Stan hosts game night every Wednesday night, starting somewhere around ten o'clock, only if the four of them have nothing better to do. And, because they live in South Park, there rarely is anything better than sit around a table-top, armed with a bowl of chips and one complimentary beer each, and play some board game, edition nineteen-ninety-and-fuck-you-too. Maybe it's a bit sad, but so is being a millennial; why not ignore the dismal job market and creeping student loans by yelling over UNO for a few hours?

Kyle dreaded this week's game, Monopoly. Strike one: the game revolves around Atlantic City, New Jersey, which leaves a stale saltwater taffy taste in Kyle's mouth. Strike two: Cartman demands Kyle be the banker, because he's Jewish, which delays the start and generally annoys Kyle. Strike three: Stan lost the best piece in the game, the top hat, which forces Kyle to be the considerably less cool wheelbarrow. Even omitting the excruciating length of a single round, Mr Monopoly Man ought to be out.

And yet, Kyle shakes the two dice in his palm, plastic clacking together, and tosses them onto the board. One five, one three, and the wheelbarrow hobbles from St James Place to Illinois Avenue. Waiting on the space is another token, the shoe, Kenny's piece. Kyle smiles, parking the wheelbarrow alongside the sneaker, hears a chuckle beside him. From the corner of his eye, he catches Kenny lean over, speak into Kyle's ear, hot breath brushing skin.

"Y'know," Kenny drawls, low and drumming. He loves using that tone, because Kyle loves hearing that tone, listening to that dulcet voice list out every dirty thing Kenny plans on doing to him, "We could save on rent if we move in together."

A smirk tugs at his lips, Kyle letting out a laugh. When they started dating, they agreed game night would stay the same, because they'd be pretty shitty friends if they blew off Stan and Cartman to stay at home blowing each other. Of course, sex with Kenny is exponentially more exciting than negotiating real estate deals. Maybe this week they should've been shitty friends.

"Not in this economy," Stan slices them apart, glare sharp and serrated. He appreciates their continued appearances, fully aware that Kenny and Kyle would prefer fucking into next week. He does not appreciate the two slipping into sultry banter, knowing sloppy kissing and shameless groping are quick to follow. Ever since the Queso Incident, Stan enforces a friend zone policy—no couple crap—to avoid physically prying them off each other.

Green eyes narrow, Kyle countering his glower. Okay, yes, if Kyle were in Stan's place, he'd be pissed too. But he's not. He's paying rent on Illinois Avenue instead of sucking cock on his knees; no wonder there are laws against monopolies! A sigh wafts through crimson curls, Kenny's grin flipping to a pout. A quiet grumble, then he draws back, taking his warmth with him. 65 Fahrenheit never felt so cold and dry. Kyle tilts his head to the side, missing the heat, and flatly asks, "How much?"

Contempt glazes dark blue, as Stan reaches for his drink. He steals a swig of beer, Belgian White swishing in his mouth, then down his throat. They drink Blue Moon because it's better than Pabst and classier than Coors, with slightly higher alcohol by volume percent and additional twists of coriander and orange peel. Normally, once the zest hits his taste-buds, Stan cheers up a bit. He slams the bottle down, disposition unchanged, and looks Kyle in the eye. He doesn't need to read at the card, just tells Kyle the same thing he told Kenny last turn, "Twenty."

Kyle nods, looks down at the neat stacks of flimsy bills. He goes through all the colours of the capitalist rainbow: white ones and pink fives, yellow tens and green twenties, blue fifties and beige hundreds. Monopoly money is probably a valid currency in Canada, legitimate as Canadough. He considers paying Stan with that, but rules a pair of tens the safer bet. Besides, any time Kyle teases him about his periodic freemium relapses, Stan launches into a bullshit lecture about his 'blatant sex addiction.' Because apparently only filthy degenerates have active and healthy bedroom lives. He plucks two slips from the pile, hands them to Stan, then looks down at his deeds, wondering how he can take his eclectic holdings and strategically bankrupt.

"Done?"

"Yeah, you go."

As Stan collects the dice, Cartman returns to his seat, glowing after decimating yet another innocent toilet. He deliberately loads up on diarrhoea fodder before showing up, clogging his gut with a slew of Doritos Locos Tacos or a bucket of Extra Crispy Colonel. Bathroom breaks are Cartman's personal confessional, expelling all the runny filth from his body before leaving the booth and gorging on sinful indulgence, ready to rinse and repeat the moment guilty indigestion kicks in. One day, Stan's plumbing will succumb to Cartman's ass, give out completely under high pressure faecal spray, and he'll somehow blame Kyle for the whole thing.

