Man, this was really cutesy...

Enissophobia, fear of committing an unpardonable sin or of criticism. Style. I adored this.


I, Stanley Randall Marsh, am officially the world's biggest douche bag.

I put Kenny to shame. I put Eric to shame. I put the fucking son of Satan to shame. (No offense, Dam) I'm supposed to be one of the good kids.

Why, you ask, am I so horrid?


Kyle Isaiah Broflovski has me completely and utterly whipped. Far more than Wendy could ever hope to, as hard as she tried. Because Kyle is Kyle.

Kyle is demanding, Kyle is hypocritical, Kyle is temperamental, Kyle can be selfish, Kyle is vengeful, Kyle is Kyle is Kyle. He can be a total bitch at times, but he's Kyle. I adore him. Because while Kyle is Kyle, he's also Kyle. He's also sweet, caring, compassionate, fretful, protective, charming when he wants to be, and forgiving. Oh, his forgiveness. He should be a saint. Saint Kyle. Saint Isaiah sounds better, I think.

It started when Wendy broke up with me. Yes, story of my life, I know, but... I'm going to charge ahead with this and try to preserve my masculinity.

Wendy Testaburger, my ex-girlfriend, is apparently some sort of dominatrix, or has a kink for sadism, or control, or something. She also fucked Bebe.

It started when she slapped me during sex. Everything was going as usual-one of my hands were tied to the bedpost (I guess her kink for bondage might've been a tip-off if I were looking for one)-and out of no where, she slapped me and called me a slut. No fucking joke, I swear. I went completely flaccid and she freaked out apologizing. I was a little shaken, but okay. I was fine.

She-no, I'm sorry, I just can't. I'll keep everything else private. I can't humiliate myself, even if I probably deserve it. But let's just say it went downhill from there and the prospect of sex started to be something I dreaded. I came to school limping, sometimes with bruises or small welts, or a fading hand print across my right cheek. It scared the shit out of Kyle, out of Kenny-fuck, it scared everyone. I started acting more and more like a beaten puppy.

I was the captain of the football team, the star basketball player, the state championship track star. I'm tall, I'm fit, I was dancing around a girl who's barely five foot eight like she was twice my size. I'd find out later that her sudden release of aggression was brought on by trouble with her friendship with Bebe. At the time, all I could wonder is where sweet, eloquent, gentle Wendy went. The one I was in love with.

I went to Kenny with my bumps and bruises. He fixed me up, no questions asked, because I've done the same for him since we were twelve. He didn't say anything, but he gave me a Look. You know the one; the You-Better-Fix-It Look. The one you see when you're being self-destructive.

This went on for a while. It got worse and worse and finally, I walked in on her fingering Bebe.

As much as I would have loved this to be a lead-in for an epic three-way, it wasn't. I was hurt, I was upset, I was angry, I was crying. Bebe was sent home and Wendy tried to comfort me, tried to apologize, but I wouldn't have it. I exploded on her. I don't remember what I said, though I'm sure I touched on her newfound cruelty, the way she treated me, and several other things that I'm sure were more or less valid. Fuck being respectful to women-if they want respect, they'll give it.

Besides, I'm pretty sure I was the girl in this scenario.

I finished my rant (Kyle monologues, I rant) with a furious proclamation of, "It's fucking over!"

I turned to leave, to storm away, but she caught me by the wrist and shoved me up against the wall. I don't remember what she said, but I remember the impact of her fist on my cheek. Time froze.

It clicked on her face. I saw it through my slightly delayed, shocked tears. She'd just crossed the line from rough housing to full-out domestic abuse. She stumbled back, fell onto her bed. She put her head in her hands and didn't stop me from leaving.


An hour later, I was sitting in Kyle's room, drunk, desperate to prove my masculinity to myself and anybody in the vicinity, and heartbroken. In hindsight, not a very smart combination.

Kyle was furious. I could see it his eyes the second he saw the bruise. It wasn't very bad-it didn't swell much, but it was pretty dark-but there was hate in his eyes. Kyle doesn't hate. He gets pissed, but he doesn't hate. I think I'd feel better if he hated me. I deserve it.

He was kneeling over me, holding an ice pack onto the bruise and ranting about something, but I was at that stage of drunkenness when everything seems like a good idea, consequences don't stretch past immediate cause and effect, and you know everything. I wasn't listening at all, but I was watching him speak. Watching his lips, I mean. How had I not noticed how pretty they are before?

