So...I think I remember warning everyone that if I didn't get my fill of Cartman/Kyle non-con, I'd have to write my own and it would be awful. AND I DIDN'T GET MY FILL. So here is my Cartman/Kyle non-con, because I am a horrible, horrible person. This was inspired heavily by Villain's story, All That Glitters Isn't Gold, because it's amazing and fantastic and so many other things and I just don't even. You should go read it, like right now.

ALSO, please keep in mind that this is in NO WAY the sequel to Best Cup in Town. That will be a completely different story that I'm still tinkering with. This is just some fucked-up thing I had to write to satisfy my sick, sick fetish.

Christmastime in Atlanta wasn't really Christmastime. Those Southerners tried, bless their little hearts, to bring in the spirit of the season by wrapping streetlights in colored ribbon and setting Santa Claus displays in their storefront windows. But without two to four feet of snow on the ground, it didn't amount to much. The snow was what made Christmas Christmas. Some North Georgia flurries were not uncommon, of course, but that was imposter snow. It didn't stick to the ground or clump together or last long enough to make so much as a snowmidget out of. As far as Cartman was concerned, it might as well be raining dandruff.

Cartman didn't much care for Atlanta. He'd been all over the country, and honestly didn't much care for most places. Atlanta was better than say, San Francisco (God forbid) but not without its evils. Namely that it was overrun with three of the things he hated most; black people, Jewish people, and investigative journalists.

In particular, he found that his house was far too closely situated to the Jewish Federation of Greater Atlanta. Sure, it was actually thirty miles away from where he lived, but still. Too close.

As fate would have it, nestled close to the JFGA were the headquarters for Atlanta NOW, a liberal newspaper as aggressive in its tactics for getting the scoop as its name would suggest.

Two evils, so closely together. Two birds just begging to be killed with one stone. Cartman often fantasized about planting a bomb in the middle of that block and watch the whole thing blow, bricks flying black against the red sky. That wasn't his style, though. He was more low key.

Besides, there were more important things to attend to.

The coffee shop he sat in had recently set out some particularly lackluster Christmas decorations. Some ancient wooden reindeer adorned the counters, their once-black hooves scraped raw by the years of any color. Fake mistletoe hung above the doorway. Cartman eyed the plastic plant behind his sunglasses.

The cafe was some little hole in the wall, a place only ventured into by locals. Cartman himself would have never set foot in it if it weren't for circumstances. But he found it suited his purposes just fine, and he could sit there in the corner every day with his newspaper, his Tom Ford sunglasses and his Armani coat, and no one would question him. He could watch with no one knowing he was watching, scheme without a wary eye cast his way. Through the large domed window at the front of the shop, he could look across the street at the unassuming stoop that was the entrance to the Atlanta NOW offices.

His target was trotting carefully down the steps of the building, making his way to the cafe, his usual haunt.

"Americano and chocolate biscotti? Your usual?" the waiter set the plate and cup down on the table with gentle clinks. Cartman glanced up at the kid, a college student with too-tired eyes and a too-big apron. He reminded Cartman of the long-gone Tweek, and nearly rolled his eyes at the memory of that hyperactive boy who had barely lasted a month as their fourth friend.

"Very good, peon, now get out of mnah. And don't bother me any more today, got it?" Cartman waved the scared-looking waiter away just as the door creaked open. Cartman knew he was coming, but that didn't make the vision any less striking.

There, standing under that god-awful fake mistletoe, was Kyle Broflovski. Cartman drank in the sight, like he did almost every day. Kyle, with a messenger bag full of papers slung across his chest. Kyle, ordering his favorite light cappuccino with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Kyle, sitting in his favorite spot by the window, pouring over his laptop, a legal pad on the table beside it and a pen held either behind his ear or in his mouth.

The years had been both good and bad to Kyle. He'd always been prone to illness, a condition that hadn't waned as he grew. And now, at twenty-six, a life of medical issues had left him almost as little and lithe as if he were fourteen again. His face had never really filled in, so he still had those prominent cheekbones and small jaw. His eyes, though, were wider and more active than ever before. Cartman could almost see the flash behind them as thoughts whirred through Kyle's brain, gears turning so rapidly against each other that they threw off vivid green sparks.

Cartman loved those sparks, loved to stoke them into a burning fire. But more than anything, what he longed to do was extinguish that fire.

He tried to remember to breathe, watching carefully. Kyle was already clacking away at his laptop keyboard, pausing every now and then to reach under his black-framed glasses and wipe tiredly at sleepless eyes.

He smirked. A tired Kyle was a practically useless Kyle. The Jew was like a cheetah, strong and wild in short bursts, but keep him running too long and he wore out easily and took forever to recover.

Cartman took his cell phone in hand and typed out a quick message.

Bring the car around and be prepared to wait.