"Enjoy your little empire while you can, Kahl," Cartman sneers, assuming Kyle wants to win. A part of him does, tempted by competition's intoxicating air. Game night once thrived on Kyle and Cartman duking it out, intensifying the friendly fun with their meta-plays and screaming matches. He snatches the snack bowl, hogging the orange-dusted delicacies, and grabs a fistful of Cheesy Poofs. Glassy brown glints, "It won't last for long."

Kyle glances over, locking gazes, staring for a long moment. Before, Kyle didn't understand the value of picking his battles, possessed by his lust for glory, also hopelessly single. Kenny since taught him that, in the end, it doesn't matter who wins and who loses; not because they're children of the participation trophy generation, but because the actual winners are the ones getting laid. Finally, he rolls his eyes; Cartman can line those casino-infested boulevards with his dingy hotels, Kyle does not give a shit.

A clatter of plastic, and Stan rolls a six. The silver scotty dog prances from the Short Line over to Mediterranean, earning a whopping two hundred for passing Go. Kyle watches Stan's expression turn pensive, considering whether buying the shit-tier space serves his long-term interests. Kenny already owns Baltic, but it'd block him monopolising the board's ghetto, potentially serve as a decent bargaining chip, too. He hates how much thought Stan invests in these decisions.

He absently taps the neck of his bottle, perspiring drops rolling down the tinted glass, wetting his fingers. Then warmth, Kyle feels something glide over his leg, hand moving across his thigh. Kenny constantly complains how cold he is, but his touch is always hot, leaking heat, exuding life. Kyle doesn't understand the science—he doubts Kenny does either—but he loves how his hand bleeds through the denim, burns his blood and bone. His palm rests near his crotch, fingers gently massaging soft sensitive skin, motions soothing and stimulating.

"God, Stan, hurry up!"

"Oh, like your turns don't take an hour!"

Stan and Cartman argue, as Kyle stifles a harsh inhale, barely tempering his breath. He presses on the damp amber, inscribing his prints on the bottleneck, brain overwhelmed with hormonal bursts and tingly sensations. The problem is Kenny knows him too well, knows exactly what spots inspire twitches and shudders, what strokes make his body go weak and his dick get hard. And he can do it all without batting a lash, without skipping a beat, without giving away a goddamn thing.

"My turns take longer because I know how to play better."

"You literally busted first last time."

Kenny maintains a cool and casual expression, ripping a page right out of the Craig Tucker Handbook of Not Giving a Fuck. His gaze wanders aimlessly, journeying around the room, eyes paying no heed to the deeds of his hand. Kenny thanks Sony for his extraordinary coordination, all those hours grinding Crash Bandicoot and God of War translating into remarkable fingering finesse, the type that makes even a loyal Xboner rethink the console wars. Touches encroach on the bulge, rubbing harder to compensate for the thicker material, a finger running along the closed zipper.

"Nu-uh! Kinny did but you 'n Kahl bailed his poor ass out!"

"Y'know, I'll pass. Your roll, Fatass."

Finally, he glimpses the green fixed upon him, and his lips quirk into a smirk. Pride brims in the sky blue, relishing the conflicting cocktail of emotions etched on his face. He admires every detail—thick brows raised in surprise, subtle blush tinging pale complexion, quavering mouth fighting giddy grin—before winking. With Kenny, a wink is never just a wink; this one's a question, request for permission: Keep going?

"Fuckin' finally," Cartman scoops the dice with one hand, rattles them within his meaty clasp. He tosses them onto the board, the ivory enamel partly stained with artificially-coloured slobber, one and three dots facing up. The battleship sets sail from the Ventnor Avenue, through Marvin Gardens, rounds the officer's beat, then drops anchor on Pacific. He probably bitches about the price being three hundred dollars, but Kyle isn't thinking houses and hotels.

No, Kyle thinks about blood rushing down, gorging his veins, swelling his cock. He thinks about Kenny petting over his clothed erection, teasing him incessantly, coaxing him to grow, grow, grow. He thinks about how easy it would be for Kenny to simply undo his pants, grip him at the shaft, and jerk him off under the table. He's not normally crazy about hand-jobs, fellatio and fingering much finer arts; but, under these conditions, a nice old-fashioned sounds real good right now.

"Dude, I am not giving you Pennsylvania for a hundred."

A yes or a no, Kenny will listen no matter what, but Kyle must give the answer, make the call. Yes or no?

"You're breakin' my balls, here, Stan."

