Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, take dating troupe, sarcastic chaotic reader, reader has body piercings, sexual tension, crude language, teen angst, fluff, eventual smut (they're 18!!!)
⋆｡°✩ 🏈 Chapter 6: Making The Drama Club Lesbians Proud🍃 ✩°｡⋆
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The next day, you found Stan by his truck before school, leaning against the driver’s side door with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets and his beanie pulled low like he was trying to disappear into the fabric.
You approached with your usual morning energy: iced coffee in one hand, gum in your mouth, backpack hanging off one shoulder half hazardously. Stan looked up when you got close. His eyes flicked over you once, then away.
“Good Morning, my lovely boyfriend thing,” you said brightly.
He sighed like you’d already exhausted him and it wasn’t even eight yet. “Morning.”
You stopped in front of him, squinting. “You look suspicious.”
“I always look like this.”
“Nuhuh, you usually look depressed. Today you look suspiciously depressed.”
Stan gave you a flat look. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It would if you were smart.”
“Then explain it.”
“No...”
He rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched at the corner. That tiny almost-smile did something stupid to your chest. You hated it. You hated it so much that you immediately shoved your iced coffee into his hand. “Hold this.”
“What? Why?”
“Boyfriend duties, duh.” You said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You have hands.”
“And you have the privilege of holding my drink. Don’t fumble, Marsh.”
Stan stared at the cup like it had personally offended him. “This is the dumbest fake relationship ever.”
“Then why are you blushing babe?”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re in Colorado. That excuse is basically always available. Doesn’t make it true.”
His face darkened. “Shut up.”
You stepped closer, grinning, and reached up to adjust his beanie. “You’re so easy.”
Stan froze a little beneath your hands. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you noticed. You noticed the way his shoulders went still, the way his eyes flicked down to your mouth for half a second before immediately shooting away like he’d committed a crime. Your fingers paused at the edge of his beanie.
Something warm and electric crawled up your arm.
Absolutely fucking not.
You yanked the beanie down over his eyes. “There,” you said loudly. “Now you look even more emotionally unavailable.”
“Dude—” Stan shoved the beanie back up, glaring. “What the hell was that for?”
You snatched your iced coffee back and took a victorious sip. “Love you too.”
He opened his mouth to respond, probably with something bitter and sarcastic, but then his gaze shifted over your shoulder.
You followed it. Wendy and Bebe were crossing the parking lot. Perfect timing. Stan tensed beside you. You could feel it before he even moved. That familiar little shift in him, the way he closed off all at once, like someone had slammed a door behind his eyes.
Oh, Stan.
You turned back to him and, without thinking too hard about it, stepped into his space. Stan blinked down at you. “Woah personal space—”
“Method acting,” you whispered. Then you slipped your hand into his and leaned your body into his side, clinging on to him. His hand was cold at first, but after a second his grip tightened around yours. Slightly. Carefully.
Wendy’s eyes flicked toward you two. Bebe leaned in to whisper something to her. Stan swallowed. You bumped your shoulder against his. “Breathe, dumbass.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re doing it weird though.”
He let out one sharp breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
“And yet,” you said, raising your joined hands a little, “you’re holding my hand.”
“For the bit.”
“Sure, babe.”
His thumb shifted against the side of your hand. Barely anything. A nothing movement. A completely insignificant, not-worth-thinking-about, totally fake relationship thumb brush.
Your brain immediately lit itself on fire.
Wendy passed by with Bebe, giving Stan a polite little smile. “Hey, Stan.”
Stan’s hand tightened. “Hey,” he said, voice rougher than usual.
Wendy looked at you next. Not mean. Not friendly either. Just curious in that sharp Wendy way. God did she scare the fuck out of you sometimes.
“Hey,” she said to you.
You smiled sweetly. “Hey, Wendy.”
Bebe gave you a look that was entirely too entertained. “Cute.”
You squeezed Stan’s hand harder. “Thanks. He’s house-trained and everything.”
Stan turned his head slowly. “What?”
Bebe laughed. You patted Stan’s chest with your free hand. “Mostly.”
Stan looked like he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic, but he didn’t let go of your hand.
Wendy and Bebe walked away, whispering between themselves. You waited until they were far enough before dropping Stan’s hand like it had burned you. Except it had kind of done the opposite. Which was worse.
Stan flexed his fingers once, then shoved both hands into his pockets. “Was that believable?” he asked.
You took a long sip of your coffee to buy yourself time. “Yeah. Ten outta ten. Oscar bait. The lesbians in drama club would give us a standing ovation full of tears an’ everything.”
His ears went pink. “Cool,” he muttered.
A beat passed. Then he glanced sideways at you. “House-trained?”
You shrugged. “I panicked.”
“You panicked and called me a dog?”
“I said mostly house-trained. Don’t be an ungrateful bitch.”
Stan shook his head, but this time he actually smiled. Not a big one. Not enough for anyone else to call attention to. But you saw it. You saw it, and your stomach did something deeply embarrassing. You were starting to think this fake dating thing was a bad idea. Oh well
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By lunch, you regretted telling Kenny the truth. He hasn’t said anything yet, but you could feel his stupid little eyes already judging you from under that orange hood.
He slid into the seat beside you instead of across from you, which immediately made you suspicious.
“What?” you asked.
Kenny tilted his head. “What?”
“You’re looking at me weird.”
“I always look at you weird.”
Stan sat down on your other side with his tray, looking impossibly tired. Kyle followed, still carrying the expression of someone who had spent all night building a conspiracy board in his room. Cartman dropped into his seat last, already chewing before his ass fully hit the bench.
Kenny leaned closer to you, voice low. “So. How’s the fake boyfriend?”
You kicked him under the table. Hard. Kenny made a muffled wheezing sound, then bent over his tray, shoulders shaking with laughter. Stan looked over. “What happened?”
“It explains a lot, actually,” Cartman said through a mouthful of food. “Poverty is hilarious.”
“Shut up, Cartman,” Kyle and Stan said at the same time.
You leaned back against Stan’s side before you could overthink it. “Aw. Couple goals. You guys are finishing each other’s sentences.”
Kenny’s eyes flicked to the way your shoulder pressed against Stan’s arm. His eyebrows lifted. You gave him a look that said don’t you fucking dare. He gave you a look back that said I am absolutely daring.
Kyle set his fork down with surgical precision. “Okay. I’m just going to say it. This is weird.”
“So you keep saying.” Stan muttered.
“Because it keeps being weird!” Kyle snapped. “You two are acting like you’re dating, but also like you’ve never touched another human being before.”
Cartman gasped. “Oh my god, Kyle’s right. They have virgin chemistry.”
You pointed at him with your spoon. “Say virgin chemistry again and I’ll chemistry your face into the table, tubby.”
“That doesn’t even make sense, junkie.”
Stan’s head snapped up. “Dude, don’t call her that.”
The table went quiet for half a second. You blinked. Cartman looked mildly surprised, then immediately smug. “Ohhh, look at Stan defending his trashy little girlfriend.”
Stan’s jaw clenched. “I said shut up.”
Something in his voice shifted. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sharp. Protective?
Your chest did that awful warm thing again. Kenny noticed. Of course Kenny fucking noticed. His eyes slid to you, softer now but still amused. Kyle looked between you and Stan, suspicion briefly replaced by something more careful. Like maybe this wasn’t adding up the way he thought it would. You recovered first because emotional vulnerability made you itchy.
“Thanks, babe,” you said, reaching up to pinch Stan’s cheek. “My hero. My knight in crusty Vans.”
Stan shoved your hand away, face red. “Don’t.”
“Too late. I’m swooning.”
“You’re embarrassing.”
“You love it.”
He didn’t answer fast enough. That was the problem. He didn’t answer fast enough, and Kenny’s eyes practically lit up like Christmas lights someone had plugged into a wall. Kyle noticed too. Cartman, thankfully, was too busy opening another bag of chips with his teeth.
Stan cleared his throat and looked down at his tray. “Whatever.”
You turned your attention to his own bag of chips because theft was easier than feelings. “Mine,” you announced, grabbing it.
“Dude—”
“You defended my honor. I need tribute.”
“That’s my lunch.”
“And I’m your girlfriend.”
“Fake girlfriend,” Kenny coughed under his breath.
You kicked him again. Stan looked up sharply. “What?”
Kenny held up both hands, still laughing. “Nothing, man. Allergies.”
Kyle stared at him. “You don’t have allergies.”
“I’m allergic to bullshit.”
You smiled dangerously. “Kenny.”
He leaned back, grin hidden by his hood. “What? I’m being supportive.”
“You’re being a little slutty detective.”
“Can I put that on my college applications?”
“You’re not going to college dipshit.”
“Damn. True.”
Stan looked between you both, still confused but too emotionally exhausted to investigate. “Why are you two always like this?”
“Chemistry,” Kenny said.
You shot him another warning look. Cartman immediately gagged.
“Chemisty with Kinny? He smells like poor people and welfare.”
“You smell like beef sticks and entitlement,” you snapped back.
Kyle rubbed his temples. “I hate this table.”
Stan sighed. “Yeah. Same.”
But when Wendy walked past again, slower this time, Stan’s hand found your knee under the table. Not your thigh. Not anything dramatic. Just his hand resting lightly on your knee. A prop. A fake dating prop. A totally normal, strategic, performative prop.
You froze for half a second. Stan didn’t look at you. His eyes were forward, jaw tight, pretending like this was easy. His palm was warm. You swallowed. Then you covered his hand with yours. Wendy’s glance landed there. Then on Stan’s face. Then yours. Something unreadable crossed her expression before she looked away.
Stan exhaled slowly. You leaned toward his ear, keeping your voice low. “She saw.”
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“You okay?”
He hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
But his hand didn’t move. Neither did yours.
Across the table, Kenny watched the whole thing with the expression of a man witnessing a car crash in slow motion and deciding, honestly, this was great entertainment.
You mouthed, “Shut up.”
Kenny mouthed back, “You’re fucked.”
Unfortunately, you were starting to suspect he might be right.
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After school, Stan drove you home. That wasn’t part of the rules. Technically, he’d only agreed to walk you to class and do basic public couple behavior when needed. But when the final bell rang and you started toward the parking lot, he just followed.
“You stalking me now, Marsh?” you asked, spinning around to walk backward in front of him.
He shrugged. “I have a truck.”
“No shit? Hadn’t noticed.”
“You need a ride or not?”
You grinned. “Are you asking because you care about me, or because Wendy’s by the front doors?”
Stan’s eyes flicked past you. Wendy was, in fact, near the front doors. He looked caught. You laughed.
“Relax. I’ll accept your emotionally constipated ride offer.”
“Great. Fantastic. Thrilled.”
You hopped into the passenger seat like always, immediately messing with the radio. Stan slapped your hand away. “Don’t.”
“Your music makes me want to become a missing person.”
“Your music sounds like auditory war crimes”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He gave you a sideways look as he pulled out of the lot. “That’s sad.”
“You’re sad.”
“Yeah.”
You blinked, then snorted despite yourself. “Emo.”
For a minute, the truck was quiet except for the rumble of the engine and some miserable guitar song playing low through the speakers. Snow sat dirty and gray along the curbs. The sky looked heavy, like it was deciding whether to ruin everyone’s day.
Stan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. You stared at it. Not intentionally. Just… it was there. And your brain, being the absolute worst roommate in your skull, kept replaying the way his hand had felt on your knee at lunch. Warm. Careful. A little shaky. You looked out the window instead.
“So,” Stan said eventually.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“You said ‘so’ like you’re about to have feelings at me.”
“I’m not having feelings at you.”
“That sounds exactly like something someone about to have feelings at me would say.”
He sighed. “Can you please shut up for, like, ten seconds?”
“No promises,” you grinned.
Stan’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel. “Thanks. For lunch.”
You glanced at him.
“For stealing your chips?”
“For…” He frowned, searching for the words like they were hidden somewhere under the dashboard. “For checking if I was okay. When Wendy walked by.”
Oh. Gross. Emotional sincerity.
Your fight-or-flight response activated immediately. “Yeah, well,” you said, forcing casualness into your voice. “Can’t have my fake boyfriend having a public breakdown. Bad for my brand.”
His mouth twitched. “Your brand?”
“Hot, sexy, unstable, mysterious.”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
Another quiet beat. Then Stan said, softer, “It helped.”
You looked over. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes stayed on the road, face half-shadowed beneath the edge of his beanie. “It helped,” he repeated, like admitting it physically hurt. “Not feeling like a total idiot.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek. Your usual jokes lined up in your head, ready to throw themselves on the grenade. Instead, you said, “You’re not a total idiot.”
Stan glanced at you, eyebrows raised. You held up a hand. “Don’t make it weird. You’re like… seventy percent idiot max.”
He huffed a laugh. A real one. Small, but real. “There she is,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
“Nothing.”
“Stanley Marsh, do not ‘nothing’ me.”
He groaned. “God, don’t call me Stanley.”
“Why? Too intimate? Should I save it for pillow talk?”
His face went pink instantly. “Jesus Christ.”
You cackled, pleased with yourself. Then the truck pulled up in front of your house. Neither of you moved immediately. Which was weird. Usually you jumped out, flipped him off, stole something from the passenger seat, and fucked off. But now there was this pause. This dumb, heavy pause sitting between you like a third person. Stan’s hand was still near the gear shift. You wanted to touch it. You did not touch it. You were not insane. Mostly…
“Well,” you said, grabbing your bag. “Thanks for the ride, pookie bear.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Okay, sweetie pie.”
“Worse.”
“Snookums?”
“I’m kicking you out.”
You laughed and opened the door, cold South Park air rushing in. Before you climbed out, Stan said your name. You looked back.
