BY : RandomJaz
Category: +S through Z > South Park
Dragon prints: 7362
Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any of it's characters, nor do I profit from this fanfiction.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey, guys! Thanks for reading! 😊 And thank you to my Archive of Our Own commenters!


The likelihood of me ever topping Stan was equivalent to getting a snow storm in July. The jaws of life couldn't pry that ass open, not that I was ever interested in it. Being on the penetrating end, at all, didn't pass my mind until I had Mike on top of me asking for it.

Used to being on the receiving end of sex, I laid dumbstruck under him. Not to stereotype, but Mike's shoe and cosmetic collection should have tipped me off far earlier. He was a sensual, effeminate creature...who shamelessly shoved his ass in to Vlad's crotch like he couldn't get enough of it.

I was so worked up, I wanted to give him anything to keep things going. What he wanted was something I had no expertise in... I wouldn't know what the hell I was doing. Damn it! How was I going to say no to the seductive creature on top of me?

"About that..." I cleared my throat. "I've never done...that...before."

"Believe me, I was never under the impression Stan took it up the ass. I'm not asking you to literally be on top." Mike interjected, swiveling his hips for emphasis. "I'm sitting up here for a reason, Pete~"

Leaning over me, Mike stretched an arm out to one of his bedside drawers. He retrieved a bottle of real lubricant. Silicone lubricant. A decent sized bottle of it.

"Looks like you know what you're doing..."

"I like a smooth ride." He explained, inferring to the bottle in hand. "Silicone is the best choice for that."

"Stan used lotion on me..."

That appalled Mike. He paused, eyes darting down to my face. His sensual aura faltered like a record being scratching.

"Please tell me you're joking." His voice went flat.

"I'm not." I said, equally flat.

Being completely intimate with Stan was a fairly new thing. The first time he actually fucked me was months back, and it wasn't planned. I had no reason to buy lube before, I didn't think Stan and I would get that far.

He convinced me to go that far. I wanted to do anything I could to give him a reason to choose me. Lotion was all I had at my house to get the job done, at the time. It worked enough that Stan didn't see any imminent need to buy real lubricant.

He was paranoid being seen buying lube would somehow expose his secret. I could have easily gotten it myself. But, I held out the hope he'd care enough to get over his hang up and do it himself.

He didn't.

"If you were letting him put it in your ass, the least he could do is get the right lubricant." Mike criticized with blatant annoyance. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"The first few times weren't anything to write home about."

Instructing me to scoot back and sit up by the headboard, Mike poured the slippery substance directly in to his hand to spread it over me. I shuddered at the slick, oily feeling. Perfectly smooth, like gliding through velvet.

"THAT'S what lubricant is supposed to feel like." Pumping me so that I could get a real feel for it, Mike liberally slicked me down. "The nerve of some people, I swear. Lotion should only be used as a last resort if you have absolutely nothing else."

"You want to...a-ah...go t-tell him that?"

"No, baby bat. Stan can stick it in a rusty keyhole, for all I care. I have better things to do."

When he stopped touching me, my disappointment only lasted a moment. Mike used the residual lubricant on his hand to wet his entrance before raising his waist to hover over my cock. He carefully, but without hesitation, sat himself down on it.

His body resisted at first, as was the natural response. But pressing down, he relaxed, easily willing himself to open up. Hands positioned on my shoulders, Mike sunk over my erection inch by inch, letting gravity assist in easing him down.

"Jesus Christ..." I muttered when he bestowed that tight, slippery heat upon me, eyes almost rolling to the back of my head.

Stan's obsession with my ass felt less depraved, now. I could understand why he always wanted a piece of it...this is what it was like for him?

Mike took it in the ass more gracefully than I did. There was a touch of color to his cheeks, and he visibly had to focus on what he was doing, but he made it look easy. The lubricant probably helped, but that was all him.

If it were me in his position, I'd have been squirming and doing all I could to keep it contained. My whole face would be warm, and it would have taken me longer to get it all in me. Stan got his perverted satisfaction from it plenty of times.

He liked seeing me reduced to a whining, squirming mess. Keeping a tough, abrasive persona wasn't the easiest thing to do with seven or eight inches plunged in your asshole. Sure, I tried...but, a yelp here and restless wiggle there, and I lost my intimidating qualities.

"You made that look easy." With contained envious admiration, I relished the sight of Mike's tall, slender body perched on top of me.

"You haven't seen anything." He purred, rolling his hips to loosen himself up in preparation.

