WARNING: rated M. contains VIOLENCE, LANGUAGE and ORAL SEX
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Damien/Christophe
First time writing south park or Mature, I do hope you like it xD
Do not like Man/Man? Then you should read this, might get you into it 3
Hell would've been a pretty okay place, if it wasn't for one thing. One cursed thing.
The crappy food, long lines, immense pain, lack of sitting space, all that Christophe DeLorne could've dealt with. He was not intimidated by the fiery demons, the endless pits or the shrieks of agony. Torture he could deal with, he was a mercenary for fuck's sake! A dead one perhaps, but a mercenary nonetheless.
No the one thing that fucked up the infamous Mole's guard dog inflicted afterlife, was the lack of smokes. Not smoke, as in smoke smelling of brimstone caused by smouldering stone, but smokes as in cigarettes. Tobacco. Nicotine.
Upon first arriving in Hell, mauled to shreds by vicious, vicious beasts for the second time in his existence, Christophe had stayed on the ground where he landed and smoked up the last two cancer sticks in his pack. He'd figured he deserved as much to consol himself, he'd be able to get more. Not. For being the place where all that is evil goes once it ceases to exist in the world of the living, Hell was pretty low on tobacco. The Mole had learnt that quickly.
He had looked around, asked other damned, gotten frustrated, beaten some poor souls with his shovel, cursed all above, below and on the earth silly in his dirty French tongue but alas, no cigarettes. Hell sure could be hellish.
His shovel made a satisfying scraping noise as he dragged it over the ground behind him. This was really getting to him. Only two days without his precious babies and he was close to shaking physically. Mole growled as he streaked through hell like an angry feline, lips curled into a pissed-off scowl. Please let somebody mess with him right now, he desperately needed to vent.
"Oi! Cut it out with that fucking scraping of yours you filthy scarecrow!"
Perfect.The scraping stopped.
"What deed you call me…?" The Mole slowly turned and asked with his heavily accented voice. Before him, lounging against one burned piece of rock or another, stood four large males clad in biker gear. The largest of the group, a big-nosed redheaded man with whiskey on his breath stepped forward and faced The Mole, towering above him.
"I called you a filthy scarecrow you French faggot." The man stated arrogantly and looked Christophe up and down. "Pussy."
That did it. Feral grin dividing his face, The Mole brought the handle of his shovel up in the man's shin, making him bite his tongue. And before the biker could even manage a startled gurgle, Christophe brought the gardening tool back down, impaling the poor man's foot.
His voice finally caught up with him and the biker bawled in agony. His shocked companions came to and rushed to their friend's aid. The Mole excitedly jumped the closest one, and feeling particularly pissed and nicotine depraved; bit away a chunk of the damned's cheek and then returned it by spitting it in the now screaming man's face.
The remaining two men grabbed the 'scarecrow' by the back of his shirt and dragged him down to the dusty ground where he fell hard on his back. A foot came rushing towards his face, but Christophe grabbed on to the limb and curling up around the man's legs for support, twisted the foot in his hands rapidly. A sickening crunch was heard, hastily followed by yet another voice crying out in pain. The man started doubling over but was hit by The Mole's clenched fist and fell in an arch down to his back. Before he could even catch his breath again, Christophe had jumped to his feet and brought his foot down straight in the man's face, hard. The man went silent.
The Mole turned quickly, assessing his fight. The first man was still nailed to the ground by his shovel, screaming his head off, but the two men still standing where closing in on The Mole from two directions, fast. Christophe managed to dislocate one of the bikers' left knee with a well-aimed kick, but no-cheek-guy came up from behind and got the mercenary in a headlock.
"You fucking bastard!" He grunted heavily as he tried to squeeze Christophe's head of. But The Mole widened his stance for balance, raised his arms to grab hold of the one choking him and jerked his throat free. Not stopping there, he carried out the well-practised move and spun up through the gap he'd now created and appeared behind the man. Christophe twisted the damned's arm up good and hard, drawing a pained yelp from the man, then kicked him with a boot-clad foot right in the lower back making him fall and crush dislocated-knee guy that lay on the burning ground mere meters away. Christophe spat on the two, then walked back up to the man that had first called out to him. Said biker looked up at him with terrified, wide eyes.
"P-please! Sir! I beg of you!" He pleaded, tremblingly.
"Beetch." The Mole yanked out his shovel binding the man to the ground and raised it high above his head just to bring it down hard over the man's temple, silencing his scream.