He seemed like he regretted speaking before he even finished thinking. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Tomorrow,” he said finally. “Same thing?”
You tilted your head. “Same thing?”
“Ride. School. Whatever.” He looked away. “For the bit.”
You smiled, but it felt strange on your face. “Yeah. For the bit.”
Stan nodded. You hopped out, shut the door, and walked backward toward your house, pointing at him dramatically.
“Don’t miss me too much, Marsh!”
“Already forgot you exist.”
“Liar!”
He rolled his eyes, but he stayed parked there until you reached your front door. You noticed. You pretended not to.
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That night, Kenny texted you.
Kenny: so how long before u admit ur fake dating is getting weird
Y/N: how long before u admit ur obsessed with me 😬
Kenny: already admitted that years ago babe keep up
Y/N: die 🥰🥰🥰
Kenny: been there done that
You stared at the screen, grinning despite yourself. Then another message popped up.
Kenny: fr tho be careful
Your grin faded a little.
Y/N: with what??
Kenny: stan
you
wendy
the whole dumb thing
You rolled onto your back, phone held above your face.
Y/N: wow look at u having emotional depth gross 🤢
Kenny: don’t tell anyone I’ll lose street cred
Y/N: what street cred ur poor
Kenny: exactly streets are all I have 🤧
You laughed under your breath, but Kenny’s warning sat in your chest weirdly. Be careful. You hated when people said that. Careful was boring. Careful was for people who planned ahead and drank water and didn’t agree to fake date their emotionally unstable friend for free weed and maybe a little attention. Your phone buzzed again. Not Kenny this time.
Stan: found a song you might not hate
A link came through. You clicked it. It was still sad as hell, because of course it was, but less unbearable than his usual playlist. Softer. Warmer. Something with a girl’s voice and a guitar that sounded like a porch light left on. You listened for thirty seconds. Then texted back.
Y/N: omg is this character development marsh??? 🤩 did my bullying work????
Stan: nvm I take it back
Y/N: no no booo send more I’m training you like a shelter dog
Stan: house-trained shelter dog?
You paused. Then smiled before you could stop yourself.
Y/N: mostly
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Stan: night idiot
Y/N: Gn dearest shelter dog 🐶
You set your phone on your chest and stared at the ceiling in the dark. Somewhere outside, a car passed slowly, headlights sliding across your wall and disappearing.
It’s fake, you reminded yourself again. But this time, the thought didn’t land right. This time, it sounded less like a reminder and more like a warning.
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, sexual tension, death (guys it's Kenny duh), crude language, teen angst, eventual smut
⛸️ ˗ˏˋ Chapter 4: Concussed & Horny ´ˎ˗ 🏒
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Morning joint practice had the figure skaters on one half and the hockey team tearing up the other like usual. Bianca was trying to focus on her routine, bunny earmuffs keeping her hair back, skirt swishing with every turn.
She hated how her eyes kept drifting to the hockey side anyway. She couldn’t stop thinking about the night before and well him specifically.
Jesus, get it together Bianca.
Kenny was out there in his orange parka (hood half-up even on the ice), laughing at something Cartman yelled.
Bianca tried to tune it out. Axel. Loop. Sit spin. Focus.
Then she felt it again, that familiar prickle in the back of her skull. That wrongness in the air.
She froze mid-glide, eyes snapping toward the hockey side.
Then out of the corner of her eye she saw a puck that ricocheted wrong. It was rocketing like a bullet straight toward Kenny’s head. He didn’t see it coming. He was turned the wrong way, laughing, completely exposed.
No one else reacted fast enough. Stan and Kyle were too busy arguing with Cartman. Bianca moved before she could think.
She dug her toe pick in hard and launched forward, skates biting ice. At the last second she grabbed Kenny’s jacket the way she’d done since they were small (because the universe liked to repeat its cruelties and because she was the only one who ever noticed they were happening) and tried to pull him out of the way. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on how annoyed she was with him) the pick still managed to hit the side of his head. The blow however did not kill him.
Kenny hit the boards hard. The side of his temple split open in a blossom of crimson, his hair plastering to his skull where the skin broke. He went down, breath chopping.
He’s alive, that dipshits actually alive, she thought, and it felt ugly and glorious and ridiculous all at the same time.
She was on him before she could think properly, pulling him into a sitting position and pressing her jacket to his head to stop the bleeding. He stared up at her, a bit dazed and confused, pupils wide like fish eyes.
“You good?” she demanded, voice loud with adrenaline. Her palms were warm with his blood.
He blinked. He tried to laugh. It came out wrong. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m—”
He didn’t finish. He tried to push himself up and went a little too bright, voice jangling. “Ow, fuck—“
“Shut up,” she muttered, but her voice was shaky. She helped him to his feet, one arm around his waist. “You’re bleeding moron. Come on dude, bathroom. Now.”
Kenny leaned on her more than he probably needed to, grinning lopsided even with blood running down the side of his face. “You’re so bossy when you’re worried babe. Hot.”
“Save it,” she snapped, guiding him off the ice and toward the locker room hallway. The coaches barely glanced their way.
Typical South Park.
She dragged him into the girls’ bathroom (empty, thank fuck) and locked the door behind them. Kenny hopped up on the sink counter like it was nothing, legs swinging, while she grabbed paper towels and wet them under the faucet.
“Hold still,” Bianca ordered, stepping between his knees to get a better look. She gently dabbed at the cut on his temple, wiping away the blood. Her big eyes were focused, freckled cheeks still flushed from the cold and the adrenaline. “This looks bad. You seeing double? Nauseous? Any ringing in your ears?”
Kenny didn’t answer right away. His gaze had dropped. He was staring, openly, shamelessly at her chest. The way her skating top hugged her when she leaned in close. The faint rise and fall with every breath.
“Kenny,” she said flat. “Don’t stare.”
He didn’t break eye contact. For a beat she thought he was going to say something actually serious for once.
“Bunny…” he murmured, voice raspy and a little slurred. “Can I touch your boobs?”
“Shut up.”
“Ya know, was thinking about you when some chick was sucking me off a bit ago. Thinking ‘bout you in that little skating skirt. Way better than whatever the fuck her name was.”
Bianca froze, paper towel hovering. “I shoulda let you die.”
He blinked, then winced like the words had finally registered. “Wait—that probably sounded really creepy out loud.”
“Yeah, no shit, McCormick,” she said, rolling her eyes so hard it almost hurt. But she didn’t pull away. “But I’ll let it pass this time ’cause your head is shit right now. You probably have a concussion.”
Kenny’s grin returned, slow and dopey. “Hey… I give great head.”
Bianca stared at him for a beat, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re actually concussed. Jesus Christ.” She kept cleaning the blood anyway, careful around the cut. “Keep talking and I’m leaving you here to bleed out.”
“Worth it,” Kenny said, still oggling her chest with hazy, concussed appreciation. “Totally worth it.”
Bianca sighed, but she stayed right there, cleaning him up with careful fingers and trying to ignore how close they were. His knees bracketing her hips, his breath warm against her collarbone. The bathroom light buzzed overhead. Outside, the chaotic practice noise filtered in faintly.
And the thought flashed through her mind for a moment, for once, she didn’t entirely hate how close he was.
Once the bleeding had stopped, Bianca reluctantly stepped away. “I have to get back to practice, you should probably to see the nurse at school.”
As she began to walk away Kenny grabbed her hand briefly, warm and rough. “See you at school,” he said, casual like the promise was a coin tossed in a fountain.
She pulled her hand back, exasperated and weirdly pleased. “You better actually be there and not dead in a ditch somewhere.” She meant it in a way that was dangerous and true. “Go to the nurse McCormick, I mean it.”
“I’ll go,” he said, voice small for once. “Promise.”
He fucking better.
❄︎ ⋆｡˚ ❆ ˚｡⋆ ❄︎ ─────── ❄︎ ⋆｡˚ ❆ ˚｡⋆ ❄︎
The rest of practice was a blur: coach yelling, music cutting in and out, the scrape of blades like white noise. Bianca forced herself through the axels and the spins, counted her rotations like prayers and told herself not to think about him even more.
After practice the rink emptied quick. Bianca rinsed her skates and tucked them away, the motion mechanical. She was on her way to meet with her friends before first period when the bell in her chest strangled her into stopping. She’d told herself she wasn’t his keeper. She’d told herself all kinds of things. But when she saw a flash of orange by the vending machines she felt that thread tug again.
Kenny slouched against the wall by the nurse’s window with a paper cup of something warm and a bandage wrapped like an afterthought. He’d actually been to the nurse—checked for a concussion, told to take it easy. He looked smaller than usual, the orange hoodie swallowed him, the bandage a ridiculous halo.
“You goin’ to class?” Bianca asked when she’d crossed the school tile. Her voice came out softer than she meant.
He shrugged. “Yeah. Depends on if I can remember where math is.” He squinted at her then, goofy grin wobbling. “Thanks for not letting me become a pancake again, Bunny.”
She made a face. “You’re an overgrown idiot. Don’t make a habit of it.”
He pushed off the wall and came toward her, a little unsteady. “I mean—sorry about earlier. With the—” He gestured vaguely at the empty air between them, as if the whole world could be summed up in a shrug.
“You mean the ‘I was getting head but thinking about you’ confession?” She arched a brow. “Yeah, real romantic asshole.”
He winced and let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-curse. “God, that came out awful. I know. I know. My head is brass right now.”
She rolled her eyes, which, by now, had become their second language. “It was gross and really fucking weird but I’m not going to hold it against you this time. You know, concussion and all.”
He blinked. “So you’ll let it slide?”
“For now,” she said, “Say shit like that me again though and I’ll be the reason for your next death.”
“You’re actually being nice to me for once, is it cause you wanna find out if I was telling the truth when I said I give good head orr—“
She cut him off immediately. “Kenny I swear to god dude. Can’t you come up with a new gimmick besides crudely flirting?”
He grinned anyway, which made something inside her unclench. “Fine. I’ll diversify. Maybe try interpretive dance next time.”
She actually laughed, short and sharp and more honest than anything she’d said all day. It felt like permission to be softer, and that made her stomach lurch in a way she both hated and enjoyed.
For the rest of the day Kenny hovered in her orbit more than usual—showing up outside classes she had, leaning against the same side of the hall, poking her with dumb comments that were mostly stupid and occasionally sharp. He asked about her skating choreography, offered to carry her skates to the car, insisted on walking with her like it was a drill assignment he’d been ordered to complete. It was weird and intrusive and new but she didn’t completely hate it.
Have I officially lost my damn mind?
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The rest of the day passed in a haze of lockers slamming, teachers droning, and Kenny McCormick orbiting her like a particularly annoying satellite.
Bianca tried to ignore him. She really did. But every hallway turn, every class change, there he was, Orange parka hood half-up, lopsided grin, bandage still taped crookedly over his temple like a badge of honor. He’d wave with two fingers, mouth “lucky charm,” or make some dumb comment about her skirt being “distracting” that made her want to smack him with her skating bag.
By lunch, she was ready to hide in the bathroom.
Instead, she ended up at her usual table with the girls. She slid into the girls’ table like she always did, backpack thumping, skates tucked by her feet. Wendy, Bebe, Red, Nicole, and Heidi were already there, forks paused mid-air like they’d been waiting to see who’d speak first.
Wendy spoke first, silky black hair flipped perfectly and eyes intensely staring into her soul. “You’re late,” she said, which was code for: spill.
Bianca stabbed at the food on her tray and made it look accidental. “Coach is a dictator. Same old, same old. You know the drill.”
Bebe’s eyes glittered with gossip. “Bunny! Spill, girl. Why have you been talking to Kenny McCormick like he’s not your mortal enemy?”
Red snorted. “Yeah. We saw you two in the hall earlier. He was practically glued to your side. What gives?”
“Are you dating Kenny now? Because—” Heidi started.
“Gross,” Bianca cringed.
“Also, kind of entertaining to think about.” Nicole cut in, grinning.
Bianca dropped her fork and crossed her arms theatrically. “No. I am not dating Kenny McCormick. He is a walking hazard and I will not be responsible for his burial.”
“He’s got stitches and you’re defending him,” Bebe said, voice a little too smug. “That’s practically relationship territory.”
“He got hit by a hockey puck this morning. I cleaned him up because I’m not a monster. All there is to it.” Bianca shrugged, trying to focus on her lunch.
Nicole raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t leave him there to bleed?”
“I should’ve,” Bianca muttered, but there was no real heat. She remembered the way he’d looked at her — dazed, dopey, but sincere under the horniness. The way his knees had bracketed her hips. The way his breath had felt warm against her collarbone.
“You save a man’s life, you’re contractually obligated to at least text them,” Red declared solemnly, which made everyone laugh.
Bebe’s grin widened.
“You’re smiling. A little. Bunny Harlow is smiling about Kenny McCormick. We must alert the presses!”
“I’m not smiling,” Bianca protested,
“Either way, he’s definitely into you. He’s been following you around like a lost puppy all day.” Red said with a shrug, stealing a fry from Heidi.
“He’s concussed,” Bianca said quickly. “Probably has brain damage. That’s why he’s being… nice. Or whatever.”
Wendy gave her a long look. “Or he’s been down bad for you since elementary school and you’re finally giving him a chance.”
Bianca grumbled as she stabbed at her food again harder than necessary. “He’s Kenny. He flirts with literally anything and everything. It doesn’t mean shit.”
Heidi smiled softly. “He seems genuine when he talks about you. Even if it’s wrapped in crude jokes. And you didn’t have to help him this morning. But you did.”
Bianca groaned, burying her face in her hands for a second. “I hate all of you. He’s annoying. And gross. And he literally almost died because he wasn’t paying attention.”
