So I really needed something to distract me from school. I've grown a bit tired of my fandom of choice, WWE, so I've decided to tread into some new territory. This is my attempt at a South Park fic...hopefully it all goes well. I plan on writing this from multiple POV's, though, looking ahead I think it'll mostly come from Stan and Cartman's POVs. Please review!
(Kenny)
(I try to run but see I'm not that fast
I think I'm first but surely finish last, last)
I was in Stan's room.
We went up there for…fuck, I don't remember. Was that a sign that I'd drank too much? We walked upstairs to Stan's room—away from the drunken mass of people—and by the time we made it to our destination I couldn't even remember what we'd come up there for. I'd had…six drinks, seven? No…wait, I'd done my eighth shot with Bebe and Token. So at least eight. Fuck, I don't remember. I always start to lose count when everyone starts asking me to do shots. I'm always in such a good mood when I drink that I start raising my shot glass to everything imaginable. I think with Bebe and Token we were celebrating her cat's second birthday…or some stupid shit like that. I didn't care, I just wanted a damn reason to toss some tequila down my throat. Besides, her fucking cat turned two like six months ago. I remember because she used it as an excuse to bake brownies and bring them to school to use as leverage to gain her some—pardon the pun—brownie points with all the football players. And if I remember right, she was extremely successful…that slut was an airhead, but she could fucking cook. I remember the gooey chocolate chips stuffed in thick, chocolately, cakey goodness… To someone who was used to having to scrounge for food and mooch off of friends for dinner, the unexpected dessert was a real damn treat…
Wait. Why the fuck am I thinking about brownies that Bebe had cooked at the end of my junior year? That's another sign I've been drinking too much: my mind's wandering to places that don't fucking matter. Either way, the floor was bubbling beneath my feet, and Stan had sunk down onto his bed, jean-clad ass hitting his blue comforter silently. He looked up at me—damn, that boy had some blue eyes, the same exact shade of blue as the sky right after a storm when it was finally starting to clear up. Kind of angry, kind of reassuring…here I go again. Thinking about too much shit that doesn't mean anything…I must be going soft if I'm standing here rambling on about the color of Stan's eyes. He was about to say something—I could tell from the way his lips parted, the way his eyes narrowed in focus.
Whatever it was he was about to say, he didn't get a chance.
The door to his room burst open, and there was a flash of red hair as someone came stumbling in. Stan had this look of surprise on his face, as if someone had told him that the sky was going to be green from now on, and I think I did too, even though it was completely unwarranted. There were only two other people in existence who would have the audacity to just barge into the party host's room like that…and, judging from the lean frame and vibrant, red shock of hair…it certainly wasn't the fatass who had interrupted us.
"Kyle?" Stan shot up, standing up so fast he caused my body to spasm in reaction. I reeled backwards, my booze-addled brain barely able to process the speed at which he reacted to Broflovski's presence. The redhead slammed the wooden door behind himself and stumbled forward, feet dragging against the carpet like he couldn't remember that he actually had to lift them up to walk.
"S-Stan…" Kyle's voice was slurred—huh, seemed Kosher boy had gotten ahead of me tonight…wait. No. That wasn't it…
"Kyle!" Stan rushed forward as the redhead began to fall forward, catching the smaller teen by the shoulders.
It's surprising how fast something serious can yank me out of a drunken stupor. Ninety seconds ago I was dreaming about brownies I ate six months ago, now, something was very wrong, and just the sight of it alone was enough to grip me by the ankles and yank me off the moon back down to Earth. I jumped forward, reaching out with my hands. My fingers were clumsy as I grabbed Kyle by the front of his navy blue shirt, but that was alright. It didn't take much fine motor skill to help Stan maneuver our friend onto the bed, helping Kyle to sit down on the exact same spot where Stan had been just moments earlier. I stepped back after that, holding out my hands with my palms outward to prove to Stan that I wasn't touching something I shouldn't be. Stan has this annoying habit of freaking the fuck out when Kyle's in trouble, and the thing is, he likes to take care of Kyle himself. If someone else tried to interfere—tried to insert their self between the two super best friends—then Stan would raise his hackles like a territorial dog.
