HI! Another chapter!

I just wanted to let everyone know, that yes, I'm writing OOC. Kyle usually isn't one to curse a lot, but I imagine him to be one of those guys who curses in his head rather than out loud. I want him to have that sort of innocence where you can tell he's trying to fit in, but is still just a little to scared to let it show.

I also want to mention that I'm trying to stay in as much character as possible, so there a lot of swearing, insults and generally very bad language and name calling. I suppose if you're a fan of South Park you're probably used to it, but I just don't want anyone to think I actually use some of these insults in real life. I am not racist, sexist nor do I stoop so low as to insult someones' religion. That being said I hope my writing doesn't offend anyone, as it can get pretty dirty lol.

Anyways, on with the chapter. Its much longer today, so I hope you enjoy it. It took a bit longer to write but I think it was worth it.

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park or it's characters. Please don't sue me.

-XXX-

I was in a coffee shop. I know I was. But why am I here? Standing in the supply room staring at stacks of reams that have materialized around me. Why the fuck am I sitting here, in a paper fort?

Fuck.

It all comes rushing back to me now, as I sit here looking at the 'Office Depot' printed on the reams.

I had been sent to Coffeh Coffeh Conniption, again on a mid day coffee run. I was going to order two Lattes, four Cafe Mocha's, three Americano's and one Cappuccino. The list was a bit short, because a few of the employees at the The Gazette had decided to go out for their lunch break.

I took my normal route, only a few minutes of walking and I was at the shop, pulling open the door, hearing the fucking lame bell toll as I stepped in. The guy at the counter was the same guy who had stared at me yesterday, with that dead fish sort of look. He was rubbing his ass with a sour look on his face, staring at Bebe. When I got closer, I was awake enough to notice he had a pretty nice face. It didn't stand out exactly, and it was sort of pretty, in that manly, GQ model sort of way. His eyes were a blue-coal color, framed by thick black eyelashes. His hair was the same color, that dark noirette that looked nearly fake.

He had fucking girly eyes.

I don't see Wendy, who is usually at the register when I come in, so I ask him if she's there.

His mouth opened in this sort of slow motion way, and it took me a few moments to really register his voice. When I did, I felt my brain go cold. My fucking blood turning to ice.

"She's on break. Are you going to order or do you want to wait." The same damn voice from the same damn radio show. But it wasn't possible. Why would C.T. be wearing a gay ass pink apron, working in some lame coffee shop?

I'm struck dumb and stutter, trying to piece together all the reasons in the world it can't be the same person, making myself sound like the dumbest shit to ever be shat.

Then I see it. 'Craig Tucker'. In Arial. The little piece of printed tape stuck to the pin tag slightly off kilter.

C fucking T.

"Craig Tucker." He says, leaning forward when he sees he has the upper hand. His face contorts into an almost evil smile. A knowing smile.

"I-I...Craig...Craig..T-tucker?" I whisper, "C...C.T.?"

His face brightens just slightly, making him look a bit insane. I think it fits well with the evil persona he was obviously going for.

"There once was a little radio show that couldn't."

I blacked out about then, I assume. It's hard for me to remember the details, but I have the vague notion that I was horribly distraught. Distraught enough to stutter, squeal and run back to my office, only to barricade myself in this paper fort.

I bury my head into my knees again.

I can't fucking believe it. It's impossible.

Craig fucking Tucker. C.T. Not only did he work at my favorite coffee house, with some of my best friends, but he was hot.

So. Fucking. Hot.

-XXX-

The day lasts forever. And by forever, I mean an eternity.

When I finally collapse in my apartment, it's nearly eleven at night. I barely make it to the couch before my bones turn to jelly, and I sort of just contort into the upholstery.

My place is well furnished. A big T.V., a big couch and wing back chairs in the living room. A table big enough to fit eight people made out of expensive wood in the middle of the dining room and a jetted, large bathtub in the restroom, along with a separate shower. My bed room was a bit smaller than most of the rooms, but it was furnished with a decent sized dresser and a massive king sized bed.

Oh, and I always forget about the fucking closet.

I pull my legs up awkwardly on the couch. I don't really move much, so they're sort of resting on my chest and hanging off the back of the couch.