Again.
“Okay, enough,” Wendy said, more serious. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been…different. You’re finally actually talking to him. You’re gonna start teaching his sister to skate. You walked with him to class and didn’t punch him. That’s new.”
“Wait, how’d you know about Karen?”
“Kenny told Cartman, who told Butters, who told Jimmy, who told Clyde, who told me, duh. You really think anything in this town is a secret?” Bebe said like it was obvious.
“Oh my fucking god…” Bianca muttered, slouching down in her chair.
Bebe leaned in with laser focus. “So, tell us the truth. Do you like him or not?”
Bianca barked a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “No, fuck no. Plus he owes me for the blood on my jacket.”
Red’s grin grew predatory. “Yeah, owes you a date. How romantic!”
“I would never go on a date with him and you all know that. Kenny is loud and dumb and probably emotionally constipated.”
Wendy watched her with the soft, steady look she reserved for people having tiny nervous breakdowns. “It’s okay, Bunny we’re just messing with you. You acting like this around Kenny? It’s just a bit new.”
Bianca’s jaw tightened but she stayed quiet and nodded at Wendy.
“Guess I just got sick of hating him all the time. He’s okay I guess…”
They all laughed, but there was something in the way Wendy’s eyes softened that tugged at the corner of Bianca’s defenses.
Across the cafeteria, a flash of orange caught her eye.
Kenny was at the boys’ table, hood half-up, the group laughing at something Jimmy said. But his gaze kept drifting over. When he caught her looking, that bright, stupid grin spread across his face. He waved excitedly.
Bianca flipped him off.
Bebe caught it and cackled. “Yeah. Totally not a thing.”
The bell rang. As they stood to leave, Kenny appeared at the edge of their table like he’d been summoned.
“Hey, Bunny. Walk you to class?”
The girls exchanged looks. Bebe wiggled her eyebrows. Red smirked. Heidi and Nicole giggled. Wendy just sighed, amused.
Bianca rolled her eyes. “I’m capable of walking to class by myself.”
“I know,” he said, falling into step beside her anyway. “But I’ve got a headache and you’re the only one who makes it better. Plus, you smell nice. Like vanilla. It’s calming.”
She shoved his shoulder lightly. “You’re concussed and creepy. Go to the nurse again.”
“Already did. Said I’m fine.” He grinned, lopsided and dopey. “So far so good. Thanks to you.”
Bianca felt that traitorous flip in her stomach again. Jesus, get it together. “You’re so annoying.”
“But you like me anyway,” he teased, voice dropping lower. “Admit it. Just a little.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt, but she didn’t tell him to fuck off this time.
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, take dating troupe, sarcastic chaotic reader, reader has body piercings, sexual tension, crude language, teen angst, fluff, eventual smut (they're 18!!!)
⋆｡°✩ 🏈 Chapter 5: Subpar Music Taste 🍃 ✩°｡⋆
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The next morning was a compilation reel of small, dumb intimacy. You and Stan walked to first period together while holding hands, trying and maybe failing a bit (totally his fault) to act as natural as possible. You let your fingers brush his hand once and then, when a group of freshmen passed, you confidently curled your fingers through his. Stan’s grip was tentative at first, like someone learning to hold a kitten without crushing it. Your heart needle-skipped for approximately one and a half seconds before you shoved the flutter down as if it were a gross meme you weren’t into anymore.
He offered you one of his AirPods and you took it because of course you did, how else were you supposed to fix your boyfriend’s subpar music taste? Whenever he tried to play some sad angsty music you scrambled for his phone like a raccoon with rabies, hunting for a better track. Soon the text messages between you both were spammed with playlists and songs you’d been sending him in an attempt to fix whatever weird shit he was forcing upon your ear drums. You spent the majority of the morning arguing over music like an old married couple.
“Your playlist is depression with extra steps,” you complained.
“Your face is depression with extra steps,” he fired back.
By lunch you’d leveled up in PDA practice. You slid into your usual spot at the window table, half in Stan’s lap like it was your job. His pudding cup gleamed like treasure in front of you. You executed the grand pudding theft with the precision of someone who’d practiced petty thievery for years: reach, distract, steal. Stan looked offended—properly offended—and you cackled, shoving a spoon at him.
“Sharing is caring, babe,” you said too casually.
People around you leaned in like vultures. Kyle’s glare sliced from across the table as if he was personally responsible for moral policing. Cartman made a face like you’d just described the apocalypse. Wendy glanced over with Bebe. Good. The bit was working.
During fifth period you fixed his beanie, somewhat delicately. He closed his eyes for a second, not flinching when your fingers grazed his temple, and the small pause of normalcy made something sticky and warm pool in your chest. You mentally slapped yourself for being melodramatic and then made a note to maybe schedule a timeout with yourself later.
Out of the corner of your eye to noticed Wendy and Bebe walking by. You nudged Stan in the ribs.
“Ow! What was that for—“ he stopped, noticing Wendy as well.
You grinned devilishly before dramatically wrapping your arms around Stan in a hug. You made sure to laugh extra obnoxiously and nuzzle Stan’s shoulder like a cat in heat.
“Your hoodie smells like stale weed and existential dread,” you muttered, face half-buried in Stan's shoulder as he awkwardly patted your back like someone trying to comfort a feral cat they weren't entirely sure wouldn't bite them.
Stan froze mid-pat. “Are you... sniffing me?”
You pulled back instantly, but not before catching another whiff of his hoodie—that mix of cheap laundry detergent, faint weed residue, and something uniquely Stan underneath. “What? No, dude. That’d be weird.”
Stan gave you a look like he was debating whether to push it or let it go. His hand hovered awkwardly between you before he shoved it back in his pocket. “Right. Anyway. So—uh—tomorrow. We should probably... coordinate.”
You leaned against the lockers, tongue pressing against your piercing as you grinned. “Coordinate what, Stanny? Our outfits? You wanna match? Because I've got this sick 'I ❤ My Depressed Boyfriend' shirt—“
Stan's exhausted sigh was interrupted by Kenny appearing out of nowhere, sliding between you two like a greased-up middleman. His parka hood rustled as he glanced between you, eyes narrowing playfully. “Okay, so. Two things.” He held up a finger. “One—you're both terrible liars.” Another finger. “Two—which one of you two came up with this bullshit?”
You blinked. “What bullshit?”
Kenny's smirk was barely visible under his hood, but you could hear the amusement in his muffled voice. “The 'dating' bullshit.” He air-quoted the word with his grimy fingers. “Because—and correct me if I'm wrong here, but Stan was literally crying into a bottle of Jack Daniels three days ago over Wendy. And you?” He jabbed a finger at your chest. "Pretty sure you’ve told me before that Stan 'has the emotional range of a lobotomized goldfish.”
Stan's head whipped toward you. “You what?”
You shrugged, popping your gum loudly. “Yeah, well, that was before I realized lobotomized goldfish are kinda hot.”
Stan's face went through several shades of red before landing on exasperated. He pinched the bridge of his nose like he was physically restraining himself from strangling you both. “Christ. I changed my mind. Fake breakup. Effective immediately.”
Kenny straightened up, wiping invisible tears from under his hood. "Aw c'mon, don't be like that. I think it's cute!”
You rolled your eyes and popped your gum directly in Kenny's direction. “Yeah, well, keep laughing and I'll steal your lunch money instead.”
“Hey, I need that! You’d really steal from the poor?”
“Bitch, I’d steal candy from a baby if it was ugly enough.”
Stan exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders slumping like a puppet with its strings cut. “God, This was a mistake.”
Kenny's muffled laughter cut through the awkward silence. He leaned against the locker next to you, arms crossed. “Nah man, this is gold. The whole school's gonna lose their shit when they hear—“
A sharp bell rang overhead, cutting him off. The hallway erupted into movement as students scrambled toward class. You didn't move. Neither did Stan. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for your hand but thought better of it.
After school you ditched the chaos and met Kenny behind the bleachers like always. The cheer manager binder got tossed onto the frozen ground (priorities), and the two of you passed a joint in peaceful silence for a while, the cold metal pressing into your back.
Eventually you exhaled a long cloud and broke the quiet.
“Ok yeah I admit it… me and Stan? Totally fake.”
Kenny turned his head slowly, eyes wide with the kind of amusement only someone who’s died multiple times could manage. “No shit? Never woulda guessed.”
Yeah, yeah, fuck off, Ken.” You nudged him. “Wendy’s now seeing some debate team dweeb. Stan wanted to make her jealous, I felt bad for the poor boy, plus I get free weed. Win-win.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Later that night, your phone buzzed.
Stan: still alive?
Y/N: barely
cartman tried to sell me “relationship advice” for $5 today
almost stabbed him with a pencil
Stan: hero
thanks again. for today. the hand holding and stuff. felt… convincing Ig
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering. A tiny, traitorous part of your brain whispered that his hand had felt nice. Warm. Safe.
You immediately told that part to fuck off.
Y/N: duh 🙄 I’m an amazing actress
oscar worthy fake gf right here 😎
don’t get too used to it tho babes
my theoretical dick still has places to be fr
Stan: you’re never letting the theoretical dick go
Y/N: never 🥰 now go to sleep loser
can’t have my fake bf looking crusty af tomorrow
Stan: night
You set your phone down and stared at the ceiling, a stupid little smile tugging at your lips before you forced it away.
Tags: sp high school au, friends to lovers, soulmate identifying marks, first words soulmate au, fluff, angst, crude language, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, south park shenanigans
✎Chapter 1: First Words✍︎
✄┈┈
South Park High was the same frozen shithole it had always been, just with taller kids and worse attitudes. Kyle Broflovski tugged his green ushanka lower over his ears as he shoved through the double doors, snow still clinging to his boots from the walk in.
“—and I’m telling you, dude, if Mr. Garrison asks me one more time about my ‘identity journey,’ I’m gonna fucking snap,” Stan was saying, half-laughing as he leaned against Kyle’s locker.
Kyle snorted. “Tell him you’re still figuring it out. Works for me every time.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who—”
A commotion cut him off. Down the hall, Tweek Tweak was vibrating like he’d mainlined three espressos and a Red Bull, clutching the strap of his backpack while Craig Tucker stood next to him with his usual deadpan expression. Craig’s hand rested casually on Tweek’s lower back, possessive and familiar. The black script tattoo peeking just above Tweek’s collar was impossible to miss in the overly bright school lighting.
“Jesus Christ, calm the fuck down, twitchy.”
That was the one on Tweek. Craig’s, visible on the back of his hand read: “Gah! Don’t touch my fucking hair, you asshole!”
Soulmates. Actual, rare-as-shit, universe-stamped soulmates. The ink showed up on your thirteenth birthday, the very first words your soulmate ever spoke to you. Most people never got one. Those who did weren’t always so lucky with their tattoos though. The universe apparently had a fucked-up sense of humor and zero respect for context.
“Nah,” Kyle said, raising his hands. “Just thinking the universe is a dick for giving you two the most on-brand first words in history.”
Craig flipped him off without heat. “At least we know. Some people are still waiting around like losers.”
Kyle’s own wrist itched under the cuff of his jacket. He never looked at it in public. The words had been burned into his skin since his 13th birthday and he’d spent years trying to forget they existed.
“Fuck off you ginger freak!”
Surely it sounded like something that would come out of Cartman's mouth. But there was no matching tattoo on Cartman. Thank fuck for small mercies. Still…what type of first words to a person is that. At least Tweek and Craig had the excuse of meeting as children. Kids said dumb, rude shit every five seconds back then. Most people didn't meet their soulmate until they were at least a teenager.
“Fucking bullshit,” he muttered, the same line he’d used for years whenever the topic came up. “The universe playing matchmaker with toddler insults? Give me a break.”
Stan side-eyed him but didn’t push. He knew Kyle’s stance. Soulmates were for romantics and idiots. Kyle was neither.
The bell rang. Students scattered. Kyle grabbed his books and headed for trig, Stan falling into step beside him.
“You ever wonder about yours?” Stan asked quietly once they were clear of the main crowd.
“Every damn day,” Kyle muttered.
Stan shrugged. “Could be worse. Could be Cartman.”
“Kill me if that ever happens.”
✄┈┈
The walk back from Stark's Pond was the usual clusterfuck of snow crunching under boots and Cartman bitching about how the cold was "literally oppressing" him. By the time they piled into Kyle's basement—Sheila out running errands and Ike glued to his Switch upstairs—everyone was half-frozen and starving for something that wasn't mystery-meat cafeteria slop.
"Mom stocked the pantry last week," Kyle said, kicking off his snow boots by the door. "There's probably Cheesy-poofs and potato chips if Cartman hasn't already inhaled them by the time we make it to the kitchen.”
"Fuck you, Kahl, I have a medical condition," Cartman shot back, already waddling toward the kitchen like a man on a mission.
Stan and Kenny collapsed onto the couch, controllers in hand, already arguing over who got first dibs on the Xbox. You followed Kyle into the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world. You always did. Had since you both were kids raiding each other's fridges after snowball fights. "I call the good hot chocolate packets," you announced, hopping up on your tiptoes to peer at the top shelf of the pantry. "The ones with the mini marshmallows. Don't even try to fight me on this, Kyle."
Kyle snorted, leaning against the counter. "Like I'd fight you over watered-down sugar milk. Knock yourself out."
You stretched higher, one arm reaching for the box shoved way in the back. Your hoodie rode up. Only just a couple inches, but enough. The side of your shirt underneath lifted with it, exposing a strip of pale skin along your ribs, right where the edge of your sports bra usually sat.
Black script. Elegant, permanent, curving along the curve of your ribcage like it had always belonged there.
Kyle's brain short-circuited.
