears.

The ball is at your feet.

One defender between you and the shot.

You fake left. She bites. You cut right, mud spraying up in a fan behind your cleats. The ball skitters, catches under your toe, and for one shining second you see the opening; just you and the net and the keeper lunging too far to the left.

You pull back your leg.

Then your footing gives out.

Your cleat doesn't catch- just sinks, slips, slides.

Your knee goes first, skimming the slick grass. Then your hip. Then your shoulder.

The ball spins ahead of you, lost.

You're falling.

Your body slides with a graceless momentum straight through the box, your hands outstretched, trying to catch the earth itself-and then-

Crack.

Your head collides with the goalpost.

Bright light. Then nothing.

For a moment, it's just the sound of your heartbeat echoing in the hollow of your skull.

You're on your side, cheek in the mud. It smells like sweat and torn grass and metal. Your vision pulses-blurry edges and flashes of white. The sky above is just a smear of grey.

Somewhere, a whistle is blowing. Feet pounding. A voice yelling your name, but distant, like it's coming through water.

You try to sit up. The world tilts like a boat in a storm. A sharp pain cuts through your temple. You sink back down.

There's a hand on your back now. Someone saying, "Don't move-hey, don't move."

You blink, trying to focus. The lights around the field are too bright. The faces are shapes. The rain has soaked through your uniform, and you can feel it now-cold and sticky, like the earth itself is trying to swallow you whole.

You don't know if the ball went in.

You don't even know if you made the shot.

You only know the game has stopped- and so has everything else.

.˙꩜°˖:*࿔ ☼ ࿔*:˖°꩜˙.

The room still spins sometimes.

Not constantly;just when you turn your head too fast, or when the light from your desk lamp hits the wrong angle. You've been told not to look at screens for too long, not to overdo it, not to think too hard. As if you could stop your brain from folding in on itself when everything is so loud all the time, even the quiet.

Your backpack sits half-zipped by the door, full of clothes you barely bothered to fold. You're leaving tomorrow;heading home for winter break, concussion in tow.

It's dark outside already. Has been since four. The radiator clicks in tired, metal groans, and your body aches in places you didn't even hit when you fell. You're on your bed, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly like detergent and stress.

Since you cracked your head you had spent your time out of the classroom laying in the dark. The strain of the light made your head spiral. It was almost like you were a little bit buzzed all of the time, overly emotional, moodswings like you had never seen before.

"This trip is gonna suck so bad. Can't smoke weed, can't have caffeine," you mutter, staring into the ceiling like it owes you answers. "Doctor said it messes with your head when you're concussed."

Your roommate, perched cross-legged on her bed across the room, lifts an eyebrow. "You're drinking a root beer."

You blink. Then glance at the can in your hand, already sweating through your fingers. "Yeah?"

She pauses. "Root beer has caffeine."

You look at her. Then back to the can. You squint at it like the label might argue on your behalf. "I just don't believe you."

You take a long, loud sip. "This one's the good kind."

"You are seriously gonna make your revocery time way longer."

"God forbid I want a little treat," You shake your head and then stop immediately at the ache that came with it.

"And stop going on your phone, it's not good for you right now."

"So I'm just supposed to lay here and do nothing?"

"Yes," Your roomate stands, checking the time on her phone "I gotta go but I want you fast asleep when I come back. It'll be good for you."

"Right."

The door clicks shut behind your roommate like the last note of a song you didn't want to end. It echoes in the dark longer than it should.

Then it's just you.

And the hum of the radiator.

And the low spin of your ceiling fan slicing shadows across the room.

You lie flat on your back, blankets twisted around your legs, arms limp at your sides. Your head is heavy—like it's full of water, or rocks, or thoughts that never stop tumbling over each other in uneven waves.

It's too quiet.

Not silent. Not peaceful. Just quiet in that thick way that makes every breath sound too loud. Every blink like thunder inside your skull. And behind your eyes, the lights haven't gone out. They still flicker—soft white bursts and smudges of movement, little ghosts skimming the edges of your vision.

The ceiling is just there. Blank. Blank and watching.

You tell yourself not to think. That your brain needs rest. That every thought is one step further from healing.

But it doesn't listen. It never does.

The dorm room sits in a hush so heavy it feels like a second blanket over your chest. Darkness swallowed the corners first, but now it's drifted inward, settling in the dip beneath your collarbones, collecting like dust in your lungs. It is still. A graveyard kind of still. The kind where nothing moves because nothing dares.

You lie there-eyes open, wide, unblinking-and the memory comes not like a flood, but a slow trickle through a crack in the dam. Unwelcome and steady. You didn't invite it. But it finds you.

It was summer, though the air had gone thick and sour with the end of things. A barbecue, all the grown-ups humming about with their folding chairs and paper plates, the scent of overcooked hot dogs and charred corn clinging to your clothes. Laughter buzzed like flies around you, meaningless, erratic. You'd been tracing Kyle's back with your eyes from across the yard, watching the way he leaned in to talk to his brother, how the sun caught on the soft, pale curve of his neck.

And then she came, Sheila, like a gust of wind that slammed a door shut behind you.

She smiled, though her eyes didn't smile with her. They were tight and dry and a little too alert, like she was looking through you, searching for something deeper, something dangerous.

"Walk with me a moment?" she asked, but it wasn't really a question. It was a decision already made.

The two of you moved along the edge of the fence line where the grass was brittle and sun-split. She didn't speak for a while, just let the silence stretch until it felt like something fraying apart. Until you couldn't bear to breathe too loud.

"You two are going off to school soon," she began eventually, tone even, like a math teacher running through a familiar equation. "Different campuses. New people. New priorities."

You nodded. A breath caught somewhere between agreement and confusion.

"You're young. It's natural to think you've found someone special, but I want you to ask yourself something- and I want you to really think." She stopped walking and turned to you then. "Do you plan to marry him?"

You blinked. You were eighteen.

"I- what?"

"If you don't see a future, a real one, then this needs to stop now. Kyle has goals, and school is going to be a lot. I'd hate for him to miss his shot at something good because he's tangled up in something that doesn't go anywhere."

You remember the way her words landed. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just solid. Heavy like stone, built to last.

You tried to say we're serious, but the words got stuck, half-formed and soggy in your mouth. She didn't leave you room to explain. She didn't need you to. You weren't part of the plan.

"I'm know you're a very sweet girl," she said, a phrase so clinical it might as well have been a diagnosis. "But what he needs is someone who knows where she's going. Who's ready. You'll both meet people. That's how life works. I just want you to think, if it doesn't end with marriage then it's gonna put a rift in our families anyway."

And that was it.

No scene. No yelling. Just the slow, dull crush of inevitability under her calm voice. It obviously wasn't marriage or studies that was the issue here; it was you, your sharp tongue, bruised knees, loud demeanour. The issue was you not being able to fit with their family.

She left you standing alone by the rose bushes. A bee landed on your ankle and you let it. Didn't flinch. You couldn't remember what you'd even said when Kyle came over later. Probably nothing. Maybe we should talk. Maybe this is for the best. Something hollow. Something adult.

You never told him she was the one who started the end. That she looked at your love and saw a detour, not a destination.

Back in the dorm, your head pounds like something inside you is trying to get out. You squeeze your eyes shut, but all you see is the way he smiled at you across the lawn that day, half a hot dog in his hand, unaware that it was already over.

The room is too dark. The silence is too loud.

And you still can't decide if Sheila was wrong-

or if you've just been proving her right ever since.

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The room smells like old dust and shampoo from a brand you haven't used in years. Your old bedroom is somehow smaller now, shrunken down by time or memory or both. The posters on the wall, the chipped paint on the dresser, the way the sun filters in through the crooked blinds like it always did- it all feels a little too preserved, like walking into a wax replica of someone who used to be you.

You're sitting cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in a blanket that's too thin for the weather, chewing on the inside of your cheek while your mom's handwriting stares at you from the folded slip of paper in your palm. It wasn't 'Secret Santa' it was 'Secret Gift Giver' which was your parents idea of being politically correct to all religions that were attending their holiday party.

Secret Gift Giver: Kyle.

You reread it, like the name might change if you squint hard enough. It doesn't. It's still him. Of course it is.

You drop the paper on your nightstand and lean back against your bed frame, pressing your fists to your eyes. You're not mad-not at your mom, not even at him really-but your head is still tender from the concussion, your spine still prickles when you lie down too fast, and the idea of getting the right gift for the boy you once thought you'd marry makes your stomach turn.

It's not that you haven't seen him. You have. From a distance, through the windows of Ike's car, across the grocery store parking lot. But you haven't spoken. And now you're meant to give him something personal.

You roll over and glare at the wall. You consider making something dumb. A joke gift. A stupid T-shirt. A glitter-glued card with a fake coupon for "One Free Apology for Literally Everything." But none of it sits right. You want to give him something honest.

You nearly give up. Nearly shove the slip of paper into the back of your journal and pretend to forget. But then you remember the box.

It's in your closet. You have to lie flat on your stomach and stretch until your shoulder pops, fingers catching on the plastic edge, tugging it free from years of dust bunnies and forgotten notebooks. You wipe it off on your sleeve and open it slowly.

It's still there. Every bit of it. Trinkets and tokens from a part of you you don't miss, not really. The part that used to lift things from people's pockets just to feel something. A phase, they called it. A compulsion, your then boyfriend had said.

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

"Who did you get for Secret Santa?" You ask Weston, you two of you are in tacky Christmas sweaters, lounging on the couch in the cool basement and watching a corny action packed movie like the good old days. You chose to ignore the party in full swing above you.

"Secret Gift Giver," He corrects, snakily. He looks so grown now. The year and then some since you left had really taken a toll on him.

"Secret eat a dick, you little fucker," You mutter but he whips his head to look at you, already offended.

"I'm gonna make that concussion worse," He threatens.

"I'm gonna make your social life worse." You rebuttlem "Who did you get?"

"Shannon," He answers. Your mothers friend who had so much work done that she looked like a melted Barbie doll. "Who did you get?"

"Kyle."

He looks at you blankly for just a slpit second, you think there might be some empathy inhis gaze but no, he burst out laughing. Pointing at you even, you were being ridiculed by a little boy in your eyes.

"Oh my God," he cackles. "That is so cursed. You're cursed. Mom cursed you."

You punch him in the leg. Lightly. Playfully. Just enough to make a point.

He keeps laughing, snorting now. "What'd you get him, a framed restraining order?"

"I don't even have feelings for him. I'm a grown adult now, we can be mature."

"You wanna kiss him so bad," he says, sitting up dramatically and poking you right in the center of your forehead like it's a button.

You swat his hand away, half-laughing despite yourself, but it happens fast—your elbow slips off the edge of the cushion, and you jolt sideways into the wooden arm of the couch. The impact isn't sharp, just sudden. Just enough to thud. Your vision lurches like a boat tipping on a wave.

You blink hard.

The lights are suddenly too bright. The laughter too loud. Your skull hums, like the echo of a church bell after it's rung. You bring a hand to your head, press your palm flat, try not to flinch.

Weston sobers instantly. "Wait-are you okay?"

You don't answer right away. You feel the nausea creeping in first, then the hollow ringing behind your eyes. It's like a film reel unspooling in reverse-mud, goalpost, winter dorm lights, root beer fizzing in your throat. You'd forgotten how quiet the world could get when your brain was spinning.

"Yeah," you say finally, soft and slurred. "Just... give me a sec."

Weston leans forward, eyes wide, all traces of smug little brother gone. "Shit. I'm sorry, I didn't mean-do you need to lie down? Should I get Mom?"

You wave him off, eyes closed now. "No, just just your fucking mouth for a second. I'm fine."

He does. Miraculously. Sits beside you, still and silent, like maybe if he breathes too loud you'll shatter.

You sit there in the noise of the party, cradling your head like a raw egg, and think about how stupid it is to get injured on your parents' couch during a sibling spat over your ex-boyfriend, of all people. But more than that, you think about the box upstairs- still under the tree, still taped up in pizza wrapping paper. A gift-shaped ghost waiting to be unwrapped.

You sit through the movie like a ghost with your face painted on. The lights are low, the Christmas tree blinks gently in the corner, and someone's passed around popcorn in a bowl shaped like Santa's head. You don't know what movie it is. You couldn't name a single character if asked. You can feel the images dancing on your retinas, but nothing lands. It's noise and color and ache, a quiet throb building between your temples like someone slowly tightening a vice.

You try to drink water. You try to blink slowly, stretch your legs, lean your head against the back of the couch. But your skull feels too heavy for your neck. And when the credits finally roll and the family starts shifting, murmuring, rustling with plates and blankets and empty mugs, you quietly slip out.

The kitchen is dark except for the warm hum of the overhead stove light. You move slowly, fingers trailing the countertop for balance, shoulders hunched like you're trying to protect your head from the air itself. The cabinet above the microwave is where your mom keeps the pills—still the same as it was before you left. You open it too fast, and a bottle of turmeric falls out and hits the stove with a hollow clatter.

"Hey, Jellybean," your dad's voice calls from the den before you can recover. "You okay?"

You've already got the Advil bottle open, shaking one into your hand with trembling fingers. "Yeah. Just a headache."

You hear footsteps. Then your mom appears around the corner, one of her friends trailing behind like a polite, interested ghost. "Are you sleeping enough at school?" she asks, already reaching for a glass to fill you water like she's caught you breaking something.

Her friend- Diane or Doreen or some other nice woman with a scarf and hot cocoa breath—chimes in cheerfully. "I bet it's all those late nights! My daughter was up writing essays at 3AM like it was her job." She was likely up getting sloshed.

You mumble something noncommittal. You can't even remember the last essay you wrote. Or if you finished it.

Another person joins- your dad this time, with a half-full wine glass and that concerned father expression he only puts on when he's around other adults. "How's the team doing? You starting still?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then just sip the water.

"She got a concussion," your mom says, answering for you. "In her last game."

"Oh no!" Diane or Doreen or whoever clasps her hands together like you've just said torn ACL. "You poor thing! You have to be careful with those, they can linger."

"She knows," your dad says, still watching you like you're going to drop your cup.

Another one of their friends peeks in. "Didn't Kyle have a concussion once too? During that tournament in Grade ten?"

You flinch at the name. The pill still hasn't dulled the ache in your skull and now it feels like someone is rubbing it raw. You nod, more out of muscle memory than response.

You press your shoulder to the wall, letting it hold you up as the noise of the party hums around you-warm, chaotic, too much. Your eyes flick over half-finished drinks, someone's half-eaten cookie on a plate, crumpled napkins and laughter that feels far away, like it's coming from another room, another house, another version of yourself that's still capable of joining in.

You keep your gaze low, safe. That's when you notice someone brought their dog. The tiny dachshund with its too-long body and stumpy legs, standing determinedly in front of the couch. Its tail wags, like it believes the next leap will be the one that gets it up there. It crouches, gears up, springs—

Thump.

It hits the cushion and slides back down.

Tries again.

Thump.

No one notices. Or if they do, they're too distracted to care. There's a charcuterie board, a conversation about snow tires, someone trying to connect their phone to the Bluetooth speaker.

Thump.

The dog huffs, tiny and breathless. It doesn't whine. It just plants its little paws, eyes the couch again, determined.

And it undoes you.

You feel the first tear slide down before you even realize you're crying. Then another. Then another. Silent, steady. Your chest pulls tight and the room feels like it's shrinking around you. The music, the flickering lights, the too-warm air—everything presses in, and you can't stop watching this dog that just wants a place on the couch.

"Jellybean?"

You blink and your mother is there, wine glass set aside on the mantel, one hand reaching gently for your shoulder. Her brow furrows when she sees your face, her touch soft and cool as it rests on your back.

"You okay?"

You try to nod, but it jerks partway through. The tears are coming too fast now, slipping down your face in fat drops that catch on your chin.

"I don't know why I'm crying," you say. It's a lie, and she knows it. But she doesn't push. "I just feeling like a weiner dog trying to jump on the couch when no one's helping it but I'm not helping it either."

She rubs your back, slow circles like she did when you were little. "Why don't you go lie down, Bean," she murmurs, voice low so no one else can hear. "Just for a little while. You've had a long day."

You don't argue. You just let her guide you toward the hallway, her hand never leaving your back. She leaves you to walk the rest of the way to your bedroom.

You dig through the top drawer of your old desk, the one with the broken knob you never got around to fixing, and your fingers close around the familiar box. The cardboard is soft around the edges, corners fraying, the once-vibrant logo faded from years of being tucked away beneath mismatched socks and forgotten notebooks. A relic of another version of yourself. You flip it open—three left. You shake one loose.

It smells faintly like your old hoodie and old choices. Stale but still potent, like it remembers what it was made for. You hesitate for a moment, holding it between your fingers. Your hands are shaking a little, or maybe you're just cold.