He looked once more up at Kyle, at the soft yawn stretching the Jew's lips. A shiver of excitement thrummed through Cartman's body.

He was finally going in for the kill.

"No, I'm about to head home," Kyle kept his head craned against his shoulder, holding the phone in place as he gathered up his papers. The little office was bright with fluorescent lighting, but through the window he could see the inky blackness of night outside.

'The quest for truth never sleeps, and neither will we!' his boss would often say in her stern bark of a voice. Though Kyle couldn't help but notice that she seemed to sleep pretty well while her underlings, including him, did all the work.

"I can't wait 'till next weekend," Stan's voice hummed through the speaker, "I've missed you so much."

"Then you should have moved here with me!" Kyle smirked against the receiver, picturing Stan's pout.

"No way! Why didn't you move to Kentucky with me?"

"Because, dude. It's Kentucky."

"Well...you're in Georgia."

"You're an ass," Kyle couldn't help but grin, and knew Stan well enough to know he was doing the same.

"And you're sexy."

"I am?" Kyle asked in amusement.

"You am," Stan affirmed.

"Okay, Romeo. I'm hanging up now, I gotta get my shit together and go home. I'm exhausted, I've barely slept in the past three days."

"Oh...so no phone sex?"

"Just look at those pictures I sent you and go to town," he laughed, almost feeling the heat of Stan's blush through the phone.

"Yeah yeah yeah...I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Kay."

"Love you, Kye," Stan's voice whispered sincerely from too many miles away. Kyle smiled into his receiver.

"Love you too, Marshmallow," he responded, allowing himself to hear Stan's faint laugh before he hung up. He stuffed the phone into his pocket and proceeded to cram paper into his messenger bag alongside his laptop.

He was the last one to leave the building, as usual. He'd garnered quite the reputation around the company for being hard-working and dedicated and, naturally, people had taken advantage of that. But he figured it would all be worth it in the long run, and he liked to write. A favorite hobby of his (when he had the time) was writing long love letters to Stan, beautifully composed lines that spoke of truth and trust and their life-long friendship.

Stan would respond with an equally long love letter, one that he'd obviously spent hours on. But his were never any good, and he knew it. He'd always been somewhat of a failure at writing, and sometimes Kyle just couldn't take him seriously when his heartfelt love letters involved a sentence like 'You are mine forever, unless of course you don't want to be because I totally respect your freedom but please don't leave me, I love you!'

Kyle positioned the heavy bag on his shoulders and shut the lights off before making his way down the steps that led outside. There, he set to locking the door with the keys that had been entrusted to him months ago. The wind was beginning to pick up, sending a cold chill through his body. It was nothing compared to the winters in Colorado, but the humidity gave southern winters a nasty bite.

He gave the handle a firm rattle to make sure it was locked, and was about to turn when a large arm clamped around him and a meaty hand held a handkerchief against his face. Panicked, he gasped in the tang of chemicals and felt his trashing limbs falter and grow useless. A cold numbness seemed to spread from his extremities inward, his consciousness awash with darkness and silence.

Kyle awoke slowly, bit by bit. The world around him was dim and blurry. Slowly, he tried to uncurl, but was met only with a dull thunk as his legs hit a solid barrier behind him.

He panicked and raised his head, but could lift it no more than a bit before it too hit a solid surface. His glasses were gone and the place was in semi-darkness, reducing his surroundings to nothing but black, shapeless masses. He squinted. Immediately in front of him he could make out criss-crossed lines, a grate of some sort. He reached out a tentative hand, touching the grate, pushing against it with the flat of his palm. It had just the slightest give to it, but after a millimeter or two, wouldn't budge.

He twisted as best he could in his cramped enclosure, studying what details he could make out. It was small, he could fit almost comfortably in it by laying on the floor in a curled position. Enclosed walls on all sides except the grate in front of him. The walls seemed to have small oval openings cut into them at intervals, and shining through them were flickering rays of light. Peering out of one of them, he could make out the big-screen TV that the light was coming from. He could see the blurred silhouettes of a couch and a chair in front of the TV, but that was about it.

"Hello?" he whispered, his voice tinny with fear and panic. He managed to raise his voice in conjunction with the terror raising within him, "Hello?"

Only the soft, muted sounds of the television answered.

Kyle started to hyperventilate, his fingers scrabbling through the metal of the grate and shaking it as hard as he could. His rapidly-adjusting eyes could see a nicely-sized padlock keeping the grate attached to his enclosure.

He reached for his pocket to pull out his cell phone and froze when he realized there was no pocket to reach for. In his terror, he hadn't realized that he was stark naked.

Fresh panic flooded his body and he rattled the grate with renewed vigor, shrieking.

"Get me out of here! Goddamn it, someone help me!"

