Kyle doesn’t look up from what he’s focused on, hand steady as he gets to the end of the equation he’s solving. Stan gets like this sometimes; he’s very easily distracted, and it’s up to Kyle to keep them both in line when they get together to do homework. They take turns at each other’s houses, and today they’re at Tegridy Farms, squished together on the same side of the kitchen table. Stan claims he hates it here, prefers the two of them huddled together on Kyle’s bed back in South Park. Kyle tends to agree - the heady scent of weed was never his favorite, and it’s near impossible to avoid when in the middle of a literal weed farm - but he can’t protest the fact that there are fewer distractions, here. Stan’s mother and sister are both at work, and Randy doesn’t normally linger, too busy with the farm to be much of an inconvenience (thank god). No doubt if they were at the Broflovski residence, Ike would have pestered them until they gave in to play Smash Bros with him, and Sheila would have ticked them off with her incessant hovering. The quiet of the countryside is gratifying in moments such as these.
Kyle also secretly hopes that the more time he spends with Stan at the farm, the less they’ll both hate it. It’s not really working just yet.
“Jesus, gross. Augh.”
Kyle sighs, his concentration finally waning. Stan is looking at something on the kitchen counter, and he knows he won’t hear the end of it until he caves in and plays along. “What is it?”
“Shelly left her Halloween costume out. Check it out.” The chair scrapes along the floor as Stan pushes back and heads over to the counter. Kyle follows him with his gaze, notes that Stan had picked up some kind of headband. “So what?”
“Dude! She wore this to a party! She was like, a sexy cat or something?” Stan gags again, exaggerated, and pretends to shiver. “Why would she leave it laying around like that?” He holds the headband out between his thumb and forefinger, allowing it to dangle between them. It looks like a plain black headband, two black felt ears sewn on with expert Chinese quality. Kyle glances between Stan and the offending headband. “It’s just a headband, dude. It’s not, like, her used condoms or something.”
“Why would you even say that!” Stan would never forgive Kyle if he’d classified that as a shriek, but that is most certainly what it sounds like. He can’t help it - he doubles over in laughter, the incredulous look on Stan’s face succeeding in pulling his thoughts fully away from their calculus homework. The headband is launched at his head, followed closely by Stan, one arm scrabbling to grab it from where it had fallen to the floor while the other tries to catch Kyle’s neck in a headlock. “As punishment for making me think of that, you’re putting on the sexband.”
“Don’t call it a sexband!” Kyle nearly topples out of his chair, grabs at Stan’s arm as he’s pulled away from the table. They tussle together, Stan struggling to hold Kyle down long enough to force the band into his curls and Kyle writhing in his grip. It’s a good thing nobody’s home; they’re laughing loudly, calculus forgotten and some worksheets even slipping off the table and fluttering to the floor. He’ll have to explain those footprints to his teacher tomorrow. Sharon would have certainly reprimanded them for roughhousing indoors.
It’s a close match, but Stan has a few inches on Kyle and his experience as a football player has prepared him for physical confrontations. He uses one leg to tuck both of Kyle’s behind his own, his head stuffed in the crook of his elbow, and tries to slip the band onto his head. “Dude!” Kyle feels winded. It’s got very little to do with how hard he’s laughing and a lot to do with how heady he feels from inhaling Stan’s scent, held against his torso.
It’s been two years since Kyle realized he might like Stan as more than just a friend. At first he’d cursed himself for falling for his childhood best friend (“Such a boring trope,” he’d complained to Kenny once, pouring his heart out over one of their after school cigarette breaks, “could’ve used a bit more spice.”) He disagrees with his past self, now; There is nothing boring about the way his heart throbs when Stan grins at him, and he feels far from bland whenever their gazes collide.
He’s drawn back to reality by the feeling of the band scratching at his scalp, settled in place. Stan has accomplished his goal, and he finally releases Kyle, stepping back to view his handiwork. They’re both panting.
“You’ve fucked up my hair,” Kyle says, just to break the silence. Stan’s eyes find his. The bastard is smirking.
“Get over it, pussy,” he retorts. Kyle reaches for him again, and Stan darts out of reach, laughing. He chases him around the kitchen table, the headband still tight around his ears, and falls for it when Stan feigns right before fleeing left. Stan may be stronger, but Kyle is quick, and being shorter than most of his teammates on the basketball team means he has to work hard to make up for what he lacks in height. He follows him into the living room and throws himself at Stan, tackling him to the carpeted floor. Stan goes down with a grunt.
“Easy, Kitty!” He laughs, twisting so Kyle is straddling his side instead of his back. Kyle snarls down at him, tries to grab his hands. Something hot and kind of painful is twisting deep inside of him, warmth spreading from the tips of his ears and down to his neck. He can’t pinpoint it, which pisses him off. “Don’t call me that!”