You dig out the lighter—still works. That feels like a betrayal, somehow.

The house is too loud behind you. Warm and full and bursting with life. You slip through the side door unnoticed, like a ghost in your own home, old parka zipped to your chin, sleeves covering your hands. The world outside bites. Winter presses its sharp teeth to your skin, and for a second, the cold feels good. At least it's something real.

You perch on the hood of your car, legs tucked up, feet planted. The metal groans faintly beneath you. The first drag is bitter, dry, the paper flaking between your fingers. It doesn't burn smooth-it scratches down your throat like sandpaper. But you don't cough. You just exhale and watch the smoke curl up into the blackness above you, where the stars blink like they're shivering too.

It's been years. Since eleventh grade, you think. Since parking lots and borrowed lighters and dumb bravado meant to impress someone. You hated the taste then. You hate it now. But this? This moment? It fits.

It's almost poetic. Coming home, tripping into old habits like potholes on familiar streets. You feel ashamed, but it's a distant sort of shame. The kind you can set beside you like an old friend you don't talk to anymore.

You take another drag. Let it sit in your lungs.

Inside, the party drones on. Through the frosted window, you can see someone gesturing with a cup, a blur of laughter, the dim flicker of Christmas lights. You don't want to go back in yet.

You pull the parka tighter, ash flicking off the end of your cigarette and disappearing into the snow. The wind carries the smoke away from you, and with it, maybe a little bit of whatever you're holding onto so tightly.

You don't hear the door open over the wind. Just the crunch of boots against frostbitten gravel, soft and careful. You tense at first, instinctually withdrawing the cigarette to your side, as if maybe the shadows would hide it. But when you turn your head, the motion sluggish and slow, he's already looking at you.

Kyle.

He's wearing that old black windbreaker, the one his mom bought at a thrift store when you were fifteen and he never stopped wearing. His cheeks are pink from the cold, breath fogging out in front of him. He looks older than you remember and exactly the same. You can't tell if it makes your stomach hurt or settle.

He lifts a hand in a small wave and says, "Hey."

You nod. Blow smoke to the side, away from him. You can't look directly at his face for long. It feels like staring into a flashlight.

He doesn't ask about the cigarette. Just shifts from foot to foot for a moment, then holds something out to you. A small rectangular box, wrapped clumsily in newspaper comics and sealed with a crooked line of tape.

"I, uh... liked the gift you gave me," he says, voice lower than the air between you. "Didn't think you'd still have any of that stuff."

Your laugh is a breath through your nose, too thin to be real. "Yeah. I was a little crook back then."

He smiles, but it's sad around the edges. "I didn't mind. I liked that you wanted things."

You blink. Look at him now, really look. The slope of his jaw, the tiredness in his eyes. It hits you that maybe you're both too young to be this haunted.

You gesture at the box. "What's that?"

He shrugs and holds it closer. "I wanted to get you something too. Thought about just getting you a coffee gift card or something dumb but..." He looks away, then back. "This felt better."

Your fingers shake slightly as you take it from him. The paper is cold in your hands. You don't open it yet.

"Thanks," you say, and your voice is raw. "For coming out here."

He glances at the smoke in your hand again. "What happened to last cigarette ever"

You force a grin. "I've had a couple last cigarettes ever."

He huffs a soft laugh. "Yeah. You always said this time of year made you feel like a stretched-out rubber band."

You flick ash to the side and whisper, "Still does."

"I heard you ate it pretty hard in your last game." He leans against the hood, facing the streetlamps the same way as you.

"Yup, and I've got the brain cognition to prove it."

This makes him smile. He had that perfect smile. No his teeth weren't tissue white in a uniform order but it was always perfect to you. So organic and nostalgic.

"I'm sorry, Kyle."

He knows what you mean "It's okay-"

"It's really not. Nothing I did then was okay and I really feel sorry for you," You pause "Not you now but you back then."

"I get it."

"I don't think you do-

"Trust me," He cuts you off "I do."

The moment sits between you. You don't feel like a teenager anymore, you have new friends and don't even fit your shorts from ninth grade. You feel mature maybe for the first time ever. He gets it.

"That's nice." You smile politely, letting the bud drifft and die on the snowy ground. Kyle's jacket is almost too small on him, you remember when he was drowning in it. You slowly peel the tape from the box until it bare in front of you. You look back up at Kyle and his black jacket "And I thought it was too late for windbreakers."

"it's never too late."

When you lift the lid there lies a green powerade bottle. You remember it well, ot was that first white flag of surrender he had waved. The first token of peace you had accepted andd you would surely accept it once more.

You look up at him. His ecpression is soft as he watches the thoughts process in your brain "Want to sit?"

#south park #kyle broflovski #kyle broflovski x reader #stan marsh #stan marsh x reader #south park x reader #south park x y/n #kyle south park #kenny mccormick #south park kyle #kyle broflovski fluff

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yanndude · 10 months ago

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"Ugly? You're the most beautiful person I've ever met, love" ♡

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dreamsofbroflovski · 4 months ago

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HI ITS CRAIGNON!!!

HOW ABT A V-DAY STAN FIC???

inexperienced reader maybeee like romanticle !!1!!!

IK I REQ ALOT I JS HAVE THOUGHTS FEEL FREE TO IGNORE :P

with love

craignon

ALRIGHT, SO

I have been evil with this one.

Because THIS concept for a Stan fic has been in the back of my mind for a whiiiile now, but I never got to writing it because it just wasn't a priority. But then I read your ask, saw 'STAN' and I swear my mind lit up like a damn Christmas tree. Think immediate running to the Google docs to get some words down before I forgot them. (And yet I still managed to only finish it today...)

So it's not necessarily a V-Day fic? And it also doesn't involve an inexperienced reader because that wasn't on my original vision. But it IS romantic as all hell and actually made my heart so so soft while writing it

I'm sorry for self-indulging on what was supposed to be your request, Craignon jdkjsdkjsdkjskdjskdj but I really do hope y'all like this

Happy Valentine's day, everyone!

Stan Marsh x Reader - deep sleep

Also available on ao3!

Summary: The one where you and Stan take a relaxing bath together.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content (everyone involved is above the age of consent), Established Relationship, Penis in Vagina Sex, Bathtub Sex, Cowgirl Position

A/N: Dude, am I exhausted. I stayed awake through the night struggling to write the last few bits and pieces of this so I'd have it ready for Valentine's day. Well, at least I did.

I have the understanding that I might've made Stan into a pathetic needy dude in this. However, I will not apologize for my actions - I've acted stupid for men way too much in my life, so the role reversal is very much in my best interests and I do not promise it won't happen again.

“I already told you, babe. It’s whatever, you can choose.”

The key to your apartment made an irritating noise, metal against metal, as you scraped it around the keyhole trying to get it in without looking. If Sherlock Holmes were to inspect it, he’d be sure that you were an alcoholic or having a seizure - but in reality, you were just looking over your shoulder the whole time, engrossed in a conversation with your boyfriend Stan.

“Well, then, what about seafood? There’s that place our friends usually go to…” The man behind you suggested, stretching his neck to see past you and notice what the difficulty was in opening the door.

“No way! Remember what happened last time we went there? I was sick for three days!” With an annoyed huff, you faced forward again and inserted the key into the hole with more pinpoint accuracy this time, turning it with a click and giving the both of you access to your house.

The discussion continued as you both entered, throwing your bags on the floor of the living room to give your tired backs a break. Having returned from your respective practices at university - yours cheerleading, his football -, you had taken the opportunity to invite Stan over, an invitation that he accepted with the same amount of eagerness a child would if invited to eat nothing but candy for a whole year.

He was still that eager, of course, except for one small issue. During basically the whole ride to your place, you two had been debating what to get for dinner, wanting to replenish your calories after the exercise, indirectly taking into consideration that you’d burn all of those as well later anyway. Actually, ‘debating’ might be a misused word - all of that time, you had continuously told Stan to just pick the restaurant you’d order from and acting like you’d be fine with whatever decision he made, only to react unfavorably to every single place he suggested, for one reason or another or none at all.

“Maybe we could go for that tex-mex place near the gym,” he commented, “I have some coupons for that we can use.”

“Nah, the lady at the counter there always looks at me funny.” He bit his tongue to not tell you that you’d be ordering from home and not seeing the lady at the counter at all - he just knew that wouldn’t mean anything for the final decision.

“What about that shawarma place we like?” “Hmmm…” If Stan had a dollar for every time he had heard that little prolonged sound in the span of the last half hour, he’d be richer than Tolkien. Twice that if he had another dollar for every time it came accompanied by some negative sentence. “Not really feeling that…”

Starvation made his stomach basically curl into itself the entire time, growling as if it was personally pissed off at him, and Stan was almost running out of places he knew off the top of his head for suggestions. He had half a mind to just take you up on the ‘you can choose’ offer, being held back only by an innate need to see you comfortable and happy and also a knowledge that he would have a less than stellar night if his choice wasn’t to your liking.

“Pizza, then?” Although it was still a question, this one had more of a hefty tone to it, an insistence; probably because your boyfriend knew that this was the decision that would end up taking root. Whenever you’d start going in circles over what to eat, pizza was always the safest option - one you chose a lot and had yet to disappoint.

And with the small ‘hm’ that you made and the way your movements slowed, Stan knew the discussion was over. “Alright,” you nodded, turning to him, “Same place we always do?”

An almost imperceptible sigh of relief left Stan’s lungs. Finally, this was over. He didn’t know what he’d do if today you also decided out of nowhere you didn’t want pizza. “Yep,” he gave you a short nod and picked up his phone in his pocket with a bit of urgency, as if not acting fast enough could cause you to change your mind, “I’m just gonna order real quick and then we can do something else.”

He shifted his attention to his phone and made a motion to sit, intending to relax while he placed the order - however, his back had barely touched the couch cushion before you started hollering and walking towards him, your hands tugging at his jacket, pulling him back to his feet frantically. “Hey, no no no! You’re not sitting there!”

“What? Why?” He wobbled a bit as he got back up, your frenzied actions startling him, but managed to keep stable.

“I just got it back from deep cleaning! You’re not gonna sit on it all sweaty! It’s gonna stink!”

With a small oh of realization, Stan remembered the situation he found himself in. The showers in the locker rooms were under maintenance, so he couldn’t get clean after practice - which just so happened to have been particularly hard and left him virtually drenched by the time it ended. He had changed out of his sweaty football clothes before leaving, of course, but the smell and the stickiness lingered in him, dried but disgusting all the same. It wasn’t like he wasn’t planning on showering at all, to be fair; It’s just that, with your whole conversation and the way you drew his attention, plus the fact that he usually showered at campus and didn’t tend to have this problem, it was easy to forget.

“What about you? Aren’t you stinky, too?” He made a gesture encompassing your whole body with his hand. The womens’ locker rooms were also getting worked on, so he knew for a fact you also hadn’t showered after your own practice.

“No way. Women don’t stink like men do.” You retorted playfully, sticking the tip of your tongue at him.

Stan rolled his eyes at your comment, but with the smirk that tilted his lips, it was clear he wasn’t really offended by the joke. “So you’re not showering?”

“Of course I am. I’m going before you.”

One of his eyebrows arched, the joking smirk faltering a bit to make way for genuine confusion. “And I do… what, exactly?”

“You order the pizza, like you said. It’s gonna be ready by the time I get out of the shower.”

“But then I have to go shower!”

The playfulness in his voice had returned as he noticed where you were coming from, and you reflected his smirk. “Yeah.”

“So what you’re saying is, you want me to order food for us while you shower, and then wait for it to arrive, on my feet the whole time, and then after that you get to eat by yourself while I shower?” He chuckled, feigning incredulity.

You shrugged in mischievous nonchalance. “Exactly. Good to know you’re on board.”

You almost turned to leave, but Stan’s hand quickly got a light hold on your wrist, stopping your movement. “No way!” he called out amidst both of your laughters, “I’m not gonna pay to eat cold food!”

“Look, if you’re that bothered, say…” Your free hand moved as if adjusting something on the collar of his jacket, despite there not being anything to adjust, “How about we bathe together? That way we both get that sorted out and we can order dinner after and nobody gets cold food.”

Hunger seemed to fade instantly from his needs as soon as those words left your mouth, and his own went dry, his hold on your wrist letting go. Playtime was over for him; even though the situation practically begged for a smooth and sexy response, his brain went blank on all of those due to your forwardness, and all that was left was…

“Ah- Uhm-… Okay, we can do that, yeah,” he wished he could just claw at his own skin and die with the stupid stuttering that was his reaction - ‘we can do that’? Really?

Whether you hadn’t realized his fluke or had deliberately decided not to mention it, he was thankful anyway. With a smile and a nod, you concluded the ordeal - and allowed him to not crack under the weight of his own embarrassment - by saying, “I’m gonna get things ready then. You can leave your stuff in my room, I won’t be long.”

While you went to prepare said bath, Stan went alone through the very well known path to your bedroom, shedding himself off fully of his dirty clothes in unnecessary haste before realizing that he was not at his house and couldn’t just throw them on the floor to make them a later worry. Being careful not to sit or lean against any of the available surfaces, his only option was to awkwardly stand around naked with his clothes in his arms and his phone in his hand as he waited for you to finish whatever you were doing. About ten minutes in, just as he was starting to wonder if he should just go anyway, you called his name, making him let go of the device and rush to meet you.

The first thing he noticed as he slowly opened the door to your bathroom was a light scent of something pleasant, drawing him in - not like an overpowering sensation, more in a gently inviting manner. It felt herbal and flowery, but that was where his knowledge of it ended; he was not a flower guy by any means, so ‘pretty nice’ was as good of a description as he’d come up with. He looked around the room to try and find the source of that perfume, realizing it almost right away, the lilac color of the water inside of the bathtub making it pretty obvious. Kneeling by it were you, fully naked with your back to the door, absentmindedly playing with the colorful liquid by swishing your hand around leisurely inside of it.

Trying not to get distracted himself with staring at the dimples on your lower back and the soft curves of your silhouette, Stan took a step inside and cleared his throat to draw your attention, his heart skipping a beat when you turned your face over your shoulder to catch his eyes, a smile on your face that seemed to shine pure levity and comfort onto him. “Hey,” his greeting was quiet, unwilling to break the moment.

“Hey,” you greeted back just as softly, hand steadying yourself on the edge of your bathtub as you slowly rose to your feet, turning around and gracing his sight with the front view of your nude body.

And he was suddenly extremely grateful for the decision to bathe before dinner, otherwise all of that pizza would’ve immediately turned into a disgusting pile of puke on the floor that would’ve soured the whole mood. Truth was, the butterflies that Stan always got in his stomach ever since the first time he saw you never quite left or calmed down; they were permanently there, growing and multiplying and flapping their wings around at the mere mention of your existence. He was no stranger to your naked form, but it always made him feel that way, dumbfounded with how gorgeous you were, smitten and falling in love all over again - and strangely self conscious, too: for his mind still could not comprehend how a goddess like you could lend yourself so eagerly to a meager human such as himself.

“Bath bomb?” Trying to shake himself off of the daze, he gestured towards the purple water with one hand while closing the door behind his back with his foot. “What’s the occasion?”

You made a small hum in agreement. “It’s chamomile and lavender,” the explanation would’ve told him nothing if you hadn’t added, “Supposed to help with sore muscles and stuff like that. Could be nice for us.”

If it works, Stan thought. Saying he was familiar with bath bombs would be a lie - he’d always dismissed the stuff as a ‘girly’ kind of deal, not really bothering to find out if they worked for anything besides making the water colorful and, in some cases, staining your bathtub. Of course, he had taken many a bubble bath when he was younger, but those were more fun pastimes instead of having any actual relaxation purposes. But he wasn’t about to ruin your fun, and it wasn’t his bathtub to clean, so he wasn’t mad about it, either.

“But what took so long?” He asked as he dropped his dirty clothes in your laundry basket, “I mean, you just drop it into the water and it dissolves, no?”

“Well… I like to watch it fizzle,” you explained meekly, turning your eyes to the bathtub again. “I know it’s stupid.”

It wasn’t stupid at all - if anything in that room was stupid, it was him for not having stayed with you, not participating in that small thing that brought you so much joy. He’d have bought the whole Lush store and thrown it into the university’s pool, swim team practice be damned, if it meant seeing that sweet expression of yours again.

“No, no… It’s not, really,” he shook his head slowly and stepped close to you, taking your hands in his and intertwining your fingers, “It’s… Pretty cool. For real. Thank you.”

He didn’t quite feel like he had salvaged himself from the dismissive comment, but no extra attempts at deliberation were made, because the way you looked up at him so kindly showed that you hadn’t taken it to heart. “Let’s get in then,” he was quick to nod once you murmured that, “Relax a little bit.”

