Author: Fletset PM
In Cartman's dreams, Kyle is his toy. In reality, Stan will do everything in his power to prevent that from happening. A Dark Slash.Rated: Fiction M - English - Drama/Angst - Eric Cartman & Stan M. - Chapters: 10 - Words: 38,255 - Reviews: 128 - Favs: 60 - Follows: 20 - Updated: 07-12-08 - Published: 03-17-08 - Status: Complete - id: 4137108
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: South Park is not mine, I'm writing this story just for fun and am not making any profit out of it.
Author's Note I: There it is. A way too ambitious project… I don't know why I'm starting yet another chaptered fic…
Hopefully, it will be updated. As for the wait between chapters… I can't promise anything.
Author's Note II: This is supposed to be a rather dark story, though we'll see how it'll turn out. I'm not a fan of Cartman/Kyle, but if at all, then this is how I think it will go. Come on, Tonsil Trouble called for a CK fic…
Author's Note III: Sorry for spelling and grammar mistakes, and for incorrect usage of words and phrases. English is not my native tongue.
Chapter One: You're it!
The snow fell, whirling in the bone-freezing wind and falling softly yet not so gracefully on the men, women and children walking down the snow-filled path, accompanied by soldiers and a few trucks. Each soldier held a gun close to his chest, and they were yelling, sometimes hitting those who fell – especially the elders – for not being able to keep up with the pace.
After about an hour of marching nonstop, he, the commander, stopped, looked around, and a wicked smile spread across his lips. He kicked the soil, nodded to himself, and signaled them all to stop walking. "Get the shovels!" he yelled, and about thirty soldiers hurried to the trucks and took out the wanted tools, giving them to a few of the men - and sometimes women - in the group.
There were about six hundred people there, watching silently as the men and women dug a large pit in the numbing cold, every few minutes commanded to do so faster.
"That's enough!" he yelled as soon as he was pleased with the depth and width of the pit. The diggers climbed out, panting and exhausted. "Get undressed! Schnell!" he yelled, kicking random people as he walked among the unofficial prisoners. Someone was translating his orders.
A short moment later the oppressed found themselves standing at the edge of the pit, naked, freezing, and scared. Young women held their crying children's hands, fighting their own tears, and the men stood next to them, either silent or mumbling prayers while the soldiers got drunk, readying themselves for the murderous act they were about to do.
A soldier was walking with him as he surveyed the line of people, a smirk on his face. Somewhere around the middle of the line, stood a young man with red, curly hair, glaring at the killers. "How dare you look at us like that!" the soldier that accompanied him roared and aimed his gun at the crude man. The man did not answer. "I'm going to kill you!" the soldier yelled, and was about to do so, when he, his commander, put a calming hand on his uniformed shoulder. The soldier looked at him with wonder. He pushed him aside and watched the redhead man with interest. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Kyle," the man replied. "And I hate you, you dirty bastards!" he spoke with fluent German, causing the soldier to get angry again.
The soldier spat at him and readied his gun once again. "How dare a Polish Jew like yourself use the language of the supreme race!" he yelled into the redhead's face.
"Come on, kill me! Better get it over with as soon as possible!" Kyle yelled back, not making a move to wipe off the spit from his face.
He, the commander, chuckled. "You're interesting," he said, gently pushing the soldier aside. "Where did you learn German?"
Kyle was still glaring. "I was interested, God knows why…"
He thought for a moment, and the wicked smile returned to his lips. "Step out of the line and get dressed." Kyle did not budge. He, the commander, glared and in a quick movement seized Kyle's, who did not make a sound of protest, shoulders. "I'm giving you a chance to live a bit longer, you Jewish dog. Take it or die." He said and continued his surveying.
When he got to the end of the line he turned around and looked at the two hundred or so standing people, huddled together to keep warm. They will have to do it three more times to get it over with. Such a bother…
He walked back to his soldiers and wasted no time in giving them the order to shoot. It was over in seconds, and about twenty minutes later, the group of about six hundred Jews was eliminated.