I think of my mom, and how she would screech at me if she saw me like this.

My mother is a ginger, like me. But she's far more aggressive than I am, in fact I'm a momma's boy who will do nearly anything they're told. My mom is the one who pays for my apartment while I continue school. She's the one who furnished it too.

Rich ass Jew.

I moan again as I think about the disaster in Conniption. I can never return. I'm a fuck up. There's no way I could ever face those people again, knowing who works there. Knowing that he knows who I am.

Shiiiit.

I get up, feeling the call of curiosity. I walk to my computer, that is sitting on a large desk made out of the same wood my table is, and I turn it on.

I don't have to wait long for it to load, and the first thing I do is turn on my single MP3 of one of the C.T. shows I was able to find online. It has become a habit, and I startle when his voice floods my speakers.

I get worked up over his voice, maybe more so when I know what he looks like. I feel my blood rush to my dick, and I sigh.

I have a mission to complete before that.

I get on Facebook. Usually, I go on to check my status updates and to do some random task on FarmVille. Yes, I do mean FarmVille.

I've already proven myself a failure. You should expect this.

Today, I search for Craig Tucker. There happen to be about 400 of them, so I narrow it down by city, and I notice he's enough of a tool to be on Facebook.

I click on his name, and my palms start to sweat. His page loads, and it's the old version, not the new gay timeline version. Most of his information is private, but a few things like the city he lives in, his employer and education show up. I can also access his profile pictures.

There are only three. Two of them are of a guinea pig, labeled 'Stripe', and the last, which is currently being used, is a picture of Craig flipping off a the person taking the photo.

I check out the comments, just because I can, and notice something weird.

Several of my friends have commented on the picture.

Clyde Donovan dude I so fucking got a picture for your facebook

Criag Tucker Why the fuck do I need a new one?

Clyde Donovan because it's been stripe for like 2 fukin' yrs

Craig Tucker Whatever. I'll change it then.

Wendy Testaburger Aww! How cute! Asshole.

Craig Tucker fuck you Testaburger. ( A hand flipping me off follows this in text art.)

Wendy Testaburger I don't fuck assholes. That's ur job Tucker.

Craig Tucker Ha. Ha. Very funny. Your wit nearly killed me.

Bebe Baby Stevens you guys are stupid...nice pic tho.

Stan Marsh i finally don't have too look at that dead rat anymore. Thank GOD

Craig Tucker I will cut you, Marsh. You know I will.

Kenny McCormick I fuck assholes!

When I finish reading the comments, I go back to the top of the page. The picture was taken two months ago in a park. Craig is wearing a black t-shirt, nearly skin tight jeans and worn blue chullo hat. A small smirk turns his lips up at the corner, but his eyes are fairly passive and a bit less dead then when he first spoke to him.

I replay the conversation again. And again. And yet another time when I'm suddenly interrupted by the sound from my phone, telling me I have a new text message.

Stan Marsh: 'dude, Wendy said ur coming to the party. Its on sat. Just show up whenev'

'kay, as long as I don't have to watch you eat her face, like last time.' I reply, pressing the send button.

A few seconds later it buzzes again

'shut up asshole, ur just jellous you don't have a hot babe like her for a gf'

I don't bother to correct his spelling, or his taste.

'I'll bring tequila.' I reply finally, before shutting off my phone. I'm still hard from staring at Craig's profile and listening to his fucking voice. I need to do something about it.

I take care of my business, I don't even admit to myself how quickly I came.

Fuck. I admitted it.

It was the shock of seeing him in person. It's the only explanation.

I've also just realized that I have reached a whole new level of creeper when I notice my semen on the screen of my computer.

-XXX-

I refuse to take the coffee orders for the rest of the week. I keep getting weird stares ever since my supervisor found me in my fort.

The weekend finally arrives, and for once I don't have to write an essay, so I go to Stan's early.

Somehow, even though I've been stressing that I might pass by Craig on the way to and from work, I feel myself relived to be at Stan's. It's not like I can talk to him about whats going on. I've never told him about my attraction to guys, and I don't ever intend to, but it's comforting to be around him when I hardly ever see him anymore. He and I used to be attached at the hip.

