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! Feedback is always much appreciated. I'm planning on turning this in to a full fic depending on how the new chapters go over with you guys. Thanks for reading!


Driving out of the school's parking lot, the reality of what Stan did began setting in. He'd really done it-he broke up with Wendy. He was all mine...even if it was a secret.

How was this going to go?

"I was thinking we could go to my house, today." Stan suggested, pulling me from my cynical thoughts. "Sound good?"

"...Your house?"

We'd never done that before. I was actually shocked even suggested it. He wanted to bring me to his house?

"You feeling okay?"

"Me?" Stan questioned me back, equally perplexed. "Yeah, Dude. Why?"

"Why? You just invited me to your house."

Caught between being confused and disappointed, Stans lips moved to speak but the gears in his head were still turning. It took him a few moments to realize how out of place the offer was. Me, at his house? Didn't think I'd ever see the day.

"Do you not want to go?" Stan moped a little.

"I'll go. Can't be any worse than my house."

Driving through town, we passed the bowling alley. Which, thank fucking God if he even existed, that I wouldn't be working that day. Pulling up to Stan's house, I eyed the cheerful looking structure without much emotion.

It looked just how you'd think some happy jock's house would. Two garages, a grassy front lawn. Classic white picket fence and some decorated mailbox that I'm sure his mom painted or bought at an art fair. They had lawn ornaments and a windchime hanging.

"This should be interesting." Popping the passenger side door open, I hefted my backpack up. "Your parents are gonna wonder why the fuck you're hanging out with me."

"Eh, Mom will probably like you. You're quiet. Half my other friends act retarded."

"Act? Stan, your friends are freaking retarded."

Pulling out his keys, Stan opened up the front door and let me in. Right when we got inside, something ambushed him. At his shins was a pudgy dog standing on its back legs, panting in excitement.

"Sup, Sparky?" Stan rubbed the dog's head affectionately. "Have a good day?"

The lump of a pet dropped back down on all fours going to lie down on the floor. At the bottom of the stairs, Stan called up for his mom. He didn't get an answer so he tried the kitchen, still no answer.

"Dad's at work. Don't know where Mom is." Stan scratched his head. "She's probably running errands or something. Or at her hairdresser, or something? I don't know."

"Should I go?"

"Nah. Mom doesn't care if I have people over so long as we stay out of trouble."

Following Stan upstairs to his room, I raised a brow at the back of his head and requested he define his mother's standard for "trouble". Other than having to steer clear from drugs and alcohol to avoid jeopardizing his place on the football team, Stan didn't have too many restrictions that I knew of.

"Drugs, alcohol, strippers, murder, and institutionalized violence of the masses." He listed, amused at his own joke. "You know. That stuff."

"My favorites."

Snorting, Stan walked down the hall just to ensure we were home alone. He knocked on a few doors, getting no replies.

"Yeah, we're alone." He concluded, chuckling to himself. "Time to fuck shit up. What are we starting with?"

"I don't know about you, but I'm doing my homework."

I plunked my backpack down in his room, rifling through it for my English book.

"Really? Your homework?"
"Did you want to start with murder, Stan?" I drawled.

"I was leaning more towards male strippers."

"Of course, you were."

Stan's bedroom was a little bigger than mine. He had a full-sized bed up against the wall with white sheets and a blue comforter. His PlayStation 4 was set up under a decent-sized flat-screen television mounted on the wall.

"You can do your homework on my bed, or use my desk." He pointed to the simple set up in the corner. "Whatever you want."

"I'll sit on your bed. All I'm doing is reading for a quiz tomorrow."

Opting to plunk himself down next to me, Stan laid back and booted up the t.v and console. None of his friends were online so he played something on his own while I flipped through my text book to find the assigned reading.

"Not to be a dick, but since when do goth kids care about homework?"

"It's Senior year. I want out of that hell hole school. I'm not staying any longer than I have to."

Stan nodded along in understanding. We were one year away from having our shackles cut. Last thing I needed was an extension on my sentence. I wanted out quicker than I could get there. Only reason I remotely gave a damn what my grades were.

"What about your homework? Don't you meatheads have to keep good grades?"