"Hey, move it, you dumbass! Some of us actually want to play on the good swing!"
He remembered. Second grade, the swing set, your pigtails and that pissed-off scowl you still made when he annoyed you. The universe had decided that was the moment worth immortalizing on your body forever.
He stared. Couldn't stop. The tattoo was small but clear, half-hidden under the bra line so no one would accidentally see it in gym or whatever. No wonder you never wore crop tops like all the other girls. No wonder you always tugged your hoodie down or crossed your arms around yourself protectively when the topic of soulmates came up.
You grabbed the hot chocolate box with a triumphant "Ha!" and dropped back down flat-footed. Your shirt fell back into place. You turned, cheeks still flushed from the stretch, and caught him staring dead at your midsection.
"What?" You asked, eyebrow raised. "Do I have snow on my ass or something?"
Kyle's mouth opened. Closed. His own tattoo burned into his left wrist under three layers of fabric. It felt like it was on fire. "Nothing," he managed, voice cracking like a fucking thirteen-year-old. "Just… uh. You got a tag sticking out."
You twisted to check the hem of your hoodie, muttering, "Liar." But you didn't push. Just started ripping open the cocoa packets like nothing had happened.
Kyle's stomach was doing cartwheels worse than her cheer routines. You hid it. On purpose. Not like Tweek and Craig, who wore their matching insults like badges of honor. Or like most people who had soulmates for that matter, willingly showing them off. No, you kept it hidden. Private. Covered. A secret.
Okay so maybe those weren’t the best of words to have tattooed on your skin permanently, but it’s not like his were any better. Surely that wasn’t why you kept it a secret. You had seen his, Tweek’s, and Craig’s. No doubt you would relate to having a shitty/embarrassing soul-mark.
He spent the next twenty minutes pretending to help with snacks while his brain screamed. Cartman was in the living room yelling about how soulmates were "for beta cucks who can't get laid the normal way," and Kyle usually would've jumped in with a "fucking right" and a middle finger. Today he just nodded along, eyes flicking back to you every five seconds.
You were laughing at something Kenny said, legs tucked under you on the floor, beanie now off and hair messy. Normal Y/N. The girl who'd pantsed him in third grade and then helped him chase Cartman for revenge. The girl who'd once shared her last fruit snack with him when he forgot lunch. The girl whose first words to him were literally inked on his body like some cosmic middle finger.
"Dude, you look like you're gonna puke," Stan said, nudging Kyle with his elbow as he grabbed a handful of Cheesy-Poofs. "You sick or something?"
"I'm fine," Kyle muttered, but his voice came out strangled. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Just tired."
"Bullshit," You called from across the room, not even looking up from the cocoa you were stirring. "Kyle Broflovski doesn't do 'tired.' He does 'aggressively caffeinated' and 'ready to argue with Cartman about anything’.”
Kenny snickered. "She's got a point, dude. You've been weird since we got here."
"I haven't been—"
"You put the milk in the pantry and the cereal in the fridge," you interrupted, finally looking at him with those sharp eyes that always seemed to see too much. "That's like, fucking insane levels of distracted for you."
Fuck. He had done that, hadn't he?
"Maybe I'm just processing the fact that we all nearly died in Cartman's 'shortcut' through the woods," Kyle said, grasping for literally any excuse that didn't involve explaining how he'd just discovered one of his best friend’s since second grade was apparently his cosmically-ordained life partner.
"That wasn't a shortcut, that was attempted murder," Stan agreed, thankfully taking the bait. "I'm pretty sure he was trying to feed us to whatever lives in those trees."
"Hey!" Cartman protested from his spot on the couch, controller balanced on his gut. "That was a totally legitimate route that would've saved us at least ten minutes if you guys weren't such pussies about a little ice."
"A little ice?" You nearly choked on your cocoa. "Cartman, we were literally sliding down a cliff. I thought I was gonna die and meet god, and then he was gonna be pissed because the last thing I said was 'oh fuck oh fuck.”
The group dissolved into their usual chaos of arguing and insults, but Kyle couldn't focus. Every time you moved—reaching for your phone, adjusting your position on the floor, gesturing while you talked—he found himself watching for another glimpse of that tattoo. Which was fucked up on about twelve different levels.
He could only think about his own tattoo. He knew the words by heart. Had stared at them on his own wrist every morning for years, wondering what kind of person his soulmate would be. Someone sweet, maybe. Someone who'd balance out his tendency to overthink everything. Someone who definitely wouldn't be the girl who'd once dared him to eat a handful of snow mixed with dirt and then laughed when he actually did it.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
"Earth to Kyle," Your voice cut through his spiral. You were standing now, empty mug in hand, looking down at him with concern creasing her forehead. "Seriously, what's wrong? You look like someone told you pineapple on pizza was mandatory."
Kyle's heart did something complicated in his chest. You were close enough that he could smell your shampoo and see the little scar on your chin from when you’d wiped out on your bike in fifth grade.
"I'm fine," he said again, but even he didn't believe it this time.
You studied his face for a long moment, and Kyle had the uncomfortable feeling you were reading his mind. You’d always been good at that—seeing through his bullshit when everyone else bought whatever excuse he was selling.
"Okay," you said finally, but your tone suggested you were filing this away for later investigation. "But if you're having some kind of mental breakdown, at least wait until after I finish kicking Stan's ass at Mario Kart."
"You wish," Stan called from the couch. "I've been practicing."
"On what, the calculator app?"
Kyle watched you flop back down next to Kenny, immediately launching into trash talk with Stan about racing techniques, and felt something twist in his stomach that had nothing to do with the questionable leftover pizza they'd had for dinner.
How the hell was he supposed to process that you were supposed to be... what? The love of his life? His other half? The person he was supposed to spend forever with?
It felt impossible and inevitable at the same time, like looking at one of those optical illusions that hurt your brain.
"Dude," Kenny said quietly, sliding over to where Kyle was standing frozen by the kitchen counter. "You actually good for real though?"
"Fine.” Kyle muttered.
"I'm serious. Did something happen? You've been staring at Y/N like she grew a second head."
Kyle's blood went cold. If Kenny had noticed, how long before everyone else did? How long before you yourself figured out why he was being such a freak?
"I'm not staring," he said, which was probably the least convincing lie he'd ever told.
Kenny raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And I'm not thinking about Tammy Henderson's—"
"Okay, gross, stop," Kyle cut him off. "I just... I think I need some air."
"It's like negative twenty outside, dude."
"Fresh air," Kyle clarified, already heading upstairs to the sliding door that led to the small balcony.
“Kyle." Your voice stopped him. You were looking at him again with that expression that made him feel like she could see straight through his skull. "You sure you're okay?"
For a second, he almost told you. Almost blurted out the whole insane truth right there in front of God and Stan Marsh and everyone. Almost said, Hey, funny story, but I think the universe decided we're supposed to be together and I'm kind of having a crisis about it because you're you and I'm me and this is fucking terrifying.
Instead, he nodded and headed up stairs and stepped outside into air so cold it made his lungs ache.
Kyle pulled out his phone and stared at his phone screen for a minute, thumb hovering over Stan's contact. He could text him. Make up some excuse to end the group's hangout early. Send everyone home and pretend this whole revelation had never happened.
Except he'd still know. And tomorrow he'd see you at school and have to act normal while knowing that somewhere on your body were the words that meant you were his soulmate.
The sliding door opened behind him.
"If you're planning to jump, I’d like to mention that we're not that high up," You said, stepping out onto the balcony. You’d put your jacket on—this ridiculous puffy thing that made you look like a marshmallow—but hadn't bothered with your hat. "You'd probably just break a leg and have to explain to your mom why you're an idiot."
"I'm not planning to jump," Kyle said.
"Good. That would be a really shitty way to end movie night." You moved to stand next to him at the railing, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. "So what's actually wrong? And don't say nothing, because I've known you for like eight years and you're about as subtle as Eric in the snack aisle."
Kyle looked at you sideways. Really looked at you. The cold was making your cheeks flushed, and you had this little crease between your eyebrows that always appeared when you were worried about something. Your breath came out in small white puffs that disappeared into the Colorado air.
You were beautiful. He'd always known that in an abstract way, the same way he knew the sky was blue or math was logical. But standing here, looking at you looking at him with genuine concern in your eyes, it hit him like a truck.
You were beautiful, and you were his soulmate, and he had absolutely no idea what to do with that information.
"Can I ask you something?" he said finally, turning to face you properly.
"Shoot."
"What do you actually think about the whole soulmate thing?"
You blinked, clearly not expecting that question. "That's... random. Why?"
"Just curious." Kyle shrugged, trying to look casual while his heart hammered against his ribs. "I mean, it's rare, right? Most people don't have soulmates. But for those who do... do you think it actually means anything?"
You went quiet for a moment, looking out over the street. When you spoke, your voice was carefully neutral.
"I don't really think about it," you finally said, which Kyle was pretty sure was a lie. "I mean, I don't have one, so it's not really relevant to my life."
Kyle felt his stomach drop. You were lying and he was certain of it. You were a lot of things, but you weren't a good liar, at least not to him. There was something in the way you wouldn't quite meet his eyes, the way your arms slowly wrapped around your midsection before you caught yourself.
"Right," he said slowly. "No soulmate."
"Nope." You turned to look at him then, and there was something almost defiant in your expression. "Why, Is that what this whole weird mood is about? Your soulmate?”
“Yeah something like that…”
You stayed silent for a bit before speaking, your voice softer than usual.
“Honestly? I used to think it was bullshit. Like, what are the odds that some random words determine who you're supposed to spend your life with?" You paused, "But my mom... she met my dad because of their tattoos. She was at this coffee shop and spilled her drink, and when she said sorry, he looked at his wrist and just stared at her. Turned out those were his first words—'sorry, I'm such a klutz.'"
Kyle felt something cold settle in his stomach that had nothing to do with the weather. "And they're happy?"
"Were," you corrected quietly. "Before the divorce. But yeah, they had like fifteen good years before Dad decided he needed to 'find himself' in Colorado Springs with his secretary."
"Shit, Y/N. I'm sorry."
You shrugged. "It's whatever. Point is man, maybe the universe knows something we don't. Or maybe it's just a really elaborate way to fuck with us. Spoiler alert: the universe doesn't give a shit about divorce lawyers. Personally, I think knowing you're 'meant to be' just puts too much pressure on something that should happen naturally.”
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, take dating troupe, sarcastic chaotic reader, reader has body piercings, sexual tension, crude language, teen angst, fluff, eventual smut (they're 18!!!)
A/N: all my chapters are so short asdfsfghj I’m sorry 🥹
⋆｡°✩ 🏈 Chapter 4: Commit To The Bit 🍃 ✩°｡⋆
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
You and Stan were now basically attached by the hip every passing period. You even talked him into walking you to all your classes—like a good boyfriend should obviously. Now yet again the boys were questioning you both with renewed curiosity while you all waited for the warning bell for your next class to ring.
"So like," Kenny said, "when did this happen? Because just the other day you were complaining about how Stan's emo phases make you want to 'yeet yourself into traffic.'"
You nearly choked on your gum. "Bitch, when the fuck did I say that?"
"Like three days ago. Behind the 7-Eleven. You said, and I quote, 'If Stan plays one more My Chemical Romance sounding song I'm gonna lose my shit and—'"
"OKAY," you cut him off loudly, shooting Stan a quick glance. His jaw was tight, clearly annoyed. "That was... before I realized his emo boy aesthetic was actually kinda hot. Character development, Ken, on god."
Kenny's shoulders bounced with muffled laughter. "Character development. Right."
Stan rubbed the back of his neck. "Can we not try to dissect this in the hallway?"
"Why?" Kyle piped up, still looking suspicious as hell. "What's there to dissect if it's real?"
You rolled your eyes dramatically. "Kyle, not everything needs a fucking thesis defense. Sometimes people just... get together. Shocking concept for a virgin ginger like you, I know."
"It's just weird timing," Kyle insisted. "Like, really weird timing. You've been friends for years and suddenly—"
"Suddenly what?" you interrupted, stopping in the middle of the hallway. A few people had to walk around you. "Suddenly I noticed Stan's actually funny when he's not crying about Wendy? Suddenly I realized his stupid bleached hair looks good when it's all messy? Suddenly I thought 'hey, maybe I actually kinda like him?”
Stan's cheeks went pink at the compliments, even though they were fake. Or... mostly fake.
Cartman made exaggerated gagging noises. "This is disgusting. You're both disgusting. I'm telling PC Principal that there's PDA happening and it's traumatizing the children."
“Cartman, Shut the fuck—“
The first bell rang, cutting you all off. Students started moving faster toward classrooms.
"Saved by the bell," Stan muttered under his breath.
You squeezed his hand one more time before letting go. "See you at lunch, babe."
The endearment made Kyle's eye twitch. Kenny just grinned wider.
"This isn't over," Kyle called as he headed toward his AP class. "I have questions. So many questions."
"I have answers," you called back sweetly.
"Most of them involve telling you to mind your damn business."
As the group dispersed, Kenny lingered for a second. He bumped your shoulder, leaning in close.
"Just saying... if this is some elaborate scheme to get free drugs, I'm kinda impressed. Very Cartman-esque, but with better execution."
You laughed, shoving him lightly. "Go to class, Ken. And stop trying to psychoanalyze my love life."
"Love life," he repeated, voice dripping with amusement. "Sure."
He started walking backward, hands in his parka pockets. "Just remember—when this inevitably goes to shit, I called it first."
"When you inevitably fail senior year, I called that first too."
"Touché."
He disappeared around the corner, and you were left standing in the increasingly empty hallway. Stan had already headed toward his next period, leaving you with the weird, fluttery feeling in your stomach that you absolutely refused to acknowledge.