But that was before he started seriously dating Wendy. And before I switched my major.

"Hey man! You're early!" He says when I walk into his place. He pulls me into one of those manly sports hugs and it doesn't feel any less awkward then it ever has. "Grab a beer! Or do you want to start on the shots first?"

There are already a few people over. A few of the football team are there, some girls scattered about, but I don't see Wendy yet.

"Where's Wendy?" I ask, walking into the kitchenette, grabbing a beer out of the cooler and setting down the tequila on the table.

"She won't be here for a while. The shop is doing some sort of promotion so she said to start the party without her."

"I think you may be the only guy I know that would wait to party until his girlfriend showed up." I say dryly. I don't really like the taste of beer, but I've become accustomed to it over the years. I really prefer wine or hard liquor to this dirty water.

"Shut up dude!" He says laughing, a happy expression coming over his face. I can't deny that he really does love her. Even if I don't like her as much as he wants me to. "She's special, ya know?"

"And I can see you started the party before anyone got here right?" I laugh. Stan is an emotional person, but he usually doesn't get sappy unless he's been drinking a lot.

"Of course! I had permission." He jokes, chugging back his beer and going for another one. "Now bitch, drink that shit." He says merrily as he flutters into the other room.

He has a pretty high alcohol tolerance, but sometimes he acts weirder than our old teacher from primary school when he drinks. And Mr...well, Mrs. Garrison now, was pretty fucking messed up.

Eventually I end up playing beer pong with some of the football team. I'm pretty good at it, so I stop playing after a while when I catch myself trying to dance to one of the songs blaring out of the sound system.

So of course it's time for me to start on the tequila.

When I get to the bottle, it's not where I left it, and its half empty. I feel a bit sad that it wasn't me who drank it, but I don't think about it much and grab it, carrying it with me to Stan, whose in the room with the music.

I catch his attention waving the bottle at him, a stupid smile on my face, and he follows me to one one of the many tables in the dorm that has shot glasses and liquor scattered on the surface. We both do four shots.

By the time the last is burning down my throat Stan is giggling like a mad person, punching me in the arm fairly hard. I choke and return the blow, barley grazing his bicep and he laughs at me. I feel the tequila settle on my stomach, my vision blurring and a guttural laugh escape my mouth before I have a chance to catch it.

Then I can't stop laughing.

Suddenly I want to dance. I want to dance forever.

"Staaan ima daance now. Someone put something goood oooon!" I half shout into the next room. Someone cheers and I hear the music change.

"Kyle, you're already wasted? I thought you'd at least be a bit more sober. Now I feel like the one left out!" Wendy whines as she walks up behind me, passes me, and practically jumps into Stan's arms.

He nearly topples over, but Wendy stops him before he does. She looks like one of those generic knights who saves a damsel off the covers of one of my mom romance novels.

I laugh directly at her.

She smirks at me in return the kisses Stan with way too much tongue, so I take my cue to leave.

Man, I want to dance.

I make it into the other room relatively easy, despite there being a couple laid out in the middle of the hallway, doing everything except strip each other naked. The room is crowded, more so then it was a little while ago.

I guess its just the alcohol kicking in, but I notice a song I like come on, and I practically throw myself into the throng of people.

I've never been a bad dancer. In fact I'm fairly good. I just don't usually like touching people. I move to the beat, rubbing myself against some random person as I try to move towards the center of the group. I can't tell if I'm dancing with men or women, but I don't really care much either way, and grab someone from behind. They have long hair, so I assume it's probably a girl, and I rub my pelvis against her ass, turning her around to dance up close and personal with her.

Her looks aren't anything spectacular, but I'm not trying to get laid, just relieve the stress of the week, so I move on to another person.

I have no idea how many songs have gone by. A mix of rap, hip hop and Ke$ha. I feel a bit dizzy, and I try to get out of the crazy mass of bodies. I think I should eat something before I drink anymore.

As I stumble out of the mess, my foot catches on the most inappropriately placed carpet in the history of Judaism and trip. Not a simple trip where I can catch myself before I hit the ground face first, but one of those ones where it launches you into the air, and momentarily you are completely airborne, before I crash into a waste bin, of course.