Okay, they'd be beyond shitty friends if they tugged one out in the middle of the game night, but Stan and Cartman haven't noticed them yet. Hell, Cartman doesn't care about anything unless it directly concerns him, and even then he only half pays attention. Stan's a bit more observant, however Kyle knows how to tactically deflect his suspicion.

Fuck, maybe they can get away with it. They shouldn't—really shouldn't—but…

"I told you, if you want Pennsylvania, you gotta give me Kentucky."

Is it still cool to say YOLO?

Doesn't matter, because Kyle spreads his legs apart, shifts his hips forward, reclines in his chair. A nod signs their contract, Kyle finalising their deal, granting Kenny full rights to do whatever the hell he wants. Going once, going twice, sold to the blond redneck with the traffic cone parka.

"I will NOT give you Kentucky and you WILL give me Pennsylvania. How 'bout two fifty?"

Kenny easily defeats the buttons and zipper, saving Kyle from the denim's tight constraint, pulling apart his boxers' cotton flaps. Just like that, they're skin and air and skin, no barriers cruelly separating them. Fire pubes, Kenny calls them that because the red curls remind him of licking flames, and because Kyle forbade him from using the term burning bush. He brushes over them, a gust sweeping through a field, and Kyle smoulders, scorches.

"You're not getting Pennsylvania so just end your turn!"

If Kyle is a flame, then Kenny is air, a breezy hand kindling brilliant blaze, nourishing him with every pet, fuelling him with each stroke. Touch ignite sparks, fuse lit with his grip. He is a firecracker, Kenny's Roman candle, nerves snapping and popping like the Fourth of July. He goes stiff in his hand, Kenny sliding along the length, a tantalising caress.

"What'd I do that made you wanna put my balls in a vice like this, Stan? 'Cause you just keep turning that crank and I don't know why."

Kyle wants to be loud—grunt, hum, moan—ends up biting his tongue. He traps the noise, almost chokes on a groan, a finger tapping his balls. He brings the bottle to his lips, desperate sip washing down the sound, Kyle guzzling frothy beer and rocking his hips to Kenny's rhythm. Fizz lines his throat, heat swathes his dick, and he enjoys the most fun he's had all night.

"Just let Kenny go already so we can finish the game before one AM."

Kyle's ears perk, pleasure interrupted by a surge of panic. Cartman's futile negotiating might seem endless, his bad haggling going on forever and an eternity, but he gives up eventually. This early in the game, he seldom hassles more than one person a turn, only morphing into a real estate mogul after houses pop up on the coloured strips. Stan sufficiently drained, Cartman will pass the dice to Kenny, the two of them will look across the table, and all hell will break loose. Fear quickens his heartrate, chest leaping, but also encourages his boner, size expanding.

Why does getting caught freak him out and turn him on?

"Well fuck you, too, Stan!"

Luckily, Kenny excels under pressure. Another tug, then firm grip vanishes, retracted temporarily. He puts an elbow on the table, ensuring both hands visible, and leans his cheek onto his palm. Feigned boredom completes his charade, dispelling suspicion before any arises. His eyes flit to Kyle, apologetic, Kenny aching over forced intermission. His pinkie finger edges towards his nose, inhales the musky scent, and the blue scintillates, crooked smile teasing at his lips. Kyle fell in love with that stupid grin, falls in love with him all over again every time Kenny makes it.

Dork, Kyle is a lovestruck horny dork.

"Aye, Poor Boy!" Cartman's face scrunches as he bars his orange tinted teeth, sounding annoyed, but no more than usual. He considers their relationship a nuisance, bitterly accepting their obnoxious faggotry because, much as he hates them, they're his friends. Of course, that tenuous tolerance would run out instantly if he discovered their little secret, "Quit eye-fucking Kahl 'n go."

Kenny rolls his eyes, forcing his attention back to the game. He uses his other hand to play, carelessly casting the die. Kyle doesn't count the dots, focused on how Kenny presses his palm to his mouth, how his tongue coats the skin with saliva, how his spit will act as lubricant. The shoe skips over to Water Works, Kenny's utility and speciality. A silent shrug signals the end of his turn, and he glances Kyle's way. His look makes it clear: make it snappy.

Kyle seizes the dice, concentration divided between mechanical actions and involuntary twitching. He shakes them in his fist, pre-come dripping at the promise Kenny's slathered touch, threat of chafing safely eliminated. The ivory tumbles across the logo, one settling with a six, and the other a five. That adds up to…? He counts each space as he moves the wheelbarrow, one then two then three then four then fuck does he need Kenny jacking him hard and fast then nine then ten then please land on his own property so this doesn't drag out. He stops at the Short Line, the railroad he bought on a whim, and breathes a sigh of relief. Present Kyle thanks past Kyle, then nudges the dice towards Stan.

