Ominously Seductive Blanket (OSB)….

Title: Who Would Have Thought a Blanket Could be so Ominously Seductive?

Pairing: Kyle x Kenny

Author: Moi! (JumpinPopTarts)

Ok…how to explain this story?

As with every story of mine to date, this is the result of a challenge by one of my close friends (though why she chose this combo beats me!) but I'm hardly going to disagree; the best pairing in South Park, a stormy night, and some time alone +bounces eyebrows+….Whyever not?!

And yeah the title's on drugs, a result of another element of the challenge:

Me: "alright alright I'll do it!"

Alex: "YAY"

Me: "But you'll have to give me a genre…"

Alex: #looks mystified# "ermmmm…"

Me: "C'mon, anything! Three random words!"

Alex: #after much deliberation# "erm…ominous…seductive…blanket!"

Me: #falls over like people do in bad manga when they're exasperated# "GAH make it easy for me why don't you??!!"

Guess I brought that on myself…

Anyway…enjoy!

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The rain shatters down on me, a hundred thousand steely bullets hammering onto my shoulders and back, pushing me even further away from my lovely warm home.

A lovely warm home that I would trade my soul never to have to go back to.

The towering spine of a street lamp leaps in front of me out of the dark. I swear, swerve and stumble into yet another puddle. Icy water swirls up my shins and I screech a profanity in Hebrew, fingers winding beneath my ushanka to bury themselves in my damp copper curls.

Yes, you guessed it.

Kyle Broflovski is out on his own.

And on the night of the worst power cut in South Park history.

The power went down four hours ago now, (almost to the minute if my crappy Star-of-David-emblazoned watch is anything to go by) but, since then, there have been more than enough sparks flying in my house to light the streets all the way from here to Denver.

I don't even remember the fight anymore, just the words, the slamming doors and my mom's contorted, screeching face. Even that makes my stomach turn. Cartman was right (fat bastard that he is) my mom is a bitch. It's just taken me another nine years to work it out for myself.

I haul myself out of the puddle (more like a damn lake) and stumble down another couple of streets, muttering to myself a shivering. I'm not paying attention to the route; my feet have trodden it enough times to know it well. Another few minutes of cursing, puddles, and scouring rainwater from my eyes sees me standing at the driveway of my destination.

The building in front of me is a piece of shit, the scrap-metal roof tilting down onto a collection of bits of caravan, broken wall and wooden plasterboard. It looks like a fun-size refugee camp, squeezed into a square and dumped in the centre of suburbia.

His house.

Kenny's.

I shove open the gate with my hip and stagger up the path, taking a moment to huddle in the porch, at last free of the driving rain (well, semi-free; this porch has more holes in it than a cheese-grater), and to wonder why the hell I'm here.

Lets see…The fact that I'm looking for another place to go, to hide from mom, makes sense…but why Kenny? Why not Stan, my supposed 'Super Best Friend'? He probably heard the argument from his bedroom and is waiting for me to come over right now, no doubt wondering the same thing. He lives across the road for pity's sake, twenty seconds walk away. We've been sneaking into each other's houses whenever things got bad ever since we were first graders…

…so why did I trek right the way across town, getting soaked to the skin and about six types of pneumonia…just to talk to someone I'd never in my life expected to be running to?

And why am I asking myself all these stupid questions? It's not like I even know the answer.

I guess I…I guess I sort of…needed him, for some strange reason. Kenny, I mean. I just wanted to talk to someone who wasn't going to know exactly what to say to calm me down, and who hadn't said those things a thousand times before. I wanted someone who would just listen, who'd understand, who knows how it feels to have nowhere else to run…

Or maybe I just needed him. Just him. Just Kenny….

I sigh. Message to brain; if you're not going to make sense, shut the hell up.

I raise my hand and slam the cheap knocker as loud as I can, hearing the sound reverberate into the halls beyond. Questions later, I tell myself; standing here wondering when there's a warm, dry house just a pace away isn't making things any better.

My entire thought train stops as I hear footsteps on the other side of the door, and the sound of harsh breathing as a key rattles in the lock. My senses came alive in that moment, drinking in every tiny sound from beyond the door, as though trying to absorb any essence of Kenny that as they can, like addicts craving a favourite drug.

I sigh and massage my dripping forehead, deliberately blocking out the noise. The rain must be getting to me. Yes, that's it…the rain…

Another couple of clicks and door opens wide, flooding me with white light. I hear myself release a breath I don't remember holding in.