He, the commander, walked away, chuckling to himself. He halted suddenly and looked to the side, his smirk widening. "I see you chose the temporary life," he said to the redhead man, dressed in whatever clothes he picked from the ground. Kyle's eyes were wide and his mouth gaped. He didn't seem to acknowledge the fact he was spoken to.
"Come with me," he said and kept on walking, the wind around them carrying the last screams of life, which were emitted as bullets pierced skin, causing all those men and women to fall to their doom.
Eric Cartman woke up with a throbbing erection. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, cursing the sun as its rays penetrated through the closed blinds on his window and illuminated his room in a dim light. He yawned lazily and scratched his crotch, grunting as it demanded for more of his attention. He sat up on his bed and yawned again, blinking a few times in order to focus his blurred vision. He rose slowly from his bed and stretched, scratching his nape as he did so. He wobbled to the bathroom, his erection annoyingly preventing him from walking as he should. He stepped into the bath and pulled down his pajama pants, still not fully awake. Lazily, he started rubbing up and down, up and down, panting and slowly coming to his senses as the organ twitched in his hand, grunting loudly as it sprayed a white substance on the ceramic.
Cartman smiled, pleased, turned on the faucet and washed the mess he'd made. For the past few months, it became a sort of a ritual for him; he'd wake up from yet another Holocaust-Kyle dream with a tent in his pants, go to the bathroom and do whatever his body demanded of him, and then his day would continue as usual.
Oh, how he loved having those dreams… sometimes it was in a concentration camp, sometimes in a gas chamber, sometimes in a crematorium… Kyle would always look at him angrily, and he himself would always be dressed in his Nazi uniform, smiling wickedly at his victim and offering him chances to live.
"Good morning, poopsikens," his mother greeted him as he walked into the kitchen, a goofy smile adorning his face.
"Morning, mom," he greeted back as he plopped down on one of the chairs, his eyes narrowing at the bowl that was set in front of him. "Ma!" he yelled, hitting the table surface with a punch. "How many times do I have to tell you! I don't like Cheerios!"
Liane Cartman put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry sweetie! I'll go and get you something else…" She took the bowl and spilled its contents in the trash, rummaging through the cupboards afterwards and pulling out a different box of cereal.
Cartman crossed his arms over his chest and huffed, glancing momentarily at the clock on the wall, his eyes widening considerably as he did so. "Ma!" he yelled again. "The bus will be at the station in five minutes! Now I don't have enough time to eat!" He sat up violently, causing the chair to fall backwards with a loud noise.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Eric!" She glanced around worriedly until her eyes landed on a bag of Nachos. "Here," she said as she gave it to him. "Why don't you eat this on the way? I promise I'll make you something delicious when you get back!"
Cartman eyed the bag suspiciously, grabbed it, hoisted his schoolbag up his shoulder and stormed out of the house, not bothering to wave or say a few words of goodbye to his mother.
He ran towards the bus-station, his breath catching up in his throat as soon as he passed about ten feet in his run. He made it just at the nick of time, nearly jumping on the bus stairs. The driver eyed him wearily and closed the door, resuming the drive towards the regional high school.
Cartman stood at the end of the isle, eyeing the benches and searching them for a vacant seat. His stomach knotted as he noticed Kyle Broflovski seated comfortably next to Stan Marsh, laughing at something he said and punching him lightly on the shoulder. The receiving side blushed lightly and turned his head away. Sometimes Cartman wondered if the Jewish dog even noticed those blushes of his best friend.
"H-heya, Eric!" Cartman looked down and frowned as he noticed Butters patting the seat next to his. "You can sit here with me!" he said.
Cartman glanced up again, searching for a better spot. He was hoping to sit next to Kenny, but the poor blond already seated himself next to that slut Bebe, flirting endlessly with her. Sometimes Cartman wondered if he acknowledged her annoyed looks…
He sighed heavily and plopped down next to Butters, setting his schoolbag on his knees and hugging it tightly. "So how're you doin', Eric?" Butters asked, cheeks blushing slightly with embarrassment.
Cartman grunted. "Fine," he replied simply, shifting in his seat, intending on using the next turn in order to squash Butters with all of his weight. He smiled wickedly at the thought.
