Very slightly verging on smut. But not quite there yet, because I'm afraid of writing it badly and screwing it up. Lol. It will probably be disturbingly rushed as it is.

You definitely don't have to read Digital Papercut to get this. Like, not at all. But if you get the references, that's super awesome.

I think I'm going to have a subtle plot line here, if any at all. Various pairings, unrelated oneshots. The most consistent thing here will be the location, which is the Park County School Library. Because I think libraries are sexy. Shut up, I know I'm weird. Lol.

Thought I might have a go at Kyle's POV. Tell me if it's alright, I've never written him before and I'm nervous.

Not much dialogue here, either. I'm sorry!


It's dusty.

The entire library is coated in a thick layer of dust, the kind that floats into the atmosphere and becomes visible under the thinnest beam of light. But other than the dim and hardly efficient florescent lights, the only source of radiance is the giant window perched above the lonely bookshelves. Not that it serves much of a purpose, though – the weather here is almost all clouds and snow. Except in July.

But it isn't July, it's October. It's October and the temperature is already dropping to below freezing, which dries out the air and as a result leave my hair a thick mass of uncontrollable coiled frizz. I should probably get it cut, but I can't be bothered. I've got far more important things on my mind.

Like school, for one thing. I'm hardly athletic and not artistically talented enough to take up any sort of instrument, so I need to rely on academics to get me by. Admittedly, I'm not a retard. Not by a long shot. But that doesn't mean I don't work hard to get top marks in school. In fact, sometimes that still isn't enough. I'm still ranked second.

Do you know who's at the top of our class? Wendy Testaburger. I'm not sure how she does it, but her studying methods prove to be incredibly efficient. I'm only a few points behind, and I'm beginning to suspect that her warming up to our professors has something to do with her impressive GPA. Teachers don't seem to like me very much, because I prefer a challenge. I like debate. I'm not afraid to correct them if they're wrong.

And I don't like it when they try to embarrass students into paying attention. For example, calling on them when they don't know the answer or seem unfocused. I understand that they'd prefer having the luxury of every student's undivided attention, but let's face it – at such a big school, it's very unlikely.

I'm not allowed to voice this, however. I really don't see why the faculty here derives any sort of pleasure from enforcing strict punishment as well as handing out demerits. In fact, being punished for taking advantage of my constitutional rights is nothing but unlawful. Do you know what I got for pointing that out? You guessed it, another demerit.

What's even more ridiculous is that, although Wendy's equally as opinionated and headstrong as I am, she's always compliant. Her self restraint and manipulative talent really are impressive, as much as I hate to say it. And if Wendy didn't use it to her advantage, I might still have some respect for her.

I'm nearly certain that you already know the story, especially considering how relentlessly the student body gossips (even if said gossip is regarding their president). Long story short, she blackmailed my best-friend-boyfriend-hybrid into allowing her to go to the school's homecoming dance with me. Given the choice, I would have gone with Stan. Then again, well. I wasn't given the choice.

It all worked out for the best, though. Eric Cartman (yes, that Eric Cartman, is there another that you know of?) ended up as her date. I think they might actually be a couple now; I don't know. I don't particularly care, either. The single result of the whole Homecoming Episode has been that Wendy and I no longer meet together to study.

Because it would just be awkward now. And sitting alone in such a big library is kind of a downer, to be honest.

You couldn't imagine my elevating feelings of ecstasy when the double doors open and Stan saunters in, a thin scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

"Kyle. Ready to go?" He asks. I've got a few textbooks open in front of me; I've yet to pack up (or even notice the room's dimming luminance as the sun hid behind the mountains). Since my falling out with Wendy, Stan has been driving me home after football practice – and as he builds muscle and strategizes for the next game, I memorize flashcards in the library.

"Yeah, just a sec." I answer and begin to pack my books into my canvas bag. Actually, I should have left almost an hour ago – luckily, the librarian is careless enough to leave without checking if the study area is still occupied (and, conveniently, never bothers to leave the door unlocked).

But before I can continue, Stan snakes an arm around my waist and murmurs, "No. I can't wait." This isn't the first time this has happened; Stan frequently grows impatient, and is often cursing at my no-making-out-in-cars policy. Because, really, everyone and their mother gets it on in cars. It's trashy.

I tug on the ends of his scarf and pull his face closer to mine before grabbing his lips with my own. He tangles his fingers in my hair, and I immediately feel self-conscious about the wiry consistency of my ocher curls.

He deepens the kiss, and my insecurity suddenly becomes unbelievably minor as I wrap my arms around his neck. Slowly but surely, I extend my tongue and feel the tip of his tongue poking the tip of mine. Without hesitation, our tongues are caressing eachother. With a misplaced sense of humor, I note that my own tongue is a better dancer than I am.

Our kissing speeds up, and I can taste wintergreen mint on his breath. As our pace quickens, so does his breathing, and through my own half-lidded eyes, I can see that Stan's are becoming wider.

He turns from me and sputters, a series of deep coughs racking his frame. He promptly reaches for his inhaler and ravenously gasps in the medicated aerosol. Some of the vapor escapes his lips, and Stan is looking at me sheepishly.

He apologizes and I can hardly fathom how it can be so endearing when such a handsome guy is rendered so vulnerable. With an ironic smirk, I weave my fingers through his, ruffle his ebony tresses, and pull him from the library.

Fucking dust.


Sorry, this was short. Like, really short. TOO SHORT, ACTUALLY. I feel bad, but there isn't much I can do.

Did you like it? Was it okay? Not steamy enough? If there was something you liked, I'll include it in the next chapter! If there was something you didn't like, then I'll leave it out. JUST TELL ME IF YOU LIKED IT, OKAY?

Should I write more?