He was close-really close, and warm. I took another long, leisurely gulp of cool Jack Daniel's, enjoying the faint burn of alcohol down my throat. He slid the drink out of my hands and it took me a second to notice that I'd emptied it. He set it aside and didn't offer me another, choosing instead to check on the status of my bruise. He winced.

He went to replace the soothing ice but I caught his wrist. I really couldn't tell you what was going through my head. His eyes were beautiful, I remember. From that proximity I could see the little flecks of gold and silver. Pretty.

Again, I really can't tell you what I was thinking. I laced my other hand in his hair-it was soft and the curls felt smooth against my palm. He was looking at me weird, a mixture of fond and confused. He smiled a little. I imagine I looked pretty out of it. I was pretty out of it. I mumbled something -I couldn't tell you what- and tugged him down to collapse against me. He was really, really warm. I remember now that the room was kinda chilly. He let me hug him, knowing I was an affectionate drunk, and sighed against my neck. I think I may have shivered, I'm not sure.

I'm not positive how it happened, but suddenly I was kissing him. His lips were soft and they tried to say something, but I wasn't even trying to listen. It felt great-like nothing else. A heady mix of pleasure and deep, profound satisfaction. His nails dug into my shoulders when I violated his mouth, and something in the back of my head reminded me that Kyle had never made out with anybody before. He didn't respond very much, but I'm going to cut myself some slack and chalk that up to inexperience.

I didn't like being under him -reminded me too much of Wendy- so I pushed him over. I don't remember what happened very well, but looking at him now, his lips are swollen and there are dark hickeys all over his neck. I very clearly remember that he told me to stop, told me no. I didn't listen.

Yes. I raped Kyle Isaiah Broflovski, Saint Isaiah, my super-best friend.

Wh-what? Of course he didn't like it, what the fuck is wrong with you? Goddamn fangirls.

Afterwards, we laid on the bed in silence. I was almost unconscious.

I'm almost ashamed of this. I'll think of it as a testimony to his strength. Saint Isaiah-still limping, still shaking-cleaned me up, got me dressed, made me drink some water, brushed my hair, tucked me in. I was kind of out of it, but I remember he was very gentle, almost hesitant, and didn't look me in the eye. His fingers shook a little, but his touch was just as loving and familiar as ever. Because he, unlike me, respected the title of Super-Best.


It's been three weeks. Kyle and I haven't spoken since that morning. I'll relate the conversation to you.



"... Look, dude, I-"

"I don't want to talk about it. Ever."


"I love you, I'm fine, it's okay, I don't blame you."

"I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven."


"It never happened."

We haven't spoken since. Not even hello. We've been glued at the hip, yeah, but not one word directed at one another. Maybe it's for the best. I almost cried when I saw him limping his first day back in school. I'm not sure if I could handle a conversation.


I was beyond furious when I Stan showed up in my room, crying pathetically and cradling his bruised cheek. I sat him down on my bed, got him an ice pack, and, at his pitiful request, some alcohol.

I let him have too much. I'm such a horrible friend.

I was kneeling over him, watching him nurse his glass bottle of Jack Daniel's and watch me with an expression akin to a fascinated child, full of innocent wonder and awe. I was rambling-about how he deserved better than Wendy, probably-and he took another heavy gulp of the heady liquid, emptying the bottle. I was transfixed, for a moment, by the sight of his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. The human body is fascinating.

I gently removed the icepack -and his empty bottle- and grimaced. The bruise was a little swollen and a dark bluish purple. Wendy fucking Testaburger.

I went to replace it, but Stan caught my wrist, giving me that enthralled look again. I smiled fondly at him, a little confused, when his other hand went to tangle in my hair. Stan will cuddle with anything once he had a beer or two in him. He murmured something like, "I love you." and I smiled., letting him tug me down into him, content to let him have his moment. He seemed genuinely happy to be hugging me, so I didn't see the issue.

But, then, all of sudden, his lips were on mine and his tongue (tasting sharply of alcohol) was in my mouth and I had no idea what to do. He pushed me back and started sucking at my neck and god it felt amazing. But Stan was drunk. I kept telling him no, trying to push him off of me, but he wasn't listening, too busy tearing off my clothes and biting my collar. I suppose I should've tried harder. For fuck's sake, he was drunk-how hard could it possibly be to control him?

Under different circumstances, I wouldn't have minded if Stan took my virginity. I trusted him, he knew what to do, and I loved him, however you want to take that.

