Stan Marsh and I had certain Super Best Friend traditions that had been in place our entire lives. They were all kind of stupid, especially now that we were older, but we were both comfortable enough doing dumb things together. No one had to know, anyway.

One of these customs always took place at his house, with us lying on our backs on his bed, staring at the white ceiling as we each described the previous night's dream to the other. I particularly liked it because the discussion was different every time. It never got boring because we always had something to talk about---sans those rare days where neither of us could remember our imaginings. The mood differed, too. Sometimes it would be one comforting the other about a nightmare (yes, still), sometimes laughing about the ridiculousness of the other's serious words, sometimes musing at the wondrous weirdness, sometimes joking and blushing when Stan had those dreams about Wendy.

Sometimes I had to be inventive.

"So---so, I was, uh, rowing down the Amazon, and all of a sudden, um, Optimus Prime came up out of the water in front of our boat---Big Gay Al's boat to be specific---with Steve Jobs on his shoulder. And then Optimus Prime tries to---what?"

Stan was giving me this sideways look, one raven eyebrow disappearing up into his bangs. Ah, a skeptic.

"Dude, what was your dream actually about?"

"Well," I began, taking a deep breath inwards. "I was in South America, rowing down the Amazon,"

"Kyle," he interrupted, unimpressed.

I fell limp on the familiar bed, watching the ceiling for some secret message written in stucco or something.

"What, were you fucking someone?"

"Sort of."

What? Sort of?

He looked confused, and he rightly should have. We never, never, never minded sharing this stuff or anything in previous sessions.

"Okay," he began, calculating. "Was it an animal?"

"No!"

"A dead body?"

"Gross, dude, no."

"An inanimate object?"

"No."

I felt my face getting warm, and turned away so he wouldn't see the flush creeping up my cheeks. Damnit, face, why must you betray me? The normal best friendism was already sort of getting interrupted by my sick subconscious, and I really didn't want that.

"So it was a person," Stan concluded, obviously at a loss.

I sighed softly; he didn't hear. "Yeah."

"Who was it?" Pause for dramatic effect. Gasp. Hear Stan's voice get all high like my mom. (Not to say my mom was high, that was Kenny, just to say that her voice---never mind). "Was it Wendy?"

"No, dude, chill out."

"Bebe. Red. Annie. Sally. Henrietta. Mrs. Garrison." He snickered to himself at the last guess, my face contorted in disgust.

"Sick, man. No way."

I felt him stop moving completely, absolutely silent. And the light bulb goes on. "Was it a…"

He paused, thinking of more eloquent terms for his query. Or not. "A…dude?" The word was whispered so dramatically it would be funny if I wasn't, oh, just a little totally fucked.

I blushed furiously, the idea of limply sliding off the bed and collapsing onto the floor rather enticing as I stared off the edge. Stupid Stan, all intuitive and shit.

"Lovely…deduction, Sherlock," I said stiffly, feeling an awkwardness I had never felt around Stan.

"It's true?" he gasped, grabbing my shoulder and turning me around to face him. His eyes were wide as dinner plates and fixed on my incriminatingly pink face. "Oh my god."

"They killed Kenny," I offered helpfully, shrinking back.

"Dude."

"S not a big deal," I mumbled, sort of talking to air because Stan was too absorbed in his shock to be listening.

"Who was it?"

My blush deepened, and he started rattling off the names of all the boys we associated with at all at school.

Close, hon, but no cigar.

His face all of a sudden changed, relaxing completely as a casual grin took over.

"So how was that?"

"Wh-what?" I hoped I wasn't leading myself into one of his stupid jokes.

"Dude, I knew from the beginning what your dream was about. I was just seeing if you would actually tell me."

Oh, I knew what he was playing at. Go ahead and tell the guy you were in on it, and then he'll discuss it with you, and then you will be in on it. Yeah, sure. Stan godfucking Marsh, trying to fool me. I narrowed my eyes, my face cooled down somewhat.

"Bull," I declared solemnly. No one outsmarts Kyle Broflovski. Not Stan, not Cartman, not Jesus, not the CIA.

"No man, I'm serious." To prove his point, he trailed his fingers across my hip, resting them dangerously close to my ass. If not traumatising, it was certainly enlightening. He wasn't shitting me. I just didn't trust people.

"Nervous?" he asked obnoxiously, dragging his fingers down to my knee, the customary start square.

"No," I replied defensively, cringing as his palm slid up my thigh.

"Now?"

He slid closer on the bed, eye level with me, warm breath hitting my face annoyingly. "Still no."

The wandering hand crept up further, stopping and pressing a thumb between my legs and crotch. He looked at me expectantly, eyes repeatedly darting down to my mouth.

"I'm not nervous, asshole."

Frustrated, he removed his hand entirely, the offending appendage heading straight down to my cock and grabbing at it (rudely, I might add) through the material of my jeans. I squirmed in Stan's grasp, gasping out his name like it was the only way I could breathe.

He took my wrist in his other hand to pull me over him, my legs automatically slipping up around his waist. My last bit of dignity, any composure, any shred of self respect I had, had been stolen by Stan. And chewed up in his perfect white cocksucking teeth, and shoved up my ass. So fuck it all, there was nothing to lose.

"S-Stan," I breathed again, everything a blur of crystal blue eyes and gasping and unwanted clothing and slick, fervent contact that just killed me. His fingers scrabbled at the button and zipper on my jeans, finally managing to get the pants out of the way and thrust up into my hips. He steadied himself on my shoulders, moving against me in sloppy, inexperienced motions and just giving me this look.

It was impossible to understand what he was thinking---it was all just happening too fast---but I didn't care.

Stan pulled back, looking about to say something, but too embarrassed to make any comment on the situation. He looked away and down, unzipping himself quickly and licking his lips nervously.

"I'm gonna fuck you, Kyle," he said thickly, voice low and full of promise.

"Go ahead," I said calmly, serene in the face of imminent having my entire world upended. "Fuck me."

I kicked my jeans the rest of the way off, gripping his shoulders and daring to kiss him. As soon as my lips were there they were gone, but I didn't mind, because it was unspeakably amazing to just have this much Stan, exactly where I wanted him.

And to have him telling me all these crazy things that I never expected to hear from his stupid gay mouth in a million years.

"Ready?" he asked softly, planning on skipping the preparation, though, made obvious from a glance down, it was probably necessary.

"Ready."

Hand on my back, he pulled me closer, squeezing his eyes shut as he guided himself to the place he would be utterly destroying with his hugeness, and I looked down, biting my lip at the totally unbelievable sight and trying to help him out by positioning myself higher up.

"Sure you're ready."

"Yeah," I told him, smiling brighter than anything as he pushed forward and somehow caused me to end up on a different street, in a different house, in my own bed, alone. And hard as fuck.

I rolled over onto my stomach, stuck and tangled in the sheets, jamming my face into the pillow and silently cursing myself because god, it seemed so real.

Avoiding suffocation, I looked to the side, too lazy and demoralised to jack off, and thought about what the fuck I was going to tell Stan my dream was about this afternoon.