South Park © Matt and Trey.

General Warning:

This story includes slash pairings, as well as heavy eating disorder content and may be triggering to some viewers. Please take care while reading. I would also like to add that this work is not pro mia in anyway, whatsoever. If you personally are struggling, please feel free to contact me at any time and I will be happy to direct you to support sources.

Sorry for the late update everyone! I promise more regular ones will be on the way. My partner has been recovering from a pretty severe illness, so we both kind of fell off the face of the earth for a while there, but we're back now!

Clyde's POV:

I don't know what the hell I'm doing and I don't think Stan does either, but it doesn't feel wrong so I don't stop.

Drunk Stan is timid and sweet, and laughs at his own jokes. His hair is so black and I wonder if he makes decisions like riding his skateboard down Main Street at 3 a.m. and gets up smiling if he falls.

This is drunk Stan. Drunk Stan has no inhibitions.

He's familiar.

He feels right and I'm slipping, slipping, slipping.

I'm melting into his arms and he's melting into my mouth and he tells me that he wants to go upstairs and I'm giddy and excited and don't care if people see us because my brain's moving a mile a minute and the stairs go on forever and I'm so, so drunk.

This is okay.

Stan is okay.

I am okay.

The next thing I know, Stan is hoisting me up, helping me up the stairs, and I feel like I'm climbing fucking Mt. Everest because every time I take a step there's one more stair to go and I've already lost count. His coat is still damp from the rain on our walk from the car to the house, and I'm holding onto his sleeves with all of my might because I know if I let go for even a second I will go toppling down that mountain.

Stan slams the door open on the first room he sees, which belongs to Bebe, and in two seconds flat I'm exactly where I was a few months ago, except this time with a boy on top of me.

His hands are up my shirt the second he has me down on that bed, and his tongue taste like rum as it clicks against my own.

The room is too warm and I'm too dizzy and Stan is kissing my neck so forcefully that I'm certain I'm bruising but he keeps coming back for more, more, more, and I want him to and I want his angry wet marks because I want all of this so, so badly.

In one smooth turn he dips his thigh down between my legs, and I'm forced to stifle a whimper as I slam up into him because he just feels so damn good against me.

I'm so hot and I'm just getting hotter because I never took off my dumb winter jacket—why didn't I take off my god damn jacket—why hasn't Stan taken off this stupid fucking jacket because I just want to feel his chest pressed on mine and I am on the verge of crying out of frustration like the baby I am when he looks me straight in the eyes, bends down, and whispers in my ear:

"Do I make you horny?"

I want to scream "Yes!" at the top of my lungs, but my body betrays me, so instead I just stare him down with double vision, letting out a strained yelp as he nips at my ear.

Stan slides one hand up my shirt and around and under my back, raising my hips off the bed and pushing up the fabric, revealing my stomach, which he bends down to kiss—lightly this time. With his free hand, he tugs at my jean fastenings, and I can tell he's had practice because in what feels like no time at all he has them unzipped and his fingers hooked in the elastic of my boxers.

He kisses me, starting at my chest and trailing down, down, down, sliding his tongue against my stomach as I shiver and arch my back and I know that I'm ready. I'm so, so ready.

Stan stops abruptly, and as I peer down over my chest I can make out his eyes flitting anxiously up and down, up and down my body as he mutters quietly:

"Is this alright?"

"Y-yeah." I stammer out, sucking in a deep breath.

"Okay." He says nervously, and it occurs to me that maybe he's never done something like this before—gone down on someone—gone down on a guy.

Me neither, though.

Before I have time to second guess myself, Stan has shot ahead and swallowed more than just his pride—licking a fat stripe up my shaft as I choke out a moan. Warmth floods over my entire body, and I squirm as his lips close around me.

He gags as he pushes deeper.

"Sorry." I hear him mutter, mouth still wrapped around my dick, but I don't respond because it's not cute and it's not pretty but fuck me if this doesn't feel good.

I can feel Stan gasping through his nose as I lift my hips off the bed, thrusting into his throat, and he digs his fingers into my thighs, letting out a quiet, pleasurable moan.

I want this so badly and I've always wanted this so badly and the only person I've ever wanted this from is Craig.

Craig.

Fuck.

The image of Craig sucking me off is so vivid that I almost lose it, clawing my way under Stan's stupid hat and tangling my fingers in his hair. I want Craig and I know he's the one but right now, in this moment, I want Stan.

This house—this bed—this boy.

I open my eyes and stare hazily at the ceiling. Bebe's room is dark like Stan's hair and he almost blends in as his head bobs slowly up and down. I watch him, panting, until a soft moan trembles through my body from Stan's mouth and I realize that he's been playing with himself with his free hand. The sight of it pushes me over the edge.

I arch my back and come so hard that it's humiliating and Stan coughs and sputters and tears away from me so fast I feel the urge to apologize. He stares at me, slack-jawed, for a second before he realizes that he's dribbled spooge onto his chin and my thigh. I quirk an eyebrow and his hand flies over his mouth, blushing furiously as he frantically tears a Kleenex from the tissue box by Bebe's bed and spits.

"God!" he exclaims, "They never tell you that it tastes so fucking shitty!"

"Sorry." I say shyly, wondering if this was all a mistake.

"Jesus, no! I wasn't you—" he says, tossing the tissue into a wastebasket by the door and laying down next to me, "You were great."

I fiddle with Bebe's red sheets as I feel myself blush.

"That was my first time doing something like that." I admit.

"No way, really?" Stan smirks, grinding up against me and planting a firm kiss on my lips.

He wasn't lying. That stuff does taste like fucking shit.

"Really."

I'm embarrassed, that's for sure, but Stan is smiling so sweetly that I can't help but feel tickled. Without a second thought, I bury my head into his chest, because I'm so tired and still drunk and we have to go to fucking class tomorrow. Jesus Christ. School. I had forgotten all about that. I'm going to have a killer hangover and I'm sure Stan will too. I hope we can nurse them together.

Beer and a fried egg. That's what Kenny always tells me cures a hangover, as long as you don't puke, that is. Maybe I'll cook for Stan tomorrow, if he wants.

God, I'm already too invested.

In what, though?

In sex? In a relationship? In Stan?

I peer up at him out of the corner of my eye, and he nestles his chin into my hair. His breathing is soft but erratic.

"I really think I like you." He says.

I really think I like Craig.

I really think I'm gay.

I really, really think I'm gay.

"Let's stay the night." I say quietly.

"Sure." He replies.