But I was scared, my partner was drunk, I wasn't ready, and I wasn't expecting it. I cried into his neck when it became clear I wasn't getting away-when he was inside me. Don't get me wrong, he was gentle (though completely determined, nothing would sway him) and it felt amazing once I was used to it, but I was being used as rebound sex for my dead-drunk super best friend. Enough said.

I felt filthy when my cum splashed across my stomach and his coated my insides. It left me a little stricken, a little in-shock. I cried a little more before I robotically forced myself up. Stan needed to be taken care of.

After I put Stan to bed, I got in the shower and sat on the floor and cried. I cried and cried and cried because I was hurt and used and dirty and I let my drunk best friend fuck me.

I'm a horrible friend.

Eventually, I got out and slipped on some boxers and crawled into bed, curling up close to him because I desperately needed some sort of comfort.


The next morning, he looked ready to kill himself he was so guilty. Figures he'd blame himself. He kept trying to talk about it, kept trying to apologize, but I told him to pretend it never happened. I couldn't even look him in the eye. My fingers shook anytime he was around-which was almost always-and the silence was ready to drive me insane.

We didn't break schedule. We went to his house Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, my house Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, and Kenny's Sunday. We spent the night together at least twice a week, but all he did was stare at me and all I did was try to avoid touching him. We hadn't spoken in three weeks, other than him whispering something that sounded like it might've been my middle namein his sleep. He is so freaking weird, I swear.

Cartman was almost a relief. At least I could fucking talk, even if it's just insults.

I wasn't even listening. Just mumbling standard insults when he paused, staring fixedly at his shoes. One of them was double laced and the other triple. I wondered why.

Finally, he tilted my face up roughly, grabbing my cheek, and scanned my face, something like worry in his eyes. I know what he saw; deep bruises under my eyes, a hunted expression and a bit of exhaustion. Something else caught his eye as well, apparently, and he yanked my shirt off of my right shoulder, revealing a faded hickey over my collarbone. I absently wondered how he knew it was there.

Eric has always had an uncanny ability to jokingly guess exactly what happened, or close enough to it to hurt like a bitch. "Christ, Kahl." Eric scoffed, trying to mask his concern, "Did Stan fuck you?"

I blinked in shock, eyes welling with overwhelmed tears at the idea that Cartman knew. It was irrational, I know, but suddenly everything was way too much and all I could do was cry.

Cartman stumbled back a little in shock, smirk collapsing, and all I could do is lower my head and sob a little. I turned and barreled away, straight into Kenny standing behind me. I clung to him tightly and he led me away, the sound of Stan screaming at Cartman echoing through the school hallways as we escaped.


Once I was calm enough to cry quietly, Kenny wrapped an arm around my shoulders, cooing pleasant nonsense to me as he led me towards Stark's pond. I was a little out of it, though, so I don't remember what he said. He sat me down underneath a tree and I curled up beside him, laying my head on his lap as I tried to control myself properly.

Kenny and I, we're tight like that. Almost as tight as Stan and me.

Eventually, the tears stopped and he stroked my hair in a hypnotic manner that had me almost asleep before he asked quietly what had happened between me and Stan and why Eric had made me cry.

So I told him. Uncensored, exactly what happened three weeks ago when Stan broke up with Wendy and she disappeared.

He looked ready to kill, and I sat up, halfway afraid that he was angry at me. But his shaking fists weren't inching for my flesh, but Stan's. I reached up and grabbed his wrist, asking why.

"Don't you get it, Ky? He raped you."

He stalked off, presumably to murder Stan, with quick instructions to go to my house, get in bed and not leave until somebody got me, leaving me to stare after him and cry, because until he said it, no, I hadn't got it.

I don't know how long I cried there on the forest floor, freezing in the South Parkian breeze, hysteric with the realization that I'd let my best friend rape me.

Eventually, I got up, kind of numb, and followed instructions, burying myself into a cozy nest of blankets and pillows.

God, I'm such a horrible friend.


Stunned, I stumbled back, staring transfixed at the crystal tears tracking down his face, his emerald eyes shining with hurt. He turned and shot off, running into Kenny, who glared at me and halfway carried him off, leaving me to stare after them in shock. It took me a second to register Stan, screaming at me for bullying him.

I looked him in the eye and snarled, "You're the one who fucked him."

Two full grown teenage boys in less than five minutes, reduced to tears. That has got to be some sort of fucking record. I grabbed the pussy by the wrist and tugged him outside, to the courtyard, where we were relatively alone, I tossed him against the wall, crossed my arms in front of my chest, and demanded, "Explain why my Jew is crying. You have five seconds."