This was going to be a long fucking day.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
By the time lunch rolled around, the rumors were already flying.
You weren't surprised. South Park High was basically a small town soap opera where everyone knew everyone's business within approximately 45 minutes of it happening.
You slid into your usual spot at the lunch table, the one by the windows where you could see the parking lot and plan your escape routes if Cartman got too annoying. Stan was already there, picking at a sad-looking sandwich and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Kenny sat down across from you, parka hood up, face muffled but eyes sharp. He handed you a bag of gummies like a secret handshake. “For later,” he mouthed.
You nodded and tucked them into your pocket. “You’re the best,” you said, and then louder, to keep the act alive, “Stan, you gonna eat your dessert orrrrr can I have it? I demand pudding.”
“I’m not giving you my pudding.”
“You’re a monster. I will leave you immediately for whoever gives me their pudding.”
“I would but I’m poor.” Kenny shrugged at you, sliding his pudding closer to himself and farther from you.
“Rude.” You fake pouted before laughing.
Kyle just sat there staring like he was trying to solve a murder. “So. You two. Real. Actually real.”
“Kyle, bro, you’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm,” you said with a chuckle. “It’s not that deep. People catch feelings. It happens.”
“Not to Stan,” Cartman snorted, shoving half a burrito into his face. “He’s been Wendy’s emotional support tampon for like, forever.”
“Better a tampon than a fat bitch.” Stan said, showing his middle finger to Cartman.
Then, you noticed from the corner of your eye Wendy walking by the table with Bebe, casting a slightly confused glance your way. You made sure to be mid-laugh, your head thrown back against Stan’s shoulder, your hand resting casually on his thigh. Stan, bless his awkward heart, actually put his arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. It was a stiff, almost robotic movement, but from a distance, it probably looked adorable.
Bebe, ever the gossip, nudged Wendy. Wendy’s smile didn’t falter, but when she glanced in your direction, there was an edge there. Not jealous exactly, at least not in a juvenile way, anyway. It looked like she was measuring you. Evaluating the threat. You felt exposed under her gaze, like she could see right through your little relationship sham immediately.
You leaned in close to Stan’s ear, voice soft. “She saw. You good?”
He nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah. Just… weird.”
“Then let’s make it weirder. For the bit.”
You swung a leg over his lap and settled half on his thigh and wrapped an arm around him like you’d done it a thousand times. Your fingers brushed the nape of his neck where his hair curled out from under the beanie. He tensed up for a moment before relaxing and settling his hand on your lower back. The warmth of his palm through the fabric of your shirt sent a stupid little spark up your spine that you immediately blamed on the weed pen you’d been taking hits from in the bathroom all day.
“Speaking of,” you said, overly bright to deflect the topic of Wendy, “anyone see that new cheer routine? The girls keep fucking up the count on the toe touch. I’m this close to losing my shit and committing suicide in the middle of the gymnasium.”
The lunch conversation veered into safer territory from there. Cartman ranting about some new shit he wanted to exploit or some fuckass scam for money, Kyle trying (and failing) to steer it toward actual school shit, and so on. You began to space out as lunch continued.
You felt someone kick you from under the table and looked up to see Kenny, hood half-down so you could see his ever knowing eyes.
“You good?” he asked under his breath, only for you. His eyes flicked between you and Stan with a raised eyebrow.
You forced a grin, “Peachy. Why, jealous I got a boyfriend and you’re still fucking your hand?”
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, sexual tension, death (guys it's Kenny duh), crude language, teen angst, eventual smut
⛸️ ˗ˏˋ Chapter 3: Criminal (Sort Of) ´ˎ˗ 🏒
❄︎ ⋆｡˚ ❆ ˚｡⋆ ❄︎ ─────── ❄︎ ⋆｡˚ ❆ ˚｡⋆ ❄︎
Bianca slammed the front door so hard the expensive framed photos in the hallway rattled.
The fight with her parents had been the same recycled bullshit, just louder tonight.
“Regionals are in six weeks, Bianca. You cannot afford distractions.”
“Skating is your future, not some rebellious phase.”
“You’re embarrassing this family with your attitude.”
She didn’t even stop by her room first before storming out of the house. She just grabbed the sneakers she’d left by the back door, a couple joints she kept tucked behind the skate guards (obviously), and slammed the door. Her parents calling after her sounded like muffled dead air.
The cold slapped her awake. She lit a joint on the walk,just a small thing to dull the raw edges, and inhaled until the tension in her body and rattling mind eased.
Her car sat where she’d left it, an old, beat-up Civic with a sticker and a dent on the bumper—perfectly hers. She’d parked where she always did by the rink, but today the sign had a new little addition: NO PARKING — TOW ZONE. She’d missed it earlier in the day when she’d been focused on getting to the Pee-Wee Gliders practice on time.
Fucking Great.
She jogged up to the storefront where the tow company kept the impounded. Her jaw clenched when she saw the note on the windshield: CITY TOWED — CALL xxx-xxx-xxx. Illegal parking. Fee attached. Her stomach dropped at the idea of having to explain this to her parents.
She stood there for a second, the joint smoldering between two fingers, thinking about how absurd everything felt. Then she crumpled the paper note in her palm and shoved it into her pocket, walking as her feet took her somewhere that felt less like surrender and more like a retreat.
She was halfway down the block toward who the fuck knows where—angry, numb, smoke-sour taste in her mouth—when a truck rolled up beside her and idled. Kenny leaned out the window, grin already in place like he’d been waiting to ambush her.
“Hey, Bunny,” he said, voice warm. “You look like shit”
Bianca didn’t stop. “Funny. Drive on.”
He shook his head. “C’mon, get in. It’s freezing.”
“No.”
“Bunny.”
“I said no.”
He sighed, the sound raspy. “Look, I’m not leaving you out here. You look like you’re about two seconds from either crying or committing a felony. Just get in the truck.”
She considered it. She didn’t want company, but she also didn’t want to walk in another direction and listen to her parents yell about how disappointed they were.
I don’t—” she started, then stopped, shoulders slumping. After a long beat she finally spoke. “Fine. One ride. But try anything and I’ll kill you myself this time.”
She turned and yanked the passenger door open, climbing in without another word. His truck smelled like leather and old fries and the faint perfume of cigarettes.
He whooped quietly, the sound oddly celebratory. “Smartest decision you’ve made all day, Babe.”
Surprisingly, Kenny didn’t gloat after that. He just waited until she slammed the door and cranked the heat higher. His eyes were softer than usual. For reasons she couldn’t articulate, that pulled her toward him like a tide.
She pulled the crumpled ticket from her pocket and tossed it onto the dashboard. “Car got towed. Illegal parking. Because apparently the world fucking hates me.”
Kenny picked up the ticket, scanned it, and let out a low whistle. “Damn, Bunny. You’re a criminal now. That’s kinda sexy.”
She almost smacked him. Instead she shoved the ticket back into her pocket. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
He grinned. “And you’re adorable when you’re worked up.”
Bianca just sighed, choosing to ignore his comment.
“Where we going? Home? Or do you need to drive around and scream into the void for a bit?”
“Drive,” she muttered, sinking deeper into the seat. “Anywhere but home.”
They drove without a real plan until Kenny made a lazy turn toward Stark’s Pond. The road there was thin and lined with trees that kept the wind from taking the chill completely away. He killed the engine and the truck settled into a comfortable silence that felt less like empty space and more like a place to breathe.
They climbed down the shoulder and sat on the cold concrete overlooking the dark, still water. Bianca stared out at the water, trying to keep the tears from spilling. The slight high from the joint had worn off, leaving her feeling raw and disappointed with the way her day had played out.
The pond looked like a flat black mirror, reflecting a sky scrubbed clean by the Colorado winter. Kenny took out a cigarette and offered it to her. She shook her head and turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears welling up in her eyes. He lit the cig and took a long draw, the ember flaring.
“You sure?” he asked, voice low.
She hesitated, then took it. The smoke burned like an apology in her lungs, but it also steadied something small and fragile inside of her. She kept her face something between defiant and hollow.
Kenny glanced over every few minutes, flirting lightly at first. “You know, you look sexy when you’re pissed. All flushed and doe-eyed. Makes me wanna kiss that frown away.”
She didn’t answer.
“Rough night?” He asked after a few quiet drags.
He didn’t push, only watched like he was cataloguing the way she bristled.
Bianca let out a shaky laugh. “None of your business, just dumb parents being assholes. The usual.” She paused, “And now my car’s towed and I’m gonna hear about it for weeks.”
Kenny hummed. “Parents are the worst. Mine only stop fighting to get high and then they do it all over again.”
She stared at the cigarette and felt the pressure behind her eyes rise. She wanted to cry, but not in front of the annoying shit sitting next to her. However, a single tear began to fall down her face regardless of her wants. She avoided Kenny’s gaze, throat tight.
“You probably think I’m stupid now. Crying over a towed car and rich-parent drama”
He watched her, face unreadable for a beat. Then he shook his head so softly it was almost a whisper. “Nothing could make me not like you.”
The sentence landed with the weight of something true even if it might be stupid. Bianca snorted, half laugh, half cry. “You don’t even know me, man.”
Kenny’s smile thinned into something careful, almost solemn. He drew in another cigarette breath and then surprised her by asking, quietly, “What’s your favorite color?”
She frog blinked. The question was ridiculous and sudden and the last thing she expected. Her shoulders eased without her telling them to. “Blue,” she said after a beat. “Like…the ice when it’s really clean. Or the sky.”
“Like my eyes,” He asked with a smirk.
“No.” She deadpanned.
He nodded regardless, like he was taking a mental note. “Mine’s orange,” he said. “Obviously. But only ’cause it’s the color of my parka and it hides blood pretty good.”
She snorted despite herself. “That’s morbid.”
For a stretch of time they traded small, odd things—favorite movies (he admitted he watched Karen’s cartoons with her), the worst school lunches, how he’d once tried to teach Karen to play hockey with a rolled-up sock and a broom. It felt nice, to have a conversation with him for once without getting pissed or him saying some weird perverted shit in an attempt to flirt. Real conversation. Genuine sentences and questions and answers that mattered.
She told him about a scholarship she once almost got and how her parents had quietly redirected her toward a different program. He told her about Karen and the little skateboard he’d bought for her when he could scrape the money together. She admitted, in a sentence that shocked her, how lonely the house felt when the charity parties started and her parents wore their fake-ass polite faces.
Kenny nodded and listened like he was learning to read a map for the first time. He asked dumb follow-ups and some questions that were surprisingly wise. The dark was cold and their breath fogged between them but his presence wasn’t suffocating anymore—it was easy, a worn hoodie she’d been allowed to sit in.
For once Bianca enjoyed being in Kenny’s company, the way they both kept talking until the world had softened enough that it wouldn’t ache quite as sharp.
By the time they headed back to the truck, the town’s bare minimum lights were smeared in a fog bank and her shoulders felt only half as heavy. Kenny tossed the cigarette into the pond and watched the ember die in the black water.
“Ready to go home?” he asked.
She thought of the house and the disappointed faces, the expected life. She thought of the tow yard and the fine she’d probably have to scrape together without telling her parents. She thought of the way Kenny had said nothing could make him not like her, and of how he was actually kinda sweet when he wasn’t being a horny teenage boy.
“Yeah.” She said finally, chewing on her lower lip.
He nodded, not even trying to hide the way he kept glancing at her mouth.
“Thanks, by the way.”
He shrugged, “Anytime, Bunny. Criminal or not.”
They drove back in companionable silence, the truck’s heater hissing through the vents, and for the first time that day the weight in Bianca’s chest felt manageable instead of crushing. As Kenny pulled up to the curb of her house, she looked at him in the glow of the dashboard and felt something like gratitude.
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, fake dating troupe, sarcastic chaotic reader, reader has body piercings, sexual tension, crude language, teen angst, fluff, eventual smut (they're 18!!!)
A/N: I’m sorry if the characters feel to ooc idk what I’m doing 😭😭
⋆｡°✩ 🏈 Chapter 3: Lowkey My Ass 🍃 ✩°｡⋆
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You woke up feeling like your brain had been microwaved.
Your phone was face-down somewhere in your bed, vibrating like it had a personal vendetta against you. You groaned, blindly reaching for it and squinting at the bright screen.
Kenny: bro u alive
u didn’t answer last night ☹️
are you cheating on me again bb?
You snorted, thumbs already moving.
Y/N: Yuh I fucked all the cheerleaders last night 🥰
Kenny: ong?? 😍
And u didn’t let me watch?? What a friend u r 🤧
Y/N: go touch grass 🙏
The typing bubble popped up instantly.
Kenny: I’d rather smoke it
You rolled your eyes and tossed the phone aside with a small grin, dragging yourself out of bed. Your head buzzed faintly—leftover high, dehydration, or just your default setting at this point.
By the time you got to school, the cold Colorado air had slapped you awake just enough to function. Well, function-ish…
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The hallway was loud as fuck—lockers slamming, morons yelling, the usual chaotic morning energy. You leaned against your locker, one AirPod in, scrolling TikTok while your thoughts bounced between the cheer routine, that one girl who kept messing up the count, whether you had a quiz in chem today or not, and—
Stan’s warm shoulder against yours.
…Nope. Not thinking about that. What the fuck brain??
You popped your gum instead, loud and annoying, like you could physically pop the thought out of existence.
“Mornin’.”
You looked up. Stan.
He looked worse than you felt, which was kinda impressive. Beanie pulled low, hair a mess underneath, eyes a little red like he hadn’t slept a wink. His jacket was half-zipped, hands shoved in the pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them.