Contradicting normal rules of chivalry - would they even apply in this situation? - Stan stepped into the bathtub before you did, sinking into the warm water with a deep exhale of relaxation. Scientists might’ve said something about how cold baths are actually great to help recover from strenuous exercise, but at that moment, the warm water was the real blessing to his exhausted muscles, calming down pain he didn’t even know he was still feeling and melting away his problems.

Once your smaller foot broke the water surface, his legs spread as far as they could go on the bathtub to make space for you, allowing your body to settle nicely between them. Stan resisted the temptation to immediately wrap his arms around your body, not yet wanting to burst the gentle bubble of tranquility you had worked so hard to form in that tiny corner of your house.

“I think it’s working,” he mentioned after a moment, “The bath bomb, I mean.”

“It’s too early to tell, silly,” you giggled, “We gotta soak in a bit more before it really works.”

No arguing with that. Stan leaned back with his head on the headrest, his arms over the edges of the bathtub, not moving at all - getting entranced as he watched you peacefully capturing some water on your hand and dropping it on the non-submerged parts of your body, rubbing it all over, looking every bit like a fairytale princess washing under some sort of magical waterfall.

Reaching out for the bar soap on the corner shelf behind you, you frowned slightly when your fingers curled around nothing. Your boyfriend had picked it up before you did, locking his eyes onto yours once you looked over your shoulder to see what had happened. “Let me,” he offered, his voice carrying a hint of hope - a hope he didn’t need, considering you accepted the request with a heartfelt readiness.

Your loofah rested in its little hanger, damp only from the steam that rose from the warm water, while Stan’s hand did its job of spreading the soap thoroughly over your wet body. The bar of soap he held slowly glided over your skin with a reverence that bordered on fearfulness, as if even the slightest more pressure would have you disintegrating into a million fragments - atom-sized pieces of you mixing with the water, seeping through his pores, cleaning his soul as well as his body and leaving a lather of love that he could never, or would never, wash away.

Hell, maybe he should really just let you do that.

He tried not to spend much time with his hands on your breasts, knowing that he’d surely be unable to contain himself if the soft perky flesh were to fill his palms. But that battle was lost anyway, since with every inch that his hands drifted down your body, the way his breathing would grow heavier and more tense became harder to ignore. You had relaxed almost completely against his body, watching quietly as he washed you; the longing tension you felt only noticeable by the steady increase in your heart rate, mirroring Stan’s own as his heart thumped against your back.

Once his hands got to your hips, however, there was no avoiding it anymore. His movements ceased briefly as he attempted to compose himself behind you, trying to focus on his task; however, that tiny curious noise you made with your throat when you tilted your face towards his a bit to check on him almost had him unraveling. His lips soon found your jaw and you faced forward again while he kissed the side of your face, starting small at first, giving plenty of time for you to pull away. When you just sighed, closed your eyes and leaned with almost your full weight against him, he left the soap on the edge of the bathtub and let his fingers inch down to your inner thighs, then closer and closer towards your pussy.

“Just let me… wash here real quick…” His kisses to your jaw and earlobe grew sloppier as his fingers made their way to your slit, index and middle nestling between your pussy lips and gliding up and down with ease. Your building excitement was undeniable - even underwater, he could still feel your arousal against his fingertips when they brushed against your entrance, that familiar warm slickness that suddenly felt wasted to him when it mixed with the lilac bath water once it left your cunt. Perhaps he’d ditch the pizza order and just eat you out for dinner instead.

Slow ripples began to break that water’s surface with the movement of his submerged hand when he zeroed in on your clit, well-taught fingers circling that pleasure point with a precision that contradicted how worked up he was on the inside - but the small moans that began to spill from between your parted lips once his touched focused on that part of you really tested that focus, while at the same time keeping his mind rooted on that moment, erasing all possible outside distractions. His cock steadily grew to full hardness, throbbing against your lower back with insistence, the slight pressure the weight of your body created clearly not enough to sate him.

As the pleasure built inside of you, Stan’s efforts grew sharper to match. Those ripples on the water turned into small splashes against the walls of the tub as you started to actively rock your hips towards his hand, trying to intensify friction of your own accord. The added erratic movement made it harder to keep his touch steady on your clit, but he maintained a soldier’s discipline, finger pads pressing more firmly against the sensitive nub, not wanting to let them slip for even a moment and risk denying you of the sensation that was getting you so lusciously winded.

One simple thought kept on creeping back to the forefront of your boyfriend’s mind as he touched you, one he had to continuously force away; with you almost fully on his lap like this, at the mercy of his arms, how easy it would be for him to just pull you up like you weighed nothing, get your entrance in the perfect position to slip his cock into your cunt with one sharp thrust upwards. Stan’s need for you toed the line into thorough desperation, the primal part of his brain threatening to go absolutely berserk if he didn’t have his way with you soon, being held back only by the sliver of rational thought that hadn’t been blown into the humid air by the shaky breaths you were emitting.

That question, the request to be buried inside you, almost crossed the veil from intangible thought into audible words; But then he didn’t need to. When you suddenly snapped your thighs together - stopping the movement of his fingers and your hips - and turned your head back to the best of your ability, there was barely any blue left to be seen in his irises, pupils completely blown over by desire.

“Stan, I need you,” your voice was thinner with that very need, “Please.”

As you shifted position over him, turning around to straddle his lap, his hands moved to your hips - a move meant to seem like he was helping you settle, but that in reality was also a way to ground him; because, as beyond humiliating as it was, he could’ve finished right there just from hearing you beg for him like that.

“Mmph... Yeah, fuck yeah,” it felt almost ridiculous to be giving you that ‘permission’ when he was just about to plead for you as well, had strained himself mentally with the effort to not do so. But any thought of that irony was gone once your hands had sneaked to the back of his head, bringing him away from the headrest and physically towards the softness of your lips to mirror the pull it had on him emotionally.

The kiss, just like his touches earlier, started off soft, picking up momentum once the sensation of your bodies pressed together made you both burn with the yearning to be closer, to melt together - when Stan’s tongue got to the inside of your mouth, that was exactly what he wanted to do. There was a possibility that the vapours from the bath were tricking his brain, because he swore he could feel the taste of your strawberry-flavored lip gloss, even though he had made sure to rid you of all that during a particular stolen moment before practice. Or maybe you just tasted that way naturally - he would’ve believed you if you told him that. He started roaming your body with his palms again, calloused fingertips from years of playing guitar spreading goosebumps on your skin despite the warm water you were both covered in. His touch had more depth this time, more pressure; not feeling like he was afraid you’d crumble anymore, for if you did, he’d be right there to hold you together.

Your boyfriend’s eyes snapped right open as soon as he stopped feeling the rake of your nails on the back of his scalp, and the small groan of disapproval he hadn’t bothered to restrain as you pulled back from the kiss had you giggling. The exploration of your skin ceased and his hands settled on your sides once more when you lifted yourself the tiniest bit off the water, positioning his cock with one of your hands, his tip kissing your tight entrance. He was vaguely aware of how useless he was being right then, just laying there and watching, but it felt too challenging to seize control from you when you started sinking so deliciously down on his dick, those velvety walls squeezing inch by inch of his dick.

A deep groan rumbled in his chest as you bottomed him out inside of your cunt, gentle curvy hips flush against his harsh strong ones. In his younger days, he used to feel a lot of unneeded anxiety about his average size, wondering if it was really enough or if bigger cocks were more satisfying; yet now, every single time he felt your tight walls stretching to accommodate his girth, putting pressure in every single inch of both your sensitivities, he always felt like the biggest motherfucker in the world - in more ways than one.

“Babe, you alright?” Your sweet voice snagged him back into focusing on you instead of his own sensations, and he found that awareness much more appealing.

“Yeah, yeah, just…” And suddenly he didn’t even know what he was thinking about, kicking himself mentally for even daring to not pay attention to you for even the shortest amount of time at that moment.

“You were thinking,” your lips found his in a chaste peck then curved into a gentle smile as you pulled back, pretty hands placed on both sides of his chest, “I know. It’s okay.”

He still felt stupid for having gotten distracted. But then all ties to the external world, even those inside of Stan’s mind, were severed as you lifted your hips away from his slowly until only his leaking tip remained inside before bringing yourself back down with just as little rush. The languid movements you started off with were both Heaven and Hell to him; Heaven because he could feel every single ridge in those tight walls when they dragged up along his shaft, and Hell because, with the way he so desperately needed you, it felt like torture to be at mercy of such a pace, his aching cock throbbing inside of you like it was personally angry with the situation. But maybe slow and loving was all that he needed - there was no confirmation he’d last very long if you did go rough on him, and the setting was so peaceful he felt like he could just make love to you forever.

“Wow,” an unnecessarily amazed chuckle left his mouth, “How are you always so fucking tight?”

A few breathy moans preceded your answer, making your boyfriend’s fingers dig a bit more into your flesh, not enough to cause pain but enough to let you feel his want. “I guess it’s… It’s just for you,” you murmured, “I need to be perfect… For you… Everywhere…”

Damn, he should’ve written his will and put you on it before this. Because you were going to be the death of him, and it would’ve been unfair to not leave all of his admittedly-not-many possessions to such a wonderful killer.

“You’re always… Perfect,” it was his time to let out a choked-out moan when you started going a bit faster on top of him, his words fuelling you up like gasoline to a flame. “Too much… Too fucking perfect… All the time…”

Your hands found stability on his shoulders as you leaned with your chest fully against his, the softness of your breasts squished up against his becoming another of the focal points of warmth in his body that have nothing to do with the water. Then your head settles in prime position to send into his ear those downright sinful whimpers that start coming out of your mouth, and he understands - your clit was now constantly pressing against his lower abdomen, turning that friction into even more pleasure. His hands got even more of a firm grip on your hips, almost as if trying to press you down further, help you out in the pursuit of release in any way he could.

Even the perfume of lavender that still wafted powerfully from the bath water couldn’t mask the alluring scent of your skin, which overpowered Stan’s senses once he traced the crook of your neck with his nose, clouding his senses even more and making him hyper-aware of the feel of you. His hips began to surge upward, meeting your thrusts halfway; he needed to set his own pace, take more than what you were giving him.

Luckily, you were keen to meet the demand - bouncing more fiercely against him, purple water splashing all around you and on the floor when your hips met his, that obscene sound of skin slapping on skin audible on the tiny bathroom even with the underwater muffling. Just when he thought he couldn’t love you any more, you did shit like this - made full use of the fiery chemistry you both shared, showed you ached for him just as much as he did you.

“Fuuuuck, Stan…” Even your cursing sounded cute to him when it conveyed how horny you were. “Feels so good…”

“You… You like it like that, baby?” He breathed out, using the strength of his arms to pull you down hard onto him, feeling your body tense up briefly in his arms when you gasped. “When I do you like this?”

“Yeah… Fuck, yes… “ He kissed your neck through your babbling, the tip of his tongue sneaking past his lips to trace a line on the sensitive flesh there, giving his taste buds just the faintest hint of soap, unidentifiable bath bomb water and that ultimate flavor of your skin. ”Keep going… Just like that… Please…”

Oh, he had no intention of not doing so. Not when you were so gorgeously melting on top of him, making yourself even tighter around his cock with every brush of his tip against your G-spot. His already exercise-strained muscles began to burn with the effort of fucking up into you and supporting your weight, but he pushed through it with little more than panting breaths through his mouth. You had begged for him - who on Earth was he to deny you anything?

A blazing sensation in Stan’s lower abdomen that made his abs instinctively tighten eventually warned him that he was nearing his release, and finally a coherent thought graced his brain, making him more alert - a determination to not come before you did. He needed to be attentive for that, to capture the moment when you unraveled, and there’d be no doing that if he lost himself in that haze. Plus, he knew you were close, too; he knew your body like he did his own, and the way your cunt fluttered repeatedly around his cock, that small arch your spine made towards him and how your head was slightly tilted back were visible indicators of an experience that he absolutely adored partaking in.

But damn if it wasn’t fucking hard to hold back. He almost forgot himself when you pulled back and stared deep into his eyes with that needy desperation plastered onto your face, parted lips trembling as if you needed to get the words out before your brain turned to mush. “Stan… Baby, I need to… I’m gonna…”

Quickly, your boyfriend pulled one of your wrists from his chest, intertwining his fingers with that hand and holding a tight grip on it - the most soothing act he’d manage in that moment, a symbol of his encouragement. “Yes, yes baby, just do it, I got you,” his urging, supposed to be controlled as to bring reassurance, came rather strained from his mouth - he needed you to do it, maybe even more than you yourself needed that release, however selfish that thought might be. “Please, just cum for me…”

And then Stan was king of the world when his request did make you finish, shaky whines that seemed to turn into sound the shocks of pleasure in your body leaving your mouth as you came. With sheer fascination he witnessed you, letting you use his cock and ride it through your orgasm; holding on for just a little longer before his own loud cry echoed inside of the bathroom, jerking his hips in small stuttery thrusts as he emptied his balls inside of you finally, the white lights of the bathroom having apparently made their way to the inside of his brain, overwhelming his eyes with brightness that coursed through his veins.

The weight of your upper body fell against his chest as you tired yourself out, but to him it was no heavier than a feather; all he could feel was your softness anyway, on his thorax and around his throbbing cock while it willingly gave the last drops of his cum to you. Your heavy breaths ghosted his neck, while his own were off to the bathroom air, his face turned to the ceiling as relaxation finally washed over him.

The only thing he didn’t allow to relax was his hand on yours, kept tight throughout your climaxes and still with no intention of letting go - staying like that even when you finally shifted position again, laying on your side, on top of his body with your head on his shoulder. That was when he looked at your angelic face again, resting over him like the most comfortable mattress, a delicate smile curving your lips. His softening cock had slipped from you when you moved, and your combined releases were now certainly mixing with the bath water, but Hell would freeze before he gave a fuck about that - not when he was so completely consumed by his love for you like he was at that moment.

Although the lighting in the bathroom was harsh, the way it shined on you was smooth and pleasant; or maybe it was just you that were glowing, your sated expression radiating a more beautiful light than any star and bringing a thousand new colors to the spectrum of his eyesight - while at the same time calming the self-doubt monster inside of him by showing that he had made you bloom like this, he was the one that made love to you and held you once you beautifully toppled from those edges of pleasure.

He could only follow with his eyes as you sat up in the tub again and straightened your posture, letting go of his hand while stretching your neck in a circle slowly. “Well, time to finish up before the water gets cold.” How the fuck did you still have any energy left to think of that after what just happened? He would’ve astonishedly questioned you if his vocal cords didn’t feel so damn lazy.

One of his arms rose above the water, but almost instantly fell back in with a splash, all four limbs feeling like overcooked spaghetti attached to his spent body, floppy and mushy and difficult to control. “We can chill some more,” his voice was raspy and tired in that murmur, and he looked around the bathroom lazily, not really acknowledging the environment.

“You still need to get clean,” you reminded him, trying to pick up the soap bar and bring it to his body as well - but he just forced himself to lift his arm again and pushed your hand away gently, urging you to let go of it.

“Just… Five more minutes,” his eyelids fluttered with the effort to stay open, “Then I’ll do it…”

The end of those five minutes didn’t quite come. Because, before it could be called out, the both of you had already drifted into a peaceful nap inside of the tub, enveloped by the calm scents and the comfort of each other’s bodies, waking up only one or two hours later feeling very dazed and twice as hungry. The now cold water seemed to mock you as you then had to hurriedly wash up in it, but Stan didn’t mind - he still felt completely warmed up from the moment you two shared.

He never did find out if the bath bomb’s soothing properties really worked or not. Because the ultimate relaxation agent that worked for his body would always be you, and he’d long vowed with his life to make sure you’d never crumble or fizzle out.

Dividers by @cafekitsune

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jewbeloved · 1 year ago

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stan,kenny and wendy with a ghost s/o? like s/o died in south park (cause,i mean cmon,if you dont have plot armour are you really gonna survive?) and they just kinda haunt sp.they also have similar abilities to damien (flight,telekinesis,teleportation,ect),maybe they even have a human/physical form like him too 😃?

Stan, Kenny, and Wendy with a ghost s/o💙🧡🩷

warnings: Plasmophobia (If you have it)

Gender: Neutral

💙 Stan Marsh ⚽

Blud thought he was hearing things because someone kept calling his name and he didn't know where it was coming from.

Stan began to get irritated and demanded whoever was calling his name multiple times to show themselves.

You just now realized that you were invisible to Stan and he obviously cannot see you. So you make yourself visible while making the place around you cold asf.

The gif above is Stan's brief reaction before he jumps back in complete shock.

It took him a while to realize it was you but in the form of a ghost.....

Stan wasn't really close to you at all when you first came to south park. Probably because he didn't even notice you were there.

He did hear about one of the students dying on the news but he didn't think it was you.

