He knew in that moment that God truly hated him. Or his mother did. Someone in the sky was up there watching, wanting to make his life miserable. And so, because he didn't go to church much anymore, because he smoked, because he got high, because he cussed, because he skipped classes, because he left the toilet lid down, he was in his current situation. It was probably his mother. He could hear her laughter ringing in his head; he didn't really think God hated him—if Eric Cartman hadn't been killed by lightning yet, he didn't think he deserved something this horrible—but his mother? His mother would be angry with his life choices, especially the ones he had made lately. So, because he had beat off for a week straight to the thought of fucking a guy in the ass—because that definitely would have pushed her over the edge—he was being punished by. . . by. . . by. . .
"You're rich. Why can't you afford a bigger car?"
He should have splurged to buy the part he needed for his truck. He should have tried to get Craig to be the one to drive. He should have agreed to walk. Maybe then he wouldn't be stuck in the back of Token's smaller-than-seemingly-possible car with Tweek twitching and muttering up a storm on one side of him—of course the guy would be claustrophobic—and Jimmy's leg brace pressed against him on the other side. Why had they even brought Jimmy? The kid didn't hang out with them much anymore. He was funny though, and he wasn't Clyde's real problem—the boy who did hang out with them these days was, the boy that was sitting on his knees because they had one more person than they usually did with them and the car they were riding in was proof that Token wasn't compensating for something.
"You're good with mechanics. Why can't you fix your truck?"
Because he had spent the last of his money on porn, beer, weed, and a date with Annie that had gotten him no where, which Token knew. He didn't bother refraining from rolling his eyes, though Token couldn't see it anyway; the lucky bastard was in the driver's seat since it was, after all, his vehicle they were all crammed into. Craig was in the seat beside of him, which didn't make much sense; why not put the cripple in the front seat so he could get out more easily? Clyde didn't bother to refrain from grumbling—whinning, Craig called it—either, and Token turned up the radio to drown him out.
The music was upbeat and dirty, the lyrics blatantly about sex, and it was blasting from the speakers behind him; he would have been jealous of the bass system during different circumstances. It was something that would play at a party. It was something he would fuck to.
He was glad that when he groaned, his head falling on Pip's shoulder, the music drowned it out—for the most part; naturally Pip, who was oh-so-very close to him, heard. Another sign that his mother hated him.
"I'm terribly sorry, Clyde. I hope I don't weigh an awful lot."
Pip was underweight if anything, but Clyde didn't bother to tell him that; he was too busy chanting a mantra—he's just on my knees, he's just on my knees, he's just on my knees, it's not like he's sitting on my crotch, he's just on my knees—to even hear the boy. He heard Token though; the driver had turned off the music momentarily, and, after a few tries, had Clyde's attention—though Jimmy had had to tap him on the arm and Tweek had had to scream—something about them all going deaf—before it had happened. He raised his head from Pip's shoulder, sitting up straight; Token's expression—stern—wasn't one he liked, and it was aimed directly at him.
"I know you're not going to like it, but he's going to have to sit closer to your chest; we're pulling into North County now, and there are a lot more cops. I don't want a ticket, and the seat belt won't go over you guys if he's on your knees."
Yep. His mother hated him.
"No way."
He would get an erection if Pip actually sat on top of his dick—it was something he had imagined more than once that very week, but he didn't want to get a hard-on in front of his friends, especially if one of them was the cause of it and he freaked out.
When had he started thinking of Pip as a friend? When Cartman tried to pound on the kid? When he had started wanting to do a very different type of pounding with the boy? When he had tried teaching the Brit how to drive?
Huh.
Whatever.
"If you do it, I'll let you invite Bebe to the next party I have."
"And if you don't do it, we'll kick you out of the car."
There hadn't been a pause; both Craig and Token had expected his answer. They would have freaked out if he had given in. Or, at least, Token would have. Craig didn't really—why was he even thinking about how they would have reacted? How they did react was what he should have been focusing on.
Bebe.
He could invite Bebe.
Maybe she'd go as his date, if he told her it was the only way to get in.
Of course she'd go.
Maybe he could finally make it with her then.
Between Bebe and Pip, he'd definitely take Bebe.
Surely he could control himself during one car ride. . .
"Fine."
He uncrossed his arms—he couldn't remember crossing them in the first place—so the blonde could press up against his chest, and he prepared himself. He couldn't think of sex, couldn't think of bending Pip over, couldn't think of the Brit riding his cock, couldn't focus on the pressure of the boy's ass.
"I wouldn't mind to budge up."