"I ate some scrambled eggs for last night's dinner," Butters started, causing the fat boy next to him to roll his eyes with annoyance. "And my dad said…" he tuned out the rest of Butters' boring monologue, focusing his thoughts on his object of desire instead.
Kyle Broflovski. That curly, red haired, freckled Jew rat, with his awkward smile and foolish morals. There was no way to describe his yearning for that boy, that burning feeling that caused his eyes to narrow at the sight of him and his dreams to be filled with images of him, clad with striped, dirty uniform, a yellow Star of David on his chest and his eyes glaring and unrelenting. Cartman could feel his cock twitching at the mere mental image and grunted again.
Cartman was the first to leave the bus upon its arrival to the school building. He wrinkled his nose and sneezed as the temperature changed. Behind him, his Jewish classmate sneezed, as well. "Are you cold?" that bitch Stan asked his best friend, causing Cartman to frown. He could just see him, too, caressing his back gently in his worries for the redhead's well-being. And that stupid Jew would probably gladly accept the gesture.
"A bit, yeah," Kyle replied and sniffled. "Ah, Kenny! Kenny, I have something to ask you!" he said as he probably noticed the other boy.
"It was nice talking to ya, Eric," Butters said as he passed him by. "I'll see you in class!" He walked on ahead, and Cartman was left to himself again. He relished at the notion. He began walking towards the school building, ignoring the numerous conversations around him as he held his head high, stuffing Nachos into his mouth.
"Morning, fatass," the pat on his shoulder came to him as a surprise and he halted, staring wide-eyed at one nonchalant Jewish young man, walking happily with that piece of shit Kenny by his side, chatting with him about whatever it is that those two fags chatted about. Cartman touched his shoulder, wrapping his chubby fingers around it as much as he could and narrowed his eyes. He could feel it burning with heat beneath his touch and his breathing quickened. He glanced down and cursed, wondering where he could disappear to in order to hide his current embarrassment. As he glanced around worriedly, his brown eyes fell on the blue ones of Stan Marsh, the biggest pussy of all. Stan stared at him suspiciously, as he always had for the past few weeks, lips pursed and one eyebrow quirked as he engrossed himself in deep thought. Cartman was getting sick of it. "What are you staring at, you asshole?" he asked and held the bag of Nachos in front of his pelvis, trying to make it look like he was not trying to hide anything.
"Nothing," Stan replied, but did not remove his gaze. Cartman was about to threaten him, but at that moment Stan shook his head and ran to catch up with their other two friends.
Eric Cartman used to loathe P.E. For the past few months, though, he found he rather enjoyed it. The teachers never made anyone run; as long as they walked, at least, it didn't matter. So Cartman walked slowly around the court, snickering at his panting classmates as they ran their laps, sometimes commenting on their poor (as he viewed it) skills. Among them was Kyle.
His tall figure glistened with sweat as he ran, his face was crimson with effort and his wet clothes stuck to his body and showed off his muscles. Cartman immensely enjoyed the sight as he followed him with his brown eyes. Though, he had to admit, he could do something in order to make it better…
He kept on walking slowly, and as Kyle ran past him for the third time he quickly stretched his left leg forward and watched with amusement as Kyle tripped on it and fell. He snickered, watching proudly at the sprawled, heavily-breathing, Jew rat.
"Kyle!" of course, that stupid Stan had to see it and run towards them quickly, faster than he ever ran during those long ass P.E periods. "Kyle, dude, are you okay?" he asked, bending over and stretching out his hand.
Kyle looked up, blinked, and then smiled. "Thanks," he said, lifting up one dirty hand to take a hold of Stan's. Cartman growled.
"How did you fall?" Stan asked, helping Kyle dust off the white shirt that clung so wonderfully to his body. Cartman would have loved to help him, as well; to touch his shirt and pinch his skin, to watch him squirm at the pain.
"I tripped," Kyle spat, turning his head to glare at Cartman.
Cartman merely smiled in return. "What?" he asked. "It's not my fault you Jews have no sense of coordination."
"Stupid asshole," Kyle muttered. "Did it hurt so much to see all the thin people run as they should, so you had to fail me?"