You grinned immediately. “Jesus, Stanny. You look like you lost a fight with a raccoon”
“Shut up,” he muttered, but there wasn’t much bite to it.
You pushed off the locker and stepped closer without thinking, hooking two fingers into the front pocket of his hoodie and tugging him in. “Rough night, babe?”
His jaw tightened at the nickname. “Don’t call me that here.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? But I thought we were being believable.”
“We are,” he said quickly. “Just—not… loud about it.”
“Right. Lowkey.” You nodded like you totally respected that.
You did not.
Then you reached out and casually hooked your fingers into the front pocket of his hoodie, tugging him a step closer. “Relax,” you said, voice lighter. “You look like you’re about to get audited by the IRS.”
“I feel like I am,” he muttered.
You didn’t even get two seconds of peace before—
“…okay, what the fuck is happening.”
Kyle.
You didn’t turn right away. Just chewed your gum, slow and deliberate, then looked over your shoulder like this was the least surprising thing in the world.
“Hi hi Kyle.”
He stared at your hand. Still hooked casually in Stan’s hoodie pocket.
Then at Stan.
Then back at you.
“…why are you touching him like that?”
“Like what?” you said, loudly popping another bubble.
Kyle blinked. “Like—you’re—what is that? Since when do you touch him voluntarily?”
You glanced down like you’d just noticed. “Oh. This?”
“Yes, that,” Kyle said, gesturing like he was losing patience with reality itself.
You shrugged, trying to hide the grin growing on your face. “We’re dating.”
Silence.
Like, actual silence.
The hallway noise blurred for a second because Kyle’s brain just… stopped. Like buffered.
“…no you’re not.”
“Yuhuh.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Dude, we literally are.”
Kyle looked at Stan like he was pleading for sanity. “Stan.”
Stan shifted, clearly hating every second. “…we are.”
Kyle’s face did that thing where his brain visibly tried to process something and failed spectacularly.
Cartman, on the other hand—
“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE HAVING SEX.”
“Jesus Christ, Cartman—” Stan snapped. “We are NOT having sex. We deadass just got together.
“Since the fuck when?” Kyle asked.
“Like… recently,” Stan said, vague as hell.
You nodded enthusiastically. “Super recent. Very fresh. Brand new. Just dropped.”
“That is not how relationships work,” Kyle snapped.
“Sounds like a you problem, virgin ass” you shot back.
Cartman’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “I knew it. She’s probably into some freaky druggy shit too—bet she makes you call her ‘mommy’ while she’s smoking meth and—”
You turned slowly, smiling the kind of sweet smile that usually preceded violence. “The fuck does that even mean dude. Finish that sentence and I’ll shove that entire bag of Cheesy Poofs so far up your ass you’ll be shitting orange dust for a month.
Cartman gasped dramatically. “See? Violent and on drugs! She’s probably shooting up between cheer routines. That’s why she’s always twitching and talking about weird shit, it’s the drugs talking!”
“Shut it fatass.” Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose.
Cartman paused for half a second, then doubled down. “At least I’m not a walking needle cushion! Stan, bro, she’s gonna OD in your truck and you’ll have to explain to your alcoholic dad why there’s a druggy corpse in the front seat!”
Stan looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “Cartman, shut the fuck up.”
A familiar presence slid in next to you. You didn’t even have to look.
Kenny.
He leaned against the lockers, shoulder brushing yours, head tilted like he was observing a very interesting science experiment.
“…so,” he said casually, voice muffled but tone dripping with amusement, “you’re dating Stan now.”
“Yeah,” you said just as casually, bumping his shoulder with yours.
Kenny hummed. You could feel him looking at you—not at Stan, at you—like he was trying to read your entire thought process in real time.
“…that’s crazy,” he added.
“Is it?” you shot back, grinning.
“Yeah. Kinda.”
There was a pause.
Then, quieter, just for you—
“Is it for the weed?”
You simply laughed. “Hey! Maybe I actually like him, ever think about that?”
“Kenny’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Just saying…”
You winked. “Mind your business, perv. Or I’ll tell everyone about that time you tried to hit on the lunch lady for free tater tots.”
“Low blow,” he muttered, but he was grinning under the hood.
Cartman clearly wasn’t done harassing you both. He waddled closer, eyes narrowed like he was conducting a full FBI investigation. “Hold up. So you two are actually ‘dating’ now? After all the pussy crying Stan did about Wendy? Bullshit. She’s clearly using you for free weed, Stan. Or worse—she’s probably sharing her hardcore stash with you. Next thing you know you’ll be tweaking out in the bathroom together, banging heroine and each other like animals.”
You turned to face him fully, popping your gum so loud it echoed down the hallway. “Cartman, if you don’t shut your fucking ham-sized mouth, I’m going to shove my theoretical dick so far down your throat you’ll be coughing up my jizz for weeks.”
“See! she’s clearly one bad trip away from eating someone’s face!”
“Isn’t that bath salts?”
Kyle threw his hands up. “This is insane. Stan, you just got out of the Wendy mess and now you’re jumping into… whatever this is?
You shrugged, still hooked into Stan’s hoodie pocket. “It’s called passion, Kyle. Try it sometime. Might loosen that stick up your ass.”
Stan cleared his throat awkwardly. “We should—uh—get to class.”
“Yeah,” Kyle said quickly, still staring at both of you like he was about to launch a formal investigation.
Cartman pointed at you with a Cheeto-dusted finger. “I’m watching you, druggy.”
“Please don’t,” you said sweetly. “Your eye contact gives me hives.”
Kenny just smirked, shoulder still brushing yours as the group started moving. He leaned in one last time, voice low. “Sooo…if you do fuck, can I watch? For moral support. And science.”
“Dude shut up before I tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight.”
“Rude. It’s Karen’s.”
Stan shot you both a look that screamed I regret every life choice that led me here, but his hand brushed yours as you walked. Light, quick, but there.
You started walking and Stan fell into step beside you. There was a weird, quiet beat between you, like both of you were suddenly hyper-aware of everything.
Your arm brushed his. You didn’t move it away. Neither did he.
“…you didn’t have to do the hoodie thing,” he muttered.
You glanced at him. “It looked natural.”
“You yanked me.”
“Lovingly.”
“That was not loving.”
You grinned. “You survived.”
He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying not to react.
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, fake dating troupe, sarcastic chaotic reader, reader has body piercings, sexual tension, crude language, teen angst, fluff, eventual smut (they're 18!!!)
⋆｡°✩ 🏈 Chapter 2: Ground Rules 🍃 ✩°｡⋆
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
It was late afternoon after school and you were leaning against the chain-link fence outside the gym, scrolling TikTok with one AirPod in while the cheer squad finished practice. Your scuffed tennis shoes tapped a restless rhythm on the pavement.
Stan’s beat-up truck rumbled into the back lot exactly on time. When he spotted you, he gave a small nod that somehow managed to look both determined and like he regretted every life choice that led him here.
You hopped in the passenger seat, immediately cranking the heat and kicking your feet up on the dash like you owned the place. “Sup, boyfriend.
Stan shot you a side-eye as he pulled out of the lot. “Don’t start.”
The drive to his house was short and quiet except for the low hum of whatever sad indie-rock playlist he had on. When you stepped inside, Stan’s house smelled like a mix of stale beer, microwave burritos, and the faint floral scent of whatever cheap air freshener his mom sprayed to cover up Randy’s marijuana obsession. You’d been here a million times before as “one of the guys,” but tonight felt different. The second you stepped inside after he parked the truck, the tension from the idea of fake dating him followed you like a clingy ex.
“Parents are out,” Stan muttered, kicking off his shoes. “Dad’s at the bar, Mom’s at book club or whatever. And Shelly’s…somewhere. We’ve got the place.”
You grinned, already flopping backward onto his bed without invitation. Your baggy shirt rode up as you stretched, flashing the silver belly button piercing and a strip of skin. You kicked off your dirty tennis shoes and crossed your legs, patting the spot beside you. “You tryna fuck me already, Stanny? Bold move for day one. C’mon, let’s make this official. Bring the sacred notebook.”
Stan rolled his eyes but grabbed a battered spiral notebook and a pen from his desk. He hesitated for a second before sitting on the edge of the bed— not too close, but close enough that his knee brushed yours. “Okay. Ground rules. We need to be on the same page.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, tongue piercing clicking as you grinned. “Oh god, here we go. Is this the part where you pull out a PowerPoint?”
“Shut up.” His voice was dry, but his cheeks were already tinting pink. He flipped open the notebook, pen hovering. “Rule One: We break up whenever Wendy gets the message or when it stops working.”
You snorted. “Bold of you to assume I won’t fall madly in love with your depressed alcoholic charm. But sure babes, cross my heart and hope to get ghosted.”
He ignored that and kept writing. “Rule Two: PDA is for show only. Hand holding, sitting close, maybe a quick hug or cheek kiss if people are watching. Nothing more unless it’s absolutely necessary for the bit.”
You leaned closer, resting your chin on his shoulder to peer at the notebook. Your breath ghosted against his neck, and you felt him tense. “Boring. What if I want to practice my method acting? Like, full makeout in the hallway just to sell it? For the art, man. ”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m hilarious. ” You poked his side playfully. “Fine, fine. Light PDA only.”
He rolled his eyes but scribbled it down with a sigh. “Rule Three: We need a solid backstory. How we started dating. Something believable so people don’t ask too many questions. Specifically the fatass.”
You flopped back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling while your brain spun ideas like a hamster on meth. “Okay, easy. We’ve been friends forever. One night we were hanging out, smoking behind the bleachers like usual. I was ranting about how all the cheer girls are straight and boring, you were drunk on your usual ‘Wendy doesn’t love me’ spiral, and boom! Emotional support makeout! Sparks flew. I realized your sad emo boy eyes were kinda hot. You realized my sexy ass is better than being alone. We decided to give it a shot.”
Stan considered it, nodding slowly. “That works. Keeps it close to the truth so we don’t trip up. Just… leave out the part where it’s fake.”
“Obviously.” You rolled onto your side to face him, propping your head on your hand.“Now the big one: Do we lie to the guys or not?”
He set the notebook aside and rubbed his face with both hands. “Kyle’s gonna see right through it. He always does. Kenny… I don’t know, he might buy it or he might just laugh his ass off. Cartman will either ruin it for fun or try to blackmail us. If we tell them the truth, they might slip up or make it weird. But if we lie…”
“…they’ll treat it like it’s real and the whole thing feels more believable,” you finished. You reached over and tugged lightly on the hem of his shirt, pulling him a little closer without thinking. “I vote lie. At least for now. Kenny’s my closest out of them, but even he doesn’t need to know this is a Wendy revenge plot. It’ll be funnier this way.”
You two spent the next twenty minutes arguing over the rest of the list, you shooting down his overly cautious ideas with increasingly ridiculous suggestions (“What if we have a safe word for when Cartman gets too nosy? ‘Sparkly Pickles?”), him trying to stay serious while your knee kept brushing his thigh and your laughter filled the room.
“You’re really gonna test every single rule, aren’t you?” He looked at you suspiciously.
“Every single one, babygirl!” You laughed.
“You’re so annoying, why am I even friends with you?” He grumbled with a roll of his eyes.
“Don’t be mean pookie.” You pouted dramatically.
“Stop calling me that idiot.”
“Ok my little Lima bean.”
“The fuck does that even mean, dude?”
“I don’t know man, I’m high,” I shrugged, taking a hit from the pen I had in my pants pocket.
“Well, get un-high.”
“Well, then you get un-drunk.”
“I’m not even drunk.”
“Yeah, but you will be soon.” You glanced up from scrolling Snapchat and turned the screen toward him.
On Wendy’s story was a photo of her laughing with the debate team guy, his arm slung casually around her shoulders. The caption read something sickeningly cute.
“Fuck…” He muttered, eyes dropping
“Drinky time now pooks?” You grinned, leaning your head against his shoulder.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Stan let out a long breath and reached for the half-empty bottle of vodka hidden under his bed like it was a security blanket. At the same time, you fished the pen from your pocket again and took a deep hit, holding the smoke in before exhaling a thick cloud toward the ceiling just to be annoying. He took a swig straight from the bottle, grimacing as he passed it over to you. “Here.”
You accepted it, taking a smaller sip than him. His shoulder pressed against yours now, warm and solid through his jacket. He reached over and took the pen from your fingers, taking a long hit himself before handing it back. The smoke curled lazily between you two. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here we are, fake boyfriend.” You nudged him with your elbow, then rested your head against his shoulder again, more deliberately this time. The contact felt… nice. You quickly shoved that thought away and took another sip of the vodka burning your throat. “So, when do we go public pooks? I could make a big announcement in the cafeteria and grab your ass in front of everyone.”
Stan groaned, running a hand down his face as he exhaled more smoke. “No. God, no. Keep it lowkey. We just… start holding hangs or some shit. I can walk you to class or something. Let people notice naturally.”
“Boringgg,” you sing-songed, passing the pen back to him. You both took turns hitting it while the vodka bottle made another round. Although, his turns with the vodka seemed to last much longer than yours. “Fine, lowkey it is. Boring ass motherfucker.”
He side-eyed you, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the buzz.
“You know, for a guy who just got dumped you’re handling this pretty well. Usually you’re throwing up and crying like a little baby and getting drunk off your ass. Now you’re only doing the latter.”
Stan stared at the ceiling, expression darkening for a second as he took another hit. “It wasn’t exactly a dump. We were on and off anyway. But seeing her with that debate prick…” He trailed off, jaw tight, then passed the pen back and chased it with a bigger swig of vodka. “It just sucks, okay?”
You softened a fraction and shifted closer, letting your leg press fully against his as you took a slow drag. “Yeah. It does suck. That’s why I’m helping, dumbass.”
