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: This story was originally meant to be just a one shot. But,I felt inspired. Thanks for reading!


Saturdays were never particularly spectacular. For me, at least. Well, that's not entirely true. They were great before football season started. As if I were trying to hold on to some sliver of my time spent with Stan, I sat under the bleachers during his big game.

Mr. Football star wasn't at his best. He couldn't focus, and Coach was losing his patience. Stan was tackled to the ground and didn't make an immediate effort to get up. Flicking cigarette ashes aside, I rolled my eyes.

I should've been happy he was tanking. But, I wasn't. I wanted to go out there and shake him by the shirt, tell him to get his shit together. Whack him upside the head a few times because damn it, that helmet would protect him, anyways.

He gave up so much to have that fucking sport. Why was he lying there like a sack of shit?

"Stan!" His dumb ass dad called out from the bleacher right above me.

Looking up, I could see Randy through the steps of the bleachers. He wasn't drunk and causing a scene. That's how much he valued Stan's sports career.

"Pull yourself together! You've got this, Stan!"

Peering back out, I watched Stan still lying there. At that point, people began to worry he was hurt. He'd been tackled pretty hard. Would've helped had he been paying attention.

"Come on, you big retard..." I muttered to myself. "Get up."

By some miraculous means, Stan lifted his head. He turned to look at his Dad who was rooting for him on the sidelines, but he spotted my mess of red and black hair. There I was, huddled up in nothing but a pair of black skinny jeans and an old band-hoodie.

Cigarette smoke wafted over my head like some eerie halo. Literally no one noticed me, but Stan was staring at me like some mirage in the distance. As if everything around him were dry dessert. All he could see was my scowling face.

The relief that swept through him was enough to lift him up off the ground. Despite myself, I felt relieved too. He was such an idiot. I hated him so much.

"Marsh is fine! Up and at 'em. Go Cows!" The announcer bellowed out, rousing a cheer from the crowd.

Inside my pocket, I felt the buzz of my phone. Maybe Michael felt it, my heart aching for that idiot under the helmet. I didn't care. I had to see him. He was mine, Wendy could shove my boot up her cunt.

In better spirits, Stan managed to win the game. Sweaty and exhausted, he took off his helmet. His teammates all swarmed him, celebrating their big win. Like a swarm of rats emerging from the sewer, they swept him away to the locker room in a frenzy.

The field cleared, lights going out. So, I went home.


My parents were fighting when I got home a couple of hours later being I walked. Dad had a mess of beer bottles scattered on the living room floor, having a screaming match with Mom over some side bitch he was talking to. I walked past them to the kitchen and neither of them even noticed me.

"Welcome home." I bit out sarcastically, under my breath.

I went and got a pop-tart from the cabinet, going back past my parents. Again. They didn't notice me. Again. Even as I stomped my boots on the staircase.

Unwrapping the cheap breakfast pastry, I broke off a corner and popped it in my mouth. Sitting in bed, I kicked off my boots. With nothing but the dim light from my bedside lamp, I looked around my room.

The old bean bag chair in the corner used to be placed under the window ledge. Stan would sneak in some school nights. The ones where my parents weren't at each other's throats and distracted. Just as it crossed my mind, Stan sent me a text.

"Can I come over?" it read.

A few seconds later he added "Please?"

"Fine" I sent back, not knowing why I even agreed to it.

Stan didn't live very far. About ten minutes passed and I expected to get a text asking to be let in through the front door since it was Saturday. I made it to my second pop-tart, almost inhaling part of it when a hand appeared at my window.

Stan climbed the tree up to my window with a backpack on. He stumbled in, falling to the floor. He was a fairly sturdy dude, but that couldn't have felt too good.

"You moved the bean bag..." He grunted, picking himself up off the floor. "I probably deserve that."

"You said it. Not me."

He could have come in through the front, but whatever. Stan came and sat at the edge of my mattress, next to me. His hair was slightly damp from his shower after the game. He raked his fingers through it, staring down at his sneakers.

"You were at the game." he said, as if he were trying to process what happened.

"Uh-huh." I replied, disinterested.

Taking another bite of my "dinner", I looked around for one of the various half full water bottles in my room. There was one on my bedside table. I accidently knocked it over.


"Here." Stan leaned down to get it for me.

When he handed it off, his blue eyes were boring in to mine. Then they dipped down.

"That isn't really food." He whispered. "You should eat something else."

As if I didn't know that. Some of us weren't blessed enough to have parents care about what they ate.

"Yeah?" I challenged him.

"You look like you've lost weight."


Stan wasn't getting far with me. Suddenly, he remembered something and opened up his backpack. There was a Tupperware container and a plastic fork. He hesitantly took away what I was eating, replacing it.

"It's Mom's lasagna." He explained, putting my pop-tart aside in its wrapper. "Um, you should probably eat that, instead."

"...You brought this for me?"

" I said, you look thinner. I wasn't sure if you were eating."

I wasn't really eating much. Between the cigarettes, coffee and stress, my appetite was at its weakest. A few bites of whatever and I could get by.

Homemade meals weren't something I often got from my parents. In theory, a Tupperware container with lasagna was the nicest gift I'd ever been given. Not that I'd tell Stan that.