The lights in the room flicked on suddenly. Kyle cursed and clenched his eyelids shut at the brightness. The first thing he saw was a pair of feet clad in nice black shoes, shuffling toward him.

"What the fuck-" Kyle began, but any words he was about to say dissolved when the person crouched down in front of him. He recognized those big, brown eyes, the locks of wispy hair.

"Butters?" he spat in disbelief.

"Uh, hi, Kyle!" Butters managed an uneasy smile, "it uh...it sure is nice to see you here! Boy howdy, I sure did miss you and Stan!"

"What the fuck is going on here, Butters?"

"Uh...whaddya mean?" Butters' barely-there eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"I mean, why the fuck am I naked and locked in a...a..."

"A dog cage?"

Kyle paused and gave another look around his surroundings.

Goddamn.

It was a dog cage. The type made of sturdy plastic with air holes placed throughout and a sliding lock opening. Only this time, the opening had been modified with a padlock so no one would be able to simply slip their fingers through and undo it.

Now, instead of terror, Kyle felt rage sear through his system.

"A fucking dog cage? Butters! Why the fucking fuck am I in a fucking dog cage? Is this some kind of joke or something! Because it's not very goddamn funny!"

Butters seemed surprised by Kyle's fervor, so much so that he fell backwards onto his ass.

"N-no! I-I mean, I didn't want you to be locked in a dog cage! This was all Eric's idea!"

It took Kyle's reeling mind to process that information for a minute, and when it was finally done, his blood boiled hotter than ever.

"Cartman? It was Cartman's idea to strip me naked and stuff me in a dog cage? Why the hell would he do that, I haven't seen him in at least five years!"

"Oh, but I've seen you, Jew," a voice came from the doorway and another set of nice shoes tapped across the immaculately tidy mahogany floors, "I've been watching, you see. Ever since you graduated. I followed you and Stan when you moved to Denver, and then when you two parted ways, I followed you here."

With a sigh, Cartman crouched the floor next to Butters, smoking a cigarette and looking quite smug. Kyle could barely keep his rage and confusion in check.

"You fucking asshole! Let me out, Cartman!"

"Not just yet, Kahl," Cartman responded carelessly. Butters held up an ashtray and Cartman tapped his cigarette into it, his shrewd eyes never leaving Kyle's fuming face, "Stan is coming to visit you next weekend, right? That should be enough time..."

"Enough time for what? For fucking what!" Kyle spat through the bars, flecks of spittle catching Cartman in the face. He frowned in disgust and threw out his leg, kicking the cage grate with enough force to jolt the whole thing backwards. Kyle yelped and jumped to the back of the cage like the dog he was, and the thought made a grin form on Cartman's face.

"Don't worry your pretty little head with that, Jew. Just be sure to do everything I tell you and that'll make this whole thing much, much easier."

Kyle's thin fingers gripped the bars of the cage and he trembled with anger, not fear. No, Cartman didn't scare him. Not now, not ever. He'd always been frustrating, annoying, hateful, psychopathic, but despite all the pains he'd go to to make Kyle's life miserable, Kyle wasn't afraid of him. Wary, but not afraid.

Cartman saw that. He could see it now, in the great green depths of Kyle's eyes. He sighed again with feigned weariness, and, with a quick movement, stubbed out his cigarette on one of Kyle's exposed fingers. Kyle howled and whipped his hands back, glaring furiously at the brunette in front of him.

"Butters," Cartman turned to look at his childhood friend, eyebrows arched, "Go check up on Kinney and Bebe and make sure those two sluts aren't dead in a ditch somewhere. Then you can have the rest of the night off."

"Uh...o-okay, Eric," Butters nodded, glancing back at Kyle for a split-second before standing and scurrying out of the room.

"Kenny?" Kyle asked in disbelief, "and Bebe? They're here too? What the hell is going on, fatass?"

"God, Kahl," Cartman said with an overly dramatic sweep of the hand, "I thought you were tired. Just go to sleep and we'll start your training in the morning. I don't like my dogs to yap all night long."

"No, I'm not going to sleep! I'll keep on yelling at you, screaming at you until you tell me what's going on here!" he hissed through gritted teeth.

Cartman watched hungrily. He loved the low cadence Kyle's usually alto voice adopted when he was upset. He loved to see those little white teeth clench together behind spread, frowning lips. This was something he'd waited a long time for.

"Well Kahl," Cartman huffed and stood, only his calves and feet left for Kyle to see, "Guess I'll have to convince you to stay quiet tonight. I really need my rest, you see."

With a grunt, Cartman took hold of the pet carrier's handle, hauling the thing slowly along the floor. Kyle crouched low in the carrier as it rattled and jerked along. There was the sound of a door sliding open, and suddenly they were on a huge screened-in patio that did nothing to keep the outside chill away.