"I manage C+'s and B's. C's and up is supposed to be the policy, but it isn't really enforced...half the team's been scraping by with D+ grades. Hammer doesn't come down unless you're flat out flunking."

"Figures. What would South Park High possibly do without their precious cattle? Psh."

I flipped my hair out of my face, looking down at the book set in my lap.

"You're all just livestock being led to the slaughter house. Sports only get you so far. They use you for all they can, then once you're old and past date, that's it."

"Your emo whining turns me on in a weird way."

"I dare you to call me 'emo', again. I'll crush your windpipe. Don't try me."

My snarl didn't faze him much. Wearing a shit-eating grin, Stan's shoulders shook with withheld laughter.

"I don't know..." He kept his eyes focused on the t.v screen, barely getting the words out. "I'm kind of tempted."

"When I get my hands around your neck, you'll regret that."

"Wouldn't mind some of that with your ass sitting on my dick."

Prepared to beat the shit out of him with my text book, I closed the hardcover and braced to swing. Stan caught the movement in the corner of his eye just in time to catch my wrist. He chucked his controller aside, tugging me in.

"Stan, cut the shit-mph!" I resisted only to get Stan's mouth crashing down on mine. "Mmph!"

I struggled to wriggle my way out of his grip. Pressing my palms in to his chest, the resistance was futile. Stan was so much bigger than I was.

Six feet tall and solid in all his glory, he overpowered my slender frame effortlessly. It happened in what felt like the blink of an eye. Pinning me down to the bed with only enough force to keep me there, he held my wrists above my head in his large hands.

As a result of the struggle, I laid there begrudgingly turned on. I couldn't stand being man-handled or rough housed under normal circumstances, but the culprit above me posed no danger. His body was so close to mine...Jesus Christ, why was he so alluring?

In the brief struggle, the hem of my shirt rode up a few inches. Along with the alabaster skin of my belly, Stan soaked in the sight of my frightfully pale complexion flush with color.

"G-Get the fuck off of me!" I demanded. "Fucking douche bag."

"Your dick's hard..." Shamelessly content with the discovery, Stan carefully pressed his knee between my legs to prove it. "Fuck, that's hot."

My heart was beating hard and I was a little out of breath from uselessly fighting him. Stan leaned down, my wrists still firmly in his grasp, blue eyes narrowed mischievously. He looked like a cat who caught a mouse just to play with it. The blood that should have been rushing to my head in rage was all pooling between my legs.

"We're all alone and have the house to ourselves." He felt the need to remind me, "Mm, want to have some fun?"

"Not after you wrestled me down like a fucking hog."

"You liked it."

Pushing his hips against me, I could feel his excitement touch mine. As genuinely nice as Stan was at his core, his macho jock personal still overrode that, at times. He found overpowering me to be deliciously satisfying, especially since my boner fucking validated his advances.

"Let me up." I growled up at that smug face of his. "Stan, I mean it."

"If I don't?"

"Sleep with one eye open and your door locked."

Choosing to ignore my warning, Stan rubbed himself in to me. I bit back a groan at the sensation of his hot crotch grinding mine. I couldn't push him off even if my life depended on it. His teeth bit at my chin, only grazing the skin in a sensual gesture. When he came to kiss my lips, I gave his chin a real nip.

"Oh..." He moaned when I lashed out at him, getting a shiver down his spine. "I'm so hard...Pete, let me fuck you."

"I'm not rewarding bad behavior you spoiled little brat."

"Who the hell are you calling little?"

With the size advantage he had, Stan actually laughed at my choice of words. I was fuming at his arrogance, but it didn't hold as big a punch it would have if I weren't panting with parted lips. I was going to cum in my pants if he didn't stop dry humping me.

"You're so dead when you let go of me." I seethed.

"I'll let go when you cum... then you can do whatever you want to me."

"Don't. You. dare."

Last thing I needed was to soil my underwear in a setting where I couldn't change them. My pants were black and would have easily hidden the issue, but that wasn't the freaking point. Our compromised situation, thankfully, came to a halt as Stan's phone started buzzing.

The choice to answer it passed his mind. It could've been his mother on her way home.

"Go ahead." I goaded him. "Answer it."

Fully aware of the newfound danger he'd brought upon himself, Stan didn't move.

"Promise not to kill me when I let go?" He bargained, which was really a subtle plea.

