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Ford is still nursing his second bottle of beer, but already he can feel himself getting a little lightheaded. He’d refused Stan at first—they could’ve gotten caught, and sent back home, and then where would they be—but Stan had wheedled and cajoled, and then, when Ford continued to deny him, shrugged his shoulders and started on his own. His lips had glistened as they wrapped around the narrow rim of the bottle, lingering perhaps longer than needed, and the slow grin that spread over his face as he offered it up to Ford said that he knew exactly what he was doing. Damn him.
Stan’s already well on his way through his third—or is it fourth?—now, and is making conversation with Ford’s belly. “Do you need some more beer, Mr. Fordsy? I think you do!” He makes good on his offer by putting his own bottle on Ford’s shirt, right over his bellybutton.
“Stan!” Ford laughs, and bats Stan’s hand away. The bottle tips, suspended for a moment before it spills a good half bottle of beer onto Ford’s lap. Stan rights it with a yelp, and they stare at each other a moment, before bursting into laughter again. Stan’s laughing so hard he almost tips the bottle again, but he manages to get it off the bed without further incident.
“Oh Ford, I don’t think that’s where the beer’s supposed to go,” Stan tells him, rubbing a wet patch on Ford’s upper thigh.
“You’d better not let it go to waste, then,” Ford says, and it surprises even himself. The liquor hasn’t muddled his mind, really, but he’s feeling bolder than usual as he guides Stan down with a hand on the back of his head.
“Aw, gross!” Stan complains, but Ford’s out for revenge, and he doesn’t let up until Stan’s face is pressed against the zipper of his jeans. Stan wrinkles his nose as the cold, wet fabric touches his face.
“I’m offended, Stanley,” Ford says, in his best disappointed voice, and gives a short tug to Stan’s hair.
Clearly, Stan’s feeling more shameless than usual, too, because that makes him moan, and then he actually turns his face to lick at Ford’s jeans. It was half a joke, really, but the light pink of Stan’s tongue peaking out as he laps at Ford has gotten his dick fully on board.
“Mmmmm,” Stan says sarcastically, but he still gets his hands to Ford’s thighs and massages them, ostensibly to squeeze out more of the liquid. The tentative swipes of his tongue have escalated, until Ford can feel each lick dragging the fabric against sensitive skin. Stan nibbles on a fold of cloth, then bites over one thigh, and Ford gives a quiet moan of his own, tightening his grip in the other’s hair. Faintly, he remembers his other hand still clutching his own bottle of beer to one side.
“Still want more?” Ford asks, and Stan rolls his eyes but says, “Yes, Ford, I’m so thirsty for it.” His tone makes Ford laugh, but he indulges Stan by lifting his own bottle up in the air. Stan looks up, eyes clouding momentarily in confusion, before Ford tips the bottle.
He’s aiming for Stan’s mouth, really, so it’s not his fault that it gets all over Stan’s face and into his hair. His pants are definitely a mess now, beer and spit and beer all over, but they’re not as much a mess as Stan, dripping wet and pretty clearly harder than ever. He’s not even subtle about the way he’s grinding into the bed, and Ford huffs a laugh at that, before pulling him up.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Ford says, and licks a wet stripe along Stan’s jaw. He can feel Stanley shivering in his grip.