Oh, quite the contrary, Kyle my dear… "You're horribly mistaken if you think that I care about any of that," Cartman replied and turned around, resuming his slow walk around the court, whistling as he went.
"Come one, Kyle. Let's leave the stupid fatass alone," he heard Stan say, yet he could still feel those ice blue eyes of his burning a hole into his back. He frowned. One day he'll surely kill that good for nothing son of a bitch…
He liked History better than P.E. Cartman knew better than to daydream during class as he sat in his seat, the book closed in front of him. He wasn't worried about missing any important material, rather he knew that once he'd start daydreaming, his body would respond. That he preferred to avoid.
But, as luck would have it, the subject of that day was the Nazis' concentration camps. Their teacher droned on and on, in tiring elaboration, about the methods of killings and methods of hiding. Cartman saw all the pictures on the internet, saw nearly every documentary on the planet; the teacher had nothing new to tell him. If at all, he would rather she'd add an insight, perhaps say what an ingenious plan this was, executed almost to perfection. Ah, yes, all the little Jews squirming and screaming as the gas choked them to death, turning blue…
He shuddered as the thought of Kyle's blue face crept into his mind, smiling as a warm feeling washed over him as blood rushed to his nether regions.
He glanced around slowly, convincing himself that nobody looks his way, that all of them are too engrossed in the class… yet that faggot Stan, who just had to be seated next to him, looked his way, his eyes wide as saucers, as if all the pieces of the puzzle he made for himself finally fell into place. "Something's wrong, bitch?" Cartman hissed.
"You…" Stan mouthed, unbelieving. Cartman narrowed his eyes at him and turned his head away. He was forced to look back, however, once the sound of metal colliding with floor reached his ears.
"Mr. Marsh!" The teacher screeched, closing her book in annoyance. "Is something the matter?"
Stan, woken violently out of his reverie, shook his had fiercely. "N…no ma'am," he stuttered. A few students giggled. In the corner of his eye, Cartman saw Kyle look up at his friend worriedly.
"Then sit down," she said. "Now, who can tell me what is the difference between a death camp and a concentration camp?"
Cartman would have raised his hand, said that in a concentration camp those dogs died gloriously of hunger, but then figured everyone would look his way, and opted against the idea.
His body demanded for attention, his fingertips tingled and he shuddered involuntarily every few seconds. Luckily for him, the class ended soon after Stan's outburst.
Quite conveniently, that classroom was the closest one to the bathroom. Cartman was the first to leave the classroom as it ended and hurried into a stall, pulled down his pants and grunted with pleasure as he answered the calls of his body, morbid images filling his mind. As he stepped out, smiling to himself, he noticed Stan leaning against the sinks, glaring, as if he's been waiting there ever since Cartman entered the stall.
"You sick fucker," Stan hissed.
"If you want something, you can ask nicely," Cartman replied.
Stan blew angrily and seized Cartman by the collar of his shirt, yet was unable to lift him due to his weight. He glared at the fat boy. "You'll never have him," he said, spraying his saliva all over Cartman's face.
Cartman gripped the hand that held him violently and took it off, glaring back. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
Stan pursed his lips in anger. "Don't give me that shit, fatass. I've seen how you look at him."
That caused a smile to creep to Cartman's lips. "I take it that you're watching him, as well, then?" he asked.
Stan's angry blush turned into an embarrassed one. "Give me a break," he said.
Cartman snickered. "Come on, Stan. I've known for the past year. No need to deny." He might as well stop denying, too. "Though," he continued, "that only means he'll eventually be mine."
That caused the anger to return to Stan's face. He was about to grab Cartman again, but decided against it. "Kyle will never be yours," he said. "He hates your guts!"
"As I, supposedly, hate his?" Cartman asked, looking up at Stan innocently. Stan huffed. "I can assure you I'll get to him before you do," he added. "I get everything that I want."
Stan looked like a mad bull as his brows furrowed and his lips pursed tightly. "You've gone mad, if you actually believe that," he said. "You're on."
To Be Continued…
Author's Note IV: The dream was supposed to be a part from a fic, where I tried to throw all of them into Nazi Germany. But, seeing as it's way too complicated, I decided to use it here. Hope you enjoyed your reading, and please, leave a review!