Liane is gone by the time they come downstairs.

Wendy has an awful, creeping—and utterly paranoid—notion that they scared her off, until Cartman heads into the kitchen.

"Ah," he says.

A piece of paper is all she's left in her absence. Not that Wendy can't see what it says, but it's short, a couple of lines scrawled in a rush. Careless.

There's something devastatingly disappointed in his face that disappears, so quick she swears it was never there. "Eh." He lets the note float back to the counter. "Not surprising."

Wendy knits her brow ever-so-slightly. And here she was, hearing from her mother that Liane Cartman had finally turned it around and decided to be a parent. Evidently not.

"Guess that means we'll have to whip something up—either that or go out."

"Cartman," she says mildly, glancing at her phone. Two hours turned into four. "I really have to get going."

"Aw, but that's boring." He's completely dismissive, not even glancing her way as he checks the cabinets. "Yeah. Definitely gonna have to go out."

"Okay." She edges toward the kitchen door. "Have fun."

"Or order in."

She clears her throat. "I'll see you."

"Wendy."

She closes her eyes, sighing. "Cartman. I told you, I have stuff to do. And I'm already late as hell."

He grins. "So? Be even later."

"For what? Hanging out with you?"

"Yeah?" He gives her a look. "I'm kind of fucking amazing."

"Oh my God," she mutters, rolling her eyes.

"Wendy," he whines. "Come on. My mom's gonna be out of the house until like, tomorrow. That means you could stay the night."

"But I'm busy." She stresses the last word. "What part of that don't you understand?"

"Doing what?" His eyes shine knowingly. "Homework?"

She reddens. "So what if I am?"

"Skip it. Be bad for once in your fucking life. It's fun."

"I feel like what I did with you was pretty goddamn bad. Like, to be fair."

He crinkles his nose. "Really? Because, from where I was sitting, it was pretty fucking good."

She sighs.

"Well—more like where I was lying, really, because I was on top of you then I was under you, and holy shit, that was something else…"

"Shut up," she clips through her own traitorous smile. "I'm—"

"Tell you what." He leans coolly against the counter. "You go do your numbers and shit like a good little Honor Roll student then come back when you're done. Kenny's coming over, but if he's still conscious by the time you get here, I can kick him out."

"Cartman," she huffs, crossing her arms. Her breasts lift inside of her tank top, to which he doesn't bother to hide his blatant staring. "Don't do that for me."

"Why? Not like he'd give a shit." His mouth ticks slyly at the corner. "And while every chick in our grade might be, it's not him I'm interested in fucking the shit out of."

She releases a dramatic, loud groan—fuel to the fire for him.

"I'd have to sneak out." Immediately she hates herself for even saying so. Like, why is she even considering it in the first place?

"Then do."

She laughs, more out of shock than anything. "Cartman—"

He smiles broadly. "You know you wanna."

"I really don't. Christ. Why does it matter, anyways?"

"Duh." He rolls his pretty eyes. "I like you."

"Yeah," she scoffs. "Like being inside of me, sure."

Cartman gives her a hard look. "Is it so hard to believe that maybe I tolerate you as a person?"

"Yes." Since when did he tolerate anyone? Except maybe Kenny, but they'd had that bro-ish, ride-or-die kinda deal going on since birth.

"Okay." He nods sagely. "You're right. You're pretty fucking insufferable. I totally only put up with you for your puss."

"Oh, fuck you—"

He widens his eyes at her. "Well you could if you'd STAY OVER."

"I think I've had enough for one day," Wendy bellows. She's rewarded with his prettiest grin—and him finally relenting on his pursuit.

"Fine. I'll take your lame ass home." He crosses the kitchen, snatching his keys off the hook. "But mark my words, Wendy Testaburger—someday, I will find a way to make you stay over."

An unimpressed brow spikes on her face. "I'm sure, Cartman."

While Wendy uses the bathroom, Cartman sits out in the Civic, smoking.

That is, until some hooded dickhead slams his hands down onto the driver's side door.

"The fuck—"

"Yo," Kenny says, leaning into through the rolled-down window.

"Jesus," Cartman mutters. "Scared the hell out of me."

"I know." Kenny takes the cigarette from Cartman's hand and draws in a deep, generous drag. "We still on tonight, or do you just like sitting in your car?"

"Yeah, we're still on." Kenny raises the cigarette again, and Cartman snatches it from the grinning asshole's hands. "Did I fucking invite you to take that?"

"No." His eyes, sorta half-fixed on Cartman's face, are mad bloodshot. His feet are also bare, and not rebelliously—he probably just straight up forgot shoes. Douche is still blasted from that bowl he smoked after school. "But do you ever?"

Cartman rolls his eyes, right as the door opens and Wendy, in those tight fucking jeans and tank top, steps out.

She blinks in surprise, spotting Kenny, right as his eyes catch and hold onto her.

Four second silence. Then, intelligently: "Whoa."

"I gotta take her home, so just chill here while I—"

"Dude," Kenny interrupts, tremblingly re-clutching the door frame. "Fucking whoa." Cartman shoots him a sharp look.

"Hi, Kenny," Wendy calls uncertainly. Kenny smiles so that every tooth shows.

"Hiya."

"Ignore this dick," Cartman says, giving the spent cigarette a flick down to the pavement. "He's apparently never seen a girl before."

"Dude," Kenny says again, quietly. "Were you like...straight hitting that before I showed up?"

