Epic fic fail

[sekritomg]

Author: sekrit_omg
Pairing: Christophe/Kyle
Rating: PG13
Author's note: Written for xdeadpan. Next up, Stan/Kyle for fletset.

This is so nothing it doesn't even get a title or summary.

Oh, yeah, about the French: I used a translator. Kill me. Maybe popshaped can shed some light on this trainwreck.

“Baisez-moi,” Kyle said sweetly, glancing up from his book. “S’il vous plait. Maintenant. Je suis dur, J'ai besoin de vous…”

In bed, Christophe glared at the redhead across the room with a book in his lap, and shifted. “Oh, you want to be fucked, do you?” He took a drag on his cigarette. “Beg me in English, hm?”

“Please.” Kyle loved the way Christophe looked with a cigarette dangling between his lips, loved the way his words caught on saliva as he smoked and talked and breathed at the same time.

“Your pedestrian attempts at speaking French annoy me.”

Kyle’s face fell. “But…”

“No, no more for tonight. Put the Berlitz away, and come to bed.”

“Oh.” Kyle looked down at his phrasebook, and then at Christophe, as he leaned over in bed, ashes falling on the sheets, making little black wounds as he neglected to brush them away. “Okay,” Kyle agreed sadly.

“Christophe.” He said the name like a prayer, in between haphazard swallows and tugs at his chest hair. But then the second time, he accompanied it with an interrogative whimper.

“What?” Christophe asked, mouth obviously brimming with spit.

“Why…” Kyle took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. “It upsets me that you don’t like me speaking in French.” He was trying to be very direct.

“If I speak English to you, I like to be answered in English.”

“But I want to speak French to you.” Kyle tried to pout his bottom lip in the most heartbreaking way he knew. Sadly, Christophe was very practical, and immune to such techniques.

“Why, so you can expect me to learn Hebrew, or something?” he asked, and Kyle blushed when he pronounced it zhumfeeeeng.

“What?" he asked, caught off guard. “I don’t speak Hebrew.”

“Well.” Christophe sniffed. “I certainly don’t speak French.”

“But. But you’re from France!”

“So?” Except it sounded like zho. “I live in America now, what’s the difference?”

“But, I just thought—”

“Homosexual intercourse sounded better when it wasn’t in English?” Eeengleesh.

“Well, I…” Kyle trailed off.

“If I wanted a lover who would whisper to me sweet nothings in French while I fellated him, I would have gone to the Sorbonne like my mother wanted and found myself a little thing who wore black berets and read Baudrillard. Okay? No? Is this okay for you?”

“Um, sure,” was Kyle’s faint reply. Christophe managed to smile at him, at least until he broke down in a hacking couch, and unsubtly went back to his work on Kyle’s cock. It was satisfying, but something was missing. And when Christophe was asleep, drool running down his cheeks, Kyle went back to the Berlitz book, and quietly read another six pages.

The next time he saw Stan, in the library, his best friend wanted to know how Beginning French was going.

“Pretty mal,” was all Kyle could say.

“And here you thought dating a French guy was the perfect way to learn,” Stan mused. “Does the exam not cover ‘fuck me harder?’ ”

“Even if it did I’d be at quite a loss.”

“So, not working out?”

“The only thing working out less than this relationship is Eric Cartman,” Kyle said plainly. “You were right, Stan. You can’t absorb a language though osmosis through your ass. I guess I owe you 20 bucks, then.”

“Oh, yes,” Stan agreed. “Except I prefer payment in euros. Oui?”

“Non,” Kyle said emphatically.