Clyde didn't know what "budge up" meant, and he would guess that Token didn't either, but Pip was moving further up his legs until—it had been too long since he had had sex. The feeling of having someone on top of him, even though their skin wasn't actually touching because of their clothes, wasn't something he had experienced in a while, and he was having trouble focusing once again. Pip had fastened their seat belt, going by the click he heard—he hadn't honestly thought it would fit them—and he was sitting on his cock—his hands were on Clyde's knees—his legs were spread open—Clyde dropped his head back to Pip's shoulder—the blonde's legs were spreading further—he needed to calm down before he—fuck.
Pip was bouncing.
Pip was bouncing.
"Good."
Another click. Music again. But he didn't notice because Pip was sitting on his lap, and the road was bumpy, and he was bouncing, but not enough for it to be painful. Knowing that a problem was about to spring up if the Brit didn't hold still, Clyde's hands, strong from years of playing ball, moved to his hips.
"Hold still."
It had been whispered in Pip's ear, loud enough for only him to hear over the now-obvious music. He hoped the boy had missed how frantic his voice had sounded. Pip stilled as much as he could; he couldn't control the movement from the bumps in the road, but he stopped squirming, and Clyde's hands on him were helping.
"Terribly sorry. Maybe if you put your arms around my waist, it would—"
His mother was doing this. His mother was causing the string of potholes they seemed to be hitting. Or Token was doing it on purpose. It was probably his mother though.
He was definitely going to leave the toilet lid seat up when he got home.
"No."
Another pothole.
Sometimes he really hated his life.
"But—"
"It'll stop soon enough."
It did, after a few more excruciatingly enjoyable minutes passed, stop, but it was too late—Clyde Jr. had been awakened; thoughts of Clyde's dead mother couldn't even make him go back to sleep. Praying didn't even help, but he kept doing it in the hopes that Pip wouldn't notice that—
Despite how close they were together, Clyde was still surprised when he heard Pip's gasp over the music. His eyes darted to Jimmy to make sure the other boy hadn't heard anything; he knew Tweek would be too wrapped up in his own world—after that many bumps in the road, they'd have to drag him out—to notice anything. It seemed safe, but the relief didn't last.
"Clyde, you're—"
His hand went from Pip's hip to the blonde's mouth to cover it, but he dropped it quickly after realizing he would surely gather attention from the others that way.
"Don't say anything. It's not a big deal."
Why had he even been holding onto the boy's hip? It wasn't necessary anymore.
Because he had wanted to. Because he had wanted to fuck the kid senseless for days. Because he was a fucking idiot who liked a girl who hadn't paid him any attention in years, and who couldn't get laid even though he was on the football team, and who was still overweight, and—no. No. He was holding onto Pip's hip because the kid liked to squirm. That was it.
Right.
It was a nice hip though, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone. It felt better than Annie's had the night before when he had tried to dance with her.
His ego still hurt from that encounter.
And now Pip was going to make it hurt even more, because there was no way that—
"Would you like me to help with it?"
...What.
...What.
...What.
He hadn't heard—surely he—did he really just hear—Pip had to be messing with him, right?
The kid wasn't one for jokes though, at least not the cruel kind—and teasing Clyde would definitely fall under "cruel." He had sounded . . not exactly serious, but he had sounded like his usual chipper self. So why—there was still no way, but—why the fuck not? He would try to play it cool, and if Pip did whatever the fuck he was offering to do, that'd be fan-fucking-tastic, and if he didn't, at least he'd hate the boy enough to get him out of his head, right? . . . Right?
Right.
If that wasn't right, he'd break the boy's jaw.
"Sure."
His attempt at playing it cool had probably failed—his voice was shakier than he had intended—but Pip didn't seem to notice. The blonde, who seemed a lot calmer than Clyde felt—why the fuck was he so calm? Did he have a secret life where he was a prostitute or something? It was off-putting—took the hand that had been on his mouth moments before and placed it back on his hip. Clyde was curious, but he didn't pay the amount of attention to what the boy was doing that he wanted to; his eyes were moving from each of his friends. Jimmy was writing something, probably a new set of jokes, Tweek was curled into himself, Craig was staring out the window, and Token was staring ahead at the road. Good.
And then the last bit of reasonable thought he had flew out of his head as what Pip was planning became obvious; he was rocking back and forth. He was moving slowly so the others wouldn't notice anything, and there were still layers of clothing separating them, but he was moving. He was rocking back and forth. His ass, which Clyde had been jerking off to for days, was on top of his cock, and Clyde's hands were on Pip's hips, and the boy was rocking against him.
Fucking hell.
