Sheila Broflovski believed in good manners. She especially believed in good manners when it came to her children. Even if her eldest occasionally swore, kicked the baby, or participated in a political resistance, he did so with all the charm and savoir faire of someone who knew the proper way to do things and had made the educated decision that it was Not For Them. Still, one thing bothered Kyle, and that was that Stan apparently had never been taught about good manners. Specifically when it came to taking turns. Which was why instead of doing what they both wanted to be doing, Kyle was glaring at Stan and radiating definite Don't Touch Me vibes even as he sat straddling the other boy's hips.

"Look, all I'm saying, dude, is that you clearly enjoy it, so why mess with perfection?" Stan grinned endearingly at his boyfriend. He didn't look convinced. If anything, the glare darkened.

"And all I'm saying is that every single goddamned time it's the same. You top, I bottom. I'm sick of it! I want my turn! It's just good fucking manners!"

Stan blinked at Kyle. "I just think-"

Kyle had tried rational explanations, yelling, and death threats. Now he used The Look. It was his If-I-Don't-Get-My-Way-You-Aren't-Going-To-See-Me-Naked-For-A-VERY-Long-Time look. It was a look he'd been watching his mother make at his father for years. Stan choked on whatever his next word was going to be. Kyle was very good at The Look.

So, Stan caved and Kyle got his turn. And then another. And, after the minimum amount of time necessary, another.

After all, Stan reasoned, it was good manners.

***

Kristin: Yeah, I don't even know…This is my first ever attempt at slash and I haven't written any fanfiction in about a year and a half before today, so please be kind.