"No," Cartman stresses, rolling his eyes, "we were fucking playing Scrabble."

"Strip-Scrabble?"

"No, Kenneth."

"Bruh…" Kenny trails off, glancing at Wendy again when she gets in on the passenger side. He presses all six feet and two inches of himself into the side of the car, too-short shirt riding up around his flat stomach. "I am so sorry if I interrupted anything."

Apparently at the end of his rope, Cartman spanks the horn, which sends Kenny flying off of the car. But Wendy's smiling knowingly.

"You didn't."

Kenny grins. "Nice." Undeterred, he's leaned back into the Civic.

"Kenny," Cartman says faux-tightly, "please get your fucking ghetto-ass germs off of my vehicle. Before you give it AIDS."

"Bro, I'm 'bout to get these ghetto germs all over your girlfriend here if she keeps bending over like that," Kenny mutters. Wendy, stooped over to rummage in her purse, smirks.

"Not my girlfriend, not your place to spread your shit. Now sit tight while I take her home."

"Wait, so like…" Kenny gestures in the air with a gloved hand. "Is it true that Cartman has a small dick?"

"DUDE—"

"Nope," she chirps, popping back up. "Not true at all."

"Oh." Kenny pauses. His attractive face clouds with thought—then something naughty. "Oh ho."

"Okay." Cartman throws the car in reverse, but he's smiling. "I fucking hate both of—"

"I mean," Wendy continues, virtually musing aloud, "you really think I'd be the type of girl to settle for something like that? Gotta keep the cat fed, you know?"

Kenny sucks in a sharp breath, stunned.

Then he starts to laugh hysterically.

"Back in ten, you fucking prick," Cartman yells, peeling out onto the street.

Kenny: "not my girlfriend"? i hear that right?

Wendy: Yep! Just fuck buddies.

Kenny: so u like...fuck him and wat? thats it?

Wendy: Yes, Kenny, that's kinda how that works.

Kenny: ...man where the FUCK are all the horny chicks when I need one?!

On Saturday, around three, Wendy finally finds enough free time to meet up with Bebe at Stark's Pond.

She isn't expecting it, but melts with an overwhelming bolt of affection at the sight of her lifelong friend, sitting on a log with her legs elegantly crossed. The reunion is a mesh of squealing, hugs, and animated chatter as the pair heads toward town—the kind of display that's so feminine, Wendy could have sworn she put it behind her years ago.

She didn't realize how much she missed Bebe, or having girlfriends in general.

"How have you been?" Bebe asks, with her same level of girly, bubbly charm that she's had since they were single digits. "Feels like it's been years."

"Good," Wendy replies. "Actually—great. Like, really fucking great. This is probably the best I've been in a long, long time."

"Whoa." Bebe smiles slowly. "Do I sense another boyfriend in the mix?"

Wendy rolls her eyes playfully, because leave it to Bebe Stevens, girl who lost her virginity at fourteen and has been hooked on boys since elementary school, to fall back on something sexual.

"What if it isn't? What if I'm in just in a really good mood today?"

"Nope. Because the Wendy Testaburger I know doesn't just get into really good moods for no reason." Bebe's eyes twinkle. "So. Who is it?"

Wendy sighs. Oh God. Two minutes in—and not a word about Bebe, or her latest squeeze, not a word on anything at all—and it's already come up.

"It", of course, being what's had Wendy, breathless, naked, and moaning, on Cartman's bed these last couple of days. In fact, convincing him not to chain her to his bed after she announced, post-coitus, that she'd be sacrificing their fourth day banging to see Bebe instead almost escalated into an all-out war. Once they'd popped that cherry, he was hooked, it seemed. Every day, without fail, ended with him indirectly, then very directly, trying to convince her to stick around for another round. Which he didn't seem interested in relenting on any time soon.

Not that she didn't feel the same, to an extent; say what you will about Eric Cartman—and there is a lot to say to say—but he's damn good with his hands. And mouth. And tongue. And every part of him, really, which was as disarming as it was hot for her, at first, knowing that he's never had a girlfriend. She ruled out one in secret, too (why would Cartman, a certified ego maniac, hide something like that?).

"Look," Wendy says at last, taking a chance. "He's not even my boyfriend, okay? We just—"

"What?" Bebe shifts excitedly. "You just what, huh? Fool around?"

Wendy sighs again. She is, by no means, a shy girl, but she suddenly feels pressured. Nervous, almost.

"Omigod. Have you guys...done it?"

"Christ, Bebe," Wendy says, mouth trembling with a smile, "you're supposed to be the expert here."

Bebe giggles. In her tight black yoga pants and airy white tank top, nothing is left to the imagination. "Okay," she says, "so you realize now that you have to give me a name?"

"Mmm…" Wendy winds a strand of dark hair around her finger. "...nah." Brushing it out this morning was an uphill battle, after what Cartman did to it yesterday. Snares and tangles galore.

"Yes. You do."

She lets the strand drop back down to the rest of her mane, resting on her shoulder. "Or what?"

"Tell me," Bebe persists, whining. She clutches Wendy's hands. "Wends. Come on, baby. Whoever he is, he must be good. I haven't seen you smile like that in years."

"What does it matter anyways?"

"Is he somebody we know?"

"Bebe." Wendy gives her a look. "Come on. We know everybody at school."