It took me two seconds to translate his sobs into English. It took three more seconds to remember that Kyle's middle name is Isaiah. It took me two seconds to get over the fact that he'd said Saint, four seconds for me to accept that Stan was serious.

Eleven seconds total for the statement, "I raped Saint Isaiah." to sink in. Eleven seconds from admission to brutal punishment in the form of a fist to his face.


I left him tied to the school flagpole. He didn't put up a fight, just sort of stood there. He carefully sank to a sitting position, hands tied behind his back, brought his knees up to his chest and cried. I kicked him in the side, getting a sharp gasp of pain, and growled out that I was going to go visit the Jew.

I found him in his bed, passed out but still trembling slightly, and I found himself stroking up and down his back in a motherly way. I paused, considering stopping, but he let out a little distressed noise and I resumed. My Jew, my responsibility.

I hope Kenny kills that bastard.


I found Stan crying and tied to the school's flagpole. I immediately felt guilty, even though I wasn't sure if it was my fault, yet. I still can't believe that I punched him, sweet little Stan. I don't even punch Bebe, and she's masochistic.

God, I'm such a fucking bitch. Thank god Bebe wants to be treated like shit.

I crouched down in front on him, and tilted his head up, revealing his heartbroken expression. "How long have you been here?" I demanded gently, watching him shrink back from me a little. It hurt, even if I deserved it.

"An hour or so." his voice cracked a little and he sobbed quietly. I sighed. "What happened?"

"After I left, Saint Isaiah helped me and gave me alcoand I got drunk and raped him."

I blinked a little, surprisingly calm. I always knew he loved Kyle more than me. As long as we were confessing things, though, I informed him, "I eloped with Bebe in Canada. Her name is Bebe Testaburger now." I showed him the ring on my finger and he smiled a little.

"I'm happy for you." he told me sincerely. He knew Bebe was my Kyle. I'm glad he'd gotten over me. Then again, it can't be too difficult to get over the girl who repeatedly hurt and humiliated you, both in public and in private.

"Here." I whispered, taking out my pocket knife and shifting around behind him. "Let's get you untied."

He rubbed his wrists and rolled his shoulders, grimacing, after I helped him up, and we wordlessly began walking. I don't know where we were going, and I don't think he did either.

"I think I broke Kyle." he whispered regretfully. "He cried today."

I patted him on the shoulder, brightening when I saw Kenny storming over. He'd know what to do about Stannyboy, he was one of his best friends! Kenny would comfort him and slap a band aid on the Style and everything would be just fi-


Stan hit the ground hard, holding his abused, split open cheek and staring pathetically up at Kenny, tears welling in his eyes again. He sobbed a little and the blond hoodrat's infuriated expression melted a little.

"You fucking raped Kyle, Stanley Randall Marsh, and he thinks it's his fault. You are going to go to his room, where he's probably crying his eyes out, and grovel at his feet because you love him and he's been head-over-heels for you for two years, and fix him before I castrate you and shove your dick down your fucking throat."

I blinked. Wow. And I thought I had anger issues.


I yanked the pathetic asshole to his feet and started to drag him away from the stupid dyke who started all this, resisting the urge to punch her, too. I was almost shaking in fury as I tugged him along, watching his kicked-puppy demeanor with a sneer.

"I should kill you." I snarled when we were out of sight of Wendy. "I know, I deserve it." he mumbled back, sounding heartbroken. I didn't let myself pity him, though, because he raped Kyle and that shit is unacceptable.

"You can't fucking rape Kyle." I voiced angrily.

"Saint Isaiah." he corrected brokenly, bowing his head.

I let it go.


I wasn't really too surprised to see Eric soothing Kyle in his sleep when I opened the door. They were closer than they let on, and I'd known that for years, even if they didn't. Eric glared hard at Stan for a second, before turning his attention to the little redhead and shaking his shoulders gently, whispering something to him. Kyle -Saint Isaiah- sat up, yawning and rubbing his eyes like a child. He smiled a little at the brunette, obviously feeling better, and slid his eyes over to us.

His smile faltered into a helpless expression and he curled his arms around his waist, hugging himself. "Hi, Stan." he murmured shyly. It broke my heart, really. Kyle isn't shy. Stan inched forward a little, glancing at me for permission. I nodded minutely and he shot forward, tackling his best friend to the bed and pressing his face into Kyle's chest, wailing, "I'm so sorry!"

Kyle stared down at the sobbing teen with a slightly frightened expression for a long moment, long enough that I stepped forward to pull Stan off of him, but suddenly, his eyes softened and and he wrapped his arms around his counterpart's shoulders lovingly. I sighed in relief.

