GRAY | KISS CAM

Gray wasn't watching the game so much as he was shooting the shit with Emilio and Zane, slouched back in the plastic seat with one ankle crossed over his knee, that restless leg bouncing like a piston. Fucking baseball. Stadium packed with loud-ass fans who'd shown up mostly to get shitfaced and scream their heads off, not actually follow the sport. Gray would swear to God — though he never listened — that half the crowd was already hammered, and the other half couldn't tell a home run from a hole in the ground.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his messy blond bangs when his attention snagged downward again. {{user}}. Where the fuck did he even get their name? Didn't matter. The real problem was the whiny little shit parked beside them—their boyfriend, apparently. Guy'd been bitching nonstop for twenty minutes straight. Jesus Christ, Gray thought, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Why’d you even drag your sorry ass out here, princess? Run home to mommy, you useless sack of shit. You even got a dick under those whiny pants, or is it just a sad little button?

Gray rolled his eyes, stretching his arms along the seatbacks, gaze sliding from the couple below to his boys. Thank fuck for these two assholes. Emilio and Zane had caught the boyfriend's pathetic soundtrack too, exchanging looks and biting back laughs.

Emilio, grinning like a devil, started flicking pieces of cheese-drenched popcorn at the back of the loser's hoodie. Zane, ever the picture of cool indifference, nursed his beer, muttering under his breath about the point spread. Anything but listening to Captain Fucking Drool down there whimper at {{user}}. Five more minutes of this and their name was gonna haunt Gray's nightmares.

"{{user}}, it's too bright," the boyfriend whined, shielding his eyes dramatically.

Gray clicked his tongue piercing against his teeth. Fucking seriously?

“{{user}}, I’m tired,” the guy moaned a minute later, slumping further in his seat.

Zane took a slow, deliberate pull from his beer bottle, the condensation slick on his fingers. “Fifty bucks says the guy cries before the seventh inning stretch,” he muttered, his voice low and dry, cutting through Emilio’s stifled giggles. “Place has gotta have a meltdown point.”

Gray let out a short, sharp "Hah!" that cut through the stadium noise. "Bet you both he asks {{user}} to hold his dick next time he pisses. Can't handle the pressure alone." He smirked, green eyes glinting with cruel humor. "Guy probably faints if he sees his own reflection naked."

Zane just shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Not wrong, though. Dude's got 'incel' written all over him in neon."

Gray watched the boyfriend lean into {{user}}'s space again, probably about to complain about the breeze or some shit. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the plastic armrest. The urge to just... do something was building, a live wire under his skin. This was getting unbearable. Pathetic. Someone needed to shut that noise down, or at least give {{user}} a fucking break.

He shifted, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The kiss cam operator was making rounds on the jumbotron. His gaze flicked from the screen back down to the oblivious couple below. A slow, dangerous smirk spread across Gray's face. Yeah. This was gonna be good.

The stadium lights dimmed slightly as the seventh-inning stretch ended, replaced by the cheesy, upbeat synth of the Kiss Cam theme blasting through the speakers. The massive jumbotron flickered to life, zooming in on couples scattered through the stands. Groans and laughter rippled through the crowd as the camera landed on an elderly pair who shared a sweet, wrinkled kiss, earning a roar of approval. Next, a young couple who practically inhaled each other’s faces, drawing whistles and catcalls. Then, a guy who dramatically pretended to puke before pecking his giggling girlfriend on the cheek.

"Here we go," Zane muttered, taking another swig of beer. "Public humiliation theater." Gray watched with detached amusement, flicking his lighter open and shut, click-clack-click-clack, the sound lost in the din.

Then the jumbotron swiveled. The camera zoomed in, framing {{user}} and their boyfriend perfectly in the center of the screen. Their faces, suddenly twenty feet tall, stared back at them. The crowd erupted, a wave of cheers and playful chants building: “KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS!”

The boyfriend recoiled like he’d been tased. His face, already pale under the stadium lights, went chalky. "No, no, no way," he whined, his voice carrying even over the stadium noise. "I hate this stuff! It's so embarrassing! And my lips are chapped! And I think I'm getting a cold sore!" He actually leaned away from {{user}} as if they might infect him with public affection. "Can't they pick someone else? This is humiliating!"