"Omigod, Wendy, you'd better fucking tell me or I'm gonna lose it." At her friend's hesitation, Bebe draws an X across her breast. "I won't judge. Promise."

God, like hell she won't (to give Bebe credit, though, why on Earth would she suspect it to be Cartman?). Wendy rolls her eyes. "Ohh yes, you will."

"Is it Stan?"

"No," Wendy says immediately, inwardly cringing. What with Bebe's know-how on literally everybody, apparently the news of his current sexuality hasn't hit the streets yet.

"Kyle? Oh, and even if it is, lie to me, please. Because I hate to share."

"WHAT," Wendy utters in a high, thin voice. The smile she's given in return is nothing short of pleased. "Again, huh?"

Bebe flips her hair. "Long story. He came over to help me with Calc BC and well, the next thing I knew my shirt was off and his tongue was—"

"Bebe!" Wendy cries, affronted. "Do not tell me about your sexcapades, please."

Bebe smiles coolly. "I'll take that as him not being your mysterious fuck buddy, then."

"No. Fucking hell, Bebe. I would've told you if he was."

"Fair enough." She deliberates. "Okay, most obvious choice: Kenny?"

"Like he'd ever actually commit," Wendy says with a snort.

"Aww, that's too bad. I've had him," Bebe says casually (and as though Wendy didn't already hear about it in a drunk phone call one night). "He's good."

Wendy doesn't doubt that. "Give me your next best guess."

Bebe taps her dimpled chin, mock-thinking. "Craig?"

Wendy fights a smile. "Nope."

"Fuck. Clyde?" At the answering head shake, Bebe balls her fists. "Oh my God. Token?"

"Noooope." Wendy smirks. "Give it up, Bebe. You're never gonna get it."

Bebe huffs. "I will personally go through every boy in our grade if I have to. Maybe even some of the juniors. So don't test me."

"We're gonna be here all day, then."

"So be it. And fuck it if I'm not having fun anyways." Bebe bumps Wendy's shoulder. "Missed you, baby girl."

Wendy flushes pleasantly at the camaraderie. "Missed you, too."

They pass by the Tweaks' coffeeshop; Tweek, hunched over the espresso bar as he meticulously pours a cappuccino, glances up and twitchingly waves. They return it.

After another moment of walking, Bebe says cautiously, "It's not Tweek. Is it?"

"No." Wendy laughs.

Bebe's face, already shadowed with a vague disgust, contorts further. "Is it...Butters?"

Is she kidding? "Are you kidding?"

"God. Yes, I'm kidding, Wendy." Now that Bebe's sorted through the seemingly fuckable candidates, she seems to have moved down to the less eligible. "Jimmy?"

"Nope."

"One of the Goth kids?"

Biting her lip, Wendy shakes her head.

"Jason?"

"Nooope."

"Oh my God," Bebe mutters. "You're not exactly making this easy on me, Wends. So either you're lying, orrr you've switched teams, but something tells me you haven't."

"There are more than just those boys at school, you know."

"Yeah, but—" Bebe stops. There's this brief moment, where her face goes through a series of increasingly hilarious acrobatics as it becomes apparent that she's beginning to, currently figuring, and finally, fully figured it out. And Wendy can't help her own feeling of satisfaction.

Because Bebe...after all that, now she just has this look.

"What?" Without meaning to, Wendy giggles, a vat of nerve and pride all at once. "Why'd you go all quiet?"

Flatly, Bebe says, "No. Way."

"No way what, Bebe? Why, I have no idea what you're thinking."

Louder: "No. Way."

"I'm surprised at you, honestly. Considering my history, he was like, the most obvious besides Stan." Wendy chews her lower lip, before remembering the rare coat of lip gloss she applied. "Hell, maybe even more obvious than Stan."

"Eric Theodore Cartman." She says it like a curse.

"Yes, ma'am."

Bebe sucks in a breath. Her wide, kohl-lined eyes search Wendy's face carefully, tenderly, like she's about to tell Wendy her dog just died. Or she has six months to live.

Eloquently, Bebe says, "Ew."

"Wasn't expecting anything less."

"Wends." Bebe grimaces. "That's seriously gross—assuming you're being serious, too, and this isn't you just screwing with me. 'Cause that's not cool."

"Nope," Wendy chirps. She's practically euphoric. It feels good for somebody to know. "It's true. And he is good."

"Wendy!" Bebe shrieks, covering her ears. But she's smiling, too. "Stop! I don't wanna know."

"But Bebe, you were so interested a minute ago," Wendy oozes, clutching her longtime friend's arm.

"That was before I knew who it was." Bebe tosses her strawberry blonde curls. The motion exposes the smooth underside of her arm, where a small tattoo for her sign, Leo, sits. "I thought he was done with you after you had that one-night stand in junior year."

More like a contest. But whatever. "I guess not," Wendy rhapsodizes.

"'I guess not'," Bebe repeats cheekily. "God, listen to you. So fucking casual about it. How did this even happen?"

"He came up to me one day just, like...asking."

"And you, what? Just bent the hell over?"

"No," Wendy laughs. "I kinda...had a thing for Stan for a little while again." At Bebe's here we go again look, Wendy adds quickly, "And I got over it. We're definitely not getting back together. And I figured it couldn't hurt if I said yes. Y'know?"

"Oh yes it could." Bebe scrunches her small nose. "It's Eric Cartman, Wendy. It's amazing he hasn't just gone on a shooting rampage yet."