"It's okay, Stan." he murmured, a small smile worming it's way onto his lips. Stan looked up at him with a serious, nervous expression and announced shakily, "I love you, Saint Isaiah."

Kyle giggled a little, sitting up and forcing the jackass back to sit on his calves. "Saint Isaiah? You know Judaism doesn't have Saints, right?"

Stan offered him a pathetic puppy dog pout and whined, "But I'm Christian!"

And then they were kissing and I had a feeling that they'd be alright.


My name is Ike Broflovski and three weeks ago I, due to severe sleep paralysis, was forced to listen to my older brother get raped by his super-best friend then proceed to cry in the shower while I stared helplessly at the ceiling. I can't even describe to you how painful that was. If you've ever listened to anybody being raped, you'll know what I'm talking about. Every little noise, every no, every moan, every thump of the headboard and creak of the mattress is torture.

Especially if you absolutely cannot move and its your brother and you can hear him crying. Especially if you know the rapist. Especially if they're literally five feet away from you.

The second I could move enough to stand, I was on my feet, stumbling a little as I hurried to make sure Kyle was okay, rushing into his room on numb legs. He was passed out, tucked into Stan's side and clinging to his shirt like a child to it's mother's skirt. I had to honest-to-Moses restrain myself from smothering that asshole, really. He hurt my big brother, my Aniki, my elder, my idol, the guy who saved me from so many bad decisions, has always been there for me and helped me with my homework and still let me sleep in his bed like a three year old when I had nightmares. He hurt Kyle and that shit is fucking unacceptable.

... Hey, don't tell him I cussed, okay? He'll be mad. But I digress.

I let them be and went back to my room and cried. I tried to keep out of the house as much as I could after that, because Kyle was so quiet and sad and skittish. Georgie and Dylan were happy about that, so I figured it was fine.

One day, nearly a week later, he wandered into my room late one night and crawled under the sheets. He hugged me to him like he did when I was little, back to chest with an arm around my waist, and pressed his face into my hair. "You're getting so big." His voice cracked a little. I grasped his hand gently, stroking my thumb over his trembling digits.

"So are you." I reminded him just as quietly. He pulled me closer and I sighed. "I heard, you know. What happened."

He tensed then relaxed, sobbing just a little bit. I let him cry against me until he slowly eased into sleep. Eventually, I fell asleep, too. He wasn't there when I woke up.


Three and a half weeks after the incident, I came home and walked into the living room to see Kyle, Stan, Kenny and Eric lounging around in a comfortable silence. My older brother and the asshole were sitting on the couch together, not looking at each other. After a moment, though, I recognized that something had changed. This wasn't the awkward, strained silence of the last couple weeks. This was awkward, happy silence. Kyle and Stan were both fiddling with their phones and I smirked a little as Kenny received two text messages, one right after the other.

Kenny checked his phone and face-palmed with a fond sigh of exasperation. "Do you both really just text me-simultaneously, might I add-asking if I think it's a good idea for you to hold hands?"

They both blushed and I snickered. Stan bowed his head and inquired a little shyly, "Saint Isaiah?"

Kyle shook his head, grabbing his hand with a blush of his own grumbling, "When are you going to stop calling me that?"

"When I stop feeling guilty."

"Enosiophobia." I chipped in with a raised eyebrow. They all turned to stare at me with a bemused expression and I elaborated, "Fear of having committed an unpardonable sin... Or of criticism, I guess. Listen, Stan, you want my forgiveness?" I offered. He tensed and glanced sideways at Kyle.

"He knows?"

Kyle gave him a look, the kind I see mom give dad when he's done something bad concerning me or him. "He heard."

Stan's eyes were open, eager, and apologetic. It gave me a sense of satisfaction. "Yeah, Ike. I do."

"C'mon." I mumbled, gesturing for him to follow me and heading off down the hallway. He trailed after me, sitting obediently on my bed when I told him to. What a power trip.

I looked him in the eye and he looked back earnestly. "Now, Stanley, if you want to date my brother-" "I do!" "-you need to be a proper gentlemen."

I tossed him a book of etiquette. He blinked at it. I rose my eyebrow at him. "You have a test over chapter one, lessons one, two, and three Tuesday." I prompted.

He cracked it open and started reading. "Being a Gentleman." he read aloud, giving me a look. I cracked a smile.

"Chivalry, Stanley, is a virtue."


I am so fucking exhausted.