He was hot and tight inside, welcoming me in. I could faintly feel his pulse from inside him, and his entrance contracting around me in a soft rhythm. Nothing erotically mind-blowing was happening, but the sight and feel of him sent my heartrate soaring.


"Mm, I know." He started a languid ride in my lap. "That's it, baby bat. Just enjoy."

He perched his hips back, gyrating. Mike moved fluidly, waist pivoting in a smooth rhythm. He looked weightless.

It was my first time seeing all of him bared like that, without a spec of clothing. Mike was thin, but looked healthy. Unlike me.

I couldn't see his ribs beginning to emerge under his skin. His pale coloring still had a radiant hue to it. He was vibrant and perfectly well.

He glowed with air of mystery and comfort to him. He was like staring up at the moon. Mike was gorgeous.

My head tipped forward to rest on his chest, my hands gripping at the tops of his thighs. Knowing exactly what he wanted, Mike angled himself down to hit his sweet spot each time his ass came down in my lap.

The television left unwatched in the background provided white noise. It was in combination with the rustling of the sheets and light clatter of the headboard behind me. Pinned between the headboard and Mike's body, I was rooted where I was.

With me propped up against it, Mike easily utilized the leverage. He was in tune with his body, taking me along for the blissful ride. The mattress beneath us was moving with his momentum, but all I felt was him.

"Oh, I'm starting to get close..." His fingers twined in my hair, holding me by the back of my skull, clutching me close to his chest. "...Pete...yes...aah..."

Mike's rhythm picked up. My hands flew up to hold him by the hips when his downward thrusts became short and precise. Mike impaled himself quickly, spurred on by my pleasured groans.

His were musical. I wanted to memorize the sound of him. I'd replay it in my mind for weeks.

"Ah, ah, ah..." he vocalized high in his throat, breathy and simply beautiful. "Oh, right there...aaah..."

Hearing Mike enjoy himself in unison with me, I wanted him to reach the threshold. I was more invested in his climax than my own. It dangled just within reach, I could have it at any moment. I didn't want it without him.

Concentrating, he focused his pelvis to come down in the same spot over and over again. I was falling apart under him, on the cusp of losing it when he began grinding and rolling his hips in a calculated frenzy between each downward thrust.

"Mike, I'm cumming-" I clutched him urgently, perilously close to climax. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Mike's voice cut through the air of the thankfully empty house. It tipped me over the edge and he got a load in that tight, little ass of his. He gave a series of pleasured cries in the throws of orgasm, riding it out with gusto while I trembled and groaned with the aftershock.

He did the work, and I sat there panting and exhausted, totally winded from the intensity of it.

"That... was amazing."

"Wasn't it?" Mike agreed, bringing his hips to a graduated stop. "Catch your breath, because I'm not done with you~"


"Pete, I bought you a shirt for Thanksgiving. Here."

From a shopping bag, my mother revealed a collared, button up dress shirt. It was bright white with long sleeves. It wasn't atrocious. I couldn't help but glower at it, though. Ugh, it looked straight off the rack from some department store.

"I got white because I wanted to break up the black a little." She reasoned, knowing without question that I'd be wearing the shirt with black slacks, shoes and blazer. "You only have to wear it for today. Everyone's coming to our house to eat."

"I know, Mom..."

"Wear a tie with it.

It wasn't even Nine in the morning. In pajamas, I waited for my coffee to brew with sleep bogging me down.

Boxes of stuffing mix were on the counter, next to some onions, celery, and butter so Mom could cook it. Pies were in the fridge and she bought bread rolls. The turkey was going in the oven and everyone else would be bringing the other dishes.

With an apron on over her pajamas, my mom tucked her short red hair behind her ears. The bobbed-cut came down just past her chin.

"I need to season this bird and get it in the oven." She mused aloud, eyeing the thawed turkey still encased in plastic. "It's going to take hours to cook."

She was having a conversation with herself, it didn't dawn on her. I put together my coffee, minding my own existence when the couch gremlin appeared. Disheveled and in need of a shave, he took my spot by the coffee machine when I brought my mug over to the pantry to grab a pop-tart.

"Would it have killed you to make a mug for your old man?" My sperm donor admonished me, glowering as he fixed himself a mug with what was left in the pot.

"You have two arms and legs." I deadpanned.

Mom plunked a roasting pan down with an audible slam.

"You're a grown man." She told him. "Make your own damn coffee."

"Take his side. Nice. Spoil him some more."

Spoiled? That was laughable. But, by his definition, fending for only myself made me spoiled. The pop-tart in my hand pissed him off.

"You get his fucking sugar bricks, but I ask for a box of cereal and I get fuck-all."