“You’re helping for the free weed dude, don’t lie.”
“Free weed and because we’re friends. Jeez, you think so little of me.”
Before he could reply, your phone buzzed on the bed. You glanced at the screen—Kenny. A Snapchat from him, the preview showing his face with the usual orange parka hood half-pulled up, captioned “where u at bitch?”
You quickly swiped it away, but Stan had seen. “Speaking of the guys…”
“Yeah,” you said, sitting up a little straighter, the pleasant buzz still humming through you. “I still think we keep it from them for now. At least until we see how it lands at school tomorrow.”
Stan nodded, though he looked uneasy as he passed the vodka back one more time. “Just… don’t let Kenny get too suspicious. He knows you better than anyone. It’d be embarrassing as hell if Wendy found out I was doing this dumb shit to make her jealous.”
“Relax. I’ve got this.” You leaned in and ruffled his bleached hair under the beanie, messing it up on purpose, then took a final hit before setting the pen aside. “Now pass the vodka loverboy. We’ve got a fake relationship to celebrate. Properly.”
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, fake dating troupe, sarcastic chaotic reader, reader has body piercings, sexual tension, crude language, teen angst, fluff, eventual smut (they’re 18!!!)
Summary: fake dating stan marsh to make wendy jealous? easy. ignoring all his rules and dragging him into chaos? even easier.
⋆｡°✩ 🏈 Chapter 1: Stan Has a Plan 🍃 ✩°｡⋆
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The bleachers behind the football field were empty except for the low hum of distant traffic and the occasional gust of cold Colorado wind. You were sprawled across the metal seats like you owned them—baggy pants slung low on your hips, an oversized flannel hanging open over a cropped band tee that rode up just enough to flash the silver belly button piercing every time you shifted. Your beat-up sneakers rested on the railing, laces half-untied and dangling. A half-smoked joint burned between your fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the air.
Your brain was doing its usual hyperactive sprint—jumping from the cheer squad’s new routine one second, to the way the joint tasted the next—when footsteps crunched on the gravel below. You turned your head lazily to see Stan Marsh.
He climbed the bleachers slowly, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket, bleached hair messy and darker roots showing from under his beanie. He looked pathetic in that specific, almost endearing “someone please put him out of his misery” kinda way.
He stopped a couple feet away, shifting his weight like the words were physically stuck in his throat.
You took a slow drag, then exhaled toward the sky before greeting your friend. “Marsh. To what do I owe the honor? Come to vent about existential dread, or is it the ‘Wendy looked at me for half a second’ special today?”
Stan rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks already faintly pink from the cold, or maybe something else. “I need a favor.”
You raised an eyebrow, overly friendly smile sliding into place even as your mind supplied ten sarcastic replies. “Ooh, favors. My favorite currency. Hit me before my brain decides to recite bad Drake lyrics instead.”
He hesitated, then blurted it out. “Wendy’s… she’s seeing that guy from the debate team. I thought if she saw me moving on with someone she knows, someone who wouldn’t actually complicate shit, she might get jealous. Maybe realize what she’s missing.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. Only sound being the joint in your hand crackling softly and your bubblegum gum chewing. You popped your gum, the sound sharp and aggressive, and flicked your tongue piercing against your teeth—a nervous habit you’d picked up along with your collection of body piercings.
He sighed and shuffled his feet a bit before saying, “I need you to fake date me. Just for a couple weeks.”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “What do I get out of it?”
Stan blinked. “My undying loyalty?”
You gave him the most bored, deadpan look in your repertoire—the one that could make even Cartman shut up for three seconds.
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Okay, fine. All the free weed you want.”
There was a beat of silence. You blew a bubble with the gum you’d been chewing alongside the joint (multitasking queen), leaned forward, and let it pop right in his face with a sharp snap.
“Yeah, okay, sure.”
Stan’s eyes widened, genuine surprise cutting through the gloom. “Wait, really?”
You shrugged, casual as hell, though your pulse had kicked up a notch. “Yeah, I don’t care. I’ll fake date you for a bit. But if I find someone I actually wanna fuck, this ain’t keeping me from getting my dick wet.”
He stared. “You don’t even have a dick.”
“My hypothetical dick. My in-theory penis. You know what I mean, dude.” You waved the joint lazily, tongue piercing clicking against your teeth as you grinned. The words tumbled out fast. “It’s the vibe. The energy. Don’t kinkshame my theoretical cock, Marsh.”
“You sound fucking stupid,” Stan deadpanned.
“Your face is fucking stupid,” you shot back instantly, sitting up straighter.
“Now is that any way to talk to your new boyfriend?”
“Yeah, it’s my dirty talk,” You teased, leaning in close enough that you could smell the faint mix of his cologne and the cold air on his jacket. “You turned on yet?”
Stan’s response was pure dry sarcasm, delivered in that raspy, slightly defeated drawl that somehow still sent a little spark down your spine. “Yeah. So wet right now.”
You barked out a loud laugh, the sound echoing across the empty field. “Oh, so I can’t have a theoretical dick but you can get your pussy wet? Hypocrite. The fuck happened to equality dude?”
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.
“I hate you so much,” he muttered, but there was a faint, reluctant smirk ghosting his lips.
“Love you too, babe,” you chirped with a grin.
Stan shifted, suddenly looking a little more serious. He pulled his hand back and rubbed the back of his neck again. “Okay, but if we’re actually doing this… we should probably make a list of rules. You know, so it doesn’t get weird.”
You stared at him for a solid three seconds, then burst out laughing so hard you nearly dropped the joint. “"Rules? Like what? Are we doing a contract? Do I need to sign it in blood, or is a Sharpie on my hand good enough for you?"
Stan’s face flushed darker, a mix of embarrassment and stubbornness. "Shut up, I’m serious. No weird PDA. No telling Kyle, because he’ll lecture me for three hours about how this is 'emotionally manipulative' or whatever. And—"
"And no getting feelings," you cut in, your tone losing some of its sarcasm, though your grin remained sharp. "I know the drill, Marsh. Don't worry, my standards for 'real' boyfriends are way higher than you’re emo ass.”
Stan’s jaw tightened, but he didn't snap back. Instead, he just looked at you—really looked at you—taking in the piercings, the oversized, disheveled layers of your outfit, and the reckless, moronic energy that radiated off you. "Right. Whatever. Just... keep it believable, okay? When she’s looking, put your arm around me or something. Don't make it look like you're holding a dead fish."
"I’ll treat you like a prized trophy, babe," you purred, still grinning like an idiot.
He swallowed, voice coming out a little rougher than before. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but I’m your impossible fake girlfriend now.” You winked, “So, when do we start this highly professional, extremely platonic, totally-not-gonna-get-weird fake dating scam?”
He let out a long, defeated sigh that somehow still sounded fond. Just... meet me by my truck after last period," he mumbled, refusing to make eye contact. “We can go back to my place. You can smoke some of my dad’s weed—if you actually help me with the rules and pay attention.”
“Sir, yes sir!” You saluted with a grin, already imagining how much fun it would be to completely ignore every single one of the rules he wrote. “Whatever you say, boyfriend.”
As Stan turned to leave, you watched his retreating figure, the joint forgotten between your fingers.
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, sexual tension, death (guys it's Kenny duh), crude language, teen angst, eventual smut
⛸️ ˗ˏˋ Chapter 2: Pee-Wee Gliders ´ˎ˗ 🏒
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Bianca “Bunny” Harlow hated a lot of things, but afternoons after school were tolerable. Mostly…
The main rink cleared out around four, leaving the smaller practice area for the beginner brats. Bunny volunteered to teach the “South Park Pee-Wee Gliders” twice a week — not because she gave a shit about inspiring the next generation or whatever, (though the tiny wobbly ankles were kind of cute) but because it beat going home to her parents’ cold, perfect, suffocating house. Dad and his boring Denver tech job, Mom and her charity boards expecting Bianca to be a graceful little nationals hopeful who never embarrassed them. No room for complaints. No room for “I just want to skate because it feels good.” Fuck that noise.
So she stayed late at the rink in this special kind of purgatory of annoying but cute children who had the balance of drunk toddlers instead.
Today she was on the ice with a group of eight- and nine-year-olds, bunny earmuffs around her neck so the little ones could see her face better. Her skirt swished as she demonstrated a basic forward glide.
“Okay, everyone — knees soft, arms out for balance. Like you’re hugging a big teddy bear. Ready? One… two…”
A few kids managed straight lines. Most wobbled like they were about to eat ice. One little girl in a purple helmet kept grabbing Bianca’s hand every time she started to tip.
“You’re doing great, Hun,” Bianca said, voice softer than her usual deadpan. “Just trust the blades. They want to hold you up.”
She caught herself smiling when the girl beamed up at her with missing front teeth.
Yeah. This part’s not so bad.
“Keep your knees bent, Tim. If you lock them, you fall. Physics, remember?” Bianca reminded a young boy. She reached out, steadying the kid before he face-planted into the ice.
From the bleachers near the hockey side, Kenny McCormick watched the whole thing.
He’d stayed after practice on purpose — told the guys he had to fix something on his skates. Really he just wanted another excuse to see her. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, that familiar lopsided grin growing wider the longer he watched.
Bianca felt eyes on her again. That familiar prickle. She glanced toward the boards and there he was —Kenny, leaning against the boards, his orange parka discarded on the bench, revealing a stained, grey hoodie underneath. He looked like he’d been through a meat grinder—a fresh bruise darkening his jawline and a bandage taped crookedly over his temple. Still, he stared like she’d just hung the moon in the sky instead of helping a kid not fall on their butt.
She narrowed her eyes and gave him the tiniest head shake. “Go away.” She mouthed at him and flipped him off discreetly, hoping the kids wouldn’t notice.
He just waved, two fingers again, mouthing “lucky charm” like the idiot he was.
The little girl holding her hand noticed. “Miss Bunny, who’s that boy? He keeps looking at you.”
The other brats perked up immediately
“Yeah! Is he your boyfriend?”
Bianca’s face went hotter. “No. He’s… just some idiot from the hockey team.”
Kenny, close enough to hear, cupped his hands around his mouth. “Future husband, actually!”
One of the boys gasped dramatically. “Miss Bunny’s getting married!”
Bianca shot Kenny a death glare that could’ve frozen the entire rink. “McCormick, if you don’t shut up I’m letting the next scoreboard fall on you on purpose.”
He laughed — that loud, raspy sound that carried across the ice. “C’mon, Bunny. You look hot when you’re teaching. All graceful and shit. Makes a guy think about what else those legs can do.”
Bianca bit her lip to keep herself from saying anything too harsh in front of the children and went back to ignoring him, turning her focus back to helping a kid straighten their posture.
Dick.
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“Okay, break time!” she finally announced.
As the kids wobbled toward the benches, Bianca stayed on the ice, skating a long, sweeping arc toward the center. She started to perform a simple, fluid hydroblade, stretching her body out low over the ice, her fingers just brushing the freezing surface. It was the only time she felt like she was actually breathing.
“Show-off,” a voice rasped from the boards.
Bianca didn't bother to look up, already knowing who it was. She pulled out of her move, blades clicking as she came to a sharp, aggressive stop, spraying a fine mist of ice toward the glass.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to loiter and jerk off?” she snapped, skating over.
“Finished practice early,” he said, ignoring her tone. He watched her, his blue eyes softening as they traced the way she moved—not with the critical gaze of her mother, but with an open, unvarnished fascination. “You’re really good, you know.”
“Yeah, well,” she muttered, grabbing a rag to wipe her blades, her cheeks heating up. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. So maybe keep that to yourself."
Kenny pushed off the boards, standing up straight. He looked at the group of little kids huddled by the bench, then back at her. “You're good with them, too.”
“They're just kids. They don't talk back…usually.”
Kenny chuckled. He shifted his weight, and for a second, he looked genuinely shy. “I… uh. I have a little sister. Karen. She thinks skating is cool, but we can't really afford the lessons and shit.”
Bianca paused, her rag hovering over her blade. The cynicism she usually wore like armor flickered. “She's welcome to join the group. It's not like the rink is busy, and I've got enough extra pads.”
Kenny blinked, clearly caught off guard by her offering him kindness. His expression shifted—that familiar, lazy grin returning, but it was warmer, somehow more honest. “Really? That’d be awesome. She’d love that.”
Bianca looked up at him, big eyes searching his tanned and lightly freckled face. For once he wasn’t grinning like an idiot. He just looked… sincere.
She hated how much she didn’t hate that.
He stepped closer, invading her space, but she didn't move away. He smelled like winter air and the faint scent of the cheap cigarettes he always hid in his pocket. The smell hit her hard — that familiar itch for nicotine crawling under her skin. It made her want to tell the kids to fuck off so she could go outside and light up.
“You're a lifesaver, Bunny,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips before flicking back up to her eyes. “Seriously. Lucky charm and a saint. I think I’m gonna have to marry you now. It’s basically written in the stars.”
Bunny rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide the tiny, treacherous smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You're a persistent little shit, you know that?”
“It’s my best quality,” he said, leaning over the boards until he was inches from her face. “Tell you what. When I marry you, I promise we’ll move away from this shitty town. Somewhere warm where I can watch you skate in tiny outfits all year round.”
“I’d rather hop into oncoming traffic than marry your walking STD ass. You’re hopeless dude.” She grumbled. Usually he’s the one ending up in oncoming traffic.
“Hopelessly in love,” he corrected with a grin before shrinking into his hoodie a bit, voice dropping lower and muffled like he’s done since they were children, “mmmphm mmph mmm mmph.” (And hopelessly hard every time you do that bendy shit on the ice.)
