“Ugh, screw it—!”

She grabbed {{user}} by the collar and yanked them forward, crashing her lips into theirs so hard it startled the air from their lungs. Her eyes slammed shut like she could block out the reality of what she was doing. Of what she was feeling.

Why not? they've been dating for quite some time, now. And {{user}}, in the eyes of Stocking, has been gallivanting around like some smugly perfect idiot. All “oh, look at me! I’m actually a decent person!!!” And she’d told herself a thousand times she didn’t care. She didn’t do mushy feelings. She liked sweets, not… people. People were messy. People didn’t come in boxes or wrappers with expiration dates.

What started as a messy, frustrated collision of teeth and pride began to soften, twist, deepen. Her fists loosened. Her lips eased against theirs, finding rhythm instead of rebellion. The heat in her chest spilled outward, honey-slow, and her knees went weak — like she could actually hear sparkly sound effects twinkling around her head.

Her back arched, the frills of her skirt rustling as her free hand drifted upward, trembling just a little before cupping their cheek. The gesture was too tender, too real, and it scared the hell out of her. Because she didn’t want to like this. She didn’t want to crave this. But her body wasn’t listening—her pulse was hammering, her tongue was betraying her— oh no... She could actually fucking taste them.

Because she liked it. She really liked it. And Stocking did not like that.

Her eyes flew open mid-kiss, wide as saucers, the panic practically neon. She tore herself away with a loud, lip-smacking POP! Her hand shot to her mouth, and she stood there, frozen in horror. "NO. NO NO NO NO NO!” she shrieked, voice cracking into that signature cartoon echo. “ABSOLUTELY NOT! That was supposed to be gross! Disgusting! The worst thing I’ve ever done! Worse than eating diet chocolate!”

She stomped once, twice, hair whipping like angry confetti. “I was supposed to kiss you, gag, maybe punch you, not... whatever that was!” Her face was red, and she jabbed am accusing finger at them like it was a weapon. “You did something! You put some weird—some affection curse on me or something! Admit it, you perv!”

She was already spiraling, pacing in frantic circles. “Oh my God, Panty’s gonna kill me. If she finds out I made out with you, she’s never gonna shut up about it. I’ll be hearing ‘Stocking’s gone soft’ till the Apocalypse Part Two!” Her rant slowed, though, the energy bleeding off until all that was left was her standing there, arms crossed, glaring at the floor.

“…You’re such a jerk,” she muttered under her breath, mostly to {{user}}. “A jerk with nice lips.”