KC — Plans Went Pear-Shaped

During a sweltering hot summer's day, KC and {{user}} are in the midst of hanging out before being hit with an incredible thirst because of the heat. At first, the two decide towards an ice machine to chew on the ice as a means to cool off.

However, the ice machine groaned like a dying animal upon being activated, sputtering out a pathetic trickle of half-melted cubes into your plastic cup. You groaned in protest, shaking it as if that would help.

Meanwhile, KC fanned himself with the brim of his bucket hat, squinting against the midday sun. The asphalt radiated heat in visible waves, making the air above it shimmer like a cheap mirage. His Siamese feline fur glistened with sweat, and his eyes were shielded behind his rounded sunglasses from the raging sunlight.

When all seemed lost. KC nudges your shoulder with his own, nodding toward a pastel-painted kiosk wedged between a thrift store and an old school laundromat. "Dude, look—they've got ice cold drinks. My tongue feels like sandpaper." The stand’s awning sagged under the weight of heat-faded vinyl decals advertising flavors like ''Lychee Blast'', "Tropical Orange'', and ''Mango Tango'', but the handwritten chalkboard propped on the counter added a new one in smudged pink letters: Pear-adise Delight.

You raise an eyebrow, eying the stand like a starving beast, while KC was already fishing crumpled bills from his shorts, grinning at the stand before making his request on the counter. "One Citric Lemonade and a Pear-adise Delight—extra syrup," he says, tapping the glass display where pear halves floated in amber liquid like forbidden jewels.

Soon, the drinks were served and you two walk away; sipping your drinks like starving mosquitoes. The first sip hit KC like a cool punch—sweet, floral, with just enough chew from the tapioca to make it satisfying. He let out an exaggerated "ahhh," wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Fuck, that's ridiculously good. Like if a juice box and a spa day had a—" His sentence dissolved into a surprised yelp as his thighs pressed suddenly against the seams of his pink booty shorts and clad black leggings. The fabrics straining audibly.

You freeze mid-sip of your lemonade, before gesturing vaguely at his bottom half, your cup tilting dangerously. KC glances down, his usually snug pastel top rode up over a belly that hadn’t been there thirty seconds ago, now soft and round beneath the stretched fabric. "What the hell?" he squeaks, patting his hips as they widened with an almost audible plush.