"Kyle? Kyle—what the fuck?" Stan knelt down in front of the redhead, one hand reaching out and resting on the end of Kyle's knee.
Huh.
I was drunk, but…no. They did this kind of stuff all the time.
"Kyle? Come on…look at me!" Stan's voice raised into a frustrated growl. Wow, he was getting really bothered by all this—
Kyle finally complied, lifting his jaw up in angry defiance.
I couldn't help but cringe. Not at the large, darkening bruise on the edge of Kyle's jaw, not at the pure rage that burned like green fire in his eyes, and not even at the tiny bit of dried blood in the corner of his mouth. No, I cringed and felt my stomach tumble because as soon as I saw the state Kyle's face was in…I knew the fucking party was over.
To put it simply, Stan was going to throw a bitch fit.
A small part of me grinned in pure sadistic joy as I thought about the hell the Marsh kid was going to unleash very soon. Oh boy…someone had foolishly decided to put a mark on Kyle Broflovski… I swear to fucking god, did anybody in our school have any fucking brains? Or were all the high school students downstairs really so damn drunk that they forgot just what happened if someone decided to fuck with Kyle? Yeah, he was my friend, and I'd sure as fuck back him up in any fight against anybody—no matter what the circumstances. But that was nothing compared to what Stan would do… Stan would personally hunt down whoever did it and make it very clear to them why nobody in this shit town would dare to hurt Kyle Broflovski. Let's just say Stan is our school quarterback, and in the past few years he's gotten muscles. Big muscles. Muscles that just scream 'I'll punch you in the face and laugh when you cry and try to pick up your teeth off the ground'.
Yeah…that kind of muscles.
"What the fuck happened dude?" Stan was gritting his teeth, the question coming out as more of a snarl then anything.
"You make a move on the wrong guy's girl?" I asked, arching an eyebrow as I looked down at my friend.
Kyle merely clenched his teeth together, the muscles in his jaws bulging as he fumed.
"Oh…wrong guy's guy, then?" I asked again, leaning back and crossing my arms in front of my chest.
"Kenny! This isn't the time to be making fucking jokes!" Stan snapped, glaring at me out of the corner of his eye.
Yeah, so Stan's sapphire eyes aren't nearly as appealing when he's staring at me like I've pissed in his cereal…
But Kyle cracked a small smile. Or at least, the corners of his lips curled up in a kind of pseudo-half smile. Ha, that's a score for me. I took only a small moment to revel in my tiny victory, but that was a mistake. Stan noticed Kyle's little grin and scowled deeply, turning back to stare directly at his super best friend. Oh yeah, he was not going to let this one go…
"What the hell happened to you?" Stan demanded again, his impatience obvious.
Kyle huffed in frustration, eyes lowering to the floor.
"Come on Kyle…" Stan's voice took on that low, pleading tone that he only used on Kyle. I don't think anyone else on the planet has ever gotten Stan to use that voice on them. The most I ever got out of him was a sigh of pity, maybe some sadness and sympathy…but never pleading.
Maybe Kyle realized that too, because his stony look softened.
"It was Cartman." The redhead finally grumbled, still refusing to look up at either one of us.
Stan was naive enough to look surprised. He was cool guy, definitely one of my best friends, definitely a nice piece to look at, but holy shit, I swear to god he could be dumb as fuck sometimes. Then again, maybe I was dumb too…after all, both of us should've known better then to leave Cartman and Kyle alone and within twenty feet of each other. That was like putting…well, a Nazi and a Jew together.
"What happened? Why'd he do this?" Stan shook his head in disgust.
Was Stan really this dumb? Or was he just being polite and allowing Kyle to explain things instead of being an ass and making assumptions? I'd really like to think he was being tactful…but let's face it. Stan's got big muscles, but his brain? Sometimes a tad bit lacking. Especially when it comes to Kyle. Now, I'm no genius. I'll be the first one to admit that if you put a math textbook in front of me it'll all look like Japanese, but Stan's just kind of an idiot when it comes to people. He always only ever sees the best in everyone…how he manages to do that in South Park, I have no fucking idea. Not to mention I saw Stan down like seven shots of tequila…and that's all I saw. Who knows how many he did when I wasn't looking… He is the star quarterback after all, and he has a bit of a reputation to live up to. Plus everyone on the planet would want to do shots with him to celebrate our win against North Park last week. Either way, my guess was that Stan was probably feeling as toasted as I did, and that only meant that the inevitable explosion I was about to witness was only going to be that much more destructive.