Wendy snorts. "He can shoot up the school all he wants, as long as he keeps me coming like a train."

"OMIGOD," Bebe squeaks, and Wendy bursts out laughing. Bebe smacks her, trying her hardest to look mad. "Wendy, that's fucking gross!"

"You asked!"

"Omigod—I cannot handle you right now, girl. As repulsive as I find Cartman, whatever he's doing has you in a tizzy."

"He's not that bad, actually," Wendy says, knowing she'll get nowhere trying to convince Bebe. "I mean—he still is, as a person, but like...I. Okay." Her brow crumples. "Not sure where I was going with that."

Bebe examines her friend carefully. "You do realize he asked you because he's probably trying to get you to like, accidentally develop Stockholm Syndrome or something—right?"

"Oh, I know he is."

"Well," Bebe says, on the tail end of a sigh, "at least that explains Kyle now."

Uh-oh. "What about him?"

"Well," she repeats breezily, tossing those bouncy curls again, "seeing how we're officially back on, we've been texting again." Wendy nods, as if in understanding (Again? Meaning they stopped at one point?). "He told me that you missed a council meeting or something and it kinda freaked him out. Which I found really cute and funny, to be honest, that he cared that much, but yeah."

"I mean...it's the first one I've missed. Like, ever. Since elementary school."

Bebe's glossy lips pull back into a smile. "And now I know why."

"Christ," Wendy mutters. "You better not tell him."

"Girl, please. I barely want to know it, so why would I share it?" Bebe wrinkles her nose, like she smells something funny. "I'm not Kenny McCormick—I don't like spreading shit."

With a giggle, Wendy swats Bebe's shoulder. "But...okay, I don't get it." Bebe's frowning now. "Old Wendy wouldn't have let Eric Cartman come near her, let alone fuck her. And yet…?"

"Well," Wendy says, "maybe New Wendy's smart enough to recognize free sex where she can get it."

"From Eric Cartman," Bebe deadpans.

"Yes, for the thousandth time. From Eric Cartman." And it doesn't taste so nasty in her mouth after all. Wendy feels elated.

Bebe shakes her head with slow, long shakes. "I think New Wendy is totally crazy."

"Yeah, four orgasms a day will do that to you."

"Okay," Bebe says calmly, "okay. Alright. Cool. I'm just gonna go walk into traffic now."

Wendy bursts out laughing.

Before she knows it, the bell after seventh period is ringing on Friday.

Coming back to school on Tuesday was rough. Quite literally—Cartman was like a wild animal Monday afternoon. Attacked her on her way out of class and damn near destroyed her when they got back to his house. His mother was (surprise, surprise) gone for the night, so he didn't bother making it upstairs: he fucked her on the couch first, fast and hard from the back, then dragged her up to his room and took her for another six rounds. It wasn't even the quantity of it that got her, in the end, but just what he did to her: after that quickie on the couch, he seemed keen on torturing her in the most wonderful manner possible, his head between her legs until she swore she'd lose her voice. Wendy's honestly surprised she survived in one piece. When she finally, finally, got home that night—which was another war in and of itself, resulting in the last fuck that had left her screaming for more when she had wanted to leave not a moment ago—her body was like a map of him. Bites and scratches and bruises that he'd left all over her. He knew the no go zones, so it wasn't like she'd be in turtlenecks anytime soon, but Wendy still can't believe it. She'd never seen him so...desperate. So needy.

It really should scare her, but it didn't. And it still doesn't. After that last bell, a part of her is screaming as she packs up her books to make a run for the street before he finds her, but that's not why Wendy's so eager to get out. The real reason is much simpler.

And that is that she's exhausted—

Someone bumps into her as she barrels out of her English classroom.

Wendy resists the urge to roll her eyes. She's been true to her word about focusing on school and herself more, so Monday was the last time they saw each other. So she really shouldn't be surprised he's here. Maybe it's even a little flattering.

Before she can turn around and sass him for it, however, she gets a look at the mystery road block's face. And, of all the people it could be: it's Stan.

Wendy surprises herself with her own hostility: "What."

He sucks in a breath—

"Okay, wow," she blurts. "That was so bitchy, I'm sorry."

Stan smiles, but it's thin. A smile of fleeting relief. "Sorry for running into you. I figured I try to find you here. See if we could talk for a minute."

She sighs. She's somehow both surprised and completely unsurprised all at once. "About?"

Her lack of exuberance seems to deflate him a little, but what does he expect? Nearly a month of avoiding each other so hard it hurt and now he wants to talk?

"Come on, Wends," he says. "About what happened at your house."

Again, she sighs. "What's there to say?"

"Wendy...I'm really sorry." She tries to look away, but he takes her chin in his hands. "Look at me. I know you wanted to get back together. I knew it from like, the minute I started talking to you in Physics. And I want to give that to you, Wendy. I want to be that for you again. But I can't."

She feels dizzy and untethered. As if, at any minute, she'll float away. "Then why'd you come over at all? If you knew what I wanted?"

"I thought maybe I could." Gradually, his face has taken on an undercurrent of guilt. "I don't know, Wendy. It was so fucked up. I feel like I really used you."

She smiles at his sensitivity (that that would ever change). "Don't even worry about it." Her voice is thin and light, like a petal caught on a current.

Her nonchalance only seems to frighten Stan more. "It was wrong, Wendy. You have every right to be angry."

