Author's Note: Damn. I was pretty sure I was stuck in the muck of a writer's block. Although it turns out that I eventually decided that I might as well write a oneshot for K/C because... well... nobody has been writing any new fics lately. I'm disappointed in you guys.
Anyway, I'm hoping to write more K/C stories, with hope I get enough inspiration. Here's a oneshot that I just came up with and thought I might as well submit. I'm submitting it as M, even though the content isn't as lemon-y as it could be... or as I could make it be. God, I suck at rating fanfics.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Cartman, Kyle, or Stan. They belong to Matt Stone, Trey Parker, Comedy Central, and Viacom. Those commies. -shot-
That fucking Jew. The stupid little Jew who smiles up at me in the picture that I hold in my hands. Hell, I got a million of 'em. Several pictures of his stupid, little smile of innocence that brightened the face that I normally could only view in person as bitter and angry.
I hate his hat. It's an ugly color green and has ears like a rabbit, so he looks like a little freaking fag. He always wears it all the time, to cover up those fiery red curls that make his Jewfro. That blinding green colored hat that clashes painfully with his orange jacket and green pants. As a bonus, his emerald eyes matched his ridiculously vibrant wardrobe.
Sure, my outfit arrangement of red and yellow, topped off a cyan colored hat may make you assume I'm a hypocrite. But I'm not. Clearly everything looks much more horrid on him.
Why? Because I hate looking at him. I hate it! Every time I see him, I grit my teeth, holding back the fury inside of me. And something else.
So why am I looking at his picture, as I sit here in my room on my bed, as I do for my daily routine? There is a reason to this, that I myself don't even fucking understand. It gives me a feeling in my stomach, that makes me want to do all kinds of things that I'd rather not. I can't, more of. I'm supposed to be the hateful fatass that nobody likes, and even if I tried, like anyone would believe me anyway. Hell, I wouldn't even believe me. I digress.
The fact of the matter is, as much as I despise the little repugnant piece of shit more than anything else in the whole, wide world… I'm completely obsessed with him.
He hates me and I hate him, but little does he know what his hatred does to me. It fills me up. It makes me feel amazing! It's a spectacular feeling of pride and attraction. I want to see him spit all the anger he can produce on me, just so I can feel so complete.
The names he calls me I always try to dodge, but they still sting. Doesn't mean I can't avoid my little obsession, of course. I still trace along his outline with my finger everyday. Sometimes I even try to imagine it being… you know, real.
I want him to be mine forever. All mine! No one else can have him. His red curls are mine to feel around my fingers and watch dangle across his face that reddens with true fury. The thought of this makes my lips curl, and my thoughts are starting to get more dirty.
I can't help myself but make him angry enough to yell my name at me, so I can replay it back in my head and imagine him screaming it while completely naked. Just imagine the fun of him squirming and trying to fight against it, his lip biting and teeth gritting, while his face would be beet red. Even more satisfying, the thought of him slipping and giving in to the pleasure and hating himself afterwards, makes the fantasy all the better. Pleasuring myself wouldn't be enough; it would be my mission to make sure he enjoyed it too, whether he wanted to or not.
The thought of him clawing at the floor on his hands and knees, refusing to let me win in this little game of mine, as I'd make sure every touch would make him whimper and every thrust would make him moan. It always made me excited, and made me urged to feel this exhilarating feel myself.
Yet I can't. To my misfortune, lust isn't the only thing that's keeping my eyes locked on this photograph. Besides sexual urges, I've also had these ridiculous wants to kiss him. To want his company and be around him for as long as I can. Half of me wants to fuck him, and the other half wants to sleep with him. God I hate this Jew for making me feel these lame as hell emotions.
Jesus Christ, I hate this mental battle! I want to break his neck, but at the same time kiss it. I want to humiliate him and yet I wanna hold him tightly to myself and never let go, as if he was a childish plaything.
My chest burns when I see him. I feel always so hot and sweaty and I just want him to go away so I can stop feeling so freaking weird! Then I end up missing him again. What the fuck is my problem?
I shove the photo in my pocket and let out a loud sigh, despite how nobody but me is currently in the room. My mind starts to play in my head the words that Kyle would say.
"What the hell's got you so down, fatass? Kentucky Fried Chicken close down?"
He'd laugh, but it wouldn't just be him, oh no. I forgot about that other hippie, Stan. He'd be laughing along with him too. He always is, since they are in fact 'Super Best Friends'. They always hang out together and all that bullshit. It's fucking disgusting.
I sometimes spy on them when we're in the locker rooms for Gym class. (Which I fucking hate, might I add.) I see them talking and try to listen in on them, but when I look at Kyle's half naked form, the arousal returns and I find myself scrapping my nails against the metal of the lockers, to avoid shoving Kyle against the wall and… well, sucking on something that isn't a lollipop.
When he sits in front of me in class, I try so hard not to touch him in the way I want to. Instead, I just yank on his hat or a loose piece of hair, which pisses him off. Which is of course a reaction that is just as satisfying nonetheless.
Whatever. I'm thinking too hard on this shit, and I really need to get over it. It's not my fault, it's fucking Kyle Broflovski's fault. Why do I have to be obsessed over a freaking kyke?