[FANFIC] Too Fast - Damien/Stan
Title: Too Fast
Author: ienvy
Fandom: South Park
Pairing: Damien/Stan
Rating: NC-17
Summary: #7 Awakening The Table
Warnings: This fic contains sexual themes. If you chose to read this, you are agreeing that you are legally allowed to view material with adult themes.
Notes: Written for kyuubikun ; Sorry this seems to very rushed. D: I had an idea going and then lost it. Also, sorry it's taking so long to fill the requests~
Damien had learned, at a young age, that being different was nothing to take pride in. If you were different, you were strange. If you were different, those tiny, unique quirks were turned against you. If you were different, you were fair game on the field of bullying. People didn't care how you were different, they didn't bother to ask how these things could affect them or even if they were good or evil. No, you were strange and funny and that's all that truly mattered. And, being the son of Satan, the other children had found plenty of things to torment him about.
When they made the transitioning leap from junior high to high school, everything changed. Suddenly, it wasn't cool to be like everyone else. People split off from their original groups and had become isolated from the ones they had once shared lunch with. Stan had joined the jocks. Kyle had joined the nerds. Kenny, the potheads. Pip, the foreigners. Clyde, the geeks. Craig, the loners. Tweek, the spazzes. Token, the black kids. Damien had even joined with the black kids upon finding all other solutions were either irritating or stupid.
Everyone seemed able to neatly slide into a nitch and, once there, no one ever bothered them again.
That was, until partner projects came around. Usually these were avoided by two options: Pick your own partner or do it yourself. Unfortunately, by the time the room had cleared and a jock as paired with a jock, a slut with a slut, a nerd with a nerd and so on, the only ones left standing were Damien and Stan, both glancing across the room at one another with a mild look of surprise or irritation.
Both had immediately glared at one another, practically refusing to give the other an inch of moving room or even a voice in how he thought the project should be done. It got to the point where they hadn't finished anything at all and the bell was ringing to signal their dismissal.
"Fine, since you're making this so hard," Stan had huffed, shifting to press a piece of paper into Damien's palm. "Come over to my house so we can get this stupid thing done."
As Stan sauntered off to join his group of friends (no doubt all making fun of him now), Damien couldn't help the mild surprise creeping onto his face as he stared at the note, address scribbled quickly, digits added beneath it.
The signs the other was giving were undeniably there, undeniably the right ones. Stan was the key.
Damien stowed the note away as he watched Stan, dark black eyes suddenly hungry for more, suddenly growing into his 17-year old body all at once. He dragged his tongue over his lips and vowed he wouldn't screw this up. It was good to be different, right? He would show them what different really meant.
---
Stan Marsh had to close his bedroom door by the time Damien had arrived, wincing at the sort of final noise that it made when it clicked shut. The screams of his parents from downstairs seemed to grow louder and he winced, glancing to Damien and away again. It wasn't like the self-proclaimed son of Satan would care or even be able to relate to the problems the Marsh family currently suffered from. His father's addiction to alcohol had grown slowly and progressively worse over the years until it became something too infuriating for the women of the household to handle. Stan wouldn't be able to understand how they thought, but would have preferred it if they would all just stop screaming for once.
"Nice place," the goth kid had commented, his arms folded neatly over his slender yet strong chest. Stan couldn't tell if Damien was being serious or if he was trying to make a snide remark. He was still a complete mystery to the majority of their year. No one ever truly claimed him as a friend, no one bothered to prattle off his characteristics or a funny story about him. No, Damien just snuck right beneath the radar, become such a tiny blip that he was little more than just there.
"So, about this project..." Stan said after the other had planted himself down on the floor nearby, moving to lean against the bed, a casual look on his face. "We just gotta make some faggy little kindergarten bullshit and turn it in?"
Damien didn't answer and it took only moments for Stan to figure out that the other simply wasn't listening. That wasn't what bothered him, though. What bothered him was that Damien was staring right forward, right at Stan, seeing but not hearing. It was a look Stan had been familiar with, a look that Kenny, drunken to the point of stupidity, had given him time after time again when sneaking into his room to hide away somewhere. A look he had never truly acted upon, but it was a look none the less. And now he was getting it from Damien, whom he didn't exactly trust - at all.
"Uh," he tried to clear his throat, to maybe break whatever spell it was that the other found himself attracted to. "Damien?"
The sound of his own name must have stirred him slightly because he glanced up, dark eyes wandering to trace Stan's expression, the facial features, the way those hardly there lines appeared whenever he frowned. "It has to be this way." Though he did not want to say it, he did. He was irritated by the irrationality that had taken him by surprise, but he had said it either way.
"Excuse me?"
"It is written." Damien murmured as he leaned forward, solid black eyes locked on target.