Snapping out of his short daze, he deciding to take advantage of the position of his hands; he guided Pip's movements, speeding them up, no longer concerned about being caught, and pressing the boy's ass more firmly against him; Pip had probably been afraid of hurting him, but Clyde needed friction.
"'Cause I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it. Sex in the air, I don't care, I love the smell of it."
He couldn't remember whose idea it was to listen to Rihanna. He couldn't remember calling them a fag for it. But it was making him harder, and he was grateful. It didn't feel like it was enough though—did he usually grunt this much when he jacked off? He didn't think so—and, without worrying about the others seeing, he buried his teeth into the back of Pip's neck, hair and all. The boy let out a small gasp of pain, but he didn't try to stop moving, and—fuck it. Clyde, deciding that it wasn't enough, started lifting Pip up the tiniest bit—the blonde would hit his head if he wasn't careful, not that Clyde thought that far ahead—and lowering him back down on his crotch.
Pip had gone back to bouncing, ironically being lifted up by the same hands that had held his hips down before in an attempt to keep him still.
Clyde didn't care much for irony at the moment—or ever. But especially at the moment.
He was getting close, the music seemingly becoming louder, when it ended—the music shut off, the fucking car shut off, and Pip was being still.
What the fuck?
"We're here."
Where was "here" again, and why should he give a fuck when he was trying to give a fuck?
Oh. Right. The movies.
He let his head fall back to hit the back of the seat.
He was sure Heaven was shaking from his mother's laughter.
CD/PP/TB/CT/JV/TT
"Heavens, the wind would feel lovely in my hair tonight. Would you mind ever-so-much to hold my hat for me, Clyde?"
It was a stupid idea, one that got a raised eyebrow from Craig and two from Token. Clyde went with it though, having nothing better to hide the obvious tent in his jeans with. He took the hat from Pip as he got out of the car, thankful that the boy didn't seem like he was going to say anything about their . . incident.
Clyde would have denied it if he had.
Or maybe he had dreamt it? He could have fallen asleep, had a wet dream, gotten hard, and Pip was just being nice.
That seemed more likely.
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He took his usual seat beside of Craig, who had Token on the other side of him. Beside of Token was Tweek; it was a horror movie, and Token knew from experience that he'd have to calm the twitchy blonde down. On Tweek's other side was Jimmy, and that only left—Pip was sitting down beside of him. Score.
When had he started to actually be happy when the blonde would sit next to him? When had he started to do it on purpose? When they became friends? Or after, sometime during Clyde's "wet dream about a Brit every night" phase? It didn't matter. He didn't care. Pip was sitting beside of him, and that meant that maybe—an idea came to him.
He was glad he had bought popcorn.
"Hey, help me eat some of this."
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Despite Craig giving him an expectant look during the commercials—which for Craig meant a raised eyebrow—which probably meant he was being obvious—Clyde didn't share food—he was glad he offered Pip some of his popcorn. The blonde didn't seem to realize what he was up to—he knew Pip could be oblivious at times, but he liked to think it was because he wasn't being as obvious as he had thought, he was being smooth—and by the time the movie was half an hour in, most of the popcorn was gone—which was, granted, more because of Clyde than Pip, but Pip was still reaching in to get some, so he was still brushing his hand against Clyde's crotch.
It wasn't anywhere near as good as the friction in the car had been, but it would do—for the moment.
It was when the movie reached the fifty minute mark that the bucket finally ran out. They had been reaching in to get some at the same time, their hands bumping into each other, and Pip had apologized, but Clyde didn't let him retract his hand. Instead, feeling cocky and brave, he took Pip's hand and pressed the palm of it against the bottom of the empty bucket, against his crotch. There was a small pause before he got the reaction he desired; Pip's hand was rubbing, and the bucket and his clothes were still in the way, and this still wasn't enough, would never be enough, and—
"Heavens, Clyde, if you wanted to finish what we started in the car, you should have just said so."
—it hadn't been a dream.
He didn't think Craig, who was immersed in his Harry Potter obsession—they were watching The Woman in Black—noticed when he abruptly stood, dropping the empty bucket to the floor in the process, the sound also going unnoticed.
"Come on."
He couldn't get to the restroom quickly enough.
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He had to be dreaming. There was no way that this was really happening. There was no way that he could finally be getting something—someone—he wanted. There was no way that he had just slammed Pip up against the restroom stall door. There was no way that he was kissing the blonde, especially not on the mouth, and that their fronts were pressed together so closely. There was no way that he had really just locked the stall door and that Pip's hands were running over his chest. There was no way that his hands were gripping Pip's ass, holding the boy close to him, their crotches pressed together. There was no way that he had just moaned into Pip's mouth, and there was definitely no fucking way that he was lifting Pip's legs to wrap around his waist, that they were thrusting against each other, that Pip's hips were snapping up to meet his. There was no way that it felt this good to be making out with another guy, to be touching another guy, to be wanting another guy.