"I'm not doing this with you." Mom brushed him off. "If you need something to do, go shower and shave. You look like a dirty bum."

"You don't treat me any better."

"How's your girlfriend?"
"Oh, here we go."

I evaporated in to this air in the start of their squabble. I took my breakfast and shirt up to my room. At least the pop-tarts were strawberry.

The outfit my mother wanted me to wear for the holiday wasn't the biggest eyesore I'd ever seen. My purple and black choker helped dust off the conformist vibe just enough that I could tolerate it. My relatives were going to be the real challenge, later.

"Peter, you look like you're dressed for a funeral."

"Nice to see you, too, Grandpa..."

The doorbell rang, which Mom asked me to get. Hobbling in with his cane, my grandfather had my grandmother right behind him. She could still walk around unassisted, but my aunt anxiously followed behind them both up the front steps

"It's a sharp outfit." My grandmother assured me.

"Thanks, Grandma..."

She gave me a pat to the arm with her wrinkled hand. My aunts husband came in with a covered pot, her four kids filing in behind him. The three oldest were boys, ages nine, eleven, and thirteen, carrying different containers that would be going to the kitchen. The youngest, she was six, only a stuffed animal tucked in the bend of her arm.

When everything was set down, the boys were pestering their parents for the play stuff they'd left in the car. They were already restless. Dinner wasn't for a while and they wanted to kill time.

"Okay, okay. Ricky, here." My aunt handed the oldest the car keys. "Lock the car when you guys are done and bring me back the keys."

They brought a football, whiffle ball and field hockey equipment, to play with when the other cousins showed up with their parents. Another triage of grade school boys arrived, along with a toddler. With the exception of the six-year-old girl, the toddler, and my eighteen-year-old self, all the cousins were in that tween and early teen age group.

If I'd been a social person, the dramatic age gap would be unfortunate. What was actually unfortunate about that age gap, was being the oldest. Six tween boys wanted to play outside, but none of the adults wanted to babysit them, more interested in mingling inside the house.

"Pete, could you do me a favor?" My mother poked her head out of the kitchen where everyone was seated at the dining table for coffee and idle conversation. "The kids want to play outside in the backyard. Someone needs to keep an eye on them."

With some hot apple cider, a notebook, and pen, I sat outside on the old swinging loveseat "babysitting". Mom didn't expect me to actively watch them. All I had to do was make sure total anarchy didn't break out.

Running around the yard with plastic hockey sticks in hand, the kids kept the rough-housing to an acceptable level. Half way through some newly constructed poetry, I got a message from Mike asking how I was. I told him I was at home bored, not really doing anything, omitting that I was technically appointed as a temporary babysitter.

The doorbell rang maybe fifteen minutes later. I didn't bother guessing which one of my dad's relatives decided to drop in. The sliding door to the backyard opened.

"He's right out here." Mom said to someone. "You can go on ahead."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

I waited for Mom to shut the sliding door before saying anything.

"You're a terrible vampire."

"We're still on that?"

"You invite yourself a lot, is all I'm saying."

Joining me on the swinging loveseat, Mike crossed one leg over the other. His heel-boots were replaced with a pair of flat, polished black loafers. He had black straight leg pants on with a slim matching long-sleeved dress shirt with cufflinks at his wrists. A fitted gray vest laid over the dress shirt, two rows of silver buttons going down the front in parallel lines.

All he needed were his fake fangs and a cape, Mike would have elegantly passed for a modern-day Dracula. He was well put together and presentable, still managing to hold on to his signature vampiric element. The black batwing earing he wore was replaced with a small black hoop.

Since his hair was tied at the back in a low ponytail, I could see he had a matching hoop on the other ear. The ponytail look wasn't on the list of my favorite styles for a guy. On Mike, I liked it. I thought he looked really good today, actually. I kept that bit of information to myself.

"Just eyeliner, today?" I asked him.

"As accepting as my parents are of me, I can't say all my relatives share their mentality. I tone it down for family events."

"I didn't know Hot Topic had a formal collection."

Quick and suave to the draw, Mike tilted his head, inspecting me from head to toe in a flash.

"Aren't you late for a poetry slam at the cemetery?" He countered.

"Not as late as you are to that business trip in Transylvania." I shot back at him just as quickly.

Mike raised a brow, challengingly.

"Adam Lambert called. He wants his look back. You know, the one from 2009."

"Did he call before, or after, you exchanged nudes?"

"Actually, he sent me yours."

"Twilight twink."

"Gothic gay lord."

At an evident stalemate, I nodded solemnly.

"Shots have been fired."

"Indeed, they have." Mike agreed.

