A story to go with Midgette on deviantart's picture, called 'Fever Pitch'.

It was at noon, exactly noon, on a Sunday, when Stanley Marsh realized something. He had never been prompt.

It wasn't like he had never been late, oh no, or too early, either. But, the fact is, he had never, once, (that he could remember in his 22 year old mind, at least.) been right on time for something momentous. He was nearly always too late, and sometimes too early. And, for a minute and fifty seconds, the only thing that really mattered was trying to remember when, exactly, he had last come in at the exact right moment for something. Kyle stared at him from across the table, pondering to himself if his boyfriend was going to finish his sandwich or not, as well as, if the sandwich in question was going to remain uneaten by the boyfriend in question, then, if, perhaps, he could have it. He had just begun to crave tuna salad as Stan had periodically begun searching his mind.

"Stan." He muttered. He didn't receive a response. His lover had heard him, but, in all honesty, preferred to stay in his own little world for the moment. Of course, Kyle, being Kyle, began to mull over what was just so damn occupying that he had to ignore his own lover.

And then, it hit him: Stan was trying to guess what his, Kyle's, sexual fantasy was! He must have remembered that their anniversary was just around the corner, and was planning for a romantic night! It made sense, of course, everything in Kyle's mind made sense for the time being. He thought some more. Stan blinked, quieting for a moment before smirking across the table at the glazed stare he was receiving.

"Kyle?" He muttered, through another bite of his sandwich.

Kyle muttered an answering noise, too bothered to speak in English as he sipped his coffee, though he did take to cursing in Hebrew when said coffee spilled and covered him, - and half the table, - in steaming beverage. It took two waitresses, five, almost six, towels, and a quick stroll down Main Street before the mess was officially cleaned up, and Kyle and Stan were back in their shared apartment, and what Kyle had been pondering earlier re-dawned on him.

He nudged Stan playfully as he cooked, a smirk crossing his handsome features as he growled out, "Are you planning anything special for Friday?"

Stan stopped his sautéing for a moment to think. When he remembered the exact event Kyle was referring to, the smirk became infectious, and he said simply, "Maybe." And added a few spices to the dish.

Kyle giggled a moment before pulling over a dining chair and tossing himself onto it, glancing lazily (And partially lustily) at Stan. After a moment's silence, he said, "You know, Stan,"

"Mmm." Stan responded, not letting his eyes wander from the hot stove.

"We've been together for almost three years,"


"But, I don't know much about some…important aspects of your life."

Stan blinked in confusion, and shrugged. "Like what?"

"Like…" Kyle swayed his body, silently hoping he'd catch Stan's attention. "Like, your fantasies, for example."

Now Stan was really confused. "Sexual…Fantasies?" Now, they had been dating for as long as Kyle had said, and, as such, had already fucked, had sex, and even made love once. (Only thanks to Stan and his four hundred dollar wine and candlelit beach.) But, they were men, and, as men, they had a difficult time talking to each other about delicate things. Like fucking, having sex, or making love.

"…Yeah…" Kyle's eyes narrowed as he waited for the juiciest secret he would ever be told with anticipation and held breaths.

It took Stan nearly five minutes, but he finally put their dinner into a serving dish, turned off the stove, and muttered, "Never really thought about it." As he set it down on the table. "Let's eat."

Kyle dragged his chair to the dining table and crossed his arms. "What do you mean? You were a teenage boy. Didn't you ever jack off?"

"…'Course I did."

Kyle grinned. "Well, what didja think about while you were doing it?"

"Nothing. I just closed my eyes, and, when I was done, pulled my pants up and went on with my life." He sipped his iced tea loudly, almost thoughtfully. Kyle groaned, to which Stan responded, "Well, what're some of yours, then?"

Stan chuckled as Kyle blushed and looked away. "See, you don't have any either." Kyle's eyes rolled. "'Course I do." He growled, trying to edge some playfulness into his tone.

Stan laughed. "Like what?"

"Well, ever since we first had sex…" Stan nodded. "I've always thought it would be really kinky if…" He sighed. "If you took it up the ass."

Stan chewed rather thoughtfully for a moment. "Mkay."

Kyle gaped. "What?"

"I said I'll do it. Let's finish dinner, then we can clean up and go to the bedroom and fulfill that fantasy." For the first time in a while, Stan got the predatory smirk that only the dominant males get. The one that he knew could turn Kyle on like a light switch. It did its job well, because, just as Stan stood to put his dishes away, he was grabbed, dragged, and literally thrown onto the bed. Clothes couldn't get thrown off quick enough, and Stan would find out later that his favorite shirt now had a tear a foot long in it because of Kyle's need. Finding speed in the fact that this moment was well rehearsed, Kyle had lubrication and was ready to enter his love fore the first time in just under a minute. The redhead let his arms wrap gently around Stan's waist, holding him close and nuzzling him, murmuring thank you's as he guided himself up, and slowly, into, Stan.

And, for the first time in his life, Stan's next course of action was neither early, nor late. No, for the first time in his life, Stanley Marsh did what he had to do right on time.

He screamed.