But since you're a ghost that death that occurred confirms it was you after all. He feels guilty that he never spoken to you, not even once before you died.

You both started to have a lot of conversations with each other after your first meeting. Stan obviously snuck out during lunch or free time to go talk to you behind the school.

Stan always talked about you to Kyle though. Kyle thought he had a screw loose since Kyle can't even see you.

You like to tease Stan with your powers and scare him a lot. I'd like to think Stan always puffs his cheeks whenever he's angry and you find that cute :)

If physical contact was possible he would be so happy. If you allow him to be able to touch💙💙💙💙

🧡 Kenny Mccormick 🍄

You both already know about each other.

You always remembered the times Kenny has died and comforted him after he regenerates the next day.

But when he heard that you died he was so sad that he couldn't stop crying because you weren't immortal like him so you couldn't come back to life.

That all changed when he started shivering because his room got cold all of a sudden and this woke him up out of his sleep.

He thought that he accidentally left the window open so got up to go look, only for him to find out that it was never opened.

He then felt a soft tap on his shoulder and turned around immediately while flinching.

"Oh for heavens sake Kenny, It's just me (Name)...".

....................

.........................................................

Wait what?

A ghost?

You?

I guess he shouldn't be surprised just by seeing that. He was so happy and relieved to hear that it was just you.

You really came back to see him...well in a ghostly form anyway because you're dead.... Kenny's happy nonetheless!

You both can go back to interacting with each other again! But he's still a bit sad that he isn't able to feel your heartbeat anymore whenever he hugs you. Please cheer him up.

Since Kenny is immortal, you both can literally spend the rest of your lives together forever now that you're here <33333🧡🧡🧡🧡

🩷 Wendy Testaburger 💮

Like Kenny, you and her have known each other ever since you moved to south park.....or whatever you did in order to get there.

She one day saw that you weren't home at all and she panicked thinking you went missing.

It wasn't until your parents told her that you recently had died (Or if she finds out on her own if you don't have any parents).

You and her had a close bonding relationship and she was devastated to hear the news.

She will wear anything you had left behind before you died (hats, scarfs, etc.)

When she was cleaning out her locker for her next class. She saw a bunch of students running away from the janitor's closet, screaming about how the closet is haunted or something.

Wendy brushed it off as them being weird until Bebe told her that she saw a ghost in the closet. Wendy signed and went to check it out for herself since she trusts Bebe.

She opened the closet door and saw nothing inside.

She was about to go and confront Bebe for lying to her until she saw a ghostly figure that looked exactly like her.

She screamed until you shifted back into your normal self and reassured her that it was just only you.

She couldn't believe it, she always thought ghosts weren't real...how is it possible for someone to be able to see ghosts????

She's going through the five stages of grief right now that she can't even mutter another word out. Eventually she can't escape reality in the end.

She doesn't know exactly what to do now that she is seeing you again as a ghost?? But those tears streaming down her cheeks told you everything you needed to know about how she feels.

You noticed that she was wearing your stuff (If you had any) while you were hugging her.

You kept hugging and comforting her until she stopped crying. Telling her that you would never leave her even in death. 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

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irokwashere · 2 months ago

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Sneak Peek, Stan gets his wisdom teeth pulled and doped up

#wip: stick to me like caramel #whumpshot #fluff and angst #Kyle Broflovski #Stan Marsh #style #South Park #no beta we die like Kenny

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windowshards · 9 months ago

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shhh-secret-time · 1 year ago

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hiii! i rlly enjoy your writing and ur one of my fav sp writers so i was wondering if u could possibly write poly style (stan and kyle) fluff with a shy reader! tyyyy <333

Ohhhh ohhhh I'm so soft for this, I'm weak. I love fluff pieces so much and for some reason they're the hardest for me to write! I'm sorry this took so long! I hope you enjoy it! It's Mermaid flavored.

Warning: Strong Language, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, these boys being adorable dorks

Pairing: Stan x GN!Reader x Kyle

The feeling of the waves brushing against your ankles as they continue their dance with the moon is the only thing anchoring you to this moment. Wet sand beneath your feet seem to sink slightly, molding to show the world where you stood. Only for the ocean waves to take it away.

Each time you came out to this secluded little cove you would challenge yourself to find something new. Yesterday you found a little crab buried under the soft blanket of sand. Today it was a new rock sticking out of the water. Just on the outskirts of your vision, you had never seen it before. Your eyes take in the outline and the shadows it cast on the dark water. The only light from the large full moon behind it.

Night probably wasn't the best time to come to the water, much less alone, but you liked it that way. It was exhausting having to be around so many people all the time, most of the time you didn't even know what to say or talk about. It's not that you didn't want to contribute to conversations and be invited out to things with your friends, but it was hard. You needed moments like this.

Moments with the moon, the stars, and the ocean to keep you company. Some nights it felt like something straight out of a story book. Watching intently as the ocean beckons you to come closer, how She sings for you.

Her song is beautiful. A language you can't understand but a rhythm you can feel. So, you sing back to Her on nights like this. With the sky clear so the moon can hear your voice. You only hope the moon knows how beautiful She is.

So, you part your lips and suck in a cool breath. For a moment it catches in your throat, years of teaching yourself to keep your mouth shut takes over. But only for a moment. After a single heartbeat the lyrics pour from your mouth, a second breath and you're sharing a tune with the ocean.

Sometimes while you'd sink things would brush against your legs. Shells and seaweed cling to your skin, and sometimes you like to pretend they were gifts from the ocean.

But they weren't. At least not from the ocean Herself.

They were gifts from your two admirers. The night sky and the large body of water were not the only thing you had sung for.

Two men swam in the water, circling each other in a gentle tempo. Hips swaying gently with one another. Scaled tails twined together so gently like silk across skin.

One colored with dark orange and white scales, with vibrant finned out reds. A deep red that matches the curls in his hair and the small blush on his face as his partner leads him in the dance.

His partner with eyes like the waters they tread. His tail is the same deep blue color with a thin line of silver going down it. Sharper fins compared to the red heads veiled ones. His black hair pushes and pulls against the tide.

The tide that carries your voice and tells a story they can't quite understand. Both men feel it in their chest, the urge to understand. And that urge only gets stronger every time you come out to sing.

At first it was just an accident, they swam too far out. There they saw you sitting on a board staring out towards the ocean. Your legs on either side of the brightly colored plank, swinging them back and forth. You opened your mouth and for the first time they heard you sing.

That strange language, the way it rolled off your tongue had them both in some kind of trance. Deep in their hearts they knew coming back was too great of a risk, land walkers weren't supposed to know about their kind. But the way you sang so gently, so earnestly, it was hard to picture you as any kind of threat. So, like storm chasers they returned. Every night the lovers would come back to the cove that was too far from their homes.

Now here they were dancing under the moon, just like every other night. Tonight, was no different, except of course the thoughts bouncing around in raven haired man's mind. He stops only after you pause your song, looking over at the other.

"We should get closer tonight. I don't think the shells are enough of a gift. The land walker isn't picking them up!" His voice drops to a low murmur as he swims closer to the surface.

"I don't know if that's a good idea Stan! What if they freak out?" Stern emerald eyes follow him, watching as Stan's fingers glide across the surface, not quite breaking the tension.

"What if they don't?" Stan asks, "Come on, we'll never know if we don't try Kyle."

"But we can't even communicate with them!" Despite his protests, Kyle swims up next to Stan.

The man always did have a way to pull Kyle into things he wouldn't normally do. But for Stan, he'd follow him to the deepest of trenches. And apparent by the way Stan takes his hand, he knows he would too.

"True, buuuut when was the last time we did something this exciting. I don't think the land walkers are as bad as your mom says they are." Stan wraps his arm around him and pulls him up closer towards his chest.

"Oh stop, you know she just says things like that to keep us safe. I never bought into those scare tactics."

"Uh-huh, that's why your fins are all fanned out." Stan says smirking down at him.

"N-no!" A nervous stutter and Kyle's fins fold back down against his tail. "Let's just do this before I change my mind!" He breaks from Stan's hold with a groan.

You've stopped your song for the night, content in just getting the emotions out. Normally around this time you'd step away from the caress of the water and make your walk back home. But when you caught movement from the corner of your eye, your body froze. The reality of being out in a cove so far away from town with no one knowing your location sits in your stomach like a brick.

"U...um hello?" You call out to the dark, maybe not the smartest idea but your mouth moves before you have time to think about it.

Your blood ran cold when you got no response, watching as the shadowy figure only got closer. Now that it was coming into the moonlight you could make out small shapes. Humanoid figures, two of them, a bit larger than you.

Somewhere along the way your brain finally made the connection that it should be telling your legs to move. Your legs felt like weights were strapped to them with each step you took back.

Just when you think the two figures will give chase, they stop. Curiosity seemed to be winning the little internal battle as you turned back and watch them. Squinting your eyes to get a closer look at what emerged from the water.

Two men, the water covering their lower waists. Little water droplets trail down their exposed chest, tracing every curve as it does. A breath ticks by, then a heartbeat, before the raven-haired man begins to move again. Out of instinct you look away and squeeze your eyes shut.

Silence washes over everything, even the oceans tides have stopped making noise. Until you hear what sounds like someone slapping the water.

Your eyes flicker over before you have time to stop yourself. You have to do a double take when you see how the man's perched up against the sands. Where legs should be is a tail, much longer than your legs. Blue orbs meet yours and for a moment there's a look of excitement when they meet. The depth of his blues is almost deep enough to make you forget about the fact that he's not entirely human. But when his tail slaps the water again, it reminds you of just that.

The red head circles around in the water a few times. His curly hair clings to the front of his face obscuring most of his features. Between the two of them he looks much shyer and more reserved, like he's waiting for you to make a move. Slowly inching closer to the other, he wades in the water with fins flared out.

They're both beautiful. Unlike anything you've ever seen, myths that have swam right out of a story book. Your stomach starts to do flips and your head begins to spin. It's all too much. It has to be a dream. The one with ocean-colored eyes goes to say something. He opens his mouth, but all that comes are sounds and syllables you'd never be able to make if you tried. When you tilt your head in confusion he stops and looks back at the other. The look on his face is clear, you don't need to speak their language to know the look of, "I told you so."

Their eyes fall back on you watching every little movement. The way your breathing slows. You should just grab your shoes and run back home, pretend you never saw this and go on with your life.

But it's hard when you watch the red head grab a shell and dig it into the sand. When he's finished, he looks up at you and gestures for you to look.

From the way the black haired one's face lit up and tail picked up speed you could only assume he was excited. He wraps his arms around the red head and shakes him back and forth, which only earns him a few grunts and a nudge.

Slowly you make your way over to the men. Just close enough to see what they were gesturing down towards. The fear of being dragged down to the depth by these two was still there, but the other part of you still thought this was a weird dream.

For a shell picked up on the beach, the drawing wasn't bad. It looked like a shaky attempt at a human with their mouth open. If you squint and tilt your head just right it looked like you.

When you look down at him, he grins and goes to draw in the sand again. Lines being dug quickly and traced over and over until they stick. When he's finished, he looks up at you again.

This time it looks like two fish swimming around. Chasing one another in some strange trance. The little spots and stripes across their tails made you realize they were supposed to be the two men in front of you.

The smile that spreads across your face makes their hearts leap. You gestured for the shell, a small giggle escaping your lips when the red head did a double take. The first contact with something so bizarre. Your fingertips brush against his skin as you take the shell and he's sure this is what lightning feels like. A jolt of something he feels every time Stan touches him.

You bend down and begin tracing a pattern in the sand next to his drawing. They slowly move up next to you, watching intently at your work. When you’re finished, they tilt their head and grin, turning to one another and speaking in that language that sounds like rain beating against a car window.

This went on all night, trying to figure out a way to communicate that didn't involve speech. While it was annoying at times, having to play a game of charades with creatures from a storybook. But at the same time there was something so freeing about not having to worry about saying the wrong thing. They seemed to be happy with every little thing you did, every little drawing you made in the sand, and every bit of laughter that came from your mouth.

Stan decided that was his favorite sound. The way your eyes lit up and the way your lips curled to that soft smile.

And there you stayed until the sun crept up, peeking over where He and the ocean meet. The radiance and warmth touched your skin reminding you of the passage of time. Something that seemed to slip by so quickly. It wasn't the first time you were disappointed to leave your little spot, but it was the first time you were disappointed to say goodbye.

The two men watched as you picked your shoes up and gave them a gentle little wave. They left you with one last bit of laughter as they waved with their hands and their tails. Before you could turn away, they flung themselves back into the water. Bodies twist and turn in the water as they come in contact with the cool waves.

The walk home felt heavy, but not in a way that was uncomfortable. The weight of something new, whatever it was, felt good.

Since that night your little secluded space has been accompanied by your two friends. Tracing memories into the sand, learning about one another the best you could.

There was only so much one could learn from pictures. That didn't stop you from trying, however. Over time you learned the two men were partners in all ways. Their love for each other ran deep, apparent in the way they smiled at each other. You didn't need a common tongue to see the love there. How beautiful.

You learned that they only come to see you at night. It took a while to piece it together, but eventually it clicked. Even though they were quick to trust you, didn't mean they were quick to come out in broad daylight. It was just safer this way and to be honest, you didn't mind.

Most nights were spent with you singing to your heart’s content. Watching in amazement as they graced your song with their dance. Sharing things from your different lives. They showed you fish that you've never seen before, rocks and plants. Things found only in the deepest parts of the ocean. And in return you showed them fruits and vegetables, foods they wouldn't normally be able to taste without it getting soggy. It was fascinating watching them react in different ways to the taste of things. The raven haired one seemed to like most of the things you brought, there were a few things he preferred over the other.

But the red head seemed to be a bit pickier about what he liked and didn't. Everything you brought was fine until the day you brought them bananas. Showing them how to peel it and eat the inside, not the outside, was the easy part. The hard part was not laughing when the red head immediately spit it out and tossed it so far into the ocean, that it disappeared in the dark. Even harder so when his partner laughed at him, sounding like waves crashing into a ship.

After you finished the small picnic that you packed, you stood up and began your song. Something you were working on in between nights that you couldn't come see the pair. Nights where it stormed or if the weather was too bad.

And like clockwork the two began their dance. It was hard to see in the depths of the ocean, the dark blues masquerading in their movements. But that was never the reason you sang in the first place; it was just a bonus to have an audience.

Your song is cut midway when the red head swam up to you, leaving his partner with the upper half of his head sticking out. You watch as he twists his body and tail, circling you like he's beckoning you to come into the water. Drawing in a breath, his movements feel hypnotic. In a way that doesn't take away your agency, almost comforting.

Each step deeper feels less like treading water and more like walking on air. The water rises to your waist, then to your stomach, then your neck and soon you're no longer walking but floating. Clothes cling to you like second skin, but the consequences be damned now. You damned them long ago when you chose to stay on the beach that night.

Inhaling as deeply as you can, precious oxygen fills your lungs. You dip your head into the cool water and immediately your hair begins to flow around you. The men stare in amazement, quickly circling you. As one circles your back, fingers brushing through your hair. The other is already in front of you staring into your eyes.

It's like seeing you in a new light for them. Their fingers brush over every part of exposed skin. Watching as you kick your legs to tread the waves.

"It must be hard to move without fins. Looks exhausting." The red head speaks making your eyes go wide.

You can understand him.

"I dunno, kinda looks like they're using their hips! I told you they wouldn't hate coming in the water!" His partner responds with a smug smile.

You can understand him!

"Hmm!" Before you could stop yourself, you open your mouth is shock, bubbles of air floating to the top.

"Is the land walker trying to breath in the water, Stan?"

"I don't know? I thought they couldn't do that."

Stan. The black haired one's name is Stan. You could understand them and had no way of communicating. This is what it must feel to be a fish trapped behind glass. The irony is almost funny.

What isn't is the way your lungs begin to burn. It feels like you just stepped into their world and now you have to step away from it. With a quick kick of your legs, you push yourself back up to the surface, taking deep breaths once you break. The men follow you still circling around you, if you didn't know any better think, they were hungry sharks looking for their next meal.

Their eyes train on you. Watching every little movement just like that night. Past the rocking waves you can almost make out their lips moving. Talking to one another and conversing.

Just as you contemplate going back down, you feel a hand on your ankle. Stan looks up towards you and his eyes light up. Either the lack of air or too much salt water is making you go crazy, it almost looks as if he's asking to pull you back down. It makes your heart flutter to know that you're able to understand them even though you've only known them a short time.

You take another breath and nod at him. He wastes no time pulling you back down towards him. His partner’s hands come down to your waste, acting as an anchor. Their bodies pressed against yours in such a way that reminds you that they're still shirtless. You only hope they can't see the blush on your face.

"So, you're sure this will work Kyle?" Stan asks, his eyes flickering from you to the red head behind him.