But oddly, she isn't. Somehow, if anything, this exchange has made her feel like a great weight has been lifted. If she knew she was allowed, she could almost kiss him for it.

"I'm fine, Stan," she promises. His blue eyes still search hers, though.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely." Abruptly, she lets out an airy laugh. "God—can we just be friends? I'm tired of ignoring you. Dating or not, you're amazing, Stan. I wanna have somebody like you in my life."

He looks flushed from her praise. "Yeah, of course. I'd love to be your friend, Wendy."

"And...about the house thing. I'm sorry. That was really weird, I know." Inwardly, she cringes at the memory; her own desperation, from picking out a slutty outfit to walking him into every possible close-proximity situation. Good thing she scratched that itch, because it was fraying her fucking sanity. "I'd been feeling kind of lonely after we broke up so, if anything, I feel like I used you."

"Really, don't apologize, Wendy." A soft smile, all the while, has been spilling across his face. "Call it mutual and leave it at that. Okay?"

She laughs. "Fair." Her chest fills with unexpected warmth. "This is such a relief. I really missed you." She's admitting it, she realizes, as much to him as she is to herself. It almost startles her to do so.

At her confession, Stan's smile broadens. "I missed you, too. Pretending you didn't exist was getting annoying."

"Let's agree to never do that again."

"Deal." His phone must vibrate, because he glances at it before slipping it back into his pocket. "Practice got cancelled so if you don't have any plans after school, I'd love to go downtown and catch up with you. Maybe over coffee at the Tweaks'."

"Oh, I'd love to, but I actually am busy. But sometime next week, for sure!" However, her mind immediately flashes to the series of increasingly feverish texts (sexts, really) Cartman fired off unexpectedly last night. They'd left her whispering nastily into the receiver, her neglected Philosophy homework left open on her desk and her hand thoroughly trussed up in her panties, while Cartman's voice crescendoed in a dirty, seductive dance in her ear. It had been out of nowhere, really—in the midst of a perfectly normal texting conversation, he'd started ranting about how good her ass had looked when she'd walked past him during lunch (not that she'd ever admit that her donning of her nicest jeans had been deliberate, in hopes of running into him). But that didn't mean it was necessarily unwelcome. And based on his level of desperation, her next three, even four, after-school afternoons are booked.

"Aaaactually," she draws out, halting him mid-sentence, "I'm pretty much full up until next Saturday." She hears her own hiccup—invisible to his ears, but full of innuendo to hers—on full up. Cartman would get a kick out of that.

If Stan's offended, the furthest he goes to show it is with a good-natured eye roll. "I see one thing hasn't changed, Ms. Student Council President."

"Oh no, you'd be proud of me. It has nothing to do with Council or school at all."

He regards her with faux-shrewdness. "Wendy, if there's one thing about you that hasn't changed as long as I've known you, it's your love for all things school. So I'm having a hard time believing that."

Wendy purses her lips at him. The most logical thing for her to say would be to answer his unspoken question: so what is it? And on the one hand, she's already told Bebe, entrusting a pretty fucking (literally) intimate secret in the hands of the biggest gossip at Park County High. But on the other hand, Wendy didn't date Bebe on and off for close to ten years, nor did they fuck on a regular basis from the middle of sophomore all the way to the end of junior year. So, like...it wasn't like Wendy was crossing any lines—or, at least, not on her end (she hasn't exactly told Cartman about Bebe yet). But telling Stan would be completely new territory. It feels out of bounds. Off-limits. And not to mention disrespectful as all hell; the fact that you're now fucking one of his best friends isn't really something that you share with your ex-boyfriend. Even if you have buried the hatchet.

Stan's waiting expectantly, so Wendy is forced to lamely piece something together: "I've gotten kind of popular over the last couple of weeks. So it's all social, and I'd kind of hate to back out. Y'know?"

Not the truth, but not necessarily a lie (getting laid was totally social, right?). His nod seems to be of understanding.

"I gotcha. And that's fine. We can always—"

"Wendy."

With a start, the pair of them turn toward the voice. That voice. Her heart pounds at the sound of it—because, after all, the last time she heard it, it was whispering naughtily on the other line of a call.

Now that he's been noticed, Cartman advances slowly, meandering toward them coolly from the end of the hall. However, Wendy's immediately on the defensive; his walk, at first glance, looks like it belongs to him, but she can tell it's deliberately slow and drawn out. It's the walk of royalty. Of somebody being watched, who knows they're being watched, who's making the most of it. It's part of a show.

And if there's anybody she doesn't trust marks of ingenuity with, it's Eric Cartman.

"Hey, dude," Stan says, once Cartman's in proximity. His tone is rife with oblivious camaraderie, which Cartman eagerly shoots down by blatantly and rudely ignoring it altogether—in fact, he ignores Stan as a whole, cozying up beside Wendy like the spot was reserved for him. A blanket of awkward silence descends over them. In hopes of dispelling it, Wendy clears her throat.

"Hi."

"Hi," Eric coos back, face an unreadable mask. Which can't be good. Wendy searches for a motive, but he's not making it easy to find. "I've been looking for you."

"That so?" she manages.

He nods. "You ready to go?"

Stan's eyes widen. No mistaking with whom Wendy will be sharing her little social thing now.

"Yeah, just give me a second," Wendy forces out, longing to slap that smug, plump face as Cartman gives Stan a smile as sweet as sugar. If this is some kind of pissing contest, or if that's what he's hoping to turn into it, she refuses to enable it.