"This time."

He let go, but kept his eyes on me as he reached for the cell phone in his back pocket.

"Hello?" He answered it, not checking the caller I.D in fear of losing sight of me. "Oh. Hey, Clyde...movies?"

My chance to crawl away was bestowed upon me with Stan on the line with one of his jock buds, but I found myself paying close attention to his conversation.

"It's Monday." Stan told him. "Why is everyone going to the movies on a Monday?"

Great, his friends were inviting him out. That was the end of my time with him.

"...nah, not today. I'm gonna pass."

Or, not.

"I'm preoccupied..." Stan gave as an explanation. "...Yes, it's more important than the movies, Clyde."

Clyde must have asked what Stan was up to because he hesitated.

"Homework." he lied, seeing my abandoned text book sprawled out over the bed covers. "Yeah, another time maybe. Bye."

Hanging up, Stan leaned over me to put his phone on the charger.

"You didn't want to hang out with your moronic friends?" I asked him.

"I see them all the time. You're here, I'm not passing that up."


Honing back in on me, Stan didn't restrain me again, content with just having me under him. With a gentle puff of air, he blew outside the shell of my ear, toying with the zipper to my hooded sweatshirt. I let him pull it down, suddenly a lot more cooperative.


Stan wasn't the only one passing up time with his friends that week. I was, too. Without Wendy eating up all Stan's free time outside of school and practice, I was shamefully starved for every opportunity given to have him to myself. Including today.

The final bell for the day rang, the school hallway flooding with bodies passing one another in their hurry to escape the putrid building. Rounding the corner, it felt like I'd walked in to a brick wall. Someone was in such a damn hurry they barreled in to me.

Stumbling from impact, I landed on my ass. My notebook went in one direction and my empty thermos went in another, rolling away.

"Watch where you're fucking going, Conformist asshole." I scowled, picking myself up off the ground.

It was Stan's teammate, Clyde. My notebook landed by his sneakers and he snatched it up before I could get to it.

"This your faggy poetry, or whatever?" He looked the black cover over with belittling smirk. "Writing about your boyfriends and bad dreams?"

"Give it back."

"Make me, Homo."

"Homo? Real original, Jockstrap. Think of that one yourself?"

The hallway was beginning to clear, people walking past us without a second glance to the scene unraveling. No one gave a shit over some outcast getting bullied by the athletes. Wouldn't have been a day at South Park High if some meathead didn't pick on one of us.

For someone in such a hurry, Clyde magically found time to be a pest. In some act of sympathy, the universe sent an intervention. Someone plucked my notebook from Clyde's fingers and handed it back to me.

"Pick on someone your own size, Clyde." Stan shoved his football buddy in to a nearby locker with boisterous grin. "Pussy."

Effectively egging the brunette on, Stan dashed down the hall. Clyde took the bait, bolting after him and leaving me alone. Their whooping and hollering could be heard faintly echoing as they made it to the stairwell, charging towards the first floor.

"Marsh! Get back here, you fucker!" Clyde laughed. "I'll kill you!"

"Have to catch me, first!"

Left alone, I tucked my notebook under my arm and scanned the floor for my thermos. It had rolled a few yards away without suffering any dents, thankfully. It was my favorite one. Stupid jock.

Speaking of stupid jocks: Stan and Clyde were rough housing playfully down by the door leading out to the student parking lot. Keeping my distance, I laid low out of sight. It was like watching two dogs play.

"Alright, alright!" Clyde relented, held in a headlock. "You win."

"What was that? Couldn't hear you."

"I said-"

A glimpse of black and green passed the corner of my eye, drawing my attention away. Great.

"Pete." Mike drawled in his effeminate, airy voice, eyeing me with those red contact lenses he and most of his twilight-humping clique wore. "Hiding from the jocks, are we?"

"What's it to you?"

"Merely an observation, per se..."

The overhanging lights shimmered off his gelled hair; black, layered tufts meticulously styled atop of his hair with colored ends flat ironed down his back. His liquid eyeliner was perfect, like some fashion week barbie slut. Only, I didn't know any who wore as much black eyeshadow as he did.

Looking close enough, I could have sworn the dude was wearing lip gloss. And, he had a light dusting of glitter at the very corner of his eyes.