"Only one way to find out, go ahead. If it does, we can explain ourselves." Kyle speaks so softly, almost as softly as his hands on your hips squeeze.

You want to say something, ask them what they mean. The little muffled noises you make are enough to catch their attention again. Stan takes a deep breath and looks down at you. But his eyes don't land on yours, they travel down to your lips.

His head dips down slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away. He understands the move he makes is bold. But when you don't pull your head back, when you don't struggle against their hold, he places his lips onto yours. They're soft. Gentle. Almost perfect. They feel like the rocking of waves, lulling you into feeling of mental repose.

It isn't until he pulls away that you realize you're not holding your breath. You haven't for a while. The loss of his kiss makes your eyes flutter open slowly. He states down at you and cocks his head to the side.

"I think it worked? They're not freaking out." Stan breaks the silence with a murmur.

Kyle's hands move off your hips just as Stan pulls away from you. They move around you again watching as you float there.

You open your mouth and feel strange, like your tongue doesn't quite fit in your mouth. But it does, the taste of the saltwater brushing against it reminds you that it's there. A few bubbles escape your mouth but nothing like before. You hesitate for a moment before drawing in.

When your lungs don't burn like you expect them to, you do it again. Breathing out and then back in. Each time is different until it feels like breathing. You look down at your hands and then back at the men who are grinning from ear to ear.

"It worked! Oh shit!"

And you laugh. You laugh at the comment. At the situation. At the jubilation in your heart. You're under the water breathing as they would. Each time you breath in so do they. It makes you wonder if their hearts are beating with yours.

"I can't believe this." Your voice is so small, it's hard to make it any louder.

"I can't either." Kyle responds to you with a chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest. "It was my idea and Stan gets to kiss you first."

He responds to you. Talking to you like it's something he's done every day this week. Between the three of you Kyle looks like he's the only one not freaking out, because as you look at Stan, he has the same dorky grin that you're sure is on your face.

"Wait, but how am I able to do this?! Why can I understand you guys?! How did you know to do this?!" The questions spill from your lips faster than either men have time to answer.

"Kyle read it in some book! Apparently, we used to interact with you land walkers a lot in the past." Stan says circling around you again.

"It wasn't some book dude; it was a journal left behind by someone who fell in love with a land walker. They figured out our kisses grant them the ability to breath under water for a short time." Kyle follows Stan in the circle almost like he's compelled to do it.

"But why?"

"Dunno, I didn't really read the rest of it. I was just excited that we could bring you down here with us."

"Should have seen the way he swam into my room~! It was cute!"

"Shut up!"

"No way dude, you're cute. You just have to accept it! The sooner you do the easier it'll be for all of us!"

You smile at their bickering even though you could understand them, it didn't feel different than when you couldn't. Trying your best to keep up with their circling, your body twists, and spins around with them. Their tails get closer to you with each spin, veil like fins brush against your legs. Closer and closer until their hands are back on your body again. Each time you began to float back to the top, their hands would pull you back down. And each time, their touch lingered a little longer.

"But now you're down here with us. We can talk to you and hear you finally!" Kyle smiles down at you, "Just be sure to let us know if you start to struggle to breathe. It'll be my pleasure to give you more time."

The little hum behind his voice makes your face burn, the flirty tone isn't hard to pick up. It made you wonder if the kiss was just an excuse to keep you down here, if they knew that it was making your heart pound against your chest. Did they put their hands on your hips and arms just to keep you from floating away or was there more to the touches? Was this okay to feel this way?

"O-oh um...thank you Kyle and thank you Stan. For um...all of this. This is amazing, I would have never been able to dream of something so beautiful." It takes you a while to find your voice again, so wrapped up in your own head.

"You don't need to thank us for doing something we wanted to do in the first place. We wanted you down here." Stan's mind almost goes blank when he hears your name fall from your lips.

"I-I just feel like it's something to be thankful for. You trust me this much."

"Trust?" Kyle tilts his head and chuckles. "I guess you could see it that way, but honestly it's just selfishness on our part."

Oh, the leap in his chest when you tilt your head at him, that adorable look of curiosity in your eyes. The water makes them sparkle in ways that gems could never. Stan circles behind him and lays his chin on his partner’s shoulder just as he reaches up and brushes some of the stands of hair out of your face.

"As fun as our little games on the sand were, it was frustrating being so close to you and not being able to tell you how we feel."

Stan picks up where Kyle leaves off, "How happy you made us every time you came out to sing. We had no idea what you were saying, it just sounded like humming and chanting! Now we can!"

"My singing means that much to you?"

"Well...yeah. It brought us together, didn't it?" Stan blinks at you

How could he say something so sweet so bluntly. If they continued this little team attack on your heart it was going to make the water around your face boil. Out of habit you go to move your hands to your face to cover them. But it's like they had a read on your movements and their hands come up to take your wrists.

Kyle takes over and pulls you to his body, his arm moves around your waist. You can feel the laughter rumble up through his chest from how close he's holding you. "Before Stan got the idea to come up to the shores, we used to dance by the rocks for hours. Something about the way you sing, it's irresistible."

"At first it was just supposed to be a one-time thing, but then we came back and there you were." As Stan speaks Kyle twirls you around.

Letting his hold on you go, the momentum spins you towards Stan whose hands find your hips. He lifts you up in the water, twisting his body around in a gentle waltz. When you gasp, he only laughs and lets you go just as your body flips back. Arching your spine, you follow the movement into a full flip where your hands find his.

"Singing again. Pulling us into a trance again, and again, and again." Every whisper of the word 'again' and he gets closer to your face.

Your eyes flutter shut getting ready for another kiss from the man in your arms. It never comes, but the feeling of being pulled away makes you open your eyes again. Kyle's arms, the paler skin, finds purchase on your waist and pulls you down out of Stan's hold. You get a quick glimpse of his pout before he goes to circle the both of you.

"I don't know if love at first sight is the right way to describe it, but you made Stan and I feel something we only felt with each other. So, we had to get you down here. Needed to know everything about you, had to hear your voice and tell you how we felt." Kyle confesses as he lets you go and follows his lover in the circular motion.

You're in the middle of their dance now, yet you feel a part of it. You feel a part of them and everything they felt. Kyle was right, maybe love was too strong of a word but there was something akin to it. Something like you felt for the moon when you sang to Her or the ocean, yet this felt grounded. Heavy like how you felt that night you walked home the first time.

The feeling was overwhelming you, starting to boil over that you were sure that tears were spilling from your eyes. You've never cried from happiness like this before, much less cried under water. What could you say to that? Thank them again? You'd be here all night thanking them until you needed air again.

So instead, you opened your mouth and began to sing. Your voice echoes through the deep, letting the undertow take your song to places you know you'll never see. Even now it's impossible to think about just all the places your voice will carry you, but it doesn't matter. Now when it's lead you here. In this beautiful moment surrounded by admiration and a heart’s desire.

Just as the waves push forward, Kyle rides the momentum towards you. Pressing a kiss into your lips. He silences your song for just a moment before continuing his ride.

Just as the waves pull back, Stan lets it carry him towards you. His lips replacing his partners on yours. The song resumes when he's pulled away.

Push and pull. Song and dance. How poetic that you would fall in love with the moon and ocean.

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kennytheworkingclasshero · 8 months ago

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working on a long form style fic that’s kinda like a hockey au but stan has been injured and dropped out of college and now it’s like just a depressed stan fic :(

#I need to put more fluff in there lmao #south park #south park fic #sp style #kyle broflovski #stan marsh #sp style fic #noreen talks

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hunnysnoops · 1 year ago

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˗ˋ𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕤ˊ˗

Chapter One: Undone

Kylie Broflovski x fem Reader

If you want to destroy my sweater, pull this thread as I walk away.

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Premise: Despite having almost inseparable families, you and Kyle couldn't hate each other anymore than you already. The second you saw him you had your claws out and we would be ready to hold a knife to your throat, like wolves you devoured each other until a bump in the road sent you tumbling into a new dynamic. Maybe you two can find new ways to fall apart.

Warnings: Vulgar language+humour / mentions of smoking and drugs / Cartman gets called fat

MASTERLIST

Kyle was the only one who knew how truly competitive you were. He couldn't figure out how no one else saw especially during your sports matches, you always had to be forward, had to score the last point, had to win, and you craved it as compulsively as the nicotine you sucked from your fingernails when you ran out of cigarettes to burn through.

Your parents had always been close to Kyle's since high school allegedly; being constantly forced to jump back and forth between each other's houses for family dinners and game nights didn't aid in the fact that you wanted to tear each other's throats out with razor-sharp teeth. They say that distance makes the heart grow fonder and this absurd proximity made the both of you sick with a frothing rage.

You couldn't pinpoint exactly where this hatred started, it was likely back in middle school where it was taboo for boys and girls to hang out, and those kids acted like it breached scripture if you did. Truthfully you didn't remember being friends but there was photo evidence of you playing as children so you couldn't deny it.

He has seen every inch of your life inside and out from the seventeen years that you were cursed to spend side by side. He knew that you had some fun habits such as swallowing back a little bit of synthetic sunshine in the form of little tabs of acid and how you would take a joint for a stroll in the dead of night.

For every secret he held over your head, you dangled one of his right before his green eyes. This is the only thing that kept all hell from breaking loose.

"Good practice girls, I'll see all of you on Thursday," Coach Jackson said, with no indication of pride for the team's gruelling efforts on her tanned face, not even a dribble of sweat on her brow since all she did was stand in place and yell at you.

As soccer practice finally came to a close the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting an orange glow on the team where you all lay on the ground of the pitch next to your bags, trying to catch your breath. Nichole chugged down her water so fast that it was dribbling down her chin and droplets had soaked into her tee shirt.

You were the most composed of all of them despite being a little short of breath, you wiped the sweat from the bow of your lip and began to peel off your sweaty shin guards.

"How are you so okay?" Annie asked, red-faced, strands of her curly blonde hair sticking out and flying loose in the wind while she sipped on a Gatorade.

You shrug "I run a lot," It was the truth, you liked the feeling of burning in your lungs along with the fact that you built up good stamina and in turn were able to withstand your coach's harsh practices.

"I should start running with you," Annie says, panting heavily before she throws herself flat against the cool grass.

"I don't know if you could keep up," There's something of a smile playing on Red's face while she shoves her gross gear into her duffle bag. "I see her run by my house every night." She had a bit of trouble keeping her shag cut tied back in a ponytail, any attempt to get the layers to stay in a braid or bun was futile so she settled on a black headband to at least keep it out of her face.

Off in the distance, Bebe honked her car horn, she had shown up early to pick up her friends and due to this in the last fifteen minutes of practice you could hear classic Justin Bieber blasting faintly from her car. "Annie, we gotta go," Nichole says.

"Ugh," Annie draws out in her dazey state. Nichole paid her friend the service of grabbing her bag and trying to drag her up to her feet.

"C'mon," Nichole mutters, hooking an arm around Annie and yanking her up to her feet. Annie finds her own footing and detaches herself from Nichole, she's still in her shin guards and cleats. "Are you coming to Wendy's later?" Nichole looks at you, sweat shimmering on her ebony skin beneath the setting sun.

You think about it for a moment before ultimately shaking your head "I gotta pick my brother up."

"What about after?"

"Too crammed with homework," You were lying through your teeth, your social battery was just running a little low and things with your dad weren't going too great. You made the decision that you needed to lock yourself in the bathroom run the shower over your skin and scrub until the water washed away the stress of your week or get high with Kenny until you felt your face go numb. Just something along those lines.

"Too bad," Annie frowns, eyes half-lidded and breathes shallow.

"See you tomorrow then," Red waves at you before heading to her car, bright hair sticking out in the green landscape.

“Love ya, Red,” You look around at the rest of your team, all cooling down and conversing "Anyone need a ride home?" Everyone looks around and shakes their heads "Isla?"

"No," She says "I'm going with Kelly."

"Alright," You sling your bag over your shoulder, clutching your carabiner in hand, it has a little keychain of a Volkswagon bus on it, a cowboy hat knick-knack and of course your actual keys. "Bye guys, see you on Thursday."

Your words are met with collective 'goodbyes' from the girls. You walk off the pitch, and despite your legs feeling like jello you manage to step off of the grassy field and land on concrete, lazy steps leading you back to your car.

Tossing your bag into the backseat, you tap around on your phone to connect to the speaker, turn it up as loud as it goes and roll down your windows. You liked your music so loud that you couldn't even hear your own thoughts, just your playlist on shuffle as you absentmindedly sang along to it. You grabbed some body spray and doused the car in it to cover up the subtle linger of cigarettes from your late-night drive the previous evening.

The air was warm and carried the scent of fresh-cut grass as you drove through the familiar suburban streets. With the windows down, you felt the gentle breeze tousle your hair, a welcome relief from the day's heat. You hummed along to the music, mind drifting as you navigated the familiar route.

As you turned the corner onto the neighbour's street, the sun painted the sky in a breathtaking array of colours - hues of orange, pink, and purple blending seamlessly against the evening sky. You couldn't help but steal a moment to admire the beauty of the sunset, the vibrant colours reflecting in your eyes. It was nearing six pm when you finally pulled into the Broflovski driveway.

You step out, looking a little worse for wear. You had taken off your shin guards and cleats but left the knee-high socks on as well as a tee shirt with the Park County cows logo on it and a pair of athletic shorts. It was one of the warmer days since it was nearing summer though South Park had a way with erratic weather that couldn't make up its mind, you were sure there would be a storm tomorrow to cancel out the nice weather.

Knocking on the door, you put on a smile, expecting to see Gerald or Sheila though you were unpleasantly met with their oldest son, Kyle. Your smile drops immediately and it's easy to see that he isn't too excited to see you either. "Oh." You push passed Kyle and into his house "Weston," You call out "Time to go!"

Kyle wrinkles his nose "You smell like hand sanitizer," He says, speaking on all of the body mist you had sprayed in the car.

"And you look like orphan Annie," You turn quickly to face him before calling up the stairs "Weston, let's go!"

"Did you leave your windows down at the car wash?" His eyes rake up your body at your sweaty form, little strands of hair sticking to your neck.

"Go on Accutane, matchstick," You retort. This nickname came about when Kyle began to outgrow his friends, with a lanky body and a mop of curly red hair, the nickname struck you in a moment of genius. As of now, he was wearing his hat, he hardly ever took it off, especially out in public. You'd only seen it come off his head when he was swimming or when his mom forced it off.

Something about the Broflovski house was always comforting even if you hated one-fourth of the family, you loved the other three. The scent of whatever Sheila was cooking always lingered in the air, right now the smell was sweet and faint. You assumed she hadn't been home but caught a glimpse of a cookie rack set out on the kitchen counter.

His eyebrows furrow "My acne isn't even that bad," He was right, you just knew that it got under his skin "Crash," He says, a little less creative than your nickname for him, born from the time you did acid and woke up in his backyard, luckily before his parents noticed you but not after Kyle took pictures of you passed out on the grassy lawn as well as a few rumours that had been spread about you.

"Sure, ginger, sorry you have a hard knock life," You had run out of insults to call him after seventeen years. In middle school, you ripped on him constantly for how scrawny he was along with voice cracks and his acne, though in recent years, he had passed puberty, had a deeper voice, sorted out his pimple issue, and taken to running, basketball, lacrosse, and going to the gym to tone up. You could still rag on him for it but it has less impact when it wasn't true and god knows you wouldn't go mocking his religion, you may have hated him but you had morals. All you had left to make fun of was his hair colour.

It was similar to the way he couldn't make fun of you for being ugly, unpopular, or stupid like he used to since puberty hit you like a bus and you were almost unrecognizable from the brace-faced awkward kid you used to be. You were also a little too confident and erratic for his liking.

You were going to make your way upstairs to Ike's room where you assumed the two boys had been until you heard the familiar sound of upbeat electric rhythms and horribly overacted lines of Fury Fighters, a classic 1v1 fighting game. You move away from Kyle and turn in to the living room where you see your little brother and Ike on the couch, hyper-focused on the game ahead of them. "Did you go deaf suddenly or were you just ignoring me?"

"I was ignoring you," Weston says, bluntly. His hair is an untamed mess and the collar of his wrinkled tee is stretched out. He doesn't even look back at you but Kyle cracks a smile at his words.

"C'mon shrimp, we gotta go," You say, crossing your arms.

He lets out a groan "Can I stay like thirty more minutes?"

You shake your head "Nah, Kyle's cologne is giving me a headache."

Ike snorts a laugh and glances back at his brother, his smile falls when he looks at you; he's putting on his tough guy persona. He clears his throat and deepens his voice in the slightest "What's up?" It was clear that the little brother had a crush on you though no one brought it up, you could tell it bothered Weston.