"You guys hanging out today?" Stan asks. He's addressing her, but at last Cartman regards Stan out of the corner of his eye, the way you'd eye a bug, or a scab you were about to flick off.

"That's one way of putting it."

Wendy's certain, from the neck up, she goes red. Stan has a look like he's bitten into something sour, while Cartman has a look of nothing at all—not even victory.

"I'll text you," Wendy offers quickly. "We'll work something out. Okay?"

"Oh, are you guys hanging out?" Cartman asks. Cruelly, he stresses each word. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

Wendy shoots him a contemptuous look. He's not even looking at her; across from him, Stan's become flustered.

"Dude, what the hell's your problem?"

"I don't have one," Cartman says flatly. "Do you?"

"I'll see you later, Stan," Wendy yelps in one breath, spinning on her heel. If she has to endure one more second of this, she'll flip. Or hit somebody. And by somebody, she means Cartman. Because what the fuck.

"Bye, Stanley," she hears that infuriating voice chime behind her, followed by footsteps. She wore her tightest pair of yoga pants today—with full intention of having him peel them from her freshly shaved legs—so she knows she's not doing herself any favors by walking in front of him, but it's not nearly as bad as walking beside him. Not when her head is swimming with rage like this.

"Wendy," he sings out in that obnoxious accent of his. She quickens her step and, by the sounds of things, so does he. "Aww, come on. You're gonna run away from me?"

"I'm walking, aren't I?" she spits over her shoulder. The quick flash of his face she gets says he's not sorry in the slightest. And enjoying this childish little game.

"I'd say speed walking is more like it. Or maybe lightly jogging." He sounds overjoyed. "Either way, you're not getting away."

"You're disgusting."

"Oh, Wendy, you really need new insults. You've already used disgusting. Maybe try abhorrent. Or irritating. Come on, use that Honor Roll vocabulary, ho."

She's fast approaching the doors to the school, and fully intends to blast through them like a tank, but he scares the shit out of her as he comes up viper-quick on her left and blasts through them for her, holding one open. Wendy can't skid to a stop fast enough.

They hold fast, staring at each other, her fiery, dark gaze bolted to his hooded, honey-colored one. A relentless sort of tension persists in the thick, crackling air.

"Madame," he intones with a sharklike smile.

Defiantly, she stays put.

"Oh dear. I fucked up, didn't I?" He lets out a sigh, big and overdramatic. In that moment, Wendy could really fucking throttle him. "Let's hear it. What did I do? I want to at least try to salvage my chances at getting laid today."

Icily, she says, "Move."

"Step through the door," he counters immediately, "then I move."

She slits her eyes, staying put. Cartman sighs again. "I wonder what the rest of the student body would think if they saw their beloved President Testaburger acting like a bratty little girl. I mean Jesus, Wendy, first the running away, and now the folding your arms and planting yourself bit? What's next, the silent treatment?"

Her full intention was to ignore him. No more fuel to the fire. But that last remark gets her to say, "I wonder what they would think if they saw Eric Cartman trying to get into a dick-measuring contest with the star quarterback. You'd lose, by the way, by a longshot. Speaking as somebody who's seen and dealt with both."

He actually laughs at that, so deeply and thoroughly that the hall behind them resonates with it. "My God, you're savage. If I hadn't seen Stan's dick with my own eyes, I might actually be hurt."

The genuine note of pride in his voice warms her blood, but she instantly ices the heat. The last thing she wants right now is to be happy with him in any way.

"And, to clarify, ho, it wasn't a dick-measuring contest. I guess there's no way of making you understand how good it feels to show off the fact that you're screwing your way more popular friend's crazy hot ex-girlfriend."

"Stan knows we've fucked," she snarls. "Remember? The whole school knows about it to some extent."

"Ah ah," he chides sweetly, "that was junior year. Old news, by my account—though it does sort of hold a candle next to our current playtime, wouldn't you say?" Hand still bracing the door, he leans in closer, husking in her ear, "We may have been sixteen, but man, it was mind-numbing. I guess it makes sense, after all—we're just good together. Personally, that fumbling little escapade kept me going for two solid years after. All those moans and screams you made, the way you practically rode my mouth and tore my hair out when you came, how you'd ruined my sheets after with how wet you were...oh yeah. Got me off thinking about it for two years after. You could say I'm practically spoiled now. I got a stash of spank bank material for life at this point."

Wendy feels that heat annoyingly seep back into her blood, as much as she tries to abate it. Interestingly, though, it doesn't cool the flame of her temper; if anything, it strokes it. It makes her wants to scratch and bite and claw him later. Probably exactly what he wants, too.

"That's beside the point," she says softly.

He tilts his head, looking sidelong. "Look."

Defeated, she does. Before the enormous, circular, crowded driveway in front of the campus lies the equally crowded bus stop, herded with freshmen and sophomores (and a few unlucky juniors). A few of them are gazing curiously back their way, which is what finally enables her to understand what he means:

An audience.

Huskily, Cartman says, "I could kiss you right now and it'd be over for you, y'know. Wendy Testaburger fooling around with the likes of Eric Cartman? You'd be ruined. I could ruin you so easily."

A shiver travels through her heated body at the dark promise in his voice. She knows he's right. And she knows that she, on-edge from her head to her toes, would be powerless to stop it once he started it.