Stan couldn't help himself, moving away as Damien inched closer. "Dude," he said, nose wrinkling. "Stop talking like a fag."
"You are the first." He obviously didn't hear the insult and crept even closer, crawling up and slightly on top of Stan.
"Fucking sick, dude, get away from me!" Stan Marsh yelled, trying to squirm away from the tight grip now binding his wrist in one spot.
"You are the one who will give us the power to rise, the key to unleashing hell."
This gave Stan pause. He stared at Damien, who was leaning ever more closer, his brow furrowing in concentration. "... What." It wasn't even a question. How could he, Stanley Marsh, the most average teenage boy on the planet, be the key to unleashing hell? It made no sense. Wasn't the Apocalypse (if that's what Damien was trying to get at) supposed to be started by some dark, evil, brooding teenager? Not some jock who blended in with just about every other student.
"It's you."
"How do you know it's me?"
"I just do." Damien's black eyes seemed to darken at his words and it didn't help the uneasiness already creeping over Stan. Not. One. Bit.
"But how?" Stan was insistent, not even paying heed to the fact that Damien was slowly gaining leverage over him.
"There are..." He paused, brow flicking down, as if unsure of what to say. "Certain... signs."
Before Stan could ask what these signs were, the son of Satan was pressing hard against him, hands already scrambling to cup his crotch as lips, so perfect that made Stan forget where he was for a moment, met with his own. And for a second, just enjoying those damned lips against his own, listening to the quiet murmurings that flitted throughout the room, Stan allowed himself to be captured. That one second was all it took to seal him in a bond that would last the rest of his life... or at least until he opened the gates to hell.
"You're mine, now." The deep voice, which had once been so high pitched it was ridiculous, in his ear nearly gave him cause to shiver. Shiver? What was he turning into? Some fairy princess? A sort mutter of Latin words served as a reminder, as if he would be able to forget something as strange as the Anti-Christ practically raping him. He said practically because, amid all of this, he wasn't sure if he wanted it or not. Sure, he had never thought himself to be gay and in a normal situation he would have been horrified to have some guy crawling on top of him. But this was Damien, of all people, who somehow... somehow... Stan arched his body up and against the other, surrendering.
Damien's lips were too good to be true, too sinful to be really that bad. He had all but kissed the life from Stan by the time he had managed out a quiet, pleading, desiring, whispering, drunken, 'Yes' - which was all the permission that Damien needed. The Devil's son descended upon his body, biting and scratching until his partner cried out, until dark bruises formed and blood dripped down along the pallid form. He paid no attention to the small injuries that others may have worried about. Under his spell, Stan was in the happiest place in the world. He could feel only the pleasure, not the pain, feel only the amazing touches where lips left their mark and not the bruising force with which they kissed.
By this point, Stan was all but fumbling to undo his jeans, squirming on the floor, his hips twisting to press up and against Damien's, quiet 'yes's and pleas still passing through his parted lips. Obliged, the dark boy would not stop. Not until it was finished. He felt the stir of his own arousal, felt it as it twitched upward and desired to take care of it first, but held himself back. Stan was grinding into him, making it that much harder, and Damien's quiet grunts were almost the only sound in the small bedroom, aside from Stan's cries and desperate demands for more, which he was more than happy to supply if only the other would stop all the moving, humping and grinding. It was getting harder to concentrate on the task at hand.
"Stop," he tried to order the other, but Stan wouldn't hear it. He was too far gone in the twists of demon seduction and Damien silently cursed himself for pushing Stan that far into lust. He struggled to reel him back in, biting hard on his skin every now and then to jolt the other into reality. But he didn't stay there very long and was soon back to begging and grinding. At this rate, Damien wouldn't have a choice but to open the gate, whether Stan would be completely ready or not.
"Please, I want..." Stan gasped loudly, his back arching slowly, hips twisting and rolling as they struggled to find a good point of friction. "-it, so bad... -so bad."
Damien knew the other was lying. Knew that he was past that point where pain wouldn't register, where nothing mattered except for sex. It irritated and infuriated him, to know that no matter what partner he chose to use to unleash the beginning of the end, they would always be willing simply because he had that power over them. Disgusted and, admittedly, repulsed by the idea (yet again) Damien was pushing himself off of Stan, casting a fleeting glance as the boy squirmed and writhed on the bed. Moments after he had took a step away, Stan's hand was already running down to palm himself, to entice sweet, back arching, toe curling moans from his lips.
They would never see him. They wouldn't remember. It was better that way. He had to tell himself these things repeatedly, even while watching Stan stroke himself while imagining it was really some girl doing it. He knew it had to be this way. A human would break so easily, if it were done any other way.
