Title: The Highest Form Of Flattery
Author: Daisy
Fandom: South Park
Setting: A Halloween Party, Likely At Token's
Pairing: Christophe DeLorne (The Mole)/Firkle (Kindergoth)
Characters: Christophe "The Mole", Firkle
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: M
Chapters: 1/1
Word Count: 2436
Type of Work: One-Shot
Status: Complete
Warnings: Gay, Slash, Yaoi, Fuck Buddies To Lovers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Age Gap, Rough Sex, Public Sex
Disclaimer: I don't own anything!
Summary: Christophe couldn't believe his eyes.
AN: Alright, so here is the fourth part of my Halloween Month Fic challenge I sort of imposed on myself. I'm hoping to get the first five done so I can work on some other fics, too. xD I guess I'm kind of exploring my many Firkle ships, because that seems to be what's happening. I love this kid way too much, help. ; u; Hope you guys enjoy!
Prompt: We're secret friends with benefits and you accidentally wore my shirt to the party so you're pretending you came as me and it turns out your impression of me is on point and you know me better than I know myself are you sure you're not in love with me?
The Highest Form Of Flattery ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Christophe couldn't believe his eyes.
That was supposed to be something that they kept between them! Why on Earth was Firkle wearing his shirt to this damn party? It wasn't like he'd wanted to come in the first place, but he found himself here nonetheless, if only to get some free alcohol and be able to get more dirt on people he didn't like. But Firkle, man, he looked absolutely stunning in his stained, army green shirt, the bulk of it hanging off of one shoulder because he tended to sleep in it and roll around. He didn't know exactly when the other had started wearing it during their trysts in the middle of the night, but it had become something of a silent claim to the body he couldn't mark.
Not that Firkle really needed anymore marks. He was covered head to toe in freckles and moles (which he liked to pay special attention to) without his makeup, and it just made him even more beautiful. This might have lead to the arousal he felt, however, as he thought about it, watching the boy flounder too well under the scrutiny he was enduring for wearing Mole's shirt in public. Nobody knew about their nightly meetings, about the things he could do and the sweet sounds he could pull from the other's lips. Just thinking about it was making it even more difficult to stay glued to his spot nonchalantly. He wanted to go over there, he wanted to hear better what the other was saying.
Some girl (Bebe, he thought absently) was laughing a little, covering her mouth with her hand and shaking her head.
"You're so good at that!" She was saying, and that prompted him to come over, finally, staying out of sight for the moment as he sipped his stale beer from the red cup in his hand.
"Do it again!" Another person, someone he recognized as Clyde only by him being described, urged the smaller goth, who just kind of smiled slightly and then set his face into a frown.
"I fucking hate guard dogs. Sheet! Get zat fucker away from me!" The faked accent was fairly good, actually, as far as they went. But still, this was only surface things. Everyone knew he hated dogs, everyone knew he didn't want them near him. It was the next thing he said that kind of struck him as odd. "Zese are called moles, oui? I could count zem, like stars."
That was… Very personal. So personal that it had him watching with those dirt-brown eyes narrowed, and his cup covering the frown on his face. What in the Hell did the kid think he was doing? Any arousal he'd had already was sort of dampened by the fact that their private conversations were being leaked right in front of him.
"Firkle," He began, accent thick and voice strained as he tried his best to keep his anger tamped down to a minimum, "Can I speak to jou? Alone?" When the boy didn't respond immediately, simply staring, slack jawed and uncertain, Christophe broke the ring around him and gripped his arm. Dragging him out of the room, eyes searching everywhere he could to find a little alcove where they could talk, he finally shoved the boy into the corner of the kitchen. Like a wall of muscle, he caged him in, whispering hotly in his ear, his voice ragged.
"What ze literal fuck are jou doing?"
"As opposed to the figurative fuck?" Always a smartass, Firkle was glaring at the wall above the other's head, not letting his face bely his fear, even if his eyes did. He knew that the mercenary was always primed to kill, just as he was, but he wasn't sure if he could handle the other right now. If nothing else, Mole had strength on his side, while Firkle had his speed.