"Hey, Ike," You give him a tight-lipped smile, watching as he turns back to the TV, fingers clicking over the controller aggressively. "You can finish this round and we're out."

"Yes!" Weston says "Thanks, love you," He says with haste, thinking that it'll butter you up.

You plop yourself on the carpeted floor in front of the couch to watch the match play out. Ike was playing as Tempest, a mage who was wise and old, a long white beard yet he somehow had an absolutely shredded pixel body. Weston was playing Sable, a pink-haired woman in a short nurse's uniform who used surgical tools as weapons, she was your go-to back when you still played Fury Fighters with your friends. You would refuse to play as a man because it breached your pre-teen code of feminism. Watching them play made you feel nostalgic.

Kyle leans his elbows on the back of the couch, hands clasped together to watch the game, the same as you. "Kick his ass, Weston," Kyle says, rooting for your brother, purely to annoy his.

"Hey!" Ike exclaims though he doesn't move his unwavering gaze from the game "Whose side are you on?"

"Smoke him, Ike!" You say, a little louder than intended to balance out the cheering section.

Sheila always kept the household neat which was a miracle with Ike and Weston always running around, recently she had taken to a love of houseplants and had at least one in every corner of the home. There were framed pictures strung up on every single wall without fail, lots of the family, Sheila's wedding day, and a collection of you and Kyle actually getting along when you were kids. There's one of the two of you playing under a sprinkler in rain boots, another of you standing and smiling brightly by a snowman you made, and a picture of Kyle covering all of your little scrapes in Spider-Man band-aids. In every photo of you after the age of seven, you were with the rest of your families on opposite ends, as far away from each other as you could get.

You look back to the TV where Ike's character, Tempest summons the dead with his staff, grey decaying hands rise from the 2D ground and drag Sable down. "Fuck!" Weston yells, panic quickly spreading across his face, his eyes shoot back and forth frantically from the controller to the TV.

Sable jumps back up and readies herself into a fighting stance, Tempest moves his staff, a green diamond on the end, horizontally and jabs Sable in the stomach over and over until she rolls back to the ground. Ike has a huge grin on his face, shaggy black hair framing his pale features, he desperately needed a haircut but for now, he was relishing in watching Sable's health bar move down.

"By the elements, I shall prevail!" Calls out Tempest, his voice actor had really put his all into making him sound deep and gruff. Ike randomly spams the buttons, sending out an erratic combo. The characters were fighting in the center of a dark alley, blue and red lights flashing every few minutes.

Sable pulls a long scalpel out of her thigh-high socks and charges towards Tempest, slashing him. When Tempest's health bar falls, Sable speaks out a voice line "Every wound has a remedy," Her sultry voice makes you cringe just the slightest, you hadn't remembered her to sound so sensual.

Tempest rises back up, jumps toward Sable and greets the character with a heavy uppercut, sending her flying through the air. You find your fingers digging into the carpet, you had hoped that Sable would win just from the fact that you used to play as her. You almost wanted to grab the remote from your brother's hand and show him how to play as her, you had memorized all of her combos and moves, and they became muscle memory to you. "You're demise is written in the stars!" The buff wizard raises his hands to the sky, gearing up to cast one final blow.

In the midst of this, Sable jumps up, pulls a bone saw out from behind her back and slices Tempest's head clean off before he can finish casting his spell. Ike drops his controller, moving his hand to grab his hair, eyes wide and mouth agape in shock while he watches his character's health bar plummet to zero. The wizard's head rolls around on the pixel ground before Sable picks it up and kisses it "Nurse's orders: Stay down," She says before drop-kicking the head out of frame. A title card covers up the scene that reads 'It's a wrap!’

"Fuck yeah!" Weston says, giving Kyle a firm high five. He looked happier than you had seen him all week, middle school was kicking his ass and you had to pull some time aside almost every night to help him with algebra. You would've scolded him for playing video games instead of studying for his social studies test if you hadn't been doing the same at his age.

"How the hell did you do that?" Ike's head whips to look at his friend who just shrugs.

You push yourself off the floor, giving your brother's hair a little tussle "Let's go, shrimp."

With a groan Weston up to slip his shoes on at the rack, "See you tomorrow, Ike," He grabs his bag where it sits by the coat stand. Kyle hurdles himself over the couch, taking Weston's place on the sofa and picking up the free controller to play "Bye Kyle!" He says, lacing up his sneakers.

Kyle looks over the couch and at him with a smile "See you later buddy."

The second you think Weston is looking away you stick up the middle finger to the red-headed boy across from you but it surely didn't go unnoticed "Why are you flipping Kyle off?" Weston asks, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks up at you.

You drop your hand "I'm not, I was waving at him." You lie, trying to form a cover-up. You place a hand between his shoulder blades to guide him out the door.

"You're sweaty," He comments.

"Thanks, I had no idea," You open the door and close it behind you before Kyle can say anything to your brother's remark. It's already colder than when you entered the house and you race to get to the car before you get a chill.

Weston hops into the passenger seat, scrunching up his nose at the music you're playing "Can you put on Lil Shovel?" He asks. It was one of the many rappers he had attempted to imitate. He thought they were cool for decking themselves out in designer brands and sticking dollar bills into women's thongs in music videos.

"I'm not playing that shit," You start the car and turn out of the driveway.

"Why?"

"Because it makes me want to hammer nails into my ears," You answer, eyes focused in the road while you glide through the suburban street. "Listen to Eminem or something."

"Dad doesn't like Eminem."

You wrinkle your nose "Why?"

"Because he said that thing about the gerbil."

Recognition hits you and you nod "Yeah, that checks out," Your dad was a pretty modest guy, he didn't care about anything overly vulgar. He basically mandated your life, he was the reason you were in so many extracurriculars and were the last person in your grade to get a phone, something Kyle would've teased you for if your parents weren't so similar.

"Can you drive me and Ike to the quarry on Friday?" Weston has one hand sticking out of the window moving it up and down like it was a plane, it was something you used to do before you were the one driving, a little mannerism he picked up off you.

"I have track practice and then I gotta help Heidi and Wendy with their fundraiser, sorry, shrimp," You take note of every house you pass, swearing you could put a name to every single one. You felt the fatigue hit you all at once, you knew that night your bed would become a casket and you would have to be pried from it like a floorboard. "Ask Kyle."

"We did, he has basketball practice."

"Bummer," You say. It had slipped your mind completely that he was on the team and you hated it and how your friends gushed about Kyle before catching themselves and sending you apologetic glances. "Guess you gotta bike then."

You remember when you were your brother's age, twelve years old and you came home every night at sunset with a new scrape to show for the adventure you set out on. You gave bruises out like gifts and collected them like stickers, some sort of pride when parents would silently judge you for having purple busted-up knees.

"Mhm," He nods "Hey, can we go to Burger King?"

"No," You say almost immediately "Mom's making dinner right now."

Weston scrunched up his nose "Yeah but she had the crock pot out on the counter when I left for school today," Nothing good came from your mother's crock pot. "Can we please get Burger King?"

"First of all, Mom will kill me if I load you up with more fast food, second of all, she's gonna make you eat her dinner anyways, so just be nice and tell her it's good."

"Ugh," He grumbles watching wistfully into the distance, his thoughts stuck on the combo he was craving. "I should've stayed at Ike's for dinner."

"Yeah, me too," News of the dreaded crock pot had only worsened your day. Sheila on the other hand was an incredible cook, as much as you loved your mom and the effort she put into her meals, nothing would compare to Sheila's brisket. The thought of it almost made your stomach grumble. If you lived with Broflovski's you would've weighed three hundred pounds more.

Your mind ricochets back and forth between going home or heading to Wendy's with the rest of your friends though the thought of being alone with tobacco burning your throat soothed you.

The drive from the Broflovski's to yours wasn't too long, truthfully, your brother was perfectly capable of walking. The sky transformed into a canvas of deepening shades, the last traces of sunlight giving way to the embrace of twilight. You stole glances at your brother, his animated chatter filling the car with warmth.

You park the car in the driveway behind your dad's car, he would surely yell at you to move it in the morning but that was a problem for future you and a decision you would regret making. You pull up on the street right in front of your house. Weston was quick to hop out of the car, he rushed across the lawn and waited by the front door for you to turn off the car, but you didn't, you just watched and waited for him to go inside.

"Are you coming?" Weston asked.

You stick your head out of the window "Tell Mom I'm stopping by Red's, I'll be back before dinner," Weston rolls his eyes at this, he didn't care for Red, since you started being friends with her you had even less time to spend with your brother. Nights of staying up late with Weston and playing Stardew Valley turned into you hanging out with your friend and getting high.

"Tell Rebecca to eat a dick!" Weston cups his hands around his mouth.

"I won't do that but good suggestion," You call back before stepping on the peddle and moving back down the familiar streets. It was just past six and there hadn't been anyone outside, everyone was tucked away in their respective home, warm lights from windows spilling into the darkening sky.

You didn't go to Red's, you just kept driving until you ended up at a gas station on the outskirts of town. It had long passed the dinner you promised to be home for, instead of eating the crock pot monstrosity, you opt for something with a sweeter taste, a cigarette and a bag of teriyaki beef jerky. You sat on the curb watching cars roll past, their headlights framing you like you were on stage. You just craved the aloneness you so rarely got.

You shuffle through the cafeteria line, undecided on what you want to eat but settling on one of those sugar-free drinks that are worse for you than just grabbing a regular soda for a drink. "Keep it moving, Junkie," Cartman says from beside you. God how he irked you, it was in his nature to be unbearable.

"What? Not like it's going anywhere, I'm more worried for the people in line behind you who have to eat crumbs."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" He asks adding a paper plate of ribs to his tray and then another.

"It means you're fat."

He shrugs "Doesn't bother me," Cartman had grown to be a little more self-aware, by a little I mean a very small smidgen.

"You're a fat-fat fatty, keep eating fatty," your voice was unwavering. You hadn't had too much of a problem with Cartman throughout school, sure he had been a dick but you never interacted enough for him to be on your radar until he started a rumour about you shooting up heroin in the janitors closet which led to him telling everyone you were a drug dealer. This cursed you with the nicknames of crash, popper, and of course, junkie. When it first happened you weren't even aware, you just sat confused about why everyone was adding your Snapchat and asking about buying stuff from you. Eventually, staff caught wind of this and it only got worse from there.

"Fuck you, crash," He sticks up a middle finger at you "You're a dyke."

You return the gesture "At least I get pussy, lard ass."

"I have tons of sex, you faggot."

"Your hand doesn't count," You say examining the food in the chafing dishes which looked surprisingly good for school food.

"I don't care if you're a girl, I will kick your ass," He starts to get in your face but you don't bother to acknowledge it, still looking through the food options.

"I bet if I pushed you over you would just keep rolling."

"Whatever bitch."

"Hurry up, butterball," Bebe cuts in front of Eric who has a look of pure seething rage on his face. She looks beautiful as always, blonde curly hair falling in perfect ringlets and framing her dainty face. She's wearing a red off-the-shoulders sweater and low-waisted jeans, it's such a simple outfit but Bebe manages to make it look unique and expensive.

"Fuck you, Bebe," he turns a middle finger to her, "Go shoot up with your little lezzy girlfriend." That was another rumour that he successfully sparked, that you and Bebe were secretly dating. The two of you found it funnier than the heroin thing and played into it on occasion.

"You're so fucking stupid," Bebe wrinkles her nose in distaste of the chubby kid in front of her "Don't crack the floor when you waddle over to your table, fat ass," She adds a yogurt parfait onto her tray and keeps moving down the line, you follow in suit.

The two of you hand the lunch lady your cafeteria card but your eye snags on something else entirely "Where's Wendy?"

Bebe looks in the same direction as you where your entire friend group sits, minus Wendy who you could've sworn was there only moments ago. Her tray still sat in front of her spot on the table "She's talking with Stan I think."

"What?" You look at the blonde text to you while you find your table "Are they getting back together or something?"

"She was saying she wanted to work things out with him last night, you'd know if you were there."

"Why didn't she tell me?" You furrow your eyebrows as you glance at Stan's regular table where he was also absent from. The second thing you noticed was how irritated Kyle seemed, likely because his best friend would be opting to spend time with Wendy again instead of him. Cartman plops himself down next to the ginger, only making Kyle more agitated. When Kyle looks away for a split second, Kenny steals food off his plate and blames it on Eric. “I would never steal food from a dirty Jew!” He says, voice carrying over every other conversation in the room.

"She might not have told because you can be a little-" Bebe searches around for a word that'll soften the message "Abrasive?"

"I'm not abrasive," You say as you sit yourself down at the cafeteria table, immediately met by curious glances from the rest of your friends. This made you question yourself. Had you been so blunt that your best friend didn't want to tell you what was going on in her life? Yes. You didn't know how else to be, it was wired into your system; born from the way you were raised, like a wild animal who fought for scraps, if you didn't kill, you wouldn’t eat. Your family wasn’t really complete, it was more like something like a mom who worked herself to rust and a dad who popped in and out like some kind of disappearing act.

No one bothers to dig deeper into your sentence, already enraptured in their conversation. "I wonder how Tolkien feels about it," Lola asks, leaning in a little to where Nelly sits on the other side of the table, seemingly hanging onto every word.

"I know!" Nelly says, unable to fight the smile that formed on her face every time she gossiped "Did you notice how he isn't sitting where he usually is." At this, everyone turns their heads to Tolkien's regular table, where he’s MIA from.

Halfway through sucking the meat off of his ribs, Cartman notices everyone at your table staring them down. He glances around the table before deciding that you are looking at him, barbeque sauce smeared over his mouth and down his fingers. "What the fuck are you looking at?" He calls out, now drawing the attention of the cafeteria to you and your friends who quickly avert their gazes back to their food.

You meet Kyles's eyes for just a moment, you can read loud and clear that he's annoyed Wendy's back in the picture and she'll be poaching his best friend from him. Despite the act he's trying to portray of being indifferent, you can tell there's a storm brewing beneath his green eyes.

In your pocket, your phone buzzes and you look at it.

McWhoremick: what was that about?

You: Cartman looking rancid

McWhoremick: fair

McWhoremick: wanna hang later?

You: fo sho

You: junkyard?

McWhoremick: yup

McWhoremick: see ya :P

"What's that?" Red peaks down at your phone from next to you, her chin resting on your shoulder "Is it Wendy?"

"She's been weird lately," Jenny says, she doesn't look up from her mac and cheese, just pushes it around absentmindedly with her fork.

"Probably because all of you are talking about her like she's not our friend," Heidi peeps up for the first time in the conversation. You're a little surprised that she's eating lunch with you, in recent days she's been so busy with sustainability club that it's taken up all of her lunch breaks.

Heidi was right as usual. It didn't feel right to be talking about Wendy when she was twenty metres away, it didn't feel right to talk about her at all. The group fell quiet at this, trying to search for another topic that didn't involve speaking poorly of your friend.

"So," Red starts "Who's excited for the basketball game?"

You really weren't, you had no intentions of going though you were sure your parents would make you go to support Kyle. "I think I'll go to watch Kyle," Nichole comments. Your head whips to look at her immediately, it only made sense that she was over Tolkien after what happened with Wendy but you hadn't expected her to go for Kyle.

"Uh oh," Annie says, a small smile playing on her face. Lately, she had taken good care of her curls, a stark difference from the frizzy mess that was stuck on her head all through middle school.

"Nichole," You say, staring her down "Are you okay?"

"Sorry to say this," Bebe pipes up, not one hundred percent tuned into the conversation "He actually isn't the piece of shit that you make him out to be."

"You don't-

"Know him like I do?" Heidi finishes your sentence for you. Something you had repeated over and over again when trying to get your point across that he was evil and no one could see it but you.

"I'd do it," Lola shrugs and your face contorts in disgust.

"Ew," You say with haste, fighting the urge to gag on your food. "Do you guys realize that he's ginger under that hat?"

Everyone is unsurprised at your disdain for him, even though you tried not to talk about him so you didn't seem obsessed, every now and then, the start of a rant would slip out and that would turn into you rambling on and on about every little annoying detail about him. You wondered for a brief moment if he did the same when walking about you.

"What is it that you hate about him anyway?" Red asks.

You rack your brain for a truly solid reason you can't say that it irritated you how Kyle ran the opposite way of you on the trail on your nightly run, it was the most dreaded part of the day, brushing past him and pretending not to notice. You also couldn't delve into the fact that he always had a bored, unimpressed expression on his face when he talked to you. "Everything." You answer "I hate everything about him."

"Okay gang," Mr Waterman claps his hands together once everyone is finally seated. "I know we're getting close to the end of the year and it's exciting but there is always work to be done." He was in his thirties, a little on the shorter side, with brown hair, glasses, and lean for a teacher though it made sense since he doubled as the basketball coach. He had tried his best to be funny though his jokes usually fell flat but you found yourself laughing out of pity like it was second nature.