And Damien really couldn't bear to see Stan break.
Author: ienvy
Fandom: South Park
Pairing: Damien/Stan
Rating: NC-17
Summary: #7 Awakening The Table
Warnings: This fic contains sexual themes. If you chose to read this, you are agreeing that you are legally allowed to view material with adult themes.
Notes: Written for kyuubikun ; Sorry this seems to very rushed. D: I had an idea going and then lost it. Also, sorry it's taking so long to fill the requests~
Damien had learned, at a young age, that being different was nothing to take pride in. If you were different, you were strange. If you were different, those tiny, unique quirks were turned against you. If you were different, you were fair game on the field of bullying. People didn't care how you were different, they didn't bother to ask how these things could affect them or even if they were good or evil. No, you were strange and funny and that's all that truly mattered. And, being the son of Satan, the other children had found plenty of things to torment him about.
When they made the transitioning leap from junior high to high school, everything changed. Suddenly, it wasn't cool to be like everyone else. People split off from their original groups and had become isolated from the ones they had once shared lunch with. Stan had joined the jocks. Kyle had joined the nerds. Kenny, the potheads. Pip, the foreigners. Clyde, the geeks. Craig, the loners. Tweek, the spazzes. Token, the black kids. Damien had even joined with the black kids upon finding all other solutions were either irritating or stupid.
Everyone seemed able to neatly slide into a nitch and, once there, no one ever bothered them again.
That was, until partner projects came around. Usually these were avoided by two options: Pick your own partner or do it yourself. Unfortunately, by the time the room had cleared and a jock as paired with a jock, a slut with a slut, a nerd with a nerd and so on, the only ones left standing were Damien and Stan, both glancing across the room at one another with a mild look of surprise or irritation.
Both had immediately glared at one another, practically refusing to give the other an inch of moving room or even a voice in how he thought the project should be done. It got to the point where they hadn't finished anything at all and the bell was ringing to signal their dismissal.
"Fine, since you're making this so hard," Stan had huffed, shifting to press a piece of paper into Damien's palm. "Come over to my house so we can get this stupid thing done."
As Stan sauntered off to join his group of friends (no doubt all making fun of him now), Damien couldn't help the mild surprise creeping onto his face as he stared at the note, address scribbled quickly, digits added beneath it.
The signs the other was giving were undeniably there, undeniably the right ones. Stan was the key.
Damien stowed the note away as he watched Stan, dark black eyes suddenly hungry for more, suddenly growing into his 17-year old body all at once. He dragged his tongue over his lips and vowed he wouldn't screw this up. It was good to be different, right? He would show them what different really meant.
---
Stan Marsh had to close his bedroom door by the time Damien had arrived, wincing at the sort of final noise that it made when it clicked shut. The screams of his parents from downstairs seemed to grow louder and he winced, glancing to Damien and away again. It wasn't like the self-proclaimed son of Satan would care or even be able to relate to the problems the Marsh family currently suffered from. His father's addiction to alcohol had grown slowly and progressively worse over the years until it became something too infuriating for the women of the household to handle. Stan wouldn't be able to understand how they thought, but would have preferred it if they would all just stop screaming for once.
"Nice place," the goth kid had commented, his arms folded neatly over his slender yet strong chest. Stan couldn't tell if Damien was being serious or if he was trying to make a snide remark. He was still a complete mystery to the majority of their year. No one ever truly claimed him as a friend, no one bothered to prattle off his characteristics or a funny story about him. No, Damien just snuck right beneath the radar, become such a tiny blip that he was little more than just there.
"So, about this project..." Stan said after the other had planted himself down on the floor nearby, moving to lean against the bed, a casual look on his face. "We just gotta make some faggy little kindergarten bullshit and turn it in?"
Damien didn't answer and it took only moments for Stan to figure out that the other simply wasn't listening. That wasn't what bothered him, though. What bothered him was that Damien was staring right forward, right at Stan, seeing but not hearing. It was a look Stan had been familiar with, a look that Kenny, drunken to the point of stupidity, had given him time after time again when sneaking into his room to hide away somewhere. A look he had never truly acted upon, but it was a look none the less. And now he was getting it from Damien, whom he didn't exactly trust - at all.
"Uh," he tried to clear his throat, to maybe break whatever spell it was that the other found himself attracted to. "Damien?"
The sound of his own name must have stirred him slightly because he glanced up, dark eyes wandering to trace Stan's expression, the facial features, the way those hardly there lines appeared whenever he frowned. "It has to be this way." Though he did not want to say it, he did. He was irritated by the irrationality that had taken him by surprise, but he had said it either way.
"Excuse me?"
"It is written." Damien murmured as he leaned forward, solid black eyes locked on target.