It's mostly filled with red Solo cups but I still hear a few onlookers laugh at me.

"Epic Broflovski!" Someone shouts.

I sit up, running my hand over my elbow, since it took the brunt of my weight and is now crying out for morphine.

A few more people jeer at me, and as I glance over at them I laugh with them.

The laugh is cut short though, when I do a double take towards the kitchen.

Fuck.

Craig. Craig fucking Tucker.

He had a look of purpose in his eyes as he strode towards me. If I had known he'd be at this fucking party I wouldn't have shown up.

I don't like Stan that much.

Apparently I'm too drunk to make my face function properly, so my eyes cross as I try to look away.

He makes a funny face at me, and if I weren't fucking scared shitless I'd have laughed at it. But instead I'm trying to stand, my jelly knees revolting against me, so that about the time he gets close enough, I just happen to fall directly into him in my attempt to escape.

"Smooth." He says, purring the words into my ear, his mouth dangerously close to my skin.

I get hard. In fact, when do I not, anymore? I feel like I'm thirteen again, looking at my dad's Playboy for the first time.

"I..I-uh-" My entire body has betrayed me, not just my knees.

"Yup. Cool story bro. Lets talk about it somewhere else." He ends his statement with one of those grins again as he pulls me by my uninjured arm toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. I obviously have no choice in the matter, but with all of the alcohol in my system I can't find the will or the thought process to refuse.

When we manage to reach the second landing, he gently shoves me into one of the rooms. There are three, but only one is unoccupied by moaning voices.

He pokes me in the back until I get to the bed, saying nothing, he presses on my shoulder, directing me to sit. I sit on the bed. It's small, maybe a full size mattress. He sits down next to me, humor still in his eyes but he grabs my injured arm and pulls it out away from my body where I've unintentionally been favoring it.

His hands are big, but in that long fingered way. Pale and bony. They're surprisingly warm as he gingerly (no pun intended) pushes up the sleeve of my sweater. When his hand passes over my elbow I wince, my eyes watering at the alcohol diluted pain.

It would probably be worse if I was sober and not shell shocked.

"Fuck..." He mutters, his eyes darkening a bit as he inspects the damage I've done. I hear him sigh. "Look at it."

I do, and I see a large, hellish looking bruise blooming around the injury.

"You need to go to the hospital I think..." He looks a bit troubled, but pauses and looks at me.

"I...yeah..I guess...sure." I reply. I guess even with my more confidant drunk self I'm still a pool of idiocy when I'm face with the challenge that is Craig.

He sighs again.

"When I saw you here I was pretty excited to harass you, but harassing someone who can't defend themselves, and happens to be injured seems a bit...lame." He mutters, a corner of his mouth upturning like he wants to try to get some amusement out of the situation.

"Ah...sorry?" I don't know what else to say. I shouldn't even be sitting here. I should be running far, far away.

"We'll talk. In fact, we'll have a really nice long chat about a few things, but I guess it'll wait until later." I get a hopeful look in on my face before I can hide it. " Ah ah ah! Tomorrow Kyle. We'll have a nice long chat when you're nice and sober and patched up. I'm going to call Clyde and have him get us."

After a brief phone call of Craig demanding that Clyde "Get his fucking ass over to Marshes' fucking shitty dorm to get fucking Broflovski to the hospital." and an awkwardly silent ten minute wait for him to show up. Craig gets the call that he's waiting outside.

The car is another awkward place to be. I don't think Stan noticed me leave with Tucker, and Clyde keeps looking at me funny through his rear-view mirror.

I scowl as I slowly get less and less drunk.

By the time we reach the E.R. my nerves are back and shot all to Hell.

-XXX-

The ER wasn't terribly crowded, despite it being the weekend, however, we had to wait for almost two hours for the nurse to even see me. When the tall blonde woman pulled into the back, Craig and Clyde stayed in the waiting room. Neither looked terribly upset about having to spend their evening at the ER, nor did they look terribly put out.

As I followed the nurse through the giant doors into the back area, I noticed Clyde turn to Tucker from the corner of my eye and say something. Whatever it was, Craig laughed and the sound, which was so foreign to my ears, sent chills down my spine.