It feels like coming home.

"Kyle!" his voice is like distant thunder "Kyle! What's wrong with you?! Dude, get in here right now…" Arms lock around my shoulders push me into dry and warm of his kitchen…or it would be warm if the central heating hadn't gone down here too. The hard glare of the industrial-sized torch in his hands blinds me for a moment and I groan, bringing up one shakingly pale hand to shield my face.

"Fuck, dude! My eyes!"

He lowers it immediately, looking decidedly sheepish, and mumbles something about this being the brightest thing he'd got now the power's gone.

Out of the four of us, I would say that Kenny still looks most like his nine-year old self. He's taller now, but no less skinny (still living on those damn waffles) and still likes to have a hood yanked up over his head, so that even the pervy gaze of Bebe, bitch-whore numero uno in this town, can't see what lies beneath. Today though, I see with a start that he has the hood down, its soft folds huddling against his slender neck and tickled by the longer trails of his golden hair. His face is…well…Kenny-ish. I can't think of any other person it would compare to. Maybe it's just the nerdy poet in me, but in my eyes his face is a patchwork of opposites. There's both compassion and cruelty in his soft lips and the hard set of his jaw, ruggedness and beauty in the curve of his cheekbones and the shadow of stubble where his jaw meets his ear. Perverted-ness and peace lie entwined in the depths of his omniscient eyes.

I turn away, pretending to be fascinated by the mould patterns on the wall whilst giving myself a mental beating. Ugh, dude, can you get any gayer?

Kenny, meanwhile, is staring at me.

Subtly, I watch his expression as he looks me up and down, those vivid eyes widening with concern as they see my sopping clothes and the dark circles around my eyes. Those eyes read me like a book; evidence of that strange intuition he has for sensing people's feelings, no matter how much they try to hide it. Kenny hardly ever speaks, but his eyes say everything you need to know. I wince and smile wearily as I our gazes meet; I must look like shit.

"What happened to you?" The words are a ritual, an excuse. He can tell I don't want to tell him and I can tell he doesn't need to know. Knowing this wakes a tiny curl of warmth in my heart; when did we become so close, that our very thoughts could be read with a look, with a word?

Since when did he become the Stan Marsh in my life?

I guess I will never know.

Kenny catches my look and returns it with that trademark lop-sided smile. He looks tired too; there are lines in his face that weren't there a year ago, but his hair still shines like liquid gold and there's a sharpness about him that never seems to fade.

I shiver and smile weakly, trying to distract myself with something other than my striking blonde friend. A fire would definitely be good right now; I'm freezing my balls off in this kitchen.

Carefully, he helps me into a chair and throws one of the spare coats over my shoulders, hitting the kettle onto boil (it's not really a kettle, more an improvised version using a camping burner and a small saucepan) and clattering about in the cupboard in search of a mug.

The moment it's done a cup of hot tea is waved under my nose, blended roughly and without sugar; the way he knows I like it. I can't help a tiny grin as I take the mug; 'domestic' Kenny always makes me laugh (hardly the macho Casanova he's famous for!). He makes himself busy as I drink, dimming the beam of his torch and replacing it with some dime-store candles so as not to hurt my eyes (not sure why he's latched onto that, but I appreciate the sudden softness that it gives to everything). He drops into a chair opposite me and folds his arms beneath his chin, regarding me with an interest that brings just a little extra colour to my cheeks. It's those eyes that do it, I think, so bright and piercingly blue…

...I've always liked his eyes…

Wait…what the hell?! This is Kenny we're talking about. Kenny. Y'know, the one whose dead, frozen body you once hit with a shovel to see if it would shatter. That Kenny.

Oh God now I feel like even more of a shit…and yet he's still looking at me, carefully, softly almost…

My eyes drop to my mug and I take another scalding sip. My tongue burns and tingles but I don't care; better be distracted by the pain than actually admit I like the way he's watching me.

I hope the goosebumps crawling up my arms aren't too much of a giveaway.

The two of us sit in silence for a while, not because we can't think of anything to say, but because we don't need to (or at least that's how I felt, I could sense by the brooding air on his side of the table that I would have to tell him why I was here sooner or later.). Resigned, I take another gulp of my drink and savour the heat working its way through my body, I will tell him, but not yet.

Unfortunately, Kenny has other ideas.

"Come on." I look up, startled, as he tugs me to my feet, a determined look in his eyes that I've only seen him wear when he's talking about his latest skateboarding stunt. "This way."