Wendy sat next to you, you hadn't pressed her about Stan (despite wanting to) and she hadn't brought it up. Kyle sits next to a guy whose name slipped through the cracks of your mind and stays completely silent while the teacher gives his spiel about hard work and effort.

"This will be our final seating change for the year, so if you're next to someone you don't like know it'll be over by the end of June," Mr Waterman sits himself at his desk dead in front of every lab table, shares his computer screen to the projector, showing the new seating arrangments "Alright, here are your lab partners until semester end."

You scan the whiteboard for your name and your breath hitches in your throat when you see it next to Kyles. Kyle whips his head to look at you, your gazes matching in utter terror. You had relished in the fact that You had gone the entire semester without talking to Kyle a single time in biology class.

There weren’t desks in the science labs but black tables built for two people since they worked out better for experiments, there you were stuck at the back of the class with the ginger demon spawn.

"Mr Waterman?" You raise your hand but speak before he even calls on you "You need to move me or I'll kill myself."

"Woah," He puts both of his hands out "Let's not joke about that-

"I'm not joking," You cut him off, tone dead serious. Wendy tugs at the hem of your shirt, trying to get you to sit back down, you just cast her a glance before looking back to the short teacher. "I will kill myself."

"Can you and Kyle please come up here so I can talk to you," At Mr. Waterman's words, Kyle shoots you a malicious glare.

"When you cause a scene about not wanting to sit next to someone it can be hurtful," Mr Waterman addresses you, his tanned hands grasped together. Bless his heart, Kyle thought he was getting in trouble and it would put a dent into his perfect record, the kid never even missed a day of school. You and Kyle stand side by side, in front of Mr Waterman's desk, careful to keep a distance between you. "Think about how Kyle feels right now-

"I feel like I wanna slit my wrists." He deadpans, face unreadable as ever.

"Do you guys need someone to talk to?" Mr Waterman furrows his eyebrows, lowering his voice.

"No," You say, crossing your arms “Not unless it's to get a gun so I can blow my brains out."

"Okay," He repositions himself to sit taller "Can you please tell me why you don't want to sit next to each other, I'm sure we could work this out." You waste no time trying to get yourself away from Kyle, listing off all of his little habits that annoy you. Kyle, on the other hand, bites his tongue. He didn't want his teacher to think poorly of him, not when there was still a little over a month left of the worst year of school he'd ever put himself through.

"Kyle?" You furrow your eyebrows, waiting expectantly for him to go off on how you were disruptive and rude but he sort of just stood there. For a brief moment, you thought he was having a stroke.

"It's fine," At his words, your mouth goes ajar and your eyes widen. You had thought that the two of you stood in solidarity for one thing, you wanted to get away from each other.

"Is it really?" You say through gritted teeth.

"Yeah," He looks at you then back to Mr Waterman "It's just a childhood rivalry, we're just being immature," It took a lot for him to swallow his pride. Kyle just knew he had to get through June and then senior year would be smooth sailing.

"Well," Mr Waterman says and you can tell he's prepping himself for a speech "It seems to me like the two of you could benefit from this seating arrangement. When you get jobs you won't get along with everyone you work with-

"We both have jobs already," You cut him off and Kyle shuffles awkwardly where he stands while the rest of the class chats idly and waits for the lesson to start.

Mr Waterman casts you a look and clears his throat before picking up where he left off "And I understand that sometimes, personalities clash, but we're a team here, and teamwork requires cooperation and understanding. You both have so much potential, but that potential can only be realized when you learn to work together, to support each other, and to lift each other up, rather than tear each other down."

Kyle's mind must've been somewhere else completely, it was like he was in airplane mode, nodding along to everything Mr Waterman was saying. Though you could feel boredom creeping up, fighting yourself to pay attention to the genuinely useless pep talk.

"I want you to take a moment and think about what it means to be part of a team," Mr Waterman urged, his voice gentle yet persuasive. "Think about the strength that comes from unity, the power that comes from collaboration, and the joy that comes from shared success. Both of you are strong students and I can see you doing very well working together on labs and assignments, okay?"

"Yup," You nod your head, giving a thumbs up so he would excuse you and this would blow over.

"Okay," Kyle says.

A smile forms on Mr Waterman's face, he leans further back into his desk chair. "I think I can sense a friendship forming here, now go take your seats."

You laugh awkwardly, quickly brushing past Kyle to sit in your new spot at the back of the class. You were stuck sitting next to Kyle and behind Eric Cartman, how did he get into AP biology? You weren't one hundred percent sure though you heard Isla say that it was a misplacement that never got corrected.

Once again, Mr Waterman calls the class to capture their attention. Writing about the new unit on the whiteboard in a red dry-erase pen that was squeaky and running out of ink. You ruffle through your backpack, trying to find your binder while everyone else is rapidly taking notes. You pull out a stack of textbooks and some personal reading for English, finally finding your science binder.

"Why are you reading Mein Kampf?" He looks at the book that rests on top of the stack, it's old and beaten up and smells a bit like stale orange juice, the cover holds the jarring image of Adolf Hitler.

"Because I'm racist," You say, sarcastically but Kyle doesn't pick up on this and seems a little taken aback "Joking, obviously, it's for history."

He averts his eyes back to the whiteboard. Mr. Waterman speaks briefly on physiology, before wiping the board clean and unfreezing the projector where he set up a slide show. As most science teachers do, he clicks through the slide show and waits for his students to take notes, answering the few questions that the kids have.

"Shit," You mutter as the teacher skips to the next slide before you could finish copying what was on it. You glance at Kyle "Uh, did you write all of that down?”

Wordlessly, he pushes his paper towards you to copy it, he keeps his eyes trained on the board. His writing was neat, it looked like it could've been a font, each word spaced out almost precisely from the next. Cartman snakes his head around and then moves his entire body when he sees the two of relatively civil.

"Jews got a boner for the junkie," Cartman says, a little louder than intended. Next to him, David looks beyond annoyed, he’s gripping his pencil so tightly that you wouldn’t be surprised if he broke it.

"Shut up, fatass," You and Kyle manage to say in sync before you look at each other in disgust that your thoughts matched up.

"I fucking hate high school." You say under your breath, turning to look back at your notes and pushing his back toward him.

"Me too," Kyle says and you're actually on the same page for a change, you're not sure if you like it.

A/N: I hate this but here it is anyway 😔 I promise it gets more interesting. Open to head cannons and requests rn. Thanks for reading!

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spark-w-chlo · 11 months ago

Text

more than just friends

poly!main 4 x fem!reader sfw oneshot

please enjoy you guys!

For two years now, I've been tightly wound in the warm embrace of Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny. Platonically of course. The tip of my pencil tapped incessantly against my paper as my chin rested in my hand. I first developed a crush on Stan, but the worries of breaking up a friendship forced me to wait. And then there was Kyle. And then Cartman and Kenny. It was no longer a fear of ruining my friendship with them. It was ruining my life. These four stupid boys had become my world, my family.

"Y/N!" Mr. Garrison called out. He's followed the boys from third grade into senior year of high school, or so they say.

"Um, yes?" I sat up straighter, my pencil ending its assault on the paper.

"Just because the year ends in two periods does not mean you can just doze off." He scolded. It didn't last long though, Mr. Garrison turned back to the board and continued on.

"You okay y/n?" Kyle was leaning over from his desk beside me. Almost immediately I attempted to shush him but Stan was already turning around in his seat in front of me. Kenny began playing with my hair from behind and Cartman threw a balled up piece of paper at Kyle, narrowly missing my nose. Now all their attention was on me.

"Yes. I'm fine." I muttered. I didn't want to be reminded that our senior year ended in two periods. That these four boys who I loved so much in this school I held dear were going to disappear.

"Tell the truth y/n." Stan tutted. I rolled my eyes, swatting Kenny's hand from my hair. The bell rung and I almost jumped from my seat.

"I'm. Fine." I growled out. I shoved my notebook into my bag and left the class as quickly as I could. I knew I wouldn't really lose them. They had all peeked at my college application list to figure out where I was going. Kyle and Stan applied and got accepted, just as I had. Cartman and Kenny said they were just along for the ride, that they'd "follow me anywhere."

And they are. The four of them found a place for us to live in near campus. So we'd all go to the same place. But we wouldn't be the same people.

I didn't even realize I was in front of my locker until Kenny poked me.

"y/n?" He mumbled, his mouth covered by his hood. Kenny and I had a... different relationship from the others. We'd hang out and snuggle and watch movies. He said he wanted the human contact. I just wanted to hold one of the boys I loved. I mean, how ridiculous? Being in love with four-

Kenny's hand slammed against the locker beside mine.

"What is it." He asked me. His soft, comforting voice now hard and commanding. I almost started to sweat.

"It's nothing." I muttered, closing my locker after retrieving my book.

"y/n-" The bell cut him off and I turned to look at him. Further down the hall, Stan, Kyle, and Cartman walked towards us. All four of them looked angry.

"I have to go to class." I turned and basically sprinted towards my last two classes of the day. Only four of my classes contained all four boys. My last two were with Kyle, but we had assigned seats. It didn't stop him from staring at me from across the classroom. I rushed out of the class the second that bell rang too. I skipped the second to last class. I remained in the bathroom, crying into my hands.

I wouldn't really lose them. But they'd go to parties, they'd meet other girls, bring them back to our place. My heart would shatter, watching them meet girls and fall in love and move on from me, leaving me behind. I choked down a sob as I buried my hands into my face again.

-------------------------------------<3--------------------------------------

I stood at the door of Stan and Kenny's class, waving my hands at them urgently. Stan gave me a weird look before raising his hand. Kenny followed suit and they came out into the hallway together.

"What's going on?" Stan asked. Kenny nodded in agreement.

"y/n isn't in class. It's english. She never misses english."

"I got your text." Cartman huffs from behind me. "I came as quick as I could, where's y/n?"

"We don't know." Stan said, his body rigid. It might seem dramatic but the four of us had that tendency when it came to y/n. She was our girl, and while she didn't know it yet, she would soon.

"Jesus, we arranged our class schedules for this specific reason." Cartman grumbled, crossing his arms. Kenny rolled his eyes.

"Has anyone thought to text her?" The four of us raise our phones to show unanswered texts.

"Duh." I rubbed a hand over my face. "All right, let's split up. We need to find her before our last class."

The next thirty minutes passed slowly, the four of us searching inside and out of the school. Ten minutes before the bell would ring, we met in front of her locker.

"God dammit." Stan ran his hands through his hair.

"Guys, what if she's hurt?" I rubbed my sweaty palms up and down my pants. We've looked everywhere-

"She's not hurt, jew, she's fine." But even Cartman looked worried.

"Guys..." Kenny mumbled, before pointing at the women's restroom. "Did anyone look in there?" We all exchanged glances.

"Fucking idiots." His voice was muffled. But we heard him loud and clear.

-------------------------------------<3--------------------------------------

I splashed water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Would they be able to tell I was crying? Suddenly, the door opened and I spun, my back to the sink. There they were, my four boys, staring at me furiously.

"What are you guys doing in here? This is the women's restroom!" I looked around anxiously, but I knew no one else was here. The door shut silently behind them as they all came closer to me. Stan grabbed my hand, yanking me into his arms. Limbs were everywhere, wrapped around me.

"Guys?-"

"We were so worried." Kyle muttered into my hair. His hand ran down the back of it. "We couldn't find you and you weren't answering your phone."

"You can't do that y/n. You can't just disappear on us." Tears began to well in my eyes and I sniffled. "I'm sorry." I whimpered. The four of them squeezed me and the dam broke loose, allowing the tears to stream down my face. My cheeks were immediately in Kyle's hands, his eyes searching mine frantically. "What's wrong y/n?!"

I wailed openly now. "I'm a terrible friend. You guys should hate me." I sobbed. The four of them looked to one another confused. "What are you talking about?"

I rubbed my face, still sobbing openly. "Because I love you. I love all of you. I mean, how messed up is that? Loving all four of you at once?! You should hate me for how terrible I am."

Their bodies froze as their stared at me. "What did you say?" I cried more, unable to get the words out. "What did you say y/n?" Cartman shook me violently.

"Fatass! Don't hurt her! She just told us she loved us!" I was turned to face Stan. "Is it true? You love me?" He shook me too as confusion raced through my brain.

"And me? You love me?" "She loves me, y/n loves me!" I nodded quickly, trying to wrap my head around this whole encounter. Cartman began to cry as Stan ran his hands through his hair repeatedly. Kenny was crouched with his head in his hands, and Kyle just stood there. Staring at me.

"We... we love you too." I stared at Kyle in shock. "What? You love me?"

"I love you" "I love you" "I love you" "I love you"

-------------------------------------<3--------------------------------------

This was my first one! Hope you enjoyed and if you have any suggestions or requests to get me going please let me know!

#south park #stan marsh #kyle broflovski #eric cartman #kenny mccormick #fluff #oneshot #feelings #poly #x reader #fem reader #x y/n fluff

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dreamsofbroflovski · 2 months ago

Note

Could you write something sweet about Kyle or Stan and a bookworm reader?

why yes. yes, i could.

i could so much, in fact, that i did.

i know bookworm reader basically begs for Kyle but i did Stan because i wanted to explore that connection, hope you guys like what i did here <3

Stan Marsh x Bookworm!Reader - perfect symmetry

Also available on ao3!

Summary: Under the glow of your living room lamp, in the quietude of the night, you and Stan trade pieces of your souls.

Tags: Gender-Neutral Reader, POV Second Person (Stan Marsh-centric), Fluff, Dorks In Love, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Cuddling, Bonding, Mentions of Alcohol, Song Lyrics (Perfect Symmetry - Angra)

A/N: aaaaaaa my first non-smut fic for this fandom (and also my first gender-neutral reader, i guess?)

this fic led me to places i wouldn't even go with a gun (the spotify playlist i had with my metalhead ex-boyfriend back in 2018)

Midnight was already past for a couple hours when the scenery Stan Marsh passively watched changed from commercial areas to the suburbs he was so eager to get to. There were barely any lights shining on the streets for him to catch some sights on through the window of the car as the Uber drove him home, only the sound of the engine and the wheels on the asphalt breaking the silence.

On the back seat with his head against the glass, he couldn’t help but think about how he’d possibly already be home if he was the one driving; but the knowledge that he actually had someone to get home to now made him more willing to give up the habit of driving under the influence which he had picked up in his late teens. And to be fair, he also didn’t drink as much as he used to. On an occasion like this - a Saturday night spent at a heavy metal concert with his former bandmates from Crimson Dawn - it would’ve been baseline for him to be halfway to wasted before even arriving at the event, and not even remember getting in the Uber prior to ending up at his own place. However, he’d left the obligatory post-show pub hangout with barely a buzz to shake his system and a lack of interest in chasing that out.

Maybe it was that ‘adult life’ thing people told him when he was younger, about how he’d mellow with the years, but he smiled to himself as he thought that it was less about age and more about your presence.

As the car got to your shared house, however, his view of the darkness was broken by a dimly lit-up window, specifically the one in your living room, and it made him frown in confusion. He wasn’t sure how late it was, but at the very least it was past 3am. Did you stay up waiting for him? The idea made Stan’s heart all fuzzy, but simultaneously broke it. He didn’t want you to lose sleep over him, especially not after spending the night home alone - granted, that was at your own request; you weren’t that big a fan of crowds or loud noises, something he understood and respected, and your absence at the music venue was a conscious refusal of his invitation. Of course, he’d love to have you there, but it wasn’t like you never went with him to do stuff he liked, and it was healthy to sometimes pursue things separately, so that you’d have different experiences to compare.

Despite having seen the light and imagining you’d be awake, Stan’s steps were soft and slow as he got out of the car and to the front door, trying to make the least sound possible as he brought the keys in his pocket to the keyhole only to find that it was already unlocked. Still, he turned the doorknob with care, stepping from the darkness into the warm glow of the living room. It wasn’t the ceiling light what he’d seen from outside; rather, the tall floor lamp by the couch was on, making for a much more comfortable adaptation to his eyes.

And sitting on the couch, right under that lamp, there was you. Body curled in the seat closest to the light, under a thin fleece blanket, a book in your hands - the only thing that peeked out from under your covers aside from your head, which was against the armrest. The very definition of tranquility, Stan would describe it as. The glow of the floor lamp gave your form a warm aura, beckoning him to come closer and bask in your energy, let it soak in and heal him from the inside out like it had done so many times before.

Trying to burn such an image into his mind, he could’ve stared at you forever. But unfortunately, even the smallest sound he had made as he opened the door was enough to make his presence known in the previous quietude of the room, and your head turned away from the book and towards where he was standing. “Oh, hey there, baby.” You murmured, a surprised expression shifting into gentleness as your mind acknowledged that it was him by the entrance.