Oh yeah…this was going to be entertaining, in the very least.
"What happened?" Stan repeated.
His hand was still on Kyle's knee.
"Come on Kyle…you know you can tell me anything." Marsh went on.
There was that pleading voice again.
"Kyle, I can't fix things if you don't tell me what's wrong." Stan moved his hand up from Kyle's knee to his shoulder.
Fuck did they even know I was here?
"Kyle…come on dude." Stan reached up, running a hand through his black hair, "What did you say to Cartman?"
Oh…wrong choice of words, Marsh.
Kyle face immediately reddened, and those green eyes of his shot up, narrowing dangerously.
"You think this is my fault?" The redhead hissed, leaning away from Stan's touch, "You know what that fat fuck is like! He's a fucking psycho!"
Stan chose to remain silent, but he raised his eyebrows knowingly.
"I…I might've…" Kyle bowed his head, face reddening even more as he mumbled, "I might've called his mom a money grubbing whore who…who would suck off any herpes-infested dick she could find just for grocery money."
Touché, Stan. I suppose there is no one who knows Kyle better than his super best friend. And maybe Marsh was smarter then I gave him credit for… See, I'm the exact opposite of Stan: I always think the worst of everyone.
"Did you really think that was a good idea?" I rolled my eyes, but was unable to stop myself from smiling. Just picturing Kyle saying those words to the Nazi was enough to make me want to laugh out loud. Damn, whatever me and Stan had come up here for, it better have been important…I would've loved to see the look on Cartman's face when Kyle talked about his mom. Sure, his mom was a nice lady, but all of us—and definitely Kyle—were willing to say whatever it took to piss off the fatass. Besides, it's not like that asshole would've held back with us. Let's just say I've been called 'poor boy' far too many times to have any sympathy for that bastard.
"He hit me first…" Kyle grumbled, crossing his arms against his chest and pouting unhappily.
"Of course he did." Stan growled, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, "Are you ok? How do you feel? It looks like he got you pretty good."
The redhead's face turned pink with embarrassment and he turned away, eyes once again finding something very interesting on the floor.
"Kyle…" Stan reached forward, the fingertips of his left hand lightly gripping Kyle by his jaw, turning his head so that his green eyes met Stan's set of blues.
Jesus fucking Christ.
"I…" Kyle sighed, but made no move to pull away from Stan's touch, "My head kind of hurts. I…I think I drank too much…"
Stan's lips pressed together like he'd just seen something despicable, and I could see that he was trying very hard not to tighten his hold on Kyle's jaw.
I hate it when Stan and Kyle have these intimate moments.
I'm not jealous. I swear to fucking god, I'm not jealous. It's just that when they do…shit like this… Shit like staring at each other too long, touching each other when it's completely unnecessary, communicating to each other without even saying a word… It doesn't make me jealous. I swear it doesn't. It just makes me think…it reminds me that I don't mean as much to anyone in the world, as those do to each other. Not even my mom and dad are as close as Stan and Kyle. Ok, so those idiot drunks aren't exactly the best comparison, but still. I hate remembering that I don't have that closeness with anyone. And of course, Stan and Kyle have to go and remind me of all that shit.
"You should lay down." Stan leaned away from Kyle, standing up straight.
"I'm f-fine." Kyle protested, glaring up at Stan, but his words were slurred, his lips moving clumsily to form his words.
"Come on Kyle." Stan turned, those sharp blue eyes narrowing as he looked at me, "He doesn't look good, right Kenny?"