I let myself be led through the familiar passageways of the McCormick house, marvelling how different it looks when devoid of its usual residents. Tonight there are none of his mother's anguished shrieks, none of his brother's bickering nor his father's drunken raves. They're all out tonight, (something to do with bailing Kevin out of prison I think) leaving just one solitary Kenny with his hand around the sleeve of my dripping sweater and his face hidden in the candlelit shadows.

His bedroom door is ajar when we enter (probably inevitable since we nicked the bottom hinge to make a toboggan last winter), with the curtains drawn tight and barely enough light to chase away the gloom. Kenny beckons me inside and kicks a couple of things out of the way. Catching my puzzled look, he drops his gaze, mumbling something about this being the warmest room in the house (so the best place to sit). I smile and accept the reason, not noticing that his face is now a good few shades redder than before.

It is warm in there, what with the two of us' body heat and the windows drawn in so tightly. Shadows flitter across the walls and ceiling, deepening until the corners disappear in darkness. He's lit a few candles here and there, probably just so we can see where we are going, but my befuddled mind pictures them as something else.

A candlelit supper, soft quilts waiting invitingly in the wings for when the lights dim and thoughts turn to something other than food…

Damn gay-ass inner poet! I seriously need to get those kinds of ideas out of my head. Right now.

I came to Kenny because he's my friend, not because I have any...not because I thought…

….not because I want to join the list of people who use this place like a walk-in brothel, Thank you very much.

A few of the candles must have been scented, because a heady aroma encloses us the moment we step inside his room. Normally that would have struck me as messed up (how do the dirt poor afford posh candles?) but tonight it just melts into the mood, as though we're enclosed in our own little world, without practical stuff like money and class messing things up.

Still smiling, Kenny sets me down on the end of the bed and pulls the door closed, sweeping a couple of pornos off the duvet. I watch with sleepy eyes as the light from the landing shrinks to the tiniest of slivers on the floor. The darkness promises of secret things, suggestions which make my stomach buzz uncomfortably, but I stifle the thoughts with another groan; I'm still sodden to the bone and even the most romantic part of my mind is still more occupied in shivering miserably than erotic fantasies.

Once again, that eerie intuition brings him to my side.

"We need to get those off."

"WHAT?" I squeak, struggling against his hands as they pluck at my soggy sweater, trying to pull it over my head.

"You'll get a chill." Is that a tremor in his voice? I've never heard him sound unsure before. A pang of guilt runs through me; what if I've offended him?

And so I relax, telling myself that guilt is the reason why I let him continue, easing the clammy material off my shivering form piece by piece, not the way his touch sends fire through my veins, engulfing me in a wave far more warming than the change of clothes he's handing out to me. I keep my boxers on; they're practically dry after being several layers down, and I'm mildly grateful for this; I don't know how I would have reacted if this process had continued quite that far.

"Wait a sec," and the warm presence withdraws, the door opening and closing a second later to leave me in the humid darkness. The room feels cold without him and I huddle into myself, so much so that I don't notice him return and almost jump out of my skin when I feel something settle around my shoulders.

"I nicked this off my Mom." Comes the gruff reply "So you'd better start feeling better dude…or else I'm gonna get it in the neck for ruining the only decent blankets we've got."

Nudging him a 'thank you', I gather the garment around myself and breathe in the muffled scent. The smell is unmistakeably Kenny's; a giddying twist of spices, sweat and fresh pine. I know instantly that this quilt is nothing to do with his mom; she'd've bartered it off years ago if it had been. No, this is the blanket he made in tech back in sixth grade, nicking most of the fabric off the three of us, if I remember rightly. I can feel those fabrics now, soft as clouds against my skin. The fabrics are only a bargain basement special, but in this light the cheap satin could be purest silk, and the stuffing weighs down with an almost velvety softness.

Heh, Kenny spent ages on this blanket; a whole semester, with a few recesses thrown in. It's the only project I've seen him work on to date, and I mean really work on; pouring his entire concentration into it for hours and hours on end.

But of course, I'm not about to remind him.

He misreads my silence and moves in a bit closer, pulling up a chair so that he's facing me. I'm sitting on the end of the bed now and he's on his chair, our knees brushing and our feet lost in the shadows beneath the arc of candlelight.

"You're OK, right? D'you need anything, cos I could always get you some more tea…if you want." He mumbles this to his feet, fringe flopping over his eyes. I can almost feel the embarrassment thrumming through him as he says those words. Kenny may be a notorious pervert, but he never gets motherly for anyone, let alone another guy.