Closing your book over your left hand, with your thumb kept between the pages, your right hand moved to pull your blanket off - but before you could even think about getting up, Stan had already locked the door behind himself and made his way to the couch.

“Hey,” he whispered back, keeping the volume of his voice low even though it was only you two in the house - almost as if he didn’t wanna break the sanctity of your previous silence. “You’re still awake.”

“Well, yeah,” you giggled softly. “So are you.”

A small smile curved his lips. “I told you, you didn’t have to wait for me.” He lowered himself to the free space next to you on the couch, placing a hand on your covered thigh - almost automatically, you turned onto your back and your legs stretched over his, off of the cover of the blanket.

“I wasn’t.” You shook your head. “I just… Couldn’t sleep.”

Stan could kind of attest to that. Now that he had vision of part of your body, he noticed you were in your pajamas, which weren’t what you were using before he left. Those grey cotton pants you wore were soft and warm, a stark contrast to his own ripped black denim jeans, and they reminded him of the thoughts he had about wanting to be in bed next to you, just an hour ago when he was still back at the bar. “Why, though?” He asked, rubbing your shin over the fabric absentmindedly.

Even in the dim lighting, he could see the faint reddish tint that rushed through your cheeks as you averted your gaze, taking two or three seconds before answering him. “Don’t mind it. You’re gonna laugh.”

Well if that wasn’t a way to make him even more curious. “No, I’m not!” His voice rose a bit into its normal volume when he retorted, before he caught himself and lowered it again. “I’m not gonna laugh, okay? Tell me what it is.”

Stan’s fingers tightened on your leg, hand stopping its movement, and he saw your sight flickering to his face before shifting back toward whatever was so interesting about the coffee table now. “Promise?”

His free hand quickly moved to his chest, drawing a cross over his heart with his pinky finger. Immediately he felt like a dork, but the giggle that left your lips as you watched his actions through the corner of your eye made him not care about it as much. “Promise. Now please.”

Truly, he didn’t know why he was so set on hearing your reasoning. Perhaps it was his mind trying to grab at anything to make your lack of sleep not his fault - even though you’d already said it wasn’t, there was still a part of him that felt responsible. So he didn’t even realize he was barely breathing while you sighed and took another moment to explain, the hand that still held your book turning it around distractedly before stilling.

“I’ve just picked this one up… It’s a new series the lady from the library recommended to me.” You lifted it up to his eye level so Stan could properly see the cover, but that didn’t give him any new info. It wasn’t any title he recognized, not that he knew many of those anyway - he didn’t remember the last time he picked up a book of his own volition.

Feeling bad for not having any meaningful insight, he just hummed in agreement and nodded while going back to stroking your leg. “And? You stayed up to read, is that it?”

Shaking your head again, you brought the book to your lap, gazing at it with much more fondness than what he had to give and none of the confusion. While your attention was on that cover, his own was back on your face, watching the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you shyly smiled. Those moments where he’d stare and you wouldn’t notice were some of the best, in his opinion - they allowed him to have an unobscured glimpse into your real feelings, seeing your happiness without the fluttering of the butterflies in his stomach that came whenever you were staring back. Those were the second best moments, though. Because that’s when he knew it was him making you happy. Slight anxiety notwithstanding.

“Not really…” You sighed again. “Thing is, I didn’t expect this book to be… So damn good. I stopped after some chapters and tried to get to bed, but then I couldn’t sleep at all. I just tossed and turned wondering what would happen next, you know. So I came over here to try and find out and… I guess I lost track of time.”

Wait, that’s it? His eyebrows arched a bit as he took in your reasoning, but the urge to laugh uncontrollably you’d expected him to have didn’t come at all - rather, he feIt deeply connected to that emotion you were describing, even if his own reasoning wouldn’t be the exact same. It wasn’t any different from the times he’d gone well into the night playing some video game, just because the story compelled him to see what would happen next. That curiosity which kicks one’s brain into high gear when it tries to imagine the next scenarios that might happen, creating an attachment to the characters themselves, their struggles and successes. It was something that, for a chunk of his life, Stan had thought completely lost to him - or, at least, unobtainable without the effects of intoxication -, so, now that he had it back, he knew the value it held.

“And what did you think?” There was a hint of eagerness to his voice in this question, brought forth by his interest in this newfound link between both your emotions. “Was it everything that you wanted?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean, it’s hard to explain, okay?” Not caring about keeping the page secured anymore, you let go of the book completely and started gesturing haphazardly with both hands, your pent-up enthusiasm trying to find a soundless outlet. “All through the first chapters they were hinting at this one thing from the past of the main character and the love interest, right, so I figured it’d just be some cliché trope, but then chapter eleven rolled in and something else happened with this guy who was supposed to be a side character that- ugh, I can’t tell you because then it’ll be a spoiler! You gotta read it yourself!”

Honestly, it was unlikely Stan would actually pick the book up himself to read it after you were done. His interest in the lore, especially when you’d purposefully tried to keep it vague, wouldn’t go that far, he was content just listening to your opinions. Plus, he was lazy. “Yeah, maybe I will.”

“I bought the rest of the collection online,” you commented as you let your palms briefly rest over the book, “You can pick this one up once I’m done with it.”

He knew he wouldn’t. You knew he wouldn’t. But neither of you had to point that out; what mattered the most was him not bursting your bubble of joy with unnecessary reminders about his thorough lack of interest in reading.

“Why’d you come all the way out here, though?” He decided to change the subject before it could get awkward, but the little mischievous glimmer he caught in your eyes told him you saw right through what he was thinking. “Isn’t the bed better?”

“Actually, it’s something Kyle told me,” you began explaining, that glint disappearing just as fast as it’d shown up and giving space to more enthusiasm, your hands resuming their quick movements. ”He told me that, like, it’s bad to do stuff in bed ‘cause your brain needs to know that that’s a place for resting, or you won’t ever feel sleepy there, because it won’t make that connection. So I’m gonna try and read here from now on.”

Damn, he was gonna have to worship the ground Kyle walked on after this. Stan never quite got used to the light being on nearly every time he went to bed, even if it was just the desk lamp on your nightstand, but it also made him feel really bad to ask you to turn it off and go to sleep yourself so he could finally rest; this new solution sorted out both of those issues, and was healthier to top it off.

“Wow. I didn’t know all that. That’s pretty cool.” Of course he didn’t. Both you and Kyle had a talent for knowing obscure stuff Stan would otherwise die without being made aware of, due to your intense reading on various topics. It was hard for him to not get jealous at times, even, when thinking about the two of you talking and bonding over that shared knowledge - and to ignore the fear that surrounded him like a cold vacuum, depriving him of air, whenever that jealousy did get the best of him; that someday you’d realize you deserved someone who could add to your repertoire in that regard, and then you’d deem him worthless and disappear forever.

Thoughts of that jealousy began swirling in his mind and crawling down his spine like a centipede made of ice, before he could try and reel them back. He knew there was nothing to be suspicious of, you’d never given him any reason to doubt your loyalty. But the insecurity of not being enough was a shadow ever present on his corner - just waiting until those moments where he felt less than adequate in face of your knowledge, your beauty or the efficiency of other guys, to strike and make its darkness overt. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a couple degrees; although, as he continued to look at you, you were cozy and comfortable as ever, no trace of discomfort in your demeanor.

One of his hands instinctively reached for the edge of your blanket, trying to pull it over his lap and rid himself of the chilly sensation even though the logical side of his brain knew it wouldn’t do much. The movement didn’t go unnoticed, and you reached out to help by sitting up straight and pushing the bunched-up blanket over your own legs, covering him in the process. The cold did stop - due to his giving up on the covers immediately and grabbing your own hand instead, interlacing your fingers together.

His grip was tighter than usual, lingering tension keeping his muscles taut, but he didn’t seem to realize it. And neither did you, or you just didn’t mind, ignoring both that tension and the sweaty palm of his hand and reciprocating the hold with a more gentle firmness. Also gentle was the smile you gave him, reassuring him into a state of comfort with that honest kindness that reflected all the love you had inside.

No words were spoken on the subject of Stan’s uneasiness, and there was no need for any; you had a way to make him feel seen even in silence, as if you looked straight into his heart and pacified it telepathically. The jealousy, the sadness, the pain, none of that mattered. You were there, you were his, you’d made the decision to be so. And as such, keeping you safe and happy and proud of him was a mission that powered through any bullshit his mind could conjure.

“So, uhm…” He finally spoke after a long moment of that silence, having sufficiently let it ease his nerves. “You, uh, going to bed now?”

“I… I don’t know, really.” Your eyes drifted to the book on your lap, looking lost in thought, but your hand was still connected to his, something he was grateful for. “I might stay some more. I’m not really sleepy..”

He frowned. If it was him in your place, he’d be asleep on the couch already. “What? How?”

“Well, I guess the book got my mind working,” you chuckled, “But you can go. I won’t keep you.”

Stan groaned lowly, unable to fully hide his disappointment. The concert had left him thoroughly exhausted, and he felt the effects of fatigue down in his bones - well, fatigue and pain from being pushed around and punched by random flailing arms in the mosh pit, but still. For hours now he’d been longing to get in bed and let the mattress take care of his poor body while embracing your soothing warmth next to him, however those thoughts would be of no use if he was just going to get under the covers alone while you were in another room doing your own thing. Especially now that his insecurity was rearing its ugly head, he needed you close.

“Nah, I can stay,” he replied, leaning back some more against the back cushion, in a manner of making himself more snug for the extra time he now planned to spend. That couch wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the mattress, but it would have to do. “I’m not gonna leave you all alone in here.”

“Stan, babe,” you squeezed his hand briefly to draw his attention further - a move unneeded, as it was already fully on you. “I know you’re tired. You gotta rest. I don’t want you exhausted like that out here waiting for me.”

“I’m not that exhausted.” His physical pain seemed to intensify, like it called him out on his lie, but he refused to let it show in more than a huff.

Clearly unconvinced, you clicked your tongue once. “You are,” you insisted, “What’s it gonna take for you to listen to me, hm?”

The answer to that was right on the tip of his tongue, yet there was another moment of silence as he pondered whether to bring it forth or not. “I want you there with me,” he eventually did admit, figuring it was a better course of action than risking getting into his own head again by staying silent. It came in a murmur, as if he wasn’t all that decided on speaking up. “When you go, I’ll go.”

A small hum of curious surprise from you made his heart pick up. He hoped that confession didn’t sound as desperate to you as it certainly had in his mind. Bad judgement from you wasn’t amongst his concerns, but the part of him that still wanted to impress you - even after so much time together - did not want to seem uncool.

“You’re sure you don’t wanna go now?”

He nodded right after your question - he might’ve not been sure about speaking, but he was about the words said. You hummed again, and the frown which creased your forehead as you looked down onto your lap, immersing yourself in consideration, had him more nervous; but then it softened, and you looked back at him with an excited twinkle in your eye.

“You know what you can do?” Stan leaned closer as you began, unknowingly holding back his own breath as hope began to grow within him. “You can sing something to me. If I just get comfy and listen without thinking much, maybe I’ll get sleepy too, and then I’ll go with you to bed.”

If his heart rate had picked up before, this time it felt like it had skipped a beat. Never in a million years would he have expected this request. He’d sung in front of you throughout your relationship, of course, many times; but those were usually very laid-back situations with other people - and/or more alcohol - involved, where he didn’t have to care much about how he sounded. Now, however, you were asking him to sing to you, specifically. To lull you to sleep with just his voice. The attention would be all on him, and the thought made him anxious all over again.

“Sing? Babe, my throat is kinda shot…” As if on cue, his voice cracked on the last word, rising higher in pitch and making him immediately force a couple coughs to try and mask it. Though it was embarrassing, it also served a purpose to emphasize his point. He had spent most of the night yelling song lyrics at the top of his lungs anyway; his vocal cords were not to be trusted.

“You don’t gotta belt your pipes out,” you retorted, “It’s better if you don’t anyway. Make it quieter, you know, like moms do to their kids.”

Still he wasn’t assured, averting his gaze awkwardly as he cleared his throat a couple times to get rid of the scratchy sensation that had followed his coughing. The chances of it going poorly felt too high; he knew it wasn’t supposed to be as much a display of singing prowess as it was a nice little thing to bring you two closer, but that didn’t mean he didn’t wanna give his all. The passion he felt, both for music and for you, compelled him. But with you asking so lovingly, when you rarely made requests of this nature, the thought of refusing seemed utterly heartbreaking.

“... Alright.” With a sigh and a nervous scratch on the back of his neck with his free hand, he relented, and it was instantly worth it just to see the huge grin that spread on your face when you heard his acceptance. “What do you want me to sing?”

“Hm… I dunno…” You drawled, tilting your head to one side, then the other as you mulled over your answer in your head, under his slightly apprehensive gaze. “Can be any song you like, really. I just wanna hear you. Maybe one from the band you went to see tonight? Or one of your own?”

Oh that was not happening at all. Stan winced internally. The band he’d gone to see earlier that night was, to put mildly, brutal in their lyrics and delivery. Singing their songs the way they’re meant to be sung would go against the intended effect and rile you up fully instead of calming you down, and even if he tried to make them sound more gentle, the words would not be appropriate either way. One of his own was also out of the question - he was already feeling like all the spotlights were on him, he had no wish to add another by bringing into focus his own creativity. Usually, due to his rather vast musical knowledge, he’d have zero issue thinking of a song that fit the exact mood you both were looking for, something nice and calm for him to quietly hum and set you up for a peaceful night together. But the combination of exhaustion, pain and residual nerves over that very request made him forget every single track he’d ever heard in his life, like his whole memory had vanished. He wouldn’t be able to even tell you his #1 favorite song if you asked.

For you, though, he’d try. So he mused and mused, digging into the depths of his brain to think of anything that could be even remotely turned into a somewhat decent lullaby; but the only thing that he managed to conjure up to ring in his ears in the quietude of the room were the intense songs from earlier, yelled out by dozens of drunk grown men with every bit of rebellious energy they had to give. Everything else was lost. The fact that your curious eyes were dead set on him, watching eagerly while he thought, didn't help matters, instead making a sense of actual urgency build up within him.

Just as he was about to give up and settle for simply humming out the tune to ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ - as he couldn’t recall the lyrics to even that -, his mind seemed to take pity on him, and the answer, a song from another band, came like an epiphany.

“Now all the secrets that you’ve learned got to be shared with everyone around…”

The way he started out his singing was as unsure as the choice to actually do so had been to begin with, and the weirdness particular to singing the song without the background instruments that gave it its metal qualities, so in his bare voice it just sounded more romantic. He turned his eyes to you again, watching your reaction as he continued to tentatively murmur the song - and to his delight, you looked thoroughly hooked, scooting closer to him until you were fully on his lap, resting your head against his shoulder and listening earnestly. He let go of your hand only to wrap his arm around your own body, his confidence growing with your demonstration of interest.

“Stars are calling you with a message to the world…”

His singing was slow and peaceful, dragging out the song over its actual length, making every syllable sink in as a declaration to you in addition to just a lullaby The lack of external noise meant he heard his own voice clear as day, and he found himself becoming relaxed too, breaking up sentences with yawns and sighs while idly rubbing your arm with his hand. Lazy actions of his body, for sure, but his focus was still all there - your presence and his need for your approval urging him to continue. To use someone else’s lyrics to express what his own mind wanted to give out to you.

“Share your love and reach for the skies…”

You didn’t even hear it when he got to the end. By then you were already asleep, breathing slow and steady against Stan’s neck, no sign of your earlier awareness that kept you awake. He hadn’t noticed that you’d dozed off, but when he finished singing and tilted his face to yours to gauge your reaction, all he saw were serene features and shut eyelids.

And, honestly, that was the best feedback he could’ve received..

Not wanting to wake you up, he carefully rested his head on top of yours, pulling you closer the slightest bit. It wasn’t an ideal position for sleeping, seated right there on the couch with his outside clothes on - but as he closed his eyes to drift off, there was nowhere else he’d feel more comfortable in. The warmth he earlier seeked was close in his arms, you were at ease in dreamland, with him soon to follow. Having you trusting enough to share something you loved with him, and also trusting enough on his judgement of something he cared about, giving him all that appreciation, interest and positivity, had his heart filled with earnest gratitude and affection. With you, he understood why people said that ‘To be loved is to be seen’; you knew him in ways no one else could, and most importantly, you showed you did. And he’d sing ten thousand songs until his voice completely disappeared if it would show you how much you meant to him, too.

Dividers by @cafekitsune

#south park #south park fanfiction #south park x reader #south park x y/n #south park x you #stan marsh #south park stan #stan marsh x reader #stan marsh x y/n #ao3 #x reader #one-shot #fluff #anon ask #gender neutral reader

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