DISCLAIMER: this story is older than ass. I wrote this when I was literally 13. It's a half-decade old. Please don't take any of the crap written in this oneshot seriously. When I was 13, I wrote a story about Kyle raping Stan and then joining a gang to satisfy his heroin addiction and there were anime characters. So.. I don't know where I was going with that.
I've behind a bit on the next chapter of Big Blue Eyes, so I decided to post one of my extremely old fanfictions for your... enjoyment? I don't even know what this is? I had a lot of perverted thoughts in middle school, and one of them was "wow, Kyle looks great in a sweater vest" while watching the Fat Butt and Pancake Head episode. I am now an adult. This is ultra embarrassing.
Oh well. Who cares? I don't care. Have at this.
Are they ten years old in this? I don't know, probably. I'm going to say they're in high school so this doesn't seem like a totally creepy fanfiction, but I likely wrote somewhere in here that they're ten. Sorry long in advance.
P.S-Points for accurate Mr. Mackey.
"… And that is my presentation on Latinos in technological culture. Thank you."
Applause bubbled up from the audience like a Jacuzzi as my best friend skipped merrily down the makeshift stage stairs and back to sitting down next to me in the front row.
"Dude, Kyle, that was awesome!" I cheered, patting Kyle on the back. "You're sure to win that gift certificate now."
Kyle blushed eagerly. "Really? I thought it was pretty run-of-the-mill. You really think it's good?"
"Good? Kyle, I don't think half the class knows what ninety-nine percent of the words you used meant. That's a surefire win."
Kyle threw me a brazen grin. "True, most everybody in this hick town are idiots. They pontificate about things that would make most scientists hang their heads in shame."
"That would impress me, Kyle, if I even knew what 'pontificate' meant."
"I rest my case."
Kyle Broflovski was fourteen years old, like me, and living in South Park, Colorado. Born to a strictly Jewish family, Kyle has always been the rational one of our group of four, expressing his intelligence without fear, unlike his phobia of showing his massive auburn Afro in public.
His family is among the topmost flakes of the upper crust (Which is not saying much in South Park) along the lines of smarts. Never, in his entire life, has Kyle gotten anything lower than a C. He sees school like taking a Caribbean cruise, while I viewed education as prison and breaks as being eligible for parole.
Well, thus is the allegory of my life, but that's a different story for a completely different time.
But, lately, I'd been noticing something more about Kyle than I usually did. Like the way his emerald eyes sparkled when the teacher called on him in class or the porcelain texture of his skin as sweat beads rolled off it as we played football on the field. Sometimes it was his facial expression when he came across a difficult math problem and how he chewed on the end of his eraser, looking adorably frustrated. And every once in a while, it would be the way he waltzed down the hallway, his tiny, girlish frame darting excitedly around like a bee searching for honey.
Oh dear God, I'm using metaphors. Who knew there was a poet in me?
But in all honesty, Stan Marsh had never used a creative idiom in his entire existence on this planet. No, in fact, I avoided writing like it was the plague because whatever I spilled down on paper usually ended up being identical to "See Spot. See Spot run. Run, Jane, run. Run after Spot."
My skills in literature, all summed up Dick & Jane style. Tasteful.
I'm sure my point is getting across to you. But anyway, I had no idea anything but the ability to play football thrived in me until I started to notice the little things about Kyle.
Like, for example, how drop-dead gorgeous he looked in his brand-new sweater vest today.
Now, as anyone who shops anywhere but JC Penney can tell you, sweater vests are the epitome of all things nerdy, hence the fact that I've heard people call JC Penney "Geekville" before.
This assumption is not true.
Most guys look lame in sweater vests, but every once in a while, you'll find a dude who can pull off that Geeky-In-A-Sexy-Sort-Of-Way look infallibly. Not only are they a dead knocker for screaming girls, but also even other boys can't help but to turn their heads.
And when God created Kyle, he gave him this incredible gift.
Kyle wasn't just sweet-looking in his dry-cleaned and pressed sweater vest; he was downright HOT. He was probably so dreamy that if you licked your finger and stuck it on his shoulder, steam would rise with a resounding "hiss".
So when he parked his amazing butt next to me once more, I could feel my face turning beet red from the red-hot radiance he was exuding.
"Stan?" Kyle asked, concern puzzling his face. "Are you all right? You're spacing out. Do you feel sick?"
"Uh, no," I stuttered. "Um, it's just that your swe- ll speech totally has me tongue-tied!" Thank god for the Marsh reflexes, or else I would have just totally made myself look like the monster of all fools.