"Thanks." I carefully popped the lid and took a bite.

Seeing me eat put Stan somewhat at ease. The air between was still tense, and awkward. He knew without me having to say it that I still wanted to rip his ass out his throat for his bullshit. Even if I wanted to say it, my mouth was full. Fuck, his Mom's food was good.

Familiar with my room, Stan got the t.v remote. I sat up against the headboard, eating. Stan took his place next to me, kicking off his sneakers. We didn't say much to one another as I ate. He looked over every so often to make sure I was still eating,

Our night before at the bowling alley must have weighed heavily on him because he scratched at his jeans nervously. It was that guilty kind of fidget, like he didn't know what to say but he didn't feel right being quiet, either.


"Stan." I said back, flat.


I made eye contact with him, giving him the chance to try again. He didn't deserve it. But...

"It means a lot to me that you were there, tonight."

"I'm sure."

"...can I ask why you showed up?"

Finished with my food, I put the lid back on the container. The container was empty and my stomach was full. I saw the brief flash of joy in those blue eyes of his.

"Does it matter, Stan?" I sighed, a little tired of the constant run around with him.

I could feel him staring at me, waiting for some confirmation that I still had feelings for him. They were there, but a lot of it was resentment. It must have radiated off me.

"Pete?" he carefully rested a hand on my shoulder.

"That's me." I deadpanned,

"...c'mon, please?"

I glanced back at him from over my shoulder, starting to get actively annoyed with his presence. Still, I didn't want to see him go.

"Football means a lot to you."

"Of course."

"Well, there you go."

Stan leaned in towards me when I looked away. His lips were on the back of my neck, kissing above my choker. It was a deep violet ribbon-like material. Some delicate piece with a black, broken heart charm on the front.

"This is the one I bought you." He observed. "You wear it, a lot."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"It looks cute on you. Not that I don't like the studded, leather one you have."

I should have shoved him away, but his lips were warm in a way Michael's weren't. When Stan kissed me...a little part of me felt like everything could be okay. Michael kissed me and I couldn't say the same. It was fucked up, really.

"Still like me, a little?" Stan whispered in to my skin, lighting running the tip of his finger over the accessory wrapped around my neck. "You were so mad at me yesterday."

"You deserved it."

"I know."

He couldn't conjure an argument in his defense. There was nothing he could say that would have eased my anger with him the day before. Embracing me from behind, Stan gently rested his chin down on my shoulder.

"I love you, Pete."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because it's true. I promise."

My parents never told me they loved me. I was some accident they chose to keep. They didn't hate me, they hated each other. But, in the middle of all that they forgot there was another living, breathing thing walking around. I suffered a lot because of that.

"Do you love me?"

"Don't ask me that." I almost snapped. "Stupid fucking question."

"Just once, I'd like to hear you say it."

No matter what he did, Stan could never coax the words out of me. There was nothing he'd done to earn them. I wasn't going to open myself up to harm. More than I already had.

Yet, I didn't put up much of a fight as Stan pulled me in. His lips were on mine, and he was laying me out over the sheets. My parents could faintly be heard bickering through the floor. Like he was trying to protect me from it, Stan held me by the waist and brought me flush against him.

The front of our bodies were pressed so close. If I focused hard enough, I could almost feel his heart beating. Could he feel mine? Did he care enough to try?

"I'm breaking up with Wendy."

Evidently, yes. He did.

"This what you want?" I asked, evenly. "Or, is this guilt?"

I couldn't sound hopeful. I couldn't be hopeful. It would hurt more in the end.

"Would you be mad at me if I said both?" Meekly, Stan brushed some of my bangs aside with a curled knuckle.

"I've been mad at you a while now."

"I don't want you mad at me."

Stan crawled his way on top of me, careful not to press all his body weight down on me. I must have looked frail to him as of late. He never hesitated to crush me under him, before. It was my favorite feeling. Scowling a little, I tugged him down all the way.

"I'm not broken." I hissed at him a little.

"I want to keep it that way." Stan promised, but didn't move off me.

He couldn't, I wouldn't let him. Holding him by the shoulders, I opened my legs so he could comfortably rest between them. Stan kissed my jawline, pleasantly surprised when I tilted my head up, exposing the creamy, white skin of my throat.

His kisses trailed down to taste that skin he hardly saw. The skin no one else saw. Bravely, Stan unclipped the small silver clasp holding my choker closed. He set the broken heart on the bedside table, staring at my neck with pity.

The noose that once hung me from the ceiling fan a year prior, it left a rope burn that never fully disappeared. My skin was so delicate and pale, it didn't take much to mark it. The scar was faint, but it was obvious what it was.

My leather choker irritated the scar if I wore it too long, making the scar all the more visible. The ribbon one Stan gave me was softer to the touch. It was gentler on the scar tissue. That wasn't why I wore it.

Stan knew not to dwell on the blemish. He twined his fingers in my choppy hair, layering his mouth over mine. In turn, I buried my fingers in his hair. His beautiful, naturally black hair. He really did have everything. Including me.

"Pete...I love you." He murmured against my lips.

