South Park
Damien x Pip
or
Dip
Ungodly Addiction.
Characters: Phillip 'Pip' Pirrup, Damien the Antichrist.
Rating: M for strong language, adult themes, nudity, violence, sexual… stuff… and a really crappy storyline.
Summary: When no one hates you more than you yourself, how can you possibly feel loved? A Dip fic centred on self-hatred and a rather horny Antichrist. Rated M.
I have a universal Disclaimer in my Profile, so all angry mobs bearing pitchforks and torches are unnecessary.
Italics = thoughts
I look at the figure in front of me, despising them more than anyone else possibly can. I remember when he was a happy, polite little religious kid, with a blonde bob-cut, bow tie and cap. That kid was a little ray of sunshine in the otherwise crappy hell-hole that is South Park. His British accent and overly chipper attitude was unchanging, even though every other kid in the town abused him; beat him up, put him down, and generally just didn't give a shit how he felt.
'That little kid is long gone now,' I think as I wistfully pull at the messy haircut. The blonde fringe falls into that person's eyes, covering the look of hatred in them. I glance at the black jeans, ripped shirt and black leather jacket that has replaced the little cardigan and bow tie the kid used to wear. I glare at the tattered converse sneakers that have taken the place of those cheesy socks and loafers. My eyes pan upwards, before staring dejectedly at the space where that cute little cap used to sit. I pull off the stupid beanie that smugly took its place, ripping it up in anger.
The figure in front of me doesn't comment, staring blankly at the shredded cloth in my hands. I look into that boy's eyes, and know that the same expressions are equally as apparent on my face as they are on his. I pull a packet of cigarettes from my pocket and we both take a fag. I light our smokes and sigh as I feel the nicotine race into my lungs, slowly killing me from the inside. I glare once again at the kid in front of me, knowing that no one will ever, ever hate him as much as I do.
I turn away from the mirror, marching out of my room and down the hallway of my crappy little apartment. I walk out of my home, not bothering to lock the doors.
'I may as well leave the door fucking hanging off its hinges. Some little tosser always manages to break in anyway.'
I walk towards South Park High, knowing that I'm about two hours late. I could very well not even bother attending, but it gives me something to do. I walk inside the gates, remembering when Craig Tucker and his cronies would hang that little kid on that barbed wire by his underwear. I turn and give the rickety old gate a swift kick before continuing onwards.
I walk through the school hallways; remembering when Wendy Testaburger and Bebe Stevens would laugh behind that poor little Brit's back, calling him insulting nicknames like Frenchie, just to watch him take it happily. I smile when I recall the day that the kid finally stood up for himself, retaliating to the insults with a brief "Shut up, you sluts, and get the fuck away from me". The expressions on those whores' faces were priceless.
I pause before entering the same classroom I'd been going to for most of my life. I remember the day that same kid caught Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski making bets on how long it would take for the class pervert, Kenny McCormick, to get into 'prude Frenchies pants'. The kid had ignored their hurried apologies, marching away down the hallway – followed by the other boys – towards McCormick. The kid had proceeded to plant a teeth-shattering kiss on the perv's lips, just to spite the world in general.
I sigh, pushing the door open and waltzing inside. I ignore all the stares and whispers, as always, and stroll casually to my place in the back of the room. I plop myself on the uncomfortable chair and rest my feet on my table. Mr/Mrs Garrison (he's changed his mind so many times I forget which he is at any given time) glares at me disapprovingly and I smirk at him, cigarette smoke curling in front of my face, daring him to tell me off.
After a long unspoken argument, the teacher sighs, gives me a detention for being late, and carries on with his lesson. I grin slightly, knowing that I've won this round. The smile fades far too quickly for anyone to register it, and I stare out of the window, watching the ever-present snow float down to the ground.
I sigh as the teacher once again begins his lesson. It's some compulsory health-education session on the importance of saying 'no' to alcohol and drugs until you are of age.
'Pathetic, like anyone will listen.' I think to myself, still watching the snow outside. The cigarette continues to slowly burn itself out in my mouth as Garrison's voice slowly runs into unintelligible background noise in my mind. I feel my eyes lose focus, the snowflakes outside blurring into a white mess.
Slowly I become aware of the fact that the mindless babble that is the typical undercurrent of my schooling hours is absent. I blink once or twice, allowing my eyes to refocus, before tuning my ears back into the teacher's monotonous, droning voice.
"Well, well, well, look who we have here. Long time no see," Garrison seems to sneer. I hear no reply, so the newcomer has obviously shrugged or flipped the teacher off or something. The teacher makes a noise of disgust, before speaking once again.
"You can go sit in that spare seat at the back, next to Phillip."
At this, I turn to glare at the teacher for doing this to me. I prepare to give Garrison my expression of loathing – the one usually reserved only for the mirror – when blank confusion hits me like a brick.
The newcomer – a skinny, pale teenage boy with black clothes and shaggy black hair – stares at me in disbelief. I frown, unsure as to why he's so flabbergasted. The boy approaches me slowly, and I pull the burnt out fag-end from my mouth nonchalantly, tossing it over my shoulder and reaching into my pocket to grab a new cigarette.
"Pip, no smoking in – oh never mind." Garrison says wearily, before returning to his lesson. His annoying, nasal voice fades into the background once again as I lock eyes with the new kid, daring him to say anything as I flick open my lighter and allow the flames to lick at the tip of my nicotine fix.
I'm struck briefly by how familiar those eyes are. Of course, it's not likely you'd ever forget glowing, bright red orbs of fury, but these seem particularly nostalgic. I try half-heartedly to sort through my mixture of drunken stupors and repressed memories, curious as to why these eyes are so… moving…
The boy moves even closer, and I expect him to move to the side and sit at his seat. Instead, hands slam onto my desk, with their black-painted nails digging into the tabletop. Those red eyes move closer, burning a hole in my already mangled brain.
Cigarette smoke curls lightly between us, wafting into both of our noses as I arch an eyebrow, waiting for the strange new boy to speak. My mind scrambles, regurgitating painful memories in a bid to recall these piercing red eyes when suddenly the boy opens his mouth.
"Just what the hell have you done to yourself, Pip?"
That voice, although having dropped a few octaves since I first met the boy, is unmistakeable. I gape silently, for once forgetting my usual cold exterior. I forget the rest of the school, there is only me, and him.
Damien.
**DIP**
AN. ~ I'm so so so sorry!
This was meant to be up ages ago!
This is merely part one of this fic, which is dedicated to LoonieRiddleDragon, who requested a Dip fic in teen years filed with sex and angst and fluff and romance and Pip being a moody, self-hating tosser (not in thoseexac words, but close enough)
I hope this pleased you...?
If it ddn't, let me know, ok?
And I'll try again.
anyhoo,
see you later!
Zanchev