I had met Clyde a few times. He was tall in self assured way, with pale brown hair and deep eyes. He was nice enough, but Stan was pretty sure he was a narcissist. Though what that had to do with anything I wasn't quite sure. He had a few classes with Stan, and played on the basketball team with him, but he didn't play football.

The nurse took blood pressure and weighed me, then asked if I had been or currently taking any medication. I told her I was taking a Tylenol and a sleep aid, and that I had been drinking before coming here. She didn't bat an eyelash as she sat me down in a chair with a big curtain pulled around it and told me to wait for a doctor.

When the doctor finally got to my little curtain cubical, he took a look at my arm in much the same fashion that Craig had.

"That's one nasty bruise Mr. Broflowsky." He made my name sound like some bad game of adlib when he said it, but I didn't bother telling him.

"Yeah, I fell pretty hard...is it broken or something?" I asked, cringing at the thought of breaking something.

"If you have to ask, then I don't think so!" He laughed at me, then continued. "Can you bend it properly and rotate your wrist properly?"

I did as instructed, wincing as sharp pains sprang through the joint.

"It's looks like a sprain, so I'll just bandage it and give you some Ibuprofen, but you'll need to make an appointment with your regular doctor tomorrow and have them take another look at it. They'll also be able to prescribe you some pain killers while you wait for it to heal. Worst case scenario is that you might need some physical therapy to keep your arm from healing improperly, but otherwise, Mr. Broflowsky, I think you'll be good to go in about ten minutes."

Once my arm was bandaged, the nurse shoo'd me out into the waiting room, where I heard the tail end of Clyde and Craig's conversation.

"-I've even got pictures! I'll forward them to you. It was priceless, I'd never seen Token so pissed." Clyde laughed, hitting Craig in the shoulder.

Craig turned his smiling face toward me, the nonchalant happiness on his face changing into something a bit darker and more...coy, for the lack of a better word.

My face turned bright red. I could feel it, hot and glowing like a Christmas light.

"And Broflovski returns alive!" Clyde cheers.

"What did they say?" Craig asks, standing up and meeting me in the middle of them room.

"Sprain. Have to go see my doctor tomorrow." I can't believe I was able to get out a whole, understandable sentence for once.

"Then it's not broken? That's good." He sounded bored, but I could see some of the tension drain from his shoulders.

He probably just wanted to get the hell out of this place.

"Lets get the hell out of here." He said on cue.

The car ride isn't as awkward this time. Clyde and Craig are joking about some nonsense I can't really follow.

"Broflovski? What kind of name is that anyways?" Craig asks suddenly, turning around in his seat to stare at me, eyes meeting mine.

I flinch.

"My family is Jewish." I simply reply.

"Hmm, so you're a Jew too, then? No offense but I guess it explains a few things..." He gets this knowing look on his face, and all I want to do it take offense, but I don't want him saying anything about that night in front of Clyde, but with my luck, he already knows about it all.

As if reading my mind he smiles that creepy murderous smile again.

"Don't get that look on you're face. I'm not going to say anything. I didn't tell Clyde either, if that's what you're worried about. It's not something I want to have to explain to this dolt."

"I can hear you, you know. I am in the car. I am driving. I will crash simply to kill you, and you know I will Tucker." Clyde sneers at him before turning back to the road.

"Yeah yeah, whatever, bitch." Craig replies, shoving his middle finger into Clyde's face. The brunette then attempts to bite him. "See, he doesn't give a single fuck about it! If it doesn't involve him, he doesn't care." Tucker chuckles and turns his attention back to me.

"But like I said earlier, we're going to have a nice chat. You may or may not end up in pieces, but I can't promise you anything, Broflovski."

Clyde finally reaches my apartment, which I guess truthfully is more of a condo. Both guys make faces at the place, then demand to be shown around.

I don't feel comfortable letting them in, but I do. Swallowing hard, we enter the place, I turn on the lights and they make some funny noises.

"Shit dude, this place is awesome." Clyde says in awe.

"Yeah, it is pretty cool. Not what I expected for a creep. Where's the telescope and binoculars? Oh, I bet you keep them in your bedroom right?" He laughs at me, brushing his arm against mine as he passes me.