The thought makes me smile.

"Ken?" I don't even realise I've said the word until he looks at me, his eyes suddenly bright with in the candlelight. The wicks flicker, flighty shadows reaching down to caress his features, highlighting the perfect contours of his body and the pointed lines of his jaw. His whole body curves together, lithe, like dancer's…

Making me want to…

Our eyes lock and an eternity spans between us, where neither of us breathes and nothing exists beyond the beating of our hearts.

Those feelings stir again, dark and wanton entities that I've tried so hard to control, praying that this little crush would go away, but waking every morning certain that it never would.

School's been hell feeling like this. For weeks, months, I've kept this battened down, suppressing every tingling caress, every wandering thought, every desperate fantasy that I believe is beyond my grasp. I know that if anyone ever finds out that I'm…well…a great deal less than straight…then I will never live it down.

And never speak to my mother again.

But now, here, with him so close and so real, all rational thought seems to ebb away, all my sense and cleverness rendered useless in a giant emotional rush.

How I long to hold him, to gather him right close to me and feel his form against mine, to love him into oblivion until all my wants are sated and I can rest complete.

How I long to tell him…

But I can't. He'd just a pervert, a whore. Love to him is a game, a laugh. He'd pick me up, take me as high as he could, then drop me on my ass and walk away on the arm of someone else. My dreams are just pointless illusion and it's about time I realised it.

I wish I could.

Then, with ominous timing, a shred of that blanket brushes against my hands. Instinctively, I catch hold, the material whispering against my palms as I churn the hem over and over in my lap. I remember the loose stitches now ticking my fingertips, I remember the tiny scuffs and the hidden tears and realise that Kenny is not the untouchable scoundrel I have always seen him as. For all his jokes, for all his confidence, he is a real living, breathing, needing, being who wants love as much as I want to give it to him

The candles shiver and I feel the magic in the room, giving me courage, resolve. I know that this should feel wrong and should be resisted at all costs, but tonight the whole world seems to be beckoning me on, daring me to believe the unbelievable, to accept the unacceptable, to achieve the unachievable…

And this time, I'm not going to fight it.

Slowly, surely, I lean forwards, my muscles luxuriously lazy, my heavy-lidded gaze blurring his features into something soft, warm. Candles flicker like stars, the walls of the room dissolving until it is just the two of us, lost in a dizzying galaxy that neither of us understands.

I feel blanket slip down my back as my hands reach out, palms skimming his shoulders to curl around his neck, easing his perfect face close to mine. Noses brush and our breaths twine together, crystal droplets from my curls running like tears down our cheeks. I can smell his skin, see every strand of his hair, every lash in his meltingly blue eyes. I open my mouth and breathe him in, drawing everything about him deep inside my soul.

Then I kiss him.

Tiny brushes, butterfly wings on balmy silk, deepening so slowly that I feel his skin soften against mine, moulding our mouths perfectly into one another's until neither is sure where they end and the other begins. Dark lashes flutter low, closing us within our own silent world, broken only by the sounds of our lips, together and apart, but only as much as a quick rush of air will allow before our bodies throw us back together, answering a craving far more important than oxygen.

I don't remember him pushing me back onto the bed, crawling over my body and enclosing it with the heavenly warmth of his own. I don't remember his hands straying from my hair to my neck, running in shiveringly sweet trails down my chest to make lazy circles over my stomach, twirling trails that make me squirm and groan with pleasure.

Cool fingers wind around my waist, sneaking up my shirt until I can't bear it any longer and throw my own arms up and around him, pulling him so close that even his hands cannot get between us anymore. My lips find his neck, pressing hungrily against the deliciously salty skin that is 100 per cent pure Kenny, marking him as mine with my teeth and my tongue until he groans and buries his face into my shoulder, breathing sweet nothings hot and fast into my ear.

My eyes slide shut and I let the world dissolve, spiralling up and away from us into the starry sky, to a place where nothing else exists save this moment and the two of us, so saturated in each other that everything else dims in comparison.

I hear Kenny sigh into my hair and I know he feels it too.

…If only this would last forever.

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Mmmkay, so this was my first SP fic in a while...it felt so strange coming back! Good though, I may write more if this gets a good reception.

...So, what do you think? Love? Hate? Want cookies?

Click the pretty button. Go on, I dare ya...