"I could pull away," she says weakly. "I could...act like I didn't—"

"What? Didn't want it, as badly as I did?" He flashes her a pretty smile. "Well that'd be a lie, now wouldn't it?"

"As if I'm above telling those."

"Oh, I know you're not. But I know that you're like me, in a lot more ways than you're willing to admit." He teasingly fingers a dark, silky strand of her hair. "Instant gratification. Difficulty stopping yourself from getting what you want when you want it."

"Is that right?" Damnit. She means to grit it through clenched teeth, but it comes out in a whisper. A breathless, airy query.

Cartman tucks the wayward hair behind her ear. "I think you know the answer to that." His smile then is as sweet as candy. Like a promise kept. "You look good today, by the way. Really good. I can't wait to destroy you later."

"Jesus, Cartman," she whispers. "What's gotten into you?"

Those pretty caramel eyes blink at her.

"You're just so...seductive. Overt. It's so sudden. Is it that we haven't seen each other for a few days?"

He tilts his head so a silken lock of brown hair drops across his forehead. "Is that what I'm doing? Seducing you?"

"You tell me." For as long as they've been standing here, she hasn't stepped through the doorway, nor has he let the door fall shut. The minute she does, she gets the sense that she's lost. It always comes down to that, it seems: a competition.

"You're teasing me," she persists. "You're...God, I don't know. Making it hard to think."

"Maybe I just like unraveling you," he confesses hoarsely. "Picking apart your layers. You ever consider that?"

She blinks. There's some particularly raw in his face at that moment. Something that, either way, is disarming as hell.

"Were you jealous of Stan?"

He snorts. "Hardly. I don't exactly have a reason to be, do I?" His eyes flash suddenly, as if he's just remembering what position they're in. "Am I gonna have to hold this door forever or are you gonna come through so we can smash?"

The casual arrogance in his voice makes her grind her jaw. The way he makes her sound so easy. As if she's his.

"Why did you insist on holding the door for me?"

He flashes his teeth. "The goodness of my heart, of course."

"Hardly," she bites out.

"Don't read into it, ho," he bites back. "I opened a door for you, nothing fucking more. Whatever your feminist little brain is conjuring up, it's not true."

Her rage, stewing steadily for a while now, finally boils over. "Go home. Get out of my fucking face. I don't wanna see you today."

His smile is something akin to a snarl. As if he'll rip her throat out. "I love this. I've really disarmed you, haven't I?"

Yes. "No. You're just a selfish, bratty, entitled pig. God, if you weren't so good in the sack, I'd—"

"Throw me on the street like the trash I am. I get it. But instead, you keep me, right there for your beck and call." Every word plays harder on her nerves. It's like he knows exactly where to hit her. "You want to quit me so badly, huh? But why? Because you can't stand that I'm right?"

Wendy draws in a deep breath. Holds it, counts to five, lets it out angrily: "Go home, Cartman."

"You don't want me to."

"Unless you want me to hate fuck you into the next dimension, you will get out of my way."

He lows under his breath. "Oh my. There's that bitchy student council president I know."

"Cartman." She refuses to rip her eyes away from his. Not that that looks like it's gonna be a problem, what with the way he's like a mountain before her. "Please move."

"'Please?'" he repeats softly. "Hm. That's not like you at all."

"We're not on today. Okay?" She's not sure why she doesn't just turn around and walk away. Some wonky, optimistic part of her brain is hoping maybe she can still reason with him, apparently. "Tomorrow."

He licks his lips, eyes landing on hers. "You wore them again." At the furrow of her brow, he continues: "Those fucking pants. You know what they do to me."

She goes hot in the face. "So?"

"You wanted me to see them. To see you." A smile curls the right edge of his mouth. "Fucking had to leave Poli Sci today to beat off in the bathroom, so congrats: it worked."

Despite herself, she squeaks, "You did?"

He raises an annoyed brow. "Uh, yeah? What, is it a surprise to you still that you get me hotter than shit, Wendy?"

Not exactly. But she honestly doesn't know what the hell to say to that. She wants, frankly, to be disgusted. To call him a pig again and really mean it. But she can't. She can't.

Because she's flattered.

Before Wendy has time to react to her own horrifying realization, though, Cartman does something even more horrifying. Something that they've, really, been dancing around this whole time.

He kisses her.

Kissing him in broad daylight, out in the open, is a raw feeling. On instinct, she sinks into it, and—shit, even when she realizes exactly what's happening, his tongue licks along her own, velvet in her mouth, and she loses her ability to think. Cartman pulls her to him as he moves, and she knows without even looking that he's shut the door behind them. That she's kissing him, and kissing him eagerly, right there in front of the school. But fuck it all. It's the sort of thing that she knows she'll regret later, but that it just feels so good right now that she can't bring herself to care about what's coming after.

The whole amazing debacle only lasts a few seconds, before she violently thrashes away. His grip is incredibly strong—from his damn near obsessive devotion to powerlifting, as she's discovered after spending so much time at his house after school—but she's persistent, twisting her head away and sucking in air with a wild gasp. Which isn't to say that she doesn't want it. She does, but not here. Not on display for the rest of the world to see.

Eventually, he complies, letting her go and leaving her mouth swollen and bruised. As she stands there, fists clenched at her side, she swears she'll never be able to get the taste of smoke off her tongue.