"Shut up."

Slipping my hands up under his shirt, I tugged at it insistently, urging him to take it off. Stan reared up on his knees to give me what I wanted. Getting me out of my hoodie, Stan tossed it to lie with his shirt. His chiseled body was so warm, shielding me from the cold Autumn air leaking in from outside.

Around us smelled like Halloween. That cool, crisp air. Dried leaves that fell from the trees. And, the spicy incense burner sitting on my desk. They were my favorite smells, but not then. Stan's stupid conformist bodywash smelled better.

Like every other jock, Stan used whatever masculine soap was popular. And, body spray that came in the can. I always gagged when I smelled it on others in the hallway at school. On him, I wanted to breathe it in all night. Meanwhile, I smelled like old cigarettes and clove.

"I want you." Stan breathed outside my ear, rolling his hips against mine.

He set the rhythm with that strong pelvis. My legs curled around him, clutching him so he'd stay there forever. Blue denim rubbed against black, creating friction worthy of hellfire. The spark was there, engulfing us in fire that burned us up from the inside.

I don't know when it started, but I was shaking. It was so cold, the window was open. Like the retard Stan was, he forgot to close it after he fell inside. But, I felt so warm. My pierced nipples touched Stan's chest and he reached a hand between us to twist one.

It didn't take long until I was desperate to have him. I wanted to be as physically close to him as I possibly could. It was the one thing Stan could give me that Wendy didn't get. Her declaration of abstinence made him all mine in that field. She couldn't please him the way I could.

And, I always pleased him.

To be safe, Stan got up to lock the bedroom door. Realizing his error earlier, he closed the window. He came back to me, rubbing down the goosebumps on my arms apologetically. While I wiggled my way out of my pants, Stan went in my beside table, fishing around for the bottle of lotion in there.

I reached for the front of his jeans, but Stan stopped me and set the lotion aside. Working his way down my body, he peeled off my black briefs. He kissed the flat expanse of my abdomen, all the while creeping his mouth closer to my throbbing need for him.

Taking my cock by the base, he slid his mouth over it. My hips arched up reflexively in to the warm, wet heat on my arousal. His hands came to rest along my lithe hips. I took shuddering breaths, squirming as he sucked me.

"S-Stan...fuck..." Close to a whimper, I writhed under him.

Why did he have to do that? Turn me in to this weak, lustful little bitch I didn't recognize as myself. I couldn't think straight. Maybe it was for the best.


"Hey, Dude. Did you do the math homework?"

In the cafeteria on Monday, Stan's friends were sitting at a table together. Kenny copied the Jewish kid's homework. Pretty sure his name was Kyle. He was Stan's best friend since childhood, or whatever. Stan, himself, hadn't shown up yet.

Spinning the cap off my thermos, I took a sip of coffee. Only reason I was even in the claustrophobic room with a bunch of ass hats was because the backsteps I normally sat on were being painted. Michael, Henrietta and Georgie had to be in the Library. But, where was Stan?

"Where you been, Man?" Clyde called out when Stan, himself, finally showed up.

From the rim of my thermos, I looked over at their table.

"I had stuff to do..." Stan explained, vaguely and without must enthusiasm.

Clyde was also on the football team. The guy was kind of an airhead, but had self-esteem that wasn't almost bullet proof. Jock Syndrome at its most severe.

"The hell did you have to do that was more important than lunch?" Clyde scoffed, unwrapping a burger.

Stan shrugged it off, refusing to look at anyone as he opened up his bag for a sandwich. He took a bite, getting a mouthful of PB and J, and an eyeful of me sitting two tables away. By myself, with a thermos and notebook.

He wanted to come sit with me, I could see it. Stan wasn't quite that brazen, yet. There was nothing he could tell his friends that would make it look natural. He had no reason to talk to me at school, at least not in the eyes of his friends.

So, he settled for sending me a text asking to see me after school. I waited for him outside in the parking lot, far away from his car. I sat under a tree, minutes ticking by until I came to realize he was late.

Stan left the school kind of in a daze. Looking down at his phone to presumably text me, he went to his car and got in. I got the text to meet up with him. The coast was clear.

"Hey." I greeted him, getting in the passenger side.

"Sorry about the wait." he apologized as I put my bag on the floor and buckled in.

"Not that it matters, but what took you so long?"

Putting the key in the ignition, Stan put the car in reverse, backing out of his parking space. His little team trinket hung from the mirror, dangling back and forth.

"I did it."

"...did what?"

"Pete." his voice dropped a notch.

Understanding, I nodded. Looking out the window, I asked when he did it.

"I told Wendy before lunch that I wanted to talk to her about something when she had the time this weekend...I guess she stewed on it all day." Stan explained, a little perturbed by whatever happened. "She confronted me at my locker. She wanted to know, now... She wasn't going to let me go until I told her."

"And?" I pressed for more.

"I didn't have a choice. I just told her it was over."

I almost rolled my eyes.

"You had a choice, Stan." I corrected. "For once, you made the right one."

It wasn't meant to be a compliment. I said it with such dry execution that had Stan not known me better, he would have thought I was mad. I was glad he finally broke it off with her. It was about time.


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