But it did. And it was all true. And he wasn't dreaming.
God didn't hate him.
His mother could go suck a dick.
Would Pip suck his dick?
Pip had one hand on the back of Clyde's neck, fingers playing with the hair there—Clyde could remember one of the girls he had been with doing that to him, but he couldn't remember enjoying it—and the other on a shoulder.
One of his hands let go of Pip's ass to grab the hand holding onto his shoulder; he dropped the boy back to the ground, carefully, and pressed the hand against his crotch before moving his own hand back to Pip's ass. He began to knead it, and—fuck, he would hate himself for it, but he was going to stick his dick in that some day soon. For now though . . .
Pip, taking the hint, made quick work of Clyde's belt and zipper before tugging the boy's jeans down, along with his briefs. Clyde grunted as the cool air hit his skin, but Pip dropped his knees in front of him, and he forgot his discomfort. Clyde backed up a bit and turned so his back was pressed against the stall wall, and his legs opened. Pip was still in front of him, lips, bitten and swelling already from Clyde's rough kisses, parted in a smile. His hat had been knocked off at some point, probably when Clyde had slammed him against the stall door, and his hair was disheveled a bit. He was looking at Clyde in a way that Clyde couldn't recall ever being looked at, not even—especially not even—by the two sluts he had slept with—Pip actually looked like he wanted him. He looked happy. He looked—Clyde wouldn't admit it, but he looked sexy. And fuckable. Fuck, did he look fuckable.
"Suck it."
So, he was blunt; he had been a little bit rough, too. But Pip didn't seem to mind, and Clyde hadn't been laid in who-the-fuck-remembers-when. Besides, he had been drunk both times he had been laid, and not only had it apparently been bad—the girls wouldn't speak to him again—but he could barely remember it.
And maybe Clyde Donovan was a little bit kinky, but the Brit probably wouldn't mind that either.
Probably.
"All-righty-wighty!"
They were going to get caught. They were going to get caught because he was in a restroom stall with someone very loud and cheerful who shouldn't even be—oh.
Pip's hand was around him, jacking him, so fucking warm compared to the restroom, and his mouth was—fuck—his mouth was—he was sucking on Clyde's balls. His head was lowered, and his neck had to be hurting in that position, but he was—ooh. Clyde's head rolled back, hitting the stall with a hard thump, and his eyes slipped closed.
He could no longer see the blonde, but he could definitely feel him; he could feel the moist tongue lapping at his skin, he could feel the thumb running over the vein on the head of his cock, he could feel the hot mouth his balls were still being sucked into, he could feel the smooth hand running over his shaft. He could feel—he could feel—fucking mother of fuck. He could feel his nails dig into his palms as he tried to keep himself from cumming so quickly; he had been worked up for the last few hours, and he was so close, and there was a mouth waiting for his cum, and all he had to do was calm down long enough to give the order.
"S-stop. Stop."
He was panting. He was a jock, and a scrawny spazz of a boy had him panting—he hadn't even crammed his cock into the kid's mouth yet. Luckily for both of them, he was too turned on to be embarrassed though.
Pip pulled away from his testicles after a final few sucks—earning a grunt and another "stop." The blonde was smiling, always smiling, and—fuck—licking his lips like Clyde was the best fucking thing he had ever tasted. His eyes—Clyde would never admit it, but he had always liked Pip's eyes—were staring up at him, curious, and he was sucking on his fucking lips now and—fuck. He couldn't take it anymore. He had to have that mouth.
Hoping it would calm him down a bit so he would last longer, he doubled over a bit; his hands moved to Pip's neck, fingers going through hair, and his mouth met the other's. Pip's mouth opened instantly, giving him the access he craved, but instead of plundering it with his tongue, he took his time biting the other boy's mouth. He didn't see anything special about the taste—anything about his taste, not Pip's; Pip tasted fucking fantastic—so he finally gave up, letting his tongue ravish the Brit's mouth, letting it rub against Pip's tongue. It wasn't a battle for dominance; Pip was giving into him without any hesitation. It felt like . . it felt like what he imagined kissing a girl should feel like, but better.
He was turning into such a fag.
He broke the kiss, sucking on Pip's tongue for a moment before doing so, and straightened back up so he was leaning against the wall again; the kiss was riling him up more than calming him down. He left his hands in Pip's hair though, and the boy didn't close his mouth; it was his turn to be panting.