Stan couldn't help himself, moving away as Damien inched closer. "Dude," he said, nose wrinkling. "Stop talking like a fag."
"You are the first." He obviously didn't hear the insult and crept even closer, crawling up and slightly on top of Stan.
"Fucking sick, dude, get away from me!" Stan Marsh yelled, trying to squirm away from the tight grip now binding his wrist in one spot.
"You are the one who will give us the power to rise, the key to unleashing hell."
This gave Stan pause. He stared at Damien, who was leaning ever more closer, his brow furrowing in concentration. "... What." It wasn't even a question. How could he, Stanley Marsh, the most average teenage boy on the planet, be the key to unleashing hell? It made no sense. Wasn't the Apocalypse (if that's what Damien was trying to get at) supposed to be started by some dark, evil, brooding teenager? Not some jock who blended in with just about every other student.
"It's you."
"How do you know it's me?"
"I just do." Damien's black eyes seemed to darken at his words and it didn't help the uneasiness already creeping over Stan. Not. One. Bit.
"But how?" Stan was insistent, not even paying heed to the fact that Damien was slowly gaining leverage over him.
"There are..." He paused, brow flicking down, as if unsure of what to say. "Certain... signs."
Before Stan could ask what these signs were, the son of Satan was pressing hard against him, hands already scrambling to cup his crotch as lips, so perfect that made Stan forget where he was for a moment, met with his own. And for a second, just enjoying those damned lips against his own, listening to the quiet murmurings that flitted throughout the room, Stan allowed himself to be captured. That one second was all it took to seal him in a bond that would last the rest of his life... or at least until he opened the gates to hell.
"You're mine, now." The deep voice, which had once been so high pitched it was ridiculous, in his ear nearly gave him cause to shiver. Shiver? What was he turning into? Some fairy princess? A sort mutter of Latin words served as a reminder, as if he would be able to forget something as strange as the Anti-Christ practically raping him. He said practically because, amid all of this, he wasn't sure if he wanted it or not. Sure, he had never thought himself to be gay and in a normal situation he would have been horrified to have some guy crawling on top of him. But this was Damien, of all people, who somehow... somehow... Stan arched his body up and against the other, surrendering.
Damien's lips were too good to be true, too sinful to be really that bad. He had all but kissed the life from Stan by the time he had managed out a quiet, pleading, desiring, whispering, drunken, 'Yes' - which was all the permission that Damien needed. The Devil's son descended upon his body, biting and scratching until his partner cried out, until dark bruises formed and blood dripped down along the pallid form. He paid no attention to the small injuries that others may have worried about. Under his spell, Stan was in the happiest place in the world. He could feel only the pleasure, not the pain, feel only the amazing touches where lips left their mark and not the bruising force with which they kissed.
By this point, Stan was all but fumbling to undo his jeans, squirming on the floor, his hips twisting to press up and against Damien's, quiet 'yes's and pleas still passing through his parted lips. Obliged, the dark boy would not stop. Not until it was finished. He felt the stir of his own arousal, felt it as it twitched upward and desired to take care of it first, but held himself back. Stan was grinding into him, making it that much harder, and Damien's quiet grunts were almost the only sound in the small bedroom, aside from Stan's cries and desperate demands for more, which he was more than happy to supply if only the other would stop all the moving, humping and grinding. It was getting harder to concentrate on the task at hand.
"Stop," he tried to order the other, but Stan wouldn't hear it. He was too far gone in the twists of demon seduction and Damien silently cursed himself for pushing Stan that far into lust. He struggled to reel him back in, biting hard on his skin every now and then to jolt the other into reality. But he didn't stay there very long and was soon back to begging and grinding. At this rate, Damien wouldn't have a choice but to open the gate, whether Stan would be completely ready or not.
"Please, I want..." Stan gasped loudly, his back arching slowly, hips twisting and rolling as they struggled to find a good point of friction. "-it, so bad... -so bad."
Damien knew the other was lying. Knew that he was past that point where pain wouldn't register, where nothing mattered except for sex. It irritated and infuriated him, to know that no matter what partner he chose to use to unleash the beginning of the end, they would always be willing simply because he had that power over them. Disgusted and, admittedly, repulsed by the idea (yet again) Damien was pushing himself off of Stan, casting a fleeting glance as the boy squirmed and writhed on the bed. Moments after he had took a step away, Stan's hand was already running down to palm himself, to entice sweet, back arching, toe curling moans from his lips.
They would never see him. They wouldn't remember. It was better that way. He had to tell himself these things repeatedly, even while watching Stan stroke himself while imagining it was really some girl doing it. He knew it had to be this way. A human would break so easily, if it were done any other way.
And Damien really couldn't bear to see Stan break.