"This," Cartman said through his sounds of exertion, still towing the carrier along, "is my little relaxation spot. It's usually a great place, but in the winter it doesn't get much use 'cuz I haven't installed a heater in the pool yet."

"Why the fuck do I care?" Kyle snapped. He curled into himself, his arms wrapped tightly across his chest to ward off the chill.

Cartman just chuckled, and suddenly Kyle felt the sensation of tipping over, followed by a shock of freezing water lapping at his thighs. Cartman had placed the dog carrier on the first step leading into the pool.

"I'm not gonna ease you into this shit, Kahl," he leaned down so he could just barely peer through the grate into Kyle's incensed face, "you have to learn to be a good dog, and I'll do whatever's necessary to get you to that point."

"Cartman! What the fuck do-"

The bigger man's face disappeared from view and the carrier was lowered another step. Kyle cried out in protest, the water now up to his midriff. He shivered in vain, teeth chattering wildly from the frigid water biting at his skin.

"C-Cartman, you c-can't..."

"I 'c-can't' what, Jew?" he asked in curiosity as he paced back and forth in front of the pool entrance, "I'm very interested to hear what you think I can't do."

"Goddamnit it!" Kyle choked, and Cartman was pleased to hear the fear in his voice finally take hold, "you sick, fat fuck! You fucking son-of-a-whore bastard!"

Cartman lowered his feet into the pool and calmly sat the carrier onto the third step. Only one more move before the carrier would be completely immersed in the water, sitting at the bottom of the pool's shallow end. As it was, Kyle had just barely enough room to breathe. He floundered helplessly, pressing his nose against the very top of the grate. Water flooded into his mouth and he sputtered in desperation, his eyes wild and roving. His heart beat a vicious tattoo in his chest, and he could barely hear the sound of Cartman's voice through his absolute terror.

"Kahl, you live here now. You're going to be my pet. You're going to do whatever I tell you to do. If I tell you to lick my shoes, you do it. If I tell you to shut the fuck up, you do it. And if I tell you to suck my balls, you do it. Understand?"

Kyle tried to speak, tried to say something, but the noises wouldn't have been words even without the water inhibiting his mouth.

Cartman sat at the edge of the pool, watching the carrier with interest, listening to the ragged rush of air in and out of Kyle's nose.

"Oh Kaaahl..." he sang sweetly, "did you say you understood? I can't hear a thing except you panting like a dog in heat. Did you say yes? I really need a yes from you, Kahl."

Kyle closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to wake up. He'd wake up and he'd be safe and warm in bed and this would all be a nightmare and Stan would be beside him, there to comfort him and hold him...

"What's that? I still didn't hear anything! Oh well..." Cartman waded into the shallow water and picked up the carrier again, this time depositing it securely on the floor of the pool.

Water flooded through the cage and bubbles poured from Kyle's mouth, his desperate fingers scrabbling at the grate for a way out. The pool bottom was pitch black, cold, so cold, he could see nothing, feel nothing besides naked fear and the overwhelming desire for air, the desire to live. He tore futilely at the grate, shaking it, gripping it, punching it, but nothing would work and the energy was slowly pouring out of his body into the chlorinated depths.

He was going to die. He was truly going to die. He'd been on death's doorstep a few times in the past, far too many for someone his age, but he'd never felt a fear this raw, this powerful. Done in not by diabetes or a bad kidney or Manbearpig, but by an icy pool of water.

Only when his hands had stilled, fingers still poking like dead birch twigs through the metal, was the carrier heaved up and out of the water, onto the concrete of the patio.

Kyle's chest heaved thinly, his entire body shaking from chill and fear. He coughed and sputtered, beads of water and saliva spraying from pale lips. The shivers that wracked his body were uncontrollable, and all he could do was keep his eyes closed and keep drawing in lungful after lungful of sweet, precious air.

Cartman patted the plastic top of the carrier and leaned down to speak through one of the air holes.

"Feel better now, Kahl? Man, I bet you're hella cold right now. Well, I'll give you a choice. You can spend the night quietly in your cage in the warm house, ooorrr we can stay out here all night playing Dunk The Jew. Whaddya say?"

"House...inside..." Kyle coughed softly, eyes still shut out of unwillingness to see the joy in Cartman's expression.

"Say please, Jew," Cartman wheedled. Kyle was silent for several long seconds before he sighed.

"Please."

The cage swayed and rattled around him again, but Kyle could barely feel it until they were back inside and he was blasted by the warmth of the heated house. He willed the heat to sink into his body and revive his stiff fingers and goosebumped flesh.

The cage was placed back into its corner. Cartman crouched down one last time, looking in silent satisfaction at Kyle, wet and freezing and trapped. Pleased, he switched off the TV and the light and climbed the stairs out of the room, leaving Kyle alone in the dark.

Christmas in Atlanta was going to be the best Christmas ever.