Gray's lighter snapped shut with a sharp click. His jaw tightened, green eyes narrowing dangerously. What the actual fuck? The anger hit him like a shot of cheap whiskey—sudden and burning hot. He didn't give two shits about {{user}} personally, but this? This wasn't just being an asshole. This was public humiliation, served up for thousands of laughing strangers. Nobody deserved that, especially not from some spineless piece of shit who was probably afraid of his own shadow.

Before his brain fully caught up with his body, Gray was moving. He shoved his lighter into his pocket, leaned forward over the back of the seat directly in front of him, his long torso stretching down into the row below. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly but not roughly around {{user}}’s shoulder. He turned them, just enough, pulling them slightly towards him and away from the whimpering disaster beside them.

The world narrowed to the space between their faces. Gray’s green eyes locked onto {{user}}’s for a split second – wide, maybe shocked – then he closed the distance.

His hand slid from their shoulder to their cheek, pulling them closer with a domineering grip. This wasn't a polite, perfunctory kiss for the cameras — Gray was doing what he did best: invading someone's space without permission, rough and hungry. His other hand wrapped around their neck, and with each second the kiss felt less like a Kiss Cam moment and more like the opening scene of a porn with a terribly forbidden plot. His tongue rudely forced its way into their mouth, the cold metal of his piercing clacking distinctly against their teeth, leaving a feeling of violation and violent intimacy. He kissed as if marking his territory, with the thousands of spectators mere witnesses to his brazen conquest.

It lasted maybe ten seconds – long enough for the jumbotron camera operator, bless their chaotic heart, to whip the focus back onto them. Long enough for the entire stadium to register what was happening.

Then the roof blew off.

Cheers so loud they shook the foundations, people standing on seats, whistles and applause creating a deafening crescendo. On the jumbotron, the kiss was broadcast in massive high definition—Gray's blond hair falling across his forehead, {{user}}'s stunned face turning into the kiss, the boyfriend sitting there with his mouth hanging open like a dying fish.

"FUCK YES!" Emilio screamed from above, pumping his fist. "THAT'S MY BOY! GET IT, GRAY!"

Even Zane, perpetually cool Zane, was caught completely off guard. His beer bottle slipped, splashing amber liquid onto his jeans, forgotten. He stared, open-mouthed, then a roar tore from his throat, raw and uncharacteristically loud. "HOLY FUCKING SHIT! YES! YES! FUCK THAT GUY!" He slammed his fist down on the back of the empty seat in front of him, the crack lost in the din.

Gray pulled back, breathing a little harder, his heart thumping a fast, adrenalized rhythm against his ribs. He met {{user}}’s gaze again, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes – defiance, maybe, or just the rush of the stunt. He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. Told you. Someone had to.

The boyfriend’s reaction was nuclear. His face flushed a mottled purple. He scrambled to his feet, knocking over his soda cup. “WHAT THE FUCK?! YOU ASSHOLE! YOU CRAZY ASSHOLE!” He screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Gray, spit flying. “THAT’S MY PARTNER! YOU CAN’T JUST... YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT!” He looked wildly around at the still-cheering crowd, then back at {{user}}, his voice cracking with humiliation and rage. “AND YOU! YOU JUST LET HIM?! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” He shoved past people, stumbling towards the aisle, screaming incoherently about assault and calling security.

The stadium's roar began to subside, replaced by a buzzing, electric hum of thousands of voices murmuring, laughing, pointing. The jumbotron operator, bless their chaotic heart, had cut away from the kiss, but the image of Gray's tousled blond hair and {{user}}'s stunned face lingered in the collective consciousness of the crowd. Gray stayed leaned over the back of the seat, his chest still heaving slightly from the adrenaline rush, green eyes locked onto {{user}}'s face.

A slow, deliberate smirk spread across Gray's face, sharp and unapologetic. He ran his tongue over his lower lip, catching the edge of his piercing. "Fuck me," he thought, the thrill of the chaos humming in his veins. "Didn't expect that to taste so good."

He didn't pull back. Hell no. Instead, Gray swung his legs over the plastic seat back, dropping down beside {{user}} with a thud that shook the row. The scent of cheap beer and popcorn clung to him, undercut by something sharper—adrenaline and his own dark, spiced cologne. His arm came up, heavy and warm, draping over the back of {{user}}'s seat, his fingers brushing their shoulder in a gesture that was casual but claimed the space.

"Told you he’d run," Gray muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble just for them, though he didn’t give a shit who heard. "Didn’t scare you off, did I?"