"My house," he croaks. It takes Wendy a moment to come back down to earth, to hear him over the ringing in her ears, but when she does, he's staring at her with a hunger so raw and intense that it terrifies her. Like he'd fuck her right her against the side of the building if it got to that point.

But that's not the terrifying part: it's the fact that she sees all of this, knows what he wants, and she wouldn't mind. She wouldn't mind any of it. He could do whatever he wanted to her right now and she'd fucking let him.

She doesn't give herself a chance to think about it. Or look to see their audience.

"Fuck yes," she whispers.

Wendy considers herself to be pretty vanilla. When you date Stan Marsh for as long as she did, it doesn't get much kinkier than half-clothed quickies on kitchen counters.

Needless to say, that afternoon changes the game a little.

Once they manage to stagger through the door, Cartman doesn't even try to do her on the couch. He drags her upstairs and as he checks for his mother's presence, Wendy is no help, kissing his neck and rubbing herself on his cock, already hard as a rock through his jeans. It has an amazing result, however, causing him to carry her the rest of the way to his room and all but throw her on the bed. And that's where the real fun began.

Everything is the same, and not the same at all. There's a frantic, desperate energy between them as they tear through one another's clothes, sucking and biting every inch of exposed skin. Cartman doesn't bother with no goes this time, marking any place he can reach, and Wendy moans beautifully, digging her nails into his back and leaving a dazzling array of scratch marks. The first round, there's no head, no lingering at her breasts: he buries himself inside of her and fucks her so hard the headboard could honestly break through the wall. All standard procedure, and an amazing way to scratch the itch he incited within her back at school.

But then. Round three rolls around.

It's their final fuck, and perhaps the most incredible. Wendy knows it's going to be different when he goes to his dresser and retrieves a bottle of lube. Not that she cares. Her mind hasn't cleared or righted itself at all since school, and she's still in that do-whatever-you-want mindset.

Which changes, albeit only a little, when he gets her splayed across his legs, and smacks her firmly on the ass.

"Ah!" Wendy cries, mostly in surprise. Before she can ask just what the hell he thinks he's doing, however, he does it again. And again, this time lower, near her swollen pussy.

She does the unthinkable: she presses her face into the mattress and moans.

"Is that okay?" he whispers, rubbing her ass before he gives it another whack. Wendy keens, whining, arching into it. It's honestly humiliating, but she's never been so aroused in her life. And she doesn't even know why.

"Yes," she chokes out.

He groans softly to himself, giving her another two spanks. In between, his other hand has slipped between her legs, teasing her bruised entrance until she's pushing back into his fingers. When he crowns her, she cries out, and he buries two fingers to the hilt right as he spanks her again.

"Have you ever been spanked before, Wendy?" he asks quietly, sounding to be devastatingly aroused while he fingers and toys with her. His thumb has found her clit, still sore from his earlier administrations, but her body responds anyways. She's starting to think it always will, when it comes to him.

"N-no," she whispers, color slamming into her face. Or, at least, most than there already was before.

"Mm." His hand comes down again as he continues to tease her, stroking her clit and G-spot in amazing harmony. Wendy gasps, horrified by how needy he's rendered her as she pushes herself impossibly further into his touch.

"My God, I can feel you getting tight again," he breathes, slipping a finger between her cheeks until he finds her asshole. Wendy flinches instinctually, before she manages to level her breathing. His fingers inside and around her pussy feel so fucking good that she easily zeroes in on that, even when she feels the coldness of the lube.

"Wish I hadn't come inside you as much as I did," he says quietly, nearly to himself. "I could feel just how soaked you are right now." Wendy cries out again, partially from pain, as his finger breaches her, but she forces herself to relax. Forces her muscles to loosen. "That's it. God, you're so good for me. So fucking good, Wendy."

"Cartman," she whimpers.

"It's okay," he says softly, withdrawing his finger suddenly and spanking her once more. Wendy almost comes when she feels how close his hand is to her pussy this time. Fuck, she just might anyways.

This time, when he pushes past the tight ring of muscle, he works two fingers inside of her, pumping with a lot less resistance than before. Wendy nonsensically grinds into his hand between her legs, desperate to chase her orgasm, and he lets her. She's so caught up in it that she almost doesn't notice when he spanks her again, adding more fingers when he penetrates her a third time. She doesn't even care, at this point. She's a complete mess of sensation, with what he's doing to her.

"I...I need to come!" she cries out.

"Then do it," he chokes. "Come for me, Wendy. Show me how much you love this."

"I do," she whispers frantically, right as she crests the hill. Right as the electricity crackles behind her eyelids and her hips buck desperately.

"You what?" he presses, pausing just long enough to get her to start whining for it. "Tell me, Wendy. What?"

"I love it!" she screams with more force than she was expecting, and, like that, she's gone. The orgasm damn near ruins her.

In the end, Cartman works her loose for over an hour. He has her on her hands and knees when he's ready, and Wendy isn't even afraid, despite knowing just how large his cock is going to be compared to his fingers. She just moves with his hands, letting herself be positioned. Letting him line himself up with her ass and pushing his way inside of her. It hurts, but more than anything it's a shock, drawing a noise of pain, wonder, and pleasure as he bottoms out inside of her. He doesn't rail her, like he can when he's up front, but he still winds up with her pulled flush to his front, his mouth to her neck, whispering a whole manner of sweet nothings as she feels his cock twitch inside of her. As she feels his cum slipping down her leg for the third time and swears this is as close as she'll ever get to Heaven.