"You know..." Mike sidled up next to me, quirking a plucked eyebrow. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were spying on the jocks."

"The fuck do you know, Mike?"

Shrugging his leather-clad shoulders, the vampire wanna-be blinked his smoky eyes at me. He then looked over my shoulder, lips curling up at the edges.

"Stan." He chimed as said person walked up on us. "Greetings."

"How goes it...Vampir?" Stan second guessed himself. "Or, do you not go by that anymore?"

"It's just Mike, now. But, you can call me Vampir, if you want."

Excusing himself, Mike waved us off over his shoulder.

"Bye, boys."

Mike's leather-studded boots had heeled bottoms. They clicked with his steps, dying off in the distance. Guy wore heels and heavy makeup but the jocks never seemed to bother him or his friends much. Maybe they knew they were outnumbered.

Vamp kids...ugh. They were about as abundant as vermin. Glittery vermin.

"I didn't know you spoke to Mike." Stan commented on the way to the car.

"I don't."

Leaving it at that, I got in the car and told him to drive to the Village Inn diner. I needed some coffee. We got a booth to ourselves and two menus. I didn't bother looking at mine.

"I'm just getting coffee." I announced when Stan looked at me questioningly.

He couldn't convince me otherwise and ordered himself a stack of pancakes to snack on. With a hot mug set in front of me, I brought it up to my mouth. The hot, bitter scald was soothing in its own way. Cathartic was probably the right word.

Stan poured syrup over his buttered pancakes, cutting in to them. One particularly generous bite was held out to me on the tip of his fork.

"I'm not hungry."

Not that I didn't have a sweet tooth, but sugar wasn't what I was going for just then.

"Okay, but hear me out." Stan bargained.

"Uh-huh?" I humored him behind the steam wafting up from my mug.

Stan held the bite a little closer.


"That's your argument?"

"Yes. They're good."

I took the bite to appease him. My teeth had just slid off the metal prongs when I accidently made eye contact with someone across the diner. There, in a booth, was Mike with his own stack of pancakes. The cocky gleam in his fake ruby eyes made me want to punch him in the nose and knock the piercing right out of it.

Unlike normal, Mike wasn't surrounded by his loyal followers. He only had one with him. It was that Vladimir kid that everyone just called Vlad. The purple ends of his black hair reached his shoulders, swishing when he followed Mike's line of sight to me.

Manicured nails painted black, Mike waggled a forkful of pancake at me with a wink. Vlad leaned in to whisper something in his ear and I raised my middle finger off my mug with the next bitter gulp. I didn't think the diner visit could get much worse.

To prove me wrong, Michael walked in with Henrietta and Georgie. Michael wasn't intimidated by Stan, at all. But he strode past our booth, claiming the one right next to ours.

"They have a big booth. Why are you sitting over there?" Georgie, the Freshman in our group, asked.

"Wouldn't want to interrupt their date." Michael bit sarcastically, with a pointed glower at me. "Let Pete enjoy his deluded fantasy."

After my last shift at the bowling alley, Michael's voluntary indifference to Stan had not only worn thin, but completely evaporated. It wasn't Stan's fault that Michael got his hopes high. We weren't over. It stared him in the face worse than ever, now.

"How's it feel to be a Disney princess?" Henrietta mocked me in agreeance with Michael, sliding in to the booth to sit across from him.

"I wouldn't know."

I knew they were only giving me a hard time because they felt betrayed, but that was a two-way street.

"Georgie, come sit next to me." Henrietta beckoned our youngest member in.

Georgie was Henrietta's little spider, returning to her obediently. While he waited for their coffee to arrive, Georgie turned in his seat. Folding his arms out over the back of our booth, he rested his chin down on them, looking at me from under his heavy side-swept fringe.

"Pete, are you coming with us to the cemetery on Halloween?"

"Knowing my manager, I'm probably working."

"That stinks..."

Staying quiet, Stan ate his food, choosing to keep as much attention off himself as possible. He could feel Michael's brown eyes branding the back of his head. To think he could have bleachers spilling over with people to watch him play, but Michael's stare alone was enough to wilt him.

In his defense, there was always something particularly cold about him. Michael was the most jaded of our group. Exactly why he was the leader.


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