I have no idea how to feel about this. I guess I should just be glad that I'm too scared to get hard.

"Fuck, that's a nice T.V. It's bigger than yours, Clyde." Craig points out, laughing about it as if he's happy he can hold it over is head.

"Fuck, whatever, I don't care." Clyde scoffs, as he continues to investigate the place. He walks into the bathroom and I think I hear him swoon.

"Jesus H. Christ, you live like a fucking king Kyle. If the party had been here I might've shown up for once."

"I'll...I'll keep that in mind..."

"Clyde, get the fuck out of the bathroom, you can go jerk off to yourself later. Go home. I have important business to attend to." Craig says suddenly. He look's pretty happy when he meets my eyes. I feel like cowering in a corner.

"Jesus. Fine. Whatever. Don't call me again. Find you're own fucking ride home." Clyde huffs, not bothering to ask why Craig wants to stay at my place.

"Get out Donovan, before I kick your ass."

-XXX-

When Clyde leaves, the bang of the door shutting behind him sounds distinctly like a coffin closing.

"So Broflovski."

"Y-yeah?" I stammer, my face trying to pale and blush at the same time.

"Are you the perverted fuck who called my show that night?"

"Wha-what night?"

"Don't play games with me. I want you to admit it." He slowly inches closer to me. As if trying to reassure me that isn't going to kill me right away. Just slowly and painfully.

"What does it matter?" I nearly whisper. He's only a few inches away from me. The challenge in his eyes is preventing me from looking anywhere else, and I can see the flecks of sapphire swirling in them.

"It's the only thing that matters right now." The coyness and laughter suddenly drain from his face leaving a serious and expecting expression behind.

"I...I-" I try to get it out, my mouth isn't working though. I'm all tongue and cheek and I screw my eyes shut as my face burns hotter than before. I know that it's obvious.

I can't believe how fast I was found out, but to think he could recognize me by my voice alone confuses me. I mean, I recognized him, but I've also been desperately obsessing over that voice for months. It should be expected that I'd recognize it, right?

"I am." I finally manage it, but its less then a whisper, its more like I breathed it out. I'm standing rigid and forlorn, knowing hes going to stab me to death or something.

In a split second, he grabs my shoulders, pulling me against him and crushing my lips with his own.

Wait.

What?

My brain ceases to function and I hear a moan in the back of his throat. I think he gets frustrated with my dead corpse routine and he's suddenly running his tongue along my mouth. I gasp and I knew that was a bad idea when his tongue glides past my lips.

My body finally kicks into overdrive and I'm suddenly holding onto him for dear life. My knees go weak and in a very unmanly fashion I collapse into his chest, he holds me firmly, refusing to let me slip to the floor, and he kisses me with such skill that my eyes roll back into my head.

He deepens it. His tongue exploring my teeth and cheeks, moaning again in appreciation when my own joins in the kiss. I have no idea what I'm doing. I never kissed anyone with tongue. I never had to fight someone in my own mouth. He was kissing me like he wanted to own me, and I couldn't process it.

Craig fucking Tucker can kiss like the world is ending.

Craig fucking Tucker was kissing me, and I had no idea why.

-XXX-

Of course, R&R guys! I love getting you're reviews and I hope that you continue to enjoy this story!

Chomsky: You bring up a really great point. In the show, Craig has a nasally voice. It's going to be a big issue later on , and is actually going to be explained in a later chapter. I wont say much, but it has do with why Craig knows so many of the same people Kyle does.

Hubajoob: I've decided I kind of like everyone/Craig. But when I first got into the fandom, I was more of a Stan/Craig girl. Once I started reading a lot of fanfics with Stan/Kyle, I knew I wanted to read something different. I love the two together, but it's pretty over done. Kyle has a quirky personality so I thought it might be nice to try this out.

simply anonymous: I hope you like this chapter! I'm really happy I can leave you guys wanting for more. Such a wonderful feeling!

Chapter 4 Preview:

In his sleep he tried to get closer to me. Curling his body into my side. I don't think I've ever felt this comfortable this close to someone before. Sure, I've fucked a few people, but the intimacy was never there, not like this. I just cannot understand why I feel like this for a pervert I've only just met.

Damn it's going to be a long night.