Pushing his hips up a bit and pushing Pip's head down, which the blonde let him do without any trouble, Clyde guided the tip of his prick to Pip's mouth. He rubbed it against the boy's bottom lip, smearing pre-cum on it; he was shaking, but he tried to ignore it, tried not to fucking explode.
Pip wasn't going to take the lead—Clyde was in complete control—so the Brit sat there on his knees patiently, letting Clyde do whatever he wanted.
"Take it into your mouth. As much as you can."
And so he did; he wrapped his lips around the head, sucking gently—at first. The sucking became stronger as Clyde's grunts grew louder; the brunette was no longer concerned with them getting caught—the whole town could cave in, and as long as Pip was still pressing his tongue against the underside of his cock, he wouldn't care.
Pip worked his way slowly down Clyde's shaft, hollowing out his cheeks as he did so, the hands in his hair helping guide him. It was a bit hard not to gag, but Pip was ever the optimist, and he wouldn't let a little choking stop him from helping a mate out. Besides, he had practiced enough times at home on a toy to not be terrible at keeping a stiffy down his throat. He was doing a rather good job, if he did say so himself—and going by Clyde's grunts, his friend agreed.
It was when Pip finally decided to take initiative, cupping Clyde's neglected balls in his hands, that the boy standing above him finally came—and hard. Pip hadn't had much of a warning; a long, drawn out moan, louder than the others, and fingers tightening around his hair, holding his head there, had been it. He couldn't pull off—Clyde was either determined to pour all of his load into his mouth or he was too out of it to realize what he was doing—so he was forced to swallow nearly all of it, save the small amount that escaped out of the corners of his mouth.
After emptying his cum into Pip's mouth, Clyde's knees finally gave out and he sunk to the floor, letting his friend go in the process.
If he was lucid, he would have imagined his mother screaming—because he was in a public bathroom, jeans pulled down to his ankles, and licking his own cum off of a boy's face after receiving a mind-shattering blowjob.
He had definitely been wrong about God hating him.
CD/PP/TB/CT/JV/TT
By the time they got back to the movie, a good deal of it had passed; Clyde wasn't even going to try to follow it, but if he had, he wouldn't have been able to figure out what was going on—he was too out of it. Had he really just. . . ? Pip was leaning against his arm though, probably tired, and Clyde didn't like it—he really hoped the kid didn't think they were in a relationship now—but the theatre was cold, and Pip had just done him a huge favor.
Without putting too much thought into it—because Clyde was still a bit of a homophobe, still hated a part of himself—he wrapped an arm around Pip's shoulders. Just for now, this would be fine. Just for. . .
He couldn't remember dosing off, but when Craig shook his shoulder, the movie had ended.
CD/PP/TB/CT/JV/TT
The trip back home was a quiet one. Jimmy had tried making small talk about the movie, but Tweek was a mess—the kid always was after seeing a horror movie—Craig wasn't in a talkative movie—as usual—Token was focused on the road, and the other two were dosing; Jimmy had taken the middle seat this time around so they wouldn't have to sit by Tweek, who was muttering to himself, since it was obvious the two of them were tired.
"I left my hat. . ."
Pip sounded exhausted; he had enjoyed the movie, but it was getting late, and though he didn't get off, getting Clyde off had been tiring. Besides, he was sitting on Clyde again, and the jock was oh-so-very warm. . . Arms went around his waist, pulling him closer to the other boy's chest.
"I'll get you another one."
Clyde was out of it—sex tended to do that to him, though he had always assumed it was because he was drunk at the time. But he had came harder than he could remember ever cumming before, the movie had bored him, the car was warm, and Pip was warmer. So if he made a promise about buying the boy a hat, a promise he wouldn't even remember later, it couldn't be held against him; he was fucking tired, and it was making him softer. He didn't even have the money to buy the kid a hat; he didn't have the money to fix up his truck, and he had had to borrow money from Craig to go to the stupid "fancy" theatre they had gone to tonight. He wasn't thinking about that at the moment though.
He would hate himself later, and he might even hate Pip, but, like last time, the boy would win him over.
This was one time he couldn't deny later though; the music had been turned down.
CD/PP/TB/CT/JV/TT
"Are they always so g-gay?"
"Yeah."
"They are not."
"What if they try to turn ME gay? Gah!"
"You'll wake them up."
"They're kind of c-cute."
"Don't tell Clyde that."
"What about P-Pip? He's not as ba-bad as I th-thought."
"He's not."
"I think it's safe to say Clyde agrees."
If Token noticed that Pip's clothes were scuffed from sitting on the floor, he was polite enough not to say anything to the others about it.