“Aww, why?” Stan is a little shit, Kyle decides, and they’re no longer friends, at least not for the duration of this tussle. With one push, Stan has reversed their positions. He catches one of Kyle’s wrists in each of his large hands and presses them to the floor above his head. When he tries to kick him, Stan sits down fully, pinning him to the floor with weight. Now immobilized, Kyle feels a twinge of fear. Not at Stan, god, no. At something else - he doesn’t know what, yet. Something to do with the heat building in his groin, with the odd look in Stan’s eyes.
“You look kinda cute like that,” he says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world and not the very words that punch the breath out of Kyle’s lungs. “You can’t even see the band in your Jewfro. You just look like you have cat ears.”
“Don’t call me cute.” This feels like an underreaction. Kyle looks up at him, trapped. His brain is working at a snails' pace, trying to make sense of this all. If Stan is picking up on the mood, he doesn’t let on. He’s still grinning. “You don’t usually let me call it a Jewfro,” he notes. Kyle hates him so much right now. “You’re much tamer on your back, aren’t you, Kitty?”
Kyle’s hips cant upward, on their own accord. Stan’s eyes are wide, and for once his expression is unreadable.
Oh. So that’s what that feeling was.
“Dude,” Kyle croaks. The rest of the sentence dies in his throat. Stan is leaning down, and Kyle wants to count his lashes but doesn’t get the chance because Stan’s lips are on his and it’s too much to bear. He gasps into Stan’s mouth, opens up to his tongue eagerly. His hands are still pinned above his head.
Stan sets the pace. He sucks on Kyle’s tongue, pulls back to catch his bottom lip with his teeth. Kyle whines deep in his throat, tries to push back against Stan’s grip and is rewarded with a quick squeeze to his wrists in return. Stan pulls back to grin lazily down at him. “Good Kitty,” He coos, and Kyle gasps, arousal stabbing him like a knife through his gut. “You like it when I call you that?” Stan moves both of Kyle’s wrists to one grip, freeing his other hand to trail down lower. Kyle trembles, the anticipation eating away at him before he feels the soft brush of Stan’s fingers above the fabric of his shorts. “I saw it on you, before.” He teases the bulge there, pressing around it. “You put up a tough front, all hissy, but you’re just a soft little thing deep inside, aren’t you?”
“O-Oh,” Kyle gasps. He doesn’t add anything, doesn’t trust his inner thoughts not to betray him. Stan’s hand is large and impossibly warm, and it stills, still wrapped around his clothed cock, which has grown embarrassingly hard. Stan leans over him, noses behind his ear.
Re: Stan/Kyle, petplay (1/2)
Kyle doesn’t look up from what he’s focused on, hand steady as he gets to the end of the equation he’s solving. Stan gets like this sometimes; he’s very easily distracted, and it’s up to Kyle to keep them both in line when they get together to do homework. They take turns at each other’s houses, and today they’re at Tegridy Farms, squished together on the same side of the kitchen table. Stan claims he hates it here, prefers the two of them huddled together on Kyle’s bed back in South Park. Kyle tends to agree - the heady scent of weed was never his favorite, and it’s near impossible to avoid when in the middle of a literal weed farm - but he can’t protest the fact that there are fewer distractions, here. Stan’s mother and sister are both at work, and Randy doesn’t normally linger, too busy with the farm to be much of an inconvenience (thank god). No doubt if they were at the Broflovski residence, Ike would have pestered them until they gave in to play Smash Bros with him, and Sheila would have ticked them off with her incessant hovering. The quiet of the countryside is gratifying in moments such as these.
Kyle also secretly hopes that the more time he spends with Stan at the farm, the less they’ll both hate it. It’s not really working just yet.
“Jesus, gross. Augh.”
Kyle sighs, his concentration finally waning. Stan is looking at something on the kitchen counter, and he knows he won’t hear the end of it until he caves in and plays along. “What is it?”
“Shelly left her Halloween costume out. Check it out.” The chair scrapes along the floor as Stan pushes back and heads over to the counter. Kyle follows him with his gaze, notes that Stan had picked up some kind of headband. “So what?”
“Dude! She wore this to a party! She was like, a sexy cat or something?” Stan gags again, exaggerated, and pretends to shiver. “Why would she leave it laying around like that?” He holds the headband out between his thumb and forefinger, allowing it to dangle between them. It looks like a plain black headband, two black felt ears sewn on with expert Chinese quality. Kyle glances between Stan and the offending headband. “It’s just a headband, dude. It’s not, like, her used condoms or something.”
“Why would you even say that!” Stan would never forgive Kyle if he’d classified that as a shriek, but that is most certainly what it sounds like. He can’t help it - he doubles over in laughter, the incredulous look on Stan’s face succeeding in pulling his thoughts fully away from their calculus homework. The headband is launched at his head, followed closely by Stan, one arm scrabbling to grab it from where it had fallen to the floor while the other tries to catch Kyle’s neck in a headlock. “As punishment for making me think of that, you’re putting on the sexband.”