"Well, okay, if you say so," Kyle said warily before turning his attention back to the stage to glare at a racist Cartman, who was trying to win points with the judges with a J-Lo hand puppet impersonation.
To hell with Cartman; I decided to use this opportunity to ogle Kyle some more. Scrutinizing him from head to foot, I let my gaze linger more on that delicious sweater vest that made my heart pound further on my chest, trying to escape its bony prison.
As I watched my best friend smolder, I realized something: Kyle was the Michelangelo of all artists, the Da Vinci of inventors, the Voltaire of authors. The cream of the crop.
Once again, I'm sure you're catching my drift.
"Stan, you really don't look good at all. You're staring at me."
Crap, my eyesight was wandering to places that it should not be wandering.
Leaning over, Kyle narrowed his eyes conspicuously. "Stan, what are you hiding from me?"
"Me? Hide? Noooooo. You must be thinking of Kenny and his drug problems."
"Kenny doesn't have a drug problem, Stan, and that was a useless cover. Is there something you want to tell me?"
I swallowed. Shit, he had me cornered. "Well, to tell the truth, I was the one who put that grasshopper in your lunch last week…"
Folding his arms, Kyle snorted. "Nice try, but I saw Cartman sneaking the thing in there. I mean something else. Like why my sweater vest is eye candy to you."
"Well, um…" I wanted to tell him that it wasn't the sweater vest; it was HIM. And the evil, pervy thoughts of him without it on. Pant, pant. I was surprised my tongue wasn't hanging out like a dog in summer heat.
A dirty smile found its way to Kyle's face. "Is it making you hot for me?" He probed.
At this point, I had reached the pinnacle of my distress. Sweat was popping out all over me and not succeeding in cooling my sweltering body down. "Er…" I choked, tugging nervously on the collar of my jacket.
"It is, huh?"
"I-is not," I gulped.
Kyle leaned forward, so far that I could feel his peppermint breath wafting around my nose. "Yes, it is." Kenny, who was stationed next to me, glanced over to us with an inquisitive look, like he was viewing the scene to file away for future dispersal among peers.
Well, that was fruitless for him, because Kyle casually swept me up for a kiss.
In the gymnasium.
In front of three hundred students and about twenty teachers or administrators.
And in front of the Latino Cultural Counsel, and also several live video cameras with data streaming to every network on the air locally.
He really picked a terrific time to do this.
I'm such a caustic bastard.
My insides turned to slushie mush and I wrapped my arms around his waist, toying with the elastic band of the bottom of his sweater vest. Careful not to break the kiss, I pushed him back, my larger and more muscular body overpowering his tiny and gaunt one. Fortunately, Kyle hardly cared, this I knew because of the soft moan he emitted.
The entire student body had discontinued the rabble and had shifted their vantage points to catch a part of the show going on in the front row, an ocean of brown, blue, green and hazel focused intently on us. Kenny, rather disgusted and horrified, had inched backward. Even Cartman was distracted, his Jennifer Lopez act completely trailing off to a mute silence, excluding the pop of the microphone speakers.
If it weren't for Mr. Mackey muttering a drawled, consistent "Mmm… kay" from the back confines of the gym, Kyle and I would have probably persisted in making out while the rest of the school sat around idly, watching us with more fascination than a new Jonas Brothers music video would fetch.
"Um… okay, that's enough. Break it up, boys," Mr. Garrison warned, walking over to place a hand on our resilient heads in an effort to pry us away from each other. Obediently, Kyle pulled away, but he was already tangled on my lap and was shoved almost to the polished floor.
"You can't be showing random public displays of affection like that," Mr. Garrison awkwardly explained. "Quench your raging hormones not on school time." Turning to a frozen and gaping-mouthed Cartman, he said, "Continue your presentation, Eric."
Gathering the ability to speak again, Cartman sputtered and eventually chugged back into his speech, but not before giving us a disproving stare and commenting, "Dude. Seriouslah."
The remaining students gave their presentations, but all were still a little shaken up because of our.. performance, per say.
In the end, Cartman won the gift certificate and gloated about it, literally rubbing the piece of paper in Kyle's face.
"You know," I murmured seductively as soon as all heads were turned away from us at the mall several days later, "I have a consolation prize, if you want it."
Smiling devilishly, Kyle purred, "Okay. I'm sure you'll do anything to see me without my sweater vest on."
"Rrrrow."
"That's sick. You're a pervert."
"But I'm your pervert."
"Amen."