The banter was harmless. I didn't have to laugh for him to know that. He smirked at my deceptive apathy, seeing it for the ruse that it was.

"You're something else, Pete." He started, distracted by something all of a sudden. "...Um, is there any particular reason that child is being chased with hockey sticks?"

In the yard, the oldest of my younger cousins, Ricky, was being chased by armed tweens.

"What the fuck are you Muppets doing?" I asked them because I was utterly confused, not because I was the least bit concerned or cared.

"We're playing angry mob."

This looked to be a game that Ricky was voted out five to one on. He never consented to it, thus he ran like hell.

The sliding door opened, my six-year-old cousin, Suzy, poking her head of strawberry blonde hair out. She watched her oldest brother being hunted down.

"I wanna play!" She declared, abandoning her coloring book and crayons in the living room.

Suzy came up to the loveseat, tugging at my pant leg gently with her small hand.

"Pete, I wanna play." She pleaded, looking for permission to join. "Can I play? Please?"

"Are you not going to say anything!?" Ricky demanded, still in hot pursuit by five abled-bodied boys.

"Use the rake and shovel." I encouraged the group. "They're by the fence."

There was a cussing fit worthy of a sailor, followed by terrified screams. I handed Suzy the bright orange wiffleball bat the other kids had left lying around on the patio.

"There you go. Run fast, Suzy."

"I will." She carefully put her stuffed rabbit in my lap. "Watch Snowball."

Being six, Suzy couldn't keep up with the group. She had a blast, anyways. Watching them run back and forth was like watching a tennis match: Look left, look right. Look left, look right.



"Who the hell put you in charge of these kids?"

There was more terrified screaming, this time with Suzy chasing after the group giggling.

"My mom." I answered, Mike. "You reporting her to your dad?"

"Pft. Depending how this ends, I might have to."

Picking my cup of apple cider up off the patio, I took a sip, lax and care free. I didn't give a fuck.

Run children, run. Let the world burn.

After running close to a mile in the backyard, Ricky came to an epiphany. He bolted towards the house for sanctuary.

"WEAK CUNTS!" He bellowed victoriously, at the top of his lungs.

Needless to say, I came life-threateningly close to inhaling apple cider. Ricky made it inside the house, two middle fingers held up high. Mike completely lost his shit laughing, simultaneously patting my back in an effort to save my life while I coughed.

No more than two minutes later, my mom came out, just as confused as I'd been when the kids started playing Angry Mob to begin with. She didn't have to say a word, I heard the question loud and clear.

"He was being chased with hockey sticks."

I could see the gears turning in my mother's head.

"...Why was he being chased with hockey sticks?"

"Isn't that how you play hockey?"

Mike was wheezing. He couldn't get enough air in, clutching at his sides. I almost started cracking up with him.

"No." Knowing damn well I was full of shit, my mother shook her head at me. "That isn't how you play hockey, Pete."

"My bad, then."

Mom tried to scold me, but the gravity of the situation weighed down on her and she laughed.

"Pft...Pete..." She pulled herself together, covering her mouth for a moment, giving me as serious a face she could muster. "Everyone needs to behave. That includes you."

Suzy came over, dragging the wiffleball bat down by her side.

"Pete, I don't need this anymore." she announced matter of fact, dropping it unceremoniously by my feet.

She then turned to face my mother seriously.

"Aunty, what's a cunt?"


Additional (WILD) author's note: This Thanksgiving fiasco is loosely based off some of my own family get togethers in Highschool. Before anyone asks: Yes, I was Pete. The oldest, goth, and everything. It was super difficult getting through this chapter because I was laughing pretty hard remembering it

*Shrugs* The adults were drunk. My younger cousins had A LOT of energy to burn through, and I was bored. Everyone lived, no one got hurt LOL

They used a variety of "weapons": Whiffle ball bats, pool noodles, and those long wrapping paper tubes that break super easily. There was also a squeaky inflatable hammer that I won from an arcade, and for whatever fucking reason, a bag of sliced bread. (Yes, you read that correctly. A bag of sliced bread.)

Imagine watching your most annoying relative being chased by someone swinging a bag of bread. (Hysterical). In the end, it was all dented, smushed and fucked up. Being the asshole I am, I told my cousin to put it back in the kitchen where he originally found it to begin with. I, personally, spit out my drink when my aunt came out later asking what happened to the bread.

May it also be noted that we didn't call it "Angry Mob". We called it "Scared Pinata". I'll let y'all take a wild guess as to why. Can't make this shit up, guys. Absolutely wild, and I regret nothing xD



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