"Don't play games with me, I'm not in ze mood." The Frenchman murmured, pressing his lips to the other's cheek and making it look like they were talking about anything but a serious topic. There were enough drunken kids around that it looked more like a hookup than anything.
"I… I didn't mean to wear your shirt to the party, but I kind of came right out of bed-"
"But jou stopped to put jour makeup on, first?"
"Of course."
"Zen jou should 'ave noticed my shirt, non?"
There was some truth to that, Firkle supposed. He'd noticed it enough to put makeup on his neck and shoulder and arms, so why hadn't he just changed?
"I was kind of running late. Michael came to pick me up and I couldn't really waste time. You know I don't go in public without my makeup."
And there was a lot of truth to that. The Mole let it marinate for a moment, and then he leaned in for a kiss, soul-searing and telling of his current split between anger and the burning need to take Firkle right here, in public.
"Jou should 'ave warned me. I could 'ave brought something less…" But, thinking about it, could he really ensure that whatever he had on him would have been less stained? Maybe less obviously stained, but everything he had was pretty filthy. Hell, he was pretty filthy, even tonight; mud crusted his nails and he was sure there was still some on his face and in his hair. "Telling." Maybe.
"I like your shirt." Firkle swished his hips in the way he knew his sinner loved, and it took all Christophe had to clamp his hands on the other's hips to keep them still. He wanted more, but he had to get to the bottom of this, first.
"And ze mockery?" Voice bordering on murderous, now, he smirked as Firkle gave a little moan as his legs were parted by a much stronger, muscled one.
"I- I panicked and told people I came to the party dressed as you. I even made the bags under my eyes more pro-prominent." It seemed the literarily inclined goth was losing grips on his vocabulary, and the Mole couldn't help but feel good about that. About the fact that he'd barely done anything and the small goth was writhing in his arms, pressing into him with needy, open-mouthed kisses, even in this odd, impromptu interrogation.
"And zis is grounds to spill secrets?" Raising a brow, he tried to get the corners of his lips to curl downwards into a frown, but they weren't having it.
"I-" Another kiss, this time initiated by the elder male, stole the younger's breath and he felt dizzy from it as he was left chasing the other's mouth, eyes dull. "I just sort of- I… I dunno, I… Thought maybe I could just… I got into the moment, I got manic and-" Now, the kiss was gentle, soft, imploring him to calm down. He'd keep talking like that forever if he wasn't stopped.
"Hush, ma petite mort, zat is enough for now, don't you zink?" There was no hiding the smirk on his lips, and the light in his eyes, "I shall take care of ma petite chaton, oui? Make him purr. But only if he answers me one final question."
"Y-Yeah? Anything." Christophe rubbed his hand over the other's obvious interest through his pants, rough and exuberant as he was.
"Jour impression of me was… Shockingly on point." His voice was but a breath on the younger's neck, biting at his jugular and leaving Firkle gasping again, whining softly as he rubbed on the other's thigh, "Are jou in love with me or somezing?"
All movement ceased and the elder pulled back enough to see the murderous eyes of the young goth before him, who had all but been begging for him seconds ago, and not looked ready to kill. The second he felt the switchblade at his neck, he couldn't help the smirk on his face.
"If jou wanted to turn me on, chaton, all you 'ad to do was say so. No need to do such things in public, non?" He chuckled, unable to shake the feeling that the other was doing this simply to flirt with him.
"I… I don't love people. Love isn't goth." Firkle finally sighed, shaking his head a little as he put the switchblade back into his pocket. Of course, threatening the mercenary never worked. "But… If this is between us," He glanced around for a moment, "Then I… Do think I have some weird feelings for you."
"And zat is what I wanted to 'ear. Good boy." Preening at the compliment, Firkle bowed into the next kiss, happily letting it meld his soul to the other's in a slow dance of tongues and teeth. After a moment of this, long enough to leave the smaller dizzy with it again, Christophe offered a soft smile, something usually unseen on his face, "Per'aps I also have zese feelings for jou."
Neither expected the little moan that that pulled from the younger's throat, and he happily offered up his neck, grinding down hard on the other's thigh.