“Don’t call it a sexband!” Kyle nearly topples out of his chair, grabs at Stan’s arm as he’s pulled away from the table. They tussle together, Stan struggling to hold Kyle down long enough to force the band into his curls and Kyle writhing in his grip. It’s a good thing nobody’s home; they’re laughing loudly, calculus forgotten and some worksheets even slipping off the table and fluttering to the floor. He’ll have to explain those footprints to his teacher tomorrow. Sharon would have certainly reprimanded them for roughhousing indoors.
It’s a close match, but Stan has a few inches on Kyle and his experience as a football player has prepared him for physical confrontations. He uses one leg to tuck both of Kyle’s behind his own, his head stuffed in the crook of his elbow, and tries to slip the band onto his head. “Dude!” Kyle feels winded. It’s got very little to do with how hard he’s laughing and a lot to do with how heady he feels from inhaling Stan’s scent, held against his torso.
It’s been two years since Kyle realized he might like Stan as more than just a friend. At first he’d cursed himself for falling for his childhood best friend (“Such a boring trope,” he’d complained to Kenny once, pouring his heart out over one of their after school cigarette breaks, “could’ve used a bit more spice.”) He disagrees with his past self, now; There is nothing boring about the way his heart throbs when Stan grins at him, and he feels far from bland whenever their gazes collide.
He’s drawn back to reality by the feeling of the band scratching at his scalp, settled in place. Stan has accomplished his goal, and he finally releases Kyle, stepping back to view his handiwork. They’re both panting.
“You’ve fucked up my hair,” Kyle says, just to break the silence. Stan’s eyes find his. The bastard is smirking.
“Get over it, pussy,” he retorts. Kyle reaches for him again, and Stan darts out of reach, laughing. He chases him around the kitchen table, the headband still tight around his ears, and falls for it when Stan feigns right before fleeing left. Stan may be stronger, but Kyle is quick, and being shorter than most of his teammates on the basketball team means he has to work hard to make up for what he lacks in height. He follows him into the living room and throws himself at Stan, tackling him to the carpeted floor. Stan goes down with a grunt.
“Easy, Kitty!” He laughs, twisting so Kyle is straddling his side instead of his back. Kyle snarls down at him, tries to grab his hands. Something hot and kind of painful is twisting deep inside of him, warmth spreading from the tips of his ears and down to his neck. He can’t pinpoint it, which pisses him off. “Don’t call me that!”
“Aww, why?” Stan is a little shit, Kyle decides, and they’re no longer friends, at least not for the duration of this tussle. With one push, Stan has reversed their positions. He catches one of Kyle’s wrists in each of his large hands and presses them to the floor above his head. When he tries to kick him, Stan sits down fully, pinning him to the floor with weight. Now immobilized, Kyle feels a twinge of fear. Not at Stan, god, no. At something else - he doesn’t know what, yet. Something to do with the heat building in his groin, with the odd look in Stan’s eyes.
“You look kinda cute like that,” he says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world and not the very words that punch the breath out of Kyle’s lungs. “You can’t even see the band in your Jewfro. You just look like you have cat ears.”
“Don’t call me cute.” This feels like an underreaction. Kyle looks up at him, trapped. His brain is working at a snails' pace, trying to make sense of this all. If Stan is picking up on the mood, he doesn’t let on. He’s still grinning. “You don’t usually let me call it a Jewfro,” he notes. Kyle hates him so much right now. “You’re much tamer on your back, aren’t you, Kitty?”
Kyle’s hips cant upward, on their own accord. Stan’s eyes are wide, and for once his expression is unreadable.
Oh. So that’s what that feeling was.
“Dude,” Kyle croaks. The rest of the sentence dies in his throat. Stan is leaning down, and Kyle wants to count his lashes but doesn’t get the chance because Stan’s lips are on his and it’s too much to bear. He gasps into Stan’s mouth, opens up to his tongue eagerly. His hands are still pinned above his head.
Stan sets the pace. He sucks on Kyle’s tongue, pulls back to catch his bottom lip with his teeth. Kyle whines deep in his throat, tries to push back against Stan’s grip and is rewarded with a quick squeeze to his wrists in return. Stan pulls back to grin lazily down at him. “Good Kitty,” He coos, and Kyle gasps, arousal stabbing him like a knife through his gut. “You like it when I call you that?” Stan moves both of Kyle’s wrists to one grip, freeing his other hand to trail down lower. Kyle trembles, the anticipation eating away at him before he feels the soft brush of Stan’s fingers above the fabric of his shorts. “I saw it on you, before.” He teases the bulge there, pressing around it. “You put up a tough front, all hissy, but you’re just a soft little thing deep inside, aren’t you?”
“O-Oh,” Kyle gasps. He doesn’t add anything, doesn’t trust his inner thoughts not to betray him. Stan’s hand is large and impossibly warm, and it stills, still wrapped around his clothed cock, which has grown embarrassingly hard. Stan leans over him, noses behind his ear.
“You wanna come? Beg for it, Kitty.”