#may delete idk yet...

In middle school, Kurt tagged along with you and your friends to school dances and parties. This dorky, needy worm that wriggled his way into the spotlight without even caring that he was the butt of the joke.

He didn't have friends so he sat at your lunch table, playing Clash Royale on his phone more than he was eating. Sometimes he'd play his shitty soundcloud music for the table, or pester you with questions for vlogs. And that would've been bad enough, but then it was homecoming, then winter formal, then prom.

Well, Honey, Kurt doesn't have a date and you broke up with your boyfriend. I already promised Angela that you'd let him ride in the limo with you and take some pictures.

His hair was still wet when you took pictures in your living room. Posed in that stupid, stereotypical prom pose with your back against his chest. He didn't even have the guts to really touch you— he did stupid hover hands at your hips, so you could just feel the ghost of his body heat through your dress.

He sat in the passengers' seat of your Honda on the way to Katie's house for group pictures, eyes on you as you kept yours on the road.

"Your, uh, your dress is fire."

Your expression wrinkled as you slowed at a stoplight, and his gaze was so intense that you could feel it like a shiver on your spine. "No one says that."

He laughed, not sheepishly like someone else might, but like he was in on the joke instead of the punchline. It was deeply frustrating and only soured your mood further.

"Oh, right, yeah," he said, with a stupid smile and a clumsy rake of his fingers through his air-drying hair. "Did you, like, pick that dress because of an influencer, or—"

"No one does that, Kurt. I picked the dress because I tried it on and I thought I looked hot, just like everyone else does."

"Oh. Yeah, individuality is super big right now." He swallowed, and you thought he was going to shut up, but as you started to drive, he kept speaking. "I mean, like for me, with my account Kurtsworld96, I'm super authentic. I think people just want to see people being real, and I'm all about that."

"Cool," you deadpanned. There wasn't a single thing about Kurt Kunkle that felt real in any way. At least, nothing that you'd ever gotten to see, and you'd spent eighteen years of your life around him.

It made you a little sad to be around him, frankly. You didn't know what kind of home Angela raised him in, or what it was like when his loser dad skipped out on them, but something had to have happened for him to turn out so hollow.

Kurt's tie was lime green. Your corsage was a hideous aqua-dyed rose that totally clashed with your dress. And he was sweaty and nervous and got pretty much wasted just from a couple of vodka shooters that you all had on the limo.

He puked on your dress after dinner and his mom had to come and pick you both up. You didn't even make it to the first song, because Kurt ruined everything.

With distance, Kurt became an oddity you showed your friends. Look at this weird review he posted today. You have to watch his fourty five minute Taco Bell mukbang. He dropped a new song on SoundCloud, isn't it just horrible?

"Sounds like you're his biggest fan," your coworker said after months of hearing Kurtsworld96 updates like they were the morning news.

The accusation made you scoff. You weren't a fan of Kurt or his stupid social media presence. He was a curiosity to gawk at behind a thick plane of glass. A case study in why you should reduce your screen time. A real life example of a boy raised by the internet. "No, I give him views so he doesn't off himself. It's public service."

The next time you saw him in person was at your mom's birthday— a close-knit pool party in the heat of summer. It brought you from the comfort of your apartment into the heart of Azusa, and everything that came with that.

Kurt, glued to your side, streaming to an audience of six. All of the comments were about you in a bikini, which you knew from the way the text to voice read comments aloud.

Kurt just fuck her you virgin. Smash or GTFO. You couldn't handle the gorilla grip lmfao

You tried to ignore it, really. You didn't want to give whatever cretins watched his stuff the pleasure of your attention, but it really got to a point. With an eye roll, you stood and made your way into the house, hoping for five minutes of quiet before he found you again.

You got two. At least he had the decency to look ashamed when he found you in the kitchen. All of the cupcakes that you'd gotten for the party had begun to deflate in the heat, so you licked the frosting off of one so it didn't drip off with your first bite.