Bianca’s cheeks burned hotter. Jesus Christ, McCormick. She pivoted away, hiding her face, but she knew he saw right through it.
“Tuesday,” he confirmed, his voice lingering on the word. “I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it.”
She skated back toward the center of the rink, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew she should be annoyed. She should be planning her exit. But as she watched him walk away—limping slightly, still dragging his hockey stick—she realized she hadn’t completely hated their interaction.
And that was a hell of a lot more terrifying than any of his “deaths” ever were.
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, sexual tension, death (guys it’s Kenny duh), crude language, teen angst, eventual smut
⛸️ ˗ˏˋ Chapter 1: Lucky Charm on Ice ´ˎ˗ 🏒
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Bianca “Bunny” Harlow hated mornings.
Not in a poetic, “the sun is too bright and the world is too loud” kind of way. No, she hates mornings in a very specific, very personal, deeply pissed off kind of way.
Mornings meant the rink was cold enough to bite straight through her fleece-lined tights and into her bones. Mornings meant Coach was already riding her ass before she even stepped a foot on the ice. Mornings meant another shitty day in this frozen shittt town where nothing ever changed except how many times Kenny McCormick died (or almost did).
Fuck mornings.
The South Park Ice Rink still smelled exactly the way it had when Bianca was eight years old: wet rubber mats, cheap Zamboni diesel, and that faint metallic bite of old blood no one ever bothered to scrub out of the boards. Same rink she’d been skating at since she was a snot-nosed kid, same overlapping practices that turned the ice into a war zone between figure skaters and the hockey meatheads. Nothing ever changed.
Bianca laced her skates tight, jaw set, pulling on the laces until the leather creaked like it might snap. She quickly smoothed down her hair and adjusted her bunny earmuffs as she stood, the soft white faux-fur ones with the little pink insides that had earned her the nickname back in elementary school. They kept her hair out of her eyes during spins, kept her ears warm, and made her look softer than she felt. Big doe eyes, round cheeks dusted with freckles that always turned pink in the cold—she hated how it made her seem approachable. Like she was the kind of girl who wanted to be noticed.
She didn’t.
Especially not by him.
“Bianca, you’re late again,” Coach called out the second she stood up.
She didn’t bother looking at him. “I’m three minutes late.”
“That’s late.”
“That’s still three minutes, fuckface.” She muttered under her breath.
Coach just sighed like Bunny personally invented failure.
She pushed onto the ice anyway, blades carving that clean, sharp sound she actually liked—one of the only things in her life that made sense. Physics. Movement. Rotation. Gravity doesn’t lie.
People do.
She pushed off into a glide, blades carving clean lines across the ice. Music thumped low in her earbuds (hidden under the plush ear muffs), something dramatic and louad that helped her tune out the rest of the world. Axel. Loop. Sit spin. Her breath fogged in the chilled air, cheeks flushing from the effort.
On the other half of the rink, the hockey team was being their usual clusterfuck — sticks cracking, bodies slamming, Cartman yelling something about Jewish space lasers or whatever the fuck.
And there was Kenny. Orange hood half-up even on the ice, helmet tucked under his arm, blonde tufts of hair messy like he rolled out of bed no less than five minutes ago. He was laughing like a dumbass at something Cartman was spewing.
God fucking damn it. Not today.
For half a second she felt it—That familiar prickle hit the back of her skull — the one that always screamed Kenny’s about to eat shit again. She tried to ignore it. She really did.
She froze mid-glide, eyes flicking back towards the hockey team.
She’d known Kenny since they were kids. In a way, she and Kenny were bound together by an invisible thread, a shared history that was as complex as it was simple. First grade playground. Third grade bike ramp. That time in middle school when he’d almost gotten flattened by a delivery truck walking home after school. Every single time something lethal should’ve happened, she’d noticed. Every single time she’d moved without thinking—stepped in, yanked him back, deflected whatever dumb thing was about to kill his ass. And every single time afterward she’d ignored him. Brushed off his stupid grateful grins and his half-joking flirtatious lines like they were nothing.
Because in South Park, Kenny McCormick dying (or almost dying) was just…normal. Everyone else shrugged. Laughed. Forgot.
She never forgot. And it pissed her off to an insane degree that she couldn’t.
Then she saw it.
A massive, rusted piece of the overhead scoreboard housing—shaken loose by a particularly aggressive slap-shot—screeched as it detached. It was a twenty-pound slab of metal and wiring, plummeting like a guillotine.
It was aimed directly for center ice, where Kenny was currently standing like a brain-dead idiot, oblivious to the fact he’d soon be nothing more than blood, guts, and mush on ice. No one else reacted or seemed to notice. Stan and Kyle were arguing by the bench. Cartman was too busy still running his fat ass mouth. Motherfucker never shuts up.
Bianca grumbled to herself and launched forward, skates biting hard into the ice. She snagged the back of Kenny’s jersey, and yanked him backward with a force that made my her shoulder pop.
“Move, idiot,” she growled, annoyance evident on her face.
The metal slab slammed into the ice with a sound like a gunshot. The impact was enough to shatter the surface, sending shards of ice spraying across the rink.
Silence rippled for half a second, and then—just like always—it snapped back to normal and the world ignored the fact that Kenny McCormick should have been a bloody smear on the rink floor.
Kenny was staring at her, eyes wide under his ratty hood. “Bunny,” he said, voice raspy and teasing even through the fabric that muffled his voice. “My lucky charm strikes again.”
Bianca rolled her shoulder, wincing. It felt like she pulled a muscle. Great. Just great. She could already feel the heat crawling up her freckled cheeks. Why do I keep doing this? Why can’t I just let the universe take him out like it obviously wants to?
“It’s Bianca” she snapped, already turning back toward her half of the ice. “And fuck off, or next time I’ll let that shit pancake you into the ice for real.”
“Nah, you won’t” Kenny insisted, skating after her effortlessly despite the clunky hockey skates. His stick dangled from one hand, that same lopsided, boyish grin spreading across his face. He smelled like cheap body spray, sweat, and the permanent scent of cheap cigarettes baked into his parka. “You always save me. Been doing it since we were kids. Face it babe, you’re stuck with me.”
Her stomach did a weird little flip she immediately hated herself for. Because I’m an idiot who can’t mind her own business, apparently. She stopped near the boards, hands on her hips, flushed cheeks burning hotter than the cold air could explain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just happened to be in the way. Go back to your side before you actually die. Again.”
He leaned on his stick, not taking the hint. His eyes dragged over her—bunny earmuffs, freckles, the way her skating skirt moved—and that familiar spark lit up in them. The same one he’d had since they were old enough to know what flirting was.
“Marry me,” he said, deadpan but grinning like he meant at least half of it.
“In your dreams, McCormick,” she shot back, the words automatic, pissy, familiar. But there was no real bite. Just the same tired irritation she always felt when he tried to drag her into whatever this was. “Touch me and I’ll make sure your next death sticks.”
Kenny’s grin turned wicked. He tugged his parka down a little, muffling his voice on purpose. “Mmmph mhm mmph” (Yeah, maybe my wet dreams).
She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Yeah I heard that pervert.”
He laughed—that loud, raspy sound that cut straight through the rink noise—and skated backward in front of her like it was nothing. “C’mon, Bunny. You can’t keep pretending you don’t see me. Not forever. One of these days you’re gonna admit you’re actually into me.”
She almost tripped on her own blade. Watch me, she thought, but the words didn’t come out. She simply rolled her eyes before popping her earbuds back in and adjusting her earmuffs over her ears.
Kenny finally peeled off toward his team, throwing one last bright, boyish look over his shoulder like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Bianca watched him go half a second longer than she should have. Then she shook her head and pushed into another spin.
The music swelled in her earbuds.
The ice felt the same under her blades.
But something in her chest felt…tighter.
And she really, really didn’t want to think about what that meant.
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Bianca disliked how the rest of the day always felt like a slow-motion bullshit replay after morning practice.
Lockers slammed. Teens chattered. Someone was yelling about last night’s episode of whatever trash reality show was trending. And Bianca kept her head down, bunny earmuffs pulled over her ears and her bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed a thousand pounds.
The girls were clustered near Wendy’s locker as usual.
Bianca leaned against a locker, arms crossed, only half-listening while Red bitched about her latest boy drama.
“—and I’m just saying, if he texts me ‘hey’ one more time, I’m actually going to block him,” Red huffs, flipping her red hair over her shoulder.
“You’ve said that five times,” Bebe points out, checking her nails. “You never do it.”
“Fuck you, I will this time.”
“You won’t.”
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
Bianca snorted softly, the sound escaping before she could stop it. “Thrilling. Really groundbreaking stuff.”
Red shot her a look. “Sorry your life is so exciting, Bunny.”
“Didn’t say that,” Bianca muttered. “Just saying I don’t care about your ‘hey’ trauma.”
Wendy, ever the sane one, shut her locker with a decisive click. “Can we not fight before lunch? It’s too early.”
“It’s always too early,” Bianca said flatly, big doe eyes half-lidded with lingering morning irritation.
Heidi, quieter and a little more put-together these days after her whole Cartman phase, gave Bianca a small, tentative smile. “You were at the rink this morning, right? I heard something fell?”
Bianca stiffened.
Of course people heard it.
Yeah,” she shrugged, hating how her round freckled cheeks and wide eyes made everything she felt broadcast across her face. “Old building. Shit breaks.”
“That’s kinda scary,” Heidi says softly.
Bianca hummed. “Not really.”
It would have been scary… if she hadn’t yanked Kenny’s stupid ass out of the way. Again.
She pushed off the locker before anyone could ask anything else. “I’m going to class.”
The bell rang. As the group started splitting off down the crowded hallway, Bianca caught a flash of orange in the chaos.
Kenny.
He was leaning against a locker a few feet away, parka hood up as usual, talking to Stan and Kyle. But his eyes flicked over the second she looked. That lopsided grin appeared instantly. He raised two fingers in a lazy wave, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like “Wifey.”
Bianca rolled her eyes and turned away fast, cheeks burning again. Ignore the orange fuckboy.
But she felt his gaze on her back the whole way down the hall.
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Lunch was its own circus.
The girls claimed their usual table near the windows. Wendy was ranting about some new school policy that was “secretly sexist.” Bebe was scrolling through her phone, judging everyone’s outfits. Red kept stealing fries off Heidi’s tray. Bianca poked at her lukewarm tater tots, half-listening while her mind kept drifting back to the rink.
Bebe leaned in suddenly, eyes sparkling. “So Bunny, Kenny was asking about you.”
Bianca nearly choked on nothing.
“…what? Who said that?”
“Clyde,” Bebe shrugged nonchalantly.
“After practice this morning,” Red added, trying (and failing) to hide that she was taking a discreet hit from her vape tucked in her sleeve. “He said something about you being his—what was it—”
“‘Lucky charm,’” Bebe said, smirking.
Oh my god, I’m going to kill him.
Bianca stared at them, fork frozen halfway to her mouth. “He’s so weird,” she muttered, looking down at her drink like it had personally offended her. “He asked me to marry him. Again.”
Some of the girls giggled. Wendy raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. “You’ve known him forever.”
“Yeah,” Bianca said quickly. “Exactly. That’s how I know he’s fucking weird.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” Bianca grinned playfully, making grabby hands under the table until Red reluctantly handed over her vape. She took a quick hit—raspberry wafer, sickeningly sweet—before passing it back.
Heidi tilted her head, mousy brown bangs falling over her eyes. “He’s not that bad, though. I mean, when he’s not being gross. He’s actually kind of sweet with Karen.”
Bianca didn’t answer. Sweet or not, she didn’t need Kenny McCormick complicating her already freezing, disappointing mornings.
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
“Do you like him?” Bebe grinned devilishly, curling her blonde strands around a finger.
“No.” Flat. Dry. Immediate.
Bebe’s grin widens. “That was quick.”
“Because it’s obvious,” Bianca snapped. “He’s annoying. And gross. And he almost got turned into ice mush this morning because he wasn’t paying attention.”
Heidi winces. “He does that a lot…”
“Yeah,” Bianca muttered, angrily stabbing at the cold shitty tater tots on her tray. “I’ve noticed.”
More than any of you.
Across the cafeteria, her damn eyes betrayed her again.
Kenny was slouched at the boys’ table, hood half up again, laughing at something Cartman said like it was actually funny. His arm is thrown over the back of his chair, completely relaxed.
Like nothing almost happened.
Like it never happens.
He glanced up.
Caught her looking.
And immediately that bright, stupid grin spread across his face.
God.
She looked away so fast it almost gave her whiplash.
“you’re staringggg” Red sing-songed.
“Am not.”
“You literally are, dummy”
“I was looking at Cartman,” Bianca lied.
“Why the fuck would you ever look at Cartman?” Bebe scrunched up her face in disgust.
“…good point.”
Wendy sighed. “You’re terrible at lying.”
Bianca shrugged. “Don’t usually need to.”
Bebe leaned in again, lowering her voice like they were sharing state secrets. “He’s kinda cute, you know.”
Messy blonde hair. Those stupid blue eyes that always looked a little too amused for someone who should be dead ten times over. That crooked toothed grin like nothing in the world could phase him.
And the way he looked at her—like her saving his life was the highlight of his day.
Nope. Absolutely not.
“Hard pass,” she said firmly, shoving another cold tot into her mouth to end the conversation. “He’s a crusty lookin’ cumstain with a death-wish.”
The girls dropped it… for now.
But as the lunch period dragged on, Bianca couldn’t shake the feeling that the invisible thread tying her to that immortal piece of shit since they were kids was starting to pull just a little tighter.
And for the first time, ignoring it felt harder than she wanted to admit.
jimmyeatworldofficial
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