"Do you want to go somewhere more private?" The Frenchman asked, his voice husky now that all of his questions had been answered satisfactorily.
"I don't care, take me here, if you want…" Firkle whined, reaching down with one hand to stroke the elder through his pants, "I don't have anything, though."
"Ah, ze first rule of being a mercenary is to always be prepared." Seemingly out of nowhere, he pulled a small, beaten bottle of lube and his smirk turned into a grin, "Do jou want me?"
"Of course." The response came out breathy and hungry, his hips jerking up again as the elder scooted them down the wall. Shaking hands already started to unbuckle, unbutton and unzip Christophe's pants, and he gave a keening whine at the feeling of his cock springing free. A habit of going commando seemed made for quickies in public, and Firkle almost wished he hadn't worn his underwear the second his shoulders were pressed into the wall and his hips jerked up to rest on the other's hips. The bowing of his back made it slightly easier to get his pants around his knees, the silky little panties he'd worn beneath drawing a dark chuckle from the elder.
"It would be a shame to tear such zings," He began, gently pulling them to the side and licking his lips, "So I zink I will leave zem on."
Two rough fingers pressed to his entrance, tight and grasping for him, thankfully lubed up (because Firkle was between buzzed and high and horny, and actions didn't seem to fully sync in his brain), before pushing inside. With a little hitch of breath, he whined, bucking down on his fingers and giving an obvious clench of his jaw. He was losing control and he hated it, but there was only so much that the young goth could do with the elder slinking down and pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock.
It didn't take long before Firkle's black nails were scrabbling at the wall behind him, the carpet beneath, the dirty hair of the brunet currently swallowing him to the root, his mouth unable to stay shut. Moans and cries for more left him, and he couldn't seem to bring himself to care if the rest of the party was watching and filming this. All he cared about was the handsome man above him, holding his hips and taking such good care to make his kitten purr for him.
When the Mole finally pulled off of him, Firkle was about to push his head right back down, giving an impatient whine; he was right on the verge already, and just wanted to come. But, it seemed that Christophe had other ideas, because he was shifting up to kiss him, all the while removing his fingers (and relishing in the grunt of frustration that caused). Firkle wasn't given time to dwell, however, on how he was going to murder his maybe-boyfriend, because the next second he was filled to bursting with his cock, and it was too good to focus on anything else.
Christophe's thrusts were slow, abortive little things meant to tease the already teetering goth in his arms, the grin on his face apparent. Of course, there was little he could do when the other bit at the piercing in his collarbone, sucking around it and only making him give a scream of pleasure as he pushed all of his strength into a push that hit his prostate dead on. As soon as he had his target locked on, every single thrust hit him just right, and he didn't know how he was going to last for the next ten minutes. Hell, if the other stopped suddenly, he was sure he'd perish just like this.
Thankfully for both of them, Christophe had fallen into his groove and he wasn't about to quit until they were finished. Both strong hands came up to catch the slighter male's shoulders, dragging him down tighter into his hold, leaving Firkle breathlessly giving punched out little 'ah, ah, ah's. There was nothing more beautiful than the crazy little goth in his arms at this moment, and it only had him burying his nose in the other's hair and muttering French phrases that he didn't understand. It seemed to help, however, and the two were racing for their orgasms faster than they ever had before.
It was a bite to his neck, just underneath his ear, that had Firkle screaming something unintelligable as he came hard between them, successfully staining Christophe's shirt even more. Feeling that tight, velveteen heat clamping around him was the poor mercenary's undoing, and he jammed forward, hips jerking a few times as he followed suit, eyes clamped as tight as his teeth on the other's neck. Firkle's entire body was tight and tense, trying to wade through his orgasm and the impending arousal that that stupid bite was bringing forth for him.
Nobody knew how long that couple stayed there like that, panting and recollecting themselves, but it was even more a mystery when they just up and disappeared. There was no doubt they wouldn't hear the end of it the second they resurfaced in town, but for now, they just wanted to rest in the knowledge that this was going to be a much more frequent thing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ AN:
Ma petite mort - My little death
Ma petite chaton - My little kitten