I knew what I was supposed to say, but I hesitated anyway, if only to prove to Stan that I wasn't going to baby Kyle like he wanted to. Also to prove that he couldn't just expect me to help manipulate the redhead. But in truth, Kyle did look pretty rough. His normally bright, emerald eyes had dulled to a sea foam green, with the whites an irritated, tired pink. The bruise on his jaw was already a dark purple; the thing would be black by tomorrow. Now, I was never one to try and control people. I've always been the type to let people do whatever they wanted, even if that meant they were going to hurt themselves. But Kyle…he always gave off this sort of vulnerability that made people—people like Stan and Wendy…and me—always want to protect him. He was the biggest magnet to trouble at our school, aside from me of course, and that only made things worse. So even though I hate to see Stan treat Kyle like he's made of glass, the kid did look a little rough.
"Stan's right." I nodded, shooting Kyle an apologetic look, "You should turn it in for the night."
Kyle glared at me, betrayal in his eyes, but he nodded in agreement anyway. It was probably for the best. As much as I love drinking with Kyle—because god, he's a way better drinker then Stan or Cartman—he was definitely looking like he was done for the night. Looks like the party really was over. Stan and I each grabbed Kyle by his shoulders, tilting him back. Stan reached out and grabbed the edge of the comforter, yanking it back to reveal plain, pale sheets. Kyle kicked off his shoes with some difficulty, falling onto his back in the process. Stan knelt down and slowly, almost tenderly, peeled off his other shoe and then casting it to the side. It's funny, none of us even questioned the idea that Kyle was staying the night with Stan. It was even mentioned. I mean, it hadn't crossed my mind that he might want to go home…he slept at the Marsh's at least three times a week anyway. And knowing Kyle's mom, she'd probably ask to smell his breath if he tried to go home. Fingers gripping the hem of his navy shirt, Kyle pulled his cotton, long sleeve shirt over his head, leaving his deep, red hair sticking up in several directions. Stan took this opportunity to reach forward and move his fingers across Kyle's belt buckle, nimbly working the metal clasp. Neither one of them even batted an eyelash when Stan pulled Kyle's jeans down, the dark wash fabric sliding off of Kyle's jutting hips easily.
Honestly, watching Stan yank off Kyle's pants was kind of hot. Stan's a pretty good looking boy…but its Kyle who's downright tasty. I couldn't help but allow my gaze to linger on the redhead's abdominal muscles as he lay on Stan's bed in nothing but his dark green boxers. Yeah…nobody saw that six-pack coming. Kosher boy used to be rail thin, and then our freshman year he joined the swim team at the high school. Three years and four state championships later, Kyle had some meat on his bones. And I mean that in the most delicious way possible. He didn't have those bulky, weight-lifting muscles like Stan or Cartman, but lean, ropey muscles like true athlete. And of course that fucking awesome six-pack… He was still on the smaller side though. Cartman and Stan were both several inches taller than him, and I think I had him by a solid two inches, even if he had more weight on him then I did. Years and years of barely getting by by eating poptarts for dinner had left me definitely on the thinner side.
"Alright Kenny, you can stop staring at Kyle like you want to eat him." Stan rolled his eyes as he jerked the blankets over Kyle nearly bare body. Kyle was humble enough to blush brightly before snuggling into the bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin.
"Sorry." I grinned, placing my hands on my hips, "Just appreciating the view."
"Yeah, yeah." Stan shook his head.
"Don't pretend like you weren't thinking about licking whipped cream off his rockin' abs." Now it was my turn to roll my eyes as I spoke, my lips curling into a grin as I saw Kyle turn the color of a tomato.
"Is fucking all you think about?" Stan asked dryly, turning to look directly at me.
"You guys are stupid…" Kyle slurred, rolling over and onto his stomach as he buried his face into Stan's pillow.
"No, we're drunk." I corrected him before stumbling backwards, heading toward the door.
"And we should go be drunk somewhere else." Stan placed a hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the door, "I'll be back up to go to sleep soon."
"Don't take too long…" Kyle rolled onto his side, facing away from us, "If you wake me out of a dead sleep…I'll…I'll punch you or something…"
"Right. I'll keep that in mind." Stan gave Kyle a soft smile—something else he reserved solely for Broflovsi—before walking us both out the door. The music thumping downstairs was so loud it was practically shaking the walls, causing the door to Stan's room to rattle in its frame. I reached up, pulling my orange hood overhead as I stared at Stan.
"So what's the plan now?" I asked, tilting my head to the side as I studied the brunette standing in front of me.
