AN: Alright. Facts, a preview, and an extra piece for SMD. This is it guys. This is the absolute finish, and I'm only posting the sappy crap at the end because, like, I owe it to you. Thanks for being there, dudes.
Some facts:
-7090 words. (ANs included.)
-Started: April 24, 2011.
-Finished: August 10, 2011.
-An average of 5.5 reviews per chapter.
-Chapters 3, 5, 6, and 7 all have the exact number of reviews as their chapter numbers.
-This not-really-a-plot was formed at three in the morning while I was guzzling cranberry juice with a hint of lime.
-Chapter 5 was written before anything else.
-The songs Animal and Your Surrender by Neon Trees are probably the best songs to listen to while writing gay shit. Trolololol.
AS PROMISED, A PREVIEW OF MY NEXT CRYLE STORY.
Oh Say Can Jew Sea? (Title in progress.)
A stupid story about a boring teenager and a stone that just so happens to be a redheaded male. AU. Kyle/Craig.
Craig was half sure he hated his life.
Being totally sure required conviction, which required feelings, which required effort. Of course: halving it didn't eliminate any energy spent, but it cut down on it. Surely such savings in his stores of energy would help him later.
If he could be assed to do anything later.
"Craig, we're going to the beach," his mom had said. Well, whoop dee freaking doo. He fucking hated the beach. Kids and sand in his dick and heat. He fucking loathed heat.
He loathed vacations as well. Of course, his mother had decided to combine the two and drag him and his sister to the coast.
"I hate the beach, mom," he had half-complained because fully-complaining required effort and- haven't we already been through this?
She merely shrugged. "It's either St. Broflovski's or talking with your father over the phone about how many ladies you're reeling in with your 'stunning' looks."
Craig actually considered it for a second.
Not.
Sure, he might be a bit strange, in totally boring way. But he didn't want his death certificate to say 'death by out-of-touch father as he speaks over the phone about baseball and getting girls pregnant'.
And so here he was, collecting shells on St. Broflovski shore. (Seriously, where the fuck did they get that name? Did they run out of shitty names for saints and just letter-barf onto a sign? Jeez.)
An orange stone caught his eye as he built his sandfort (because he wasn't a fucking princess, dickface). It was a smooth oval shape with streaks of red running throughout, and if he tilted it just right, it was as if they were actually veins pumping with blood. It was the kind of superior cool that transcended even overdosing on cough syrup or someone dying while having sex.
Doing something spontaneous for once in his life, Craig pocketed it.
And so began the beginning of the end.
God, save us.
AND THE FINAL PIECE FOR OUR TWO BOYS:
"You could straighten your hair, asshat."
"Fuck you. I could straighten your dick with a goddamn iron."
"I'd like to see you-"
Kyle's hands pressed the bickering male's chest and pushed them apart. Kenny McKormick and Eric Cartman glared up at the ginger from their new-found places a few inches farther away from each-other's faces.
"The fuck was that for, Jew?"
"Yeah, the fuck?"
"Goddammit you two," Kyle huffed, massaging his temples. "This is my big fucking day. Could you lay off for a bit?"
"I knew you were the bitch," Cartman muttered, glaring at him. "Like Craig would ever get fucked up the ass."
"Cartman, are you fucking retarded? Of course Kyle tops! Craig is an emo pussy!" Kenny snarked, pulling his now shoulder-length blonde hair into a ponytail with a hair-tie on his wrist. Cartman merely snorted.
"Yeah? Fifty bucks says Kyle gets rammed."
"Fine, then. Fifty bucks on Craig packing."
They shook hands and walked out.
Kyle blushed furiously, running his jittery hands down his jacket. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea-
"Kyle, stop worrying and get the fuck out here!"
Sparing a last glance in the mirror, the man nodded and ran after his two friends as best as he could in his high heels.
~o~o~
Butters smiled softly, scrunching the fabric of his dress in his sweating palms. Turning to his girlfriend, he relaxed slightly. And then he spotted it.
"Wendy."
"Yes, Butters?" she asked, all calm and smooth and Wendy.
"There's uh, there's a piece of lint on your tuxedo. Ah- on your shoulder." He reached his pale hand up and plucked it off, tossing it to the side.
"Thanks, Butters," Wendy said, bending down to give him a quick peck on his cheek.
He flushed a deep red, pulling at the straps of his yellow sundress.
~o~o~
Craig hated weddings.
God, did he.
And, somehow, he was now marrying his boyf- uh... Fiance. That was weird, to think that they were engaged.
He ruffled the skirt of his dress. Severe kudos had to go to his fiance Kyle for designing the wardrobe for the wedding. (God, the guy was gayer than Ryan Seacrest.)
The form fitting tuxedo jacket as a top, and half a bride's dress as a bottom.
Genius?
No.
Annoying?
Supremely.
Craig had a fucking wedgie and he hadn't shaved his legs. Kyle hated when he didn't shave his legs.
But it was Craig's special day, dammit. He could have hairy legs if he wanted.
Snorting softly, he scurried out as the organ music began to play. (Fuck, he hated organs. They were just old pianos that made deep-ass sounds and shit.) Kyle entered from the opposite side, wearing the exact opposite of Craig: a sleeveless top-half of a wedding gown and suit pants.
They hooked elbows, smiling softly and walking down the aisle to stand amoung their groomsmen and groomswoman. The men seemed to be enjoying their dresses, while Wendy seemed to like her tux.
Stan smiled from his stand, an erotic novel open in his hand.
"So," he began, flashing his grin across the room so that everyone could see its holy brightness. "You guys are in a wedding."
"No shit," Craig growled.
"Good enough for me," Stan said, clapping the book shut. "I now pronounce you Craig and Kyle. Kiss or something."
And they did.
~o~o~
"You owe me fifty bucks, fat shit."
"He rode him. Clearly, this means he topped. But I'll let you slide on this one, and I won't rub my victory in your face.
"God, you suck."
"Yeah? Well you can suck my duck."
fin.