"I'm sorry about the chat, they're just joking around," he said. He swallowed hard, eyes flicking from your tongue to your bikini-clad body, then back to your mouth. Never actually managing to land on your eyes where they belonged. "They just think you're pretty. You know, you could have a huge following if you tried to grow your online presence."

"Not interested," you said. "I don't want pervy losers creeping on photos of me to jerk off to later."

He swallowed, brows knitting. "Well… why? Isn't that a compliment? Like… for people to think you're pretty and want to…"

He trailed off, and you could hear the rattle of his shaky exhale as you licked frosting from your fingers. Another swallow, and your eyes trailed down to his stupid minecraft swimtrunks. Swimtrunks that were filling out to accommodate an obvious boner. It sent a spark of something through you that you didn't want to face head on— a sick, perverted thrill knowing the effect you had on him without even trying.

"Were they right?" You asked, narrowing your eyes as you looked at him. His gaze tore away from your tits, and you nearly giggled at his desperation.

"Ab— about you being pretty?" He stammered. "I mean, y-yeah, you're so pretty. You're, um… you're uh… so… so pretty."

You shook your head, a cruel smile twitching at the corner of your lips. "No, I know that. I meant were they right about you being a virgin?"

Talk about a rhetorical question. Is the sky blue? Do fish swim? Is Kurt Kunkle a virgin?

Still, the effect was instantaneous. His cheeks went cherry red and his mouth opened to stammer out weak excuses. "No, that's— I'm not a virgin, I've had so much sex with tons of people. Girls. Tons of girls. And I'm really good at it."

All it took was a tiny scoff and he stood a little straighter, bottom lip jutting out in a pout that might have been adorable if you weren't viscerally annoyed by him. "Why are you hard right now?" You asked, cocking your head with amusement. "Is it the bikini, or that you're getting actual attention from a girl?"

"I— I don't know," he stammered, and you could swear his bottom lip trembled. "You're making me nervous. You always make me nervous."

But, notably, not nervous enough to keep from pimping you out to his loser audience, which was neither here nor there. There was something so empowering about making him squirm in front of you, especially after he'd spent the past decade wriggling his way into your proximity, poisoning your social life.

"Do you want me to touch it?" You questioned with a slow smile, easing closer. "Is that why you came in here to chase me down? You want me to fuck you so that you can brag to your loser followers?"

Kurt whined, but didn't say no. Your manicured hand moved along the cheap nylon of his swim trunks, grazing over his thigh just high enough that he had to fight the urge to buck into your palm.

He smelled kind of good, actually. Like one of those manly deodorant brands and clearance shelf cologne. It shouldn't have been so enticing, but it was… even if you'd never, ever tell him that.

"If you tell me you'll never put me on your stupid stream again, I'll touch you," you promised.

You met his gaze and watched the gears turn behind his eyes, the internal war between wanting to defend his social media presence to you and actually feeling the touch of something besides his own hand, or whatever he hid under his bed. "Yeah," he breathed, with a tiny nod. "Yeah, I won't put you on my stream anymore, I promise."

Who were you to go back on a deal? You tugged down his ugly swimtrunks and swallowed at the sight of his dick— thick and stupidly pretty. He'd been impressive soft, but this was something else entirely. It twitched under your attention, and you watched a sticky string of precum dripping from the tip.

You slid your hand up, just barely wrapping around the base before he came with a shaky groan, shooting rope after rope of cum onto your wrist and the tile floor. He feebly bucked into your grasp, whining with each spurt of his release, until he leaned onto your shoulder and just trembled.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," he mumbled, over and over again. "You're just so pretty. I'm so sorry, I should've been better."

You let him stand there for a little, until you finally shrugged him off and rinsed your hand in the sink. You glanced down at the puddles of cum on the floor and your expression soured. "Gross, can you clean that up? My mom cooks in here. And don't lie and tell your loser followers that you got a handjob, because that wasn't a handjob. I touched you and you came."

He nodded weakly as he pulled his trunks back up. His cheeks were a ruddy pink, and his eyes had a pretty, hazy sheen to them, like he hadn't come back down to Earth yet. "Okay, uh… thank you."