"The plan is we're going to go have a talk with the fatass." Stan grumbled, pushing past me and heading to the stairs.
"You know that's not going to fix anything." I replied tersely, not even bothering to turn around to face my friend. I knew he could hear me.
"So?" Stan froze in place at the top of the stairs, "I can't just let him get away with this. If he thinks he can just knock Kyle around whenever he wants then he's…he's going to—"
"To what?" I shook my head in exasperation, still not bothering to face him, "To do it more? How long have you known those two Stan? You know nothing you say is going to change anything."
"Why do you care?" Stan whirled around, scowling deeply as he stared at my back so hard I could feel it, "I thought you liked watching us all fight? Why do you care if I go put my fist in that dick head's mouth?"
I stiffened, feeling the muscles in my arms, back, and legs tighten.
Is that what he thought of me?
"You're right Stan." I said slowly, still standing with my back to him, "I don't care. Do whatever you want."
"Cartman…Cartman fucking deserves it." Marsh mumbled, turning around.
I don't know who he was trying to convince. I certainly know Cartman's the biggest asshole on the planet. But, according to Stan, I just don't care about anything. Nice to know that's what people think of me.
Stan hesitated, acting like he was going to say something, but suddenly all I could hear was the thumping bass of rap music that always seems to pervade these house parties. He'd gone down the stairs…off to avenge his super best friend. Or some stupid shit like that. Whatever. He's right, I don't give a fuck what he does. Cartman's a bitch and deserves whatever the hell Stan wanted to him. Still…it would've been a hell of a lot nicer of Stan to actually put some worth in my opinion instead of just casting it aside like—
"Kenny?"
I turned around. At the top of the stairs was Red, stumbling up the steps like a drunken idiot. She was wearing a tight, sparkly green top that was cut so low I could see the roundness of her tits. The shiny black skirt she wore with it was short enough to make her legs look long and lean, and I couldn't help but stare as her hips swayed back and forth. She was walking towards me, I realized as her full lips parted in a bright smile. She was so close I could see her long, black eyelashes fluttering over blue eyes. Nice eyes, far nicer then the B-cups she was trying so hard to thrust into my face. Stupid girl. Her eyes were such a pretty shade of robin's egg blue…why the fuck did she feel the need to puff out her tits when her eyes were so nice to look at?
"I saw Stan come from up here and I figured this was where you disappeared to." Red giggled cutely, flipping a piece of her red hair.
"Yeah we were just…talking." I shoved my hands into my jean pockets to stop from reaching out and tucking that red piece of hair behind her ear.
"I'm so drunk!" She laughed as she tried to stand up straighter, one of the straps from her top sliding off her smooth shoulder, "Tequila always fucks me up so much."
Yeah girl, whatever you say. Whatever you need to tell yourself.
"Are you here alone?" She asked.
"Yeah." I gave her my best grin, one that was half smile and half smirk, "But that could change."
"Are you looking for some company?" Red's smile grew wider. Silly girl thought she was being smooth.
"Only good company." I replied, pulling my hands out of my pockets.
"Well," She stepped forward, placing a small hand on my chest, her pale skin bright against the orange of my jacket, "Trust me…I'm the best company you could find."
"You're sounding pretty cocky." I flashed her an even wider smile, leaning into her touch, "You sure you can back that up?"
"Let me prove it to you." She leaned forward, pressing her lips to mine. She was a nice kisser, her lips moving urgently against my own, her tongue flicking out and caressing my own. She wasn't the prettiest girl I knew, wasn't really all that smart…but she wanted me. Her hand on my chest gripped my shirt, and then she pulled me forward, pressing her body against my own. I could feel her soft breasts pushed up against me, her hips crushing against my own, and then I was reaching up, gripping her head with both my hands and holding her in place as I shoved my tongue into her mouth. She gasped in surprise at my sudden ferocity, and I took that moment to reach around, placing my hand on her round ass. She smiled as I squeezed, tilting her head to the side so that her mouth was moving against my ear.
"My car's parked out front…" She hissed, breath hot and tingly on my ear.
I didn't give a shit about this girl.
But she wanted me. And that was more then I could say for anyone else.