Helpful note of helpfulness: Hi there! Are you going to read this whole fanfic all the way through in one sitting? That's really flattering but I want to make sure you've had something to drink and/or eat recently before you start. Take any medication you need to as well, you'd be surprised how time slips away!

I promised myself I'd wait until I was further along in H2P but you all know by now I'm a ficaholic. Anyway, this shouldn't affect the pace of that too much and this has been sitting on my computer and staring at me for weeks now and I love it too much to ignore it.

We see a lot of Cartman treating Kyle badly because of 'teh lubs' and I wanted to reverse it. But obviously because it's Kyle he feels actual remorse. Eventually.

I'm just going to clarify the tone and subject matter of this fic so people who want to run or stay know what they're in for:

1. There is dubious consent issues due to identity. Whether this counts as rape/non-con/blurred lines/fine is up to individual debate but I wanted to warn anyway. Cartman is not going to experience sexual assault in the more usual dramatic sense of being outright forced or coerced (nor any other character).

2. Sixteen is the age of consent in my country so I have no issues writing about seventeen, however 18+ is the usual around the world so bear in mind that Cartman is 17 turning 18, and Kyle is newly turned 18.

3. There is homophobia and assault from other parties and not our mains (and again no-one is sexually assaulted in that sense). There is also murder and attempted suicide.

4. I don't want to say muuuuuch more than that because of giving things away. Hope the story is a little clearer.

The only reason Cartman had even gone to the stupid underground wrestling league was because Clyde Donovan couldn't shut up about it every lunch break. It was a great place to go if you wanted to make some small cash on bets, or lose everything you had as was more often the case with Clyde. He never could bet smart. Cartman knew the gambling game far better, and the idea of earning a few bucks and watching muscular guys pummel the shit out of each other was tantalising enough for him to give in.

He just wished Clyde had told him what a fucking dive the place was; an abandoned warehouse with a few fairy lights strung about, some crates in a row for a makeshift bar. The only real work done was a large cage in the middle of the room. There were bloodstains on the concrete floor, the only promising thing Cartman had seen all evening. Clyde ecstatically waved at him from across the room; already drunk. Well, he was only eighteen. Cartman reluctantly joined him as there was no-one else to talk to. The other kids at school didn't give a shit about Clyde's new wrestling fascination and had absolutely no interest in seeing it live.

Cartman ordered a gimlet, receiving the side-eye from the bartender. "I know it's an old lady drink, just fucking give it to me," Cartman spat. At a younger seventeen, he was still more sophisticated than Clyde's barely cold, generic-brand beer. He got his drink and sipped carefully, surveying the scene before him. A few of the wrestlers were wandering around and it was piquing his interest.

For one thing, from the way Clyde had described it, the wrestling here was closer to cage fighting. It was called wrestling just to stop the police turning up. There were only a few rules, and they mostly revolved around the secret identity clause. The wrestlers were anonymous and wore masks, similar to the Lucha Libre form of wrestling. This was partly to keep arrests down, and to protect participants from being taken out of the running from assault in their downtime by cheating gamblers. They could also wear a costume though it wasn't necessary. As cheap as the place was, they didn't seem to want to be associated with TV wrestling, as if it were somehow beneath them.

Cartman turned to look at the odds board. A name caught his eye – actually it had caught most patrons' eyes and they weren't too happy about it. "Princess Ballerina. Fucking seriously?" Cartman turned back to his people-watching trying to catch sight of such a strange character. No-one looked even slightly princessy or ballerinary. Maybe it was just a name after all, and the guy had sensibly not worn a costume.

A bell went off signalling everyone to gather for the forthcoming match and Clyde slumped against him as he fell off his crate-cum-barstool. "Come on, Cartman, we're going to miss the first round. Did you place a bet?"

"I'll wait for the next one." He wanted to bide his time and see how things operated around here before making any financial decisions.

Two large guys that looked evenly matched headed into the cage and the referee began a brief 'kayfabe' about their violent history. It was purely a bit of fun, but Cartman yawned, seeing nothing interesting about such facetiousness. The fight was almost as boring. Nothing to the face or groin were standard rules, he got that, but these two seemed more interested in slamming into each other like sumos except with none of the pride of the ancient art and far less grace. But the guy he thought would win did, and he regretted not betting.

