boys

Un kyman 🙀

The Craig Evolution

bad posture craig my beloved

tending‼️

what's under an INFJ's hat

hangout

south park fandom come back i miss you

Stick of Truth

Glasses on the quirked up orb children

is it just me or randy is cosplaying the brokeback mountain 😭😭😭

craig when he went to peru and the guinea pigs were huge in that one episode

butters if he locked the fuck in

chess

"Uh, no you weren't." Eric scoffed, pinching off that silly idea of Stan's before it even had a chance to fully blossom. Wasting money on a hangover-in-a-bottle without a spectacularly wild night out on the town? Cartman liked to pretend he couldn't entertain the idea of belittling himself that way. But he was also fucking dramatic, as anyone and everyone knows. He had found his way to the bottom of a bottle of cheap swill a time or two, or ten. But never when he intended to share the alcohol and the experience. Standards, Stan, he thought, we need to have a conversation about standards. His name was right there in the word for chrissakes.

"Look, I'm the last guy to pander to your self-sabotage. I don't care if you want to drink yourself into a coma. But if you're drinking with me, you aren't getting fucked up on nasty shit like that. And just because your self-respect is all over the floor and back of your hand, that doesn't mean I'm going to lower my standards," he shouted over his shoulder.

His eyes darted around his immediate surroundings, looking for the small cloth that Stan had requested. He assumed with the proximity to the sink, there had to be a fucking towel handy somewhere. While he searched, the fatter man listened to Stan pouring his heart out on top of his already-emptied guts. Eric had a big heart (Fuck you, not just an enlarged heart.) and he didn't always didn't like to admit that, but it was currently breaking for his friend. 

Fuck. Fuck this. Fuck Kyle. And fuck Stan for being so stupid.

Not that Eric had much more room to talk. If anything, he knew those feelings as good as, or better even than, Stan did. Cartman and Kyle had had their fair share of rounds in the ring. Usually between the redhead's stints with the man currently swimming in his own bodily fluids on the floor. Unfortunately. Eric sighed to himself and grabbed the hand towel. He turned around, flourished the piece of fabric, and rested a hand on his hip. "Stan? Know that I'm sooo super-duper coming from a place of love and endearment when I say this, because it's going to hurt." He marched his stubby legs towards the crumpled pile of dude. "Sweetie, baby, honey," Eric cooed condescendingly and threw his arm out, dangling the towel just within Stan's reach. Though, he was going to have to work to get it. "It is your fault. But here's the good news, that means you are in control. Not that fucking asshole."

     @screwyewguys  〢  cont from here .

Stan didn’t expect to be so faded by the time Cartman arrived, either, but the shots got away from him, like they usually did.  His pre-drinking had turned into drinking drinking, and a slight twinge of guilt twisted in his chest over that fact.  But for the most part, he didn’t care.  He had paid for it and was entitled to do what he liked with it.  Whether or not any of his seven bucks ended up in Cartman’s stomach was far from his chief concern.

Still, he relinquished the bottle when Cartman grabbed for it.  Not that he was given much choice—the other man was a little forceful, and Stan was in no place to grip onto anything.  He didn’t complain, though, until Cartman uttered his disgusted about the tequila being awful, cheap shit.  It was true that Randy would be disappointed in him for going so cheap, which was part of why he did it.

He didn’t want to be his father who dressed his booze intake up in some ritzy, cultural bullshit.  Stan wanted to make it clear that he was getting plastered, sloshed, off his face, not doing a wine tasting or whatever that stupid German word was.  He wanted to put everything out on the table, his messiness, his hurt—a miserable cry for help that would never be answered, but which felt good to make, nonetheless, however petulant it was.

“I didn’t wanna spend a lotta money,” he grumbled.  “Once you get far enough into the bottle, it stops mattering whether or not it’s—hey!”

Cartman cut him off by draining the bottle into the sink, and Stan tried to scramble to his feet to stop him, but he didn’t get much farther than onto his knees before the speed and exertion knocked him face-down on the floor.  He put his hand flat against it, trying to slow its tumultuous revolutions.  The world around him flashed violently blue, and for a moment, he forgot where he was and what they were talking about, lost in the anticipation of that usual harsh ejection.  It was upon him in another instant, and he barely pulled his head up in time to stop it from getting in his hair.  It pooled on the kitchen tile and coated the back of his right hand, the alcohol scalding him worse on the way back up than it had going down, and it was revealed just how little he head eaten since he took to the bottle.

“Whoa,” he muttered, followed by a low groan and some quiet explicatives as he leaned away from his mess and wiped his hand off on his dark jeans.  He reached his unsullied hand out to Cartman and beckoned.  “Hand me a towel?”  Just not the towel, please.

“I was gonna finish that, you know.”  He was slightly more clearheaded with some of the tequila out of him (emphasis on slightly), and thoughts came a bit easier to him.  “Maybe not right now,” he added sheepishly, a bald-faced lie he felt obligated to tell on account of the mess he just made.  “But eventually.”

They had gotten off-track, which was mostly Cartman’s fault because Stan would not have gotten sick if the fat bastard left his alcohol alone.  All right, well, he would not have gotten sick as quickly.

“As for Kyle,” he said, shrugging, the name more acidic on his tongue than the bile had been, “I dunno.  He was good before.  He was really good.  I keep waiting for him to go… back…”  It was stupid, he knew that, everyone told him.  The Goth Kids had told him all about how pathetic his obsession with Kyle was already.  That’s not very goth of you.  Do you want to be goth, or do you want dick?  And Stan had half-jokingly and half-truthfully answered, ‘Dick.’

“It’s my fault,” came the strangled admission, tears welling up in storm blue eyes.  “It’s my fault.  He changed when I did.  He got bad when I did.  If I wasn’t so… like I am, then he would have stayed…”  Stan almost said he would have stayed good, but no, he would have stayed at all.  “It’s my fault.”  He exhaled sharply through his nose, expelling a clump of vomit onto the front of his shirt, and fought desperately to retain his coherence.  “So, I can’t give up on him because it’s all me.  If I get better, then he’ll… then he’ll…”  But then Stan trailed off and stared tearfully at the puddle of puke he left, suddenly unsure that his problems had such a simple solution.