Only Stan's gaze rests on Kyle, crushing him with scepticism's heavy weight. His super best friend senses must be tingling, predicting some immense and incoming peril. Of course, Kyle's the one in real danger; blue balls can be a serious medical issue. And, if he wants that solved in a timely manner, Stan needs to back off.

"What?"

"You're quiet."

"I'm tired, there's a difference. You going or not?"

A scrutinising squint, but that's all, nothing else. He doesn't have evidence, just a hunch, an all too accurate hunch. Stan briefly casts his shadowy glower on Kenny, suspecting potential involvement, but can't pin him for collusion. He harbours his doubts, but concedes, continues the round by rolling double threes. Scotty dog darts over to Chance, Stan drawing a card:

"'Bank pays you dividend of fifty dollars.'"

As he reads, surrenders the perfect opportunity. With a saliva-soaked hand, Kenny grabs him higher, closer the head, thumbing the tip. Kyle might miss out on the foreskin friction, the sole drawback to circumcision, but Kenny doesn't need that extra flesh, sending his nerves into a frenzy with his swift and slick rubs. He pumps up and down, varying his cadence, sometimes fast then fast then fast, fast then fast then slow, slow then slow then fast-fast-fast.

Kyle wishes he could vocalise, lean into Kenny's ear and tell him how good he feels. He wishes he could press his mouth on his neck, nip him with his teeth and moan against his skin. He wishes he could touch him, slip a hand down his jeans and get him off too. Oh, when game night is over, they are so going to…

"Fuck."

No one heard that, right?

The dice clatter together when they hit the board, Stan dropping them halfway through his second roll. The two collide at just the right angle, one rebounding off the other, flying from the table, and landing somewhere on the floor. He ignores the four, looks at Kyle—fingers twitching, breath hitching, wearing a non-alcoholic flush—then at Kenny—eyes bright, smirk wicked, glowing with lecherous pride—then follows his arm down.

"DUDE."

Uh oh.

Kenny freezes, and Kyle teeters on the brink, to the cusp of orgasm, so close yet so far. A strained whimper leaks out, pained by denial, refused his sweet release. Hand withdraws, and hormonal haze dissipates. Testosterone dilutes in his blood, Kyle torn from his sex-induced euphoria, and slapped right back into the real world. Unfair, this is so unfair!

"OH, SICK!" Cartman's face distorts as he scoots out of his seat, mentally scarred after checking underneath. Furious brown bores into mortified green, "Can't even be near fake money without pitchin' a tent, huh, Jew?"

Stan stands, knocks his chair back as he looms over the board. He divides his anger between them, blame equally placed, Kenny and Kyle both at fault. Kyle stares up with wide eyes, heart beating in his throat. In his peripheral, he sees Kenny hold up his hands, clear fluids attesting his guilt. It'll take more than a Get Out of Jail Free to get them out of this one.

"You two are not sitting together anymore."

"Stan—"

"New rule. You both need a chair in between you at all times."

"But—"

"Now, get out of my house."

Most people lose at Monopoly because they mismanage their funds, not because they committed a torrid sex scandal mid-game. The sanctity of game night violated, Kenny and Kyle forfeit their deeds, surrender their cash, and leave. Stan hovers behind them their whole walk to the door, ensuring neither of them sully any more of his furniture with their filthy hands. The moment they cross the threshold, take a single step outside, Cartman slams the door shut, hitting them both on the way out.

Okay, what they did was a pretty shit thing to do, Kyle admits it. But barring them from sitting together? Oh, hell no.

Kyle reaches in his pocket, pulls out his phone. A fingerprint unlock, then a tap to the message app, scrolling through the list of recent texts. Once he finds the right contact, he opens the log, and composes his plan for retribution.

"Babe," Concern drips from his voice, Kenny peering over Kyle's shoulder as he types, "What're you doing?"

Kyle reads over the message, checking for errors.

To: Butters Stotch
Hey, Butters. U kno how Stan always has game night on Wednesdays? It'd be AWESOME if u came too. Just show up next week at 10!

Then he glances up at Kenny, disapproval saturating the blue. Inviting Butters means all of them are miserable, Kenny and Kyle included. Except Kenny and Kyle will already be miserable, and Kyle is simply levelling the field. He offers Kenny a contrite look, but won't back down.

Kyle hits send.

A/N: Y'know that empty chair in s22e02? Yeah, this is 100% why it was there, no other reason. If life didn't get in the way so much, this would've been done the literal night after that episode aired. I hope you enjoyed reading this! I really appreciate your kudos and comments, and hope to see you on other stories too.