"Next up," the referee yelled after a short break, "Princess Ballerina versus Snakebite!"

Cartman's ears pricked up. And here he'd been considering going home. "Holy shit," Clyde nudged him. "Check out the fag."

Cartman's eyes became saucers at the vision of a tall, slim man wearing a white bodysuit and tights complete with pink tutu and stilettos, and a silver-and-pink mask topped with a small silvery tiara to complement. He sauntered around the cage waving away all the jeering and an odd mixture of homophobic taunts and catcalls.

This guy was either freakishly tough, or a moron.

Taking a closer look, Cartman guessed it was the former. He was slender, but the muscles he had were toned and well-versed. So long as he stayed out of holds and used speed and stamina, he stood a chance, especially against someone like Snakebite. Cartman had clocked him earlier. He was even fatter than he was and that meant he was probably slow.

Cartman slammed down a ten at the bar when he saw Princess Ballerina's odds were 10 to 1. The bartender howled with laughter. This kid was never going to see that money again. Cartman rejoined Clyde at the chicken-wire and rubbed his hands gleefully.

"Princess Ballerina is our newest fighter and he comes highly recommended. I hope you all enjoy this match. Snakebite, don't win too quick; we want these folks to be entertained after all." The crowd cheered. This lumbering idiot was obviously a favourite Cartman thought idly, trying not to notice how translucent Princess Ballerina's outfit was in certain places.

The match started and Cartman's guy was up the sides like the fucking Spider-Man and performed a perfect diving bulldog. The room fell silent as everyone waited for Snakebite to recover from both the shock and pain. Princess Ballerina stood at the side, arms folded smugly tapping his thin heel on the concrete ground rhythmically. Every time Snakebite tried to get a hold of him, he practically danced away and a few more carefully timed attacks brought his opponent to the point of exhaustion. A quick floor-standing moonsault and it was over.

Cartman grabbed Clyde and screamed with laughter.

"I have to meet that crazy bastard," Cartman grinned, shuffling his winnings greedily.

"Why?" Clyde moaned, lamenting the fifty he put down on Snakebite.

"Ask him what the deal is with that outfit for one thing." Though Cartman could guess. Reverse psychology. Everyone had underestimated him, which meant no-one bet on him, which meant the place made money. Smart.

He was in the corner, sensibly staying out of the way of angry patrons who had lost money on "a giant pink queer," and talking to someone who Cartman supposed was the owner of the place or his manager, or both.

Cartman approached as soon as the other guy was gone. The Princess Ballerina seemed to balk at the sight of him, but stayed silent. Cartman suddenly felt strangely in awe of this man looming over him. "I er…" Cartman felt self-conscious when he began to stutter. "Just wanted to say you were awesome, sir." Why was he sirring? "I could tell you were a red herring straight off."

"Oh?" he replied in a gruff but amused voice.

"Yeah, your arms and…" Cartman's eyes travelled downwards, "…legs gave you away. You're fitter than you seem. If you know what to look for."

"Spend a lot of time ogling guys at the gym, do you kid?"

"No!" Cartman floundered. Except actually yes.

He jumped when the other man ran lithe fingers up his bare arm. He smiled. "You're deceptive too." His accent was a strange mix and he was speaking unnaturally deep. Still wearing his mask too. Whoever he was, he was taking the secret identity thing very seriously.

"Me?" Cartman breathing went shallow as the face got closer. He still couldn't see his eyes. The mask had a weird mesh over the eye pieces, like Deadpool or something. Only the mouth was exposed, and Cartman realised he was staring at it. He took his arm back, blushing fiercely and hating himself for it.

"Yeah, you're a chubby kid…"

"Ay!"

"But there's muscle under there. Given the right training, maybe we could tag team."

"Oh and what would I be, huh? Mermaid Queen? Nurse Brony?"

The ballerina chuckled, "If you like. This outfit has its advantages."

"Like what?"

"Like how you were the only one to bet on me. We got a lot of money from this match. Everyone misjudged me but you."

So I was right. "Takes more than spandex to fool Eric Theodore Cartman."

"I'm sure it does, Eric."

Somehow, barely half an hour later, Cartman found himself backstage, red-faced and bent over a dressing table as he was fucked by a transvestite wrestler.