The Mole sighed in relief. He needed that. He put his shovel back into the strap crossing his cupper body and began walking away when he heard slow, one manned clapping.
"Good show there, Chat Noir." Christophe was about to whip around and serve another order of ass-whopping to whoever dared bother him when he felt it. The smell of cigarette smoke. He stiffened and turned slowly.
A young man, about Christophe's own age, sitting legs crossed on a thrown-like chair decorated with skulls. Hair as black as his clothes, grinning mouth lined with sharp, pointy teeth, red eyes gleaming with an evil light. Upside-down cross resting on his chest, hanging from a silver chain. And most importantly, pinched between his left thumb and index finger… a lit cigarette. Christophe almost ran up to him right there and then.
"Where deed you come from?" Mole instead asked managing to contain himself, fingers twitching ever so slightly. Damn it, he needed one of those, now! But something told him to be weary of this man. Mercenary gut-feeling?
"Oh I've been around for quite some time, I know my way around here." The young man said flatly, taking a nonchalant drag from his cigarette. Christophe watched the smoke he blew out curl up towards what could perhaps be called the sky of hell.
"And I've also watched you for a while no, Chat Noir." Christophe snapped his focus back to the man's face, eyes leaving the taunting smoke.
"Quoi?" He hissed, ignoring the nickname. The man in black stood from his seat and took another deep drag of his cancer stick.
"And I've realised," pale lips curled into a grin around the fag, "that you're just dying to get your lips around one of these." Lazy wave with the cigarette bearing hand, Mole's eyes following the gesture like that of a cat's following the movements of a fish in the pond. Another of those drags that Christophe so desperately wished he too could take.
"And I could give you one…" Mole took a startled step back, the man suddenly standing, and also reaching above The Mole by at least two inches, right in front of him. "If you blow me." Smoke exhaled right into the Frenchman's face.
Christophe blinked.
"What?"
"If you get down on your knees," The Antichrist leaned in ever so slightly and whispered in his ear, "and suck my dick," breath hot against Christophe's cheek, "I will give you a cigarette. I'll even be so kind to light it for you." An unlit stick of salvation tapped against The Mole's forehead. "What say you, Chat Noir?" Red eyes gleamed.
Christophe felt his face grow hot with indignation and opened his mouth to tell this guy to va te faire fautre in just about every language he knew when his eyes fell on the cigarette in the Antichrist's hand.
Was he that desperate?
…
Yes.
Christophe shut his eyes; he couldn't believe he was actually going to do this. Gregory had tried to get him to quit but he just wouldn't listen. He opened his brown eyes again, locked them on the tall man's red ones and sank to his knees. A far too wide, disgustingly smug grin spread across the Antichrist's face. The Mole's pride refused to acknowledge the small chuckle that came out around the end of the cigarette and floated down to him as he undid the black-clad man's belt and button. Christophe paused slightly at the waistband of the red boxers, and a firm hand came down to grasp his hair and tilt his head upwards. Brown eyes met red once more.
"Well?" Amused ring to his voice as Damien Thorn, Son of the Devil looked down at Christophe DeLorne.
The Mole felt his face grow even hotter, but scowled defiantly. He pulled Damien's red boxers down and took him in his mouth.
---
Christophe had to work for his precious smoke; The Antichrist had a lot of stamina and the act went on for several minutes. The Mole's knees almost went numb from having to support his weight for so long, and Damien's firm grasp of his hair didn't help his comfort level. But at last The Antichrist came with a grunt and spilled himself in Christophe's tired mouth. A tightened grip on the back of his head kept him from turning away to spit and forced him to swallow around the other man's member one last time. Christophe was finally allowed to pull away, coughing. Damien barely sighed in a pleased way and took a drag of the new cigarette he'd lit up sometime during the act. Christophe wiped his mouth and got to his feet, knees slightly shaking. He spit on the ground one last time, then turned to Damien and held out his hand expectantly. The promised prize, a cigarette, was placed in his open palm. Christophe had it dangling from his lip with a mere flick of his wrist and scanned the area in a quick search for a light. Damien flicked his thumb and had an impossible, tiny flame dancing from it. Christophe lent forward and lit up without a word. He inhaled deeply.
Sweet, sweet nicotine. The Mole turned and began walking away.
"Chat Noir." He stopped and turned.
"If you ever get the need for more, just call out. I'll be around." A wink.
Beetch.
--Fin--
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Hope you liked, sorry if i messed up the french! 3 show me some love!