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Your hookups always started with a little something to take the edge off. Beer, usually. Weed, sometimes, if neither of you intended to go down on the other. You didn’t need it now, not really—it was one of those things that naturally became a ritual.
Stan had tried to wring a couple jokes out of it in the beginning, something about, “Cute young thing like you, riding a foxy powerhouse like me? ‘Course you need a little liquid courage!” To which you'd laughed and shoved his bicep and teased him for refusing a shot, something like, “What? Getting too old for this?”
You guessed the teasing turned into an unspoken challenge, a silent competition of trying to outdrink each other until both of you were wasted enough that you couldn't even kiss properly.
Tonight, your eagerness was fueled by the leftover adrenaline of the morning rush at work, made hectic by the bustling groups of families in the morning and evening surrounding their Thanksgiving feast. The bitterness that comes with seeing people surrounded by loved ones while you… resign yourself to being without. Or maybe you didn’t need the motivation. Maybe you were just really, really fucking horny, and Stan just happened to be the only other loner in town who wouldn't say no to some company on a holiday as long as you brought a case of hard cider.
In any case, you're both surrounded by a pretty pathetic excuse of a Thanksgiving dinner—several bottles of hard cider, half a case of beer, and two large pizza boxes that are empty besides a couple dry crusts and some crumpled napkins—while Stan has you pinned to the living room floor, licking into your mouth and swallowing your moans.
“Ah, fuck,” you try to say, but the curse comes out muffled and trails off with a heavy sigh into Stan's mouth. He grunts from on top of you, licking the inside of your left cheek.
His body weight is enough to keep you down, but one of his forearms is planted beside your head and his opposite palm holds your shoulder down against the shag carpet. Your arms are over his shoulders, gripping the back of his wrinkled shirt collar, holding him close to you.
Stan’s knee finds your core, and you whine into his mouth when he presses it harshly against you. One of your legs wraps around his, trying to tug him closer, trying to get it firm enough against you so you can rock your clothed cunt against his thigh. You whimper at the sensation, desperation traveling up your arms, through your fingertips, so you're tugging and scratching at the back of his shirt without any real goal in mind. You accidentally scratch the nape of Stan's neck, and he clenches his jaw and groans against your front teeth.
“God, you're needy,” he mumbles into your mouth. But he presses his thigh further into you, so you can grind on it easier, and huffs out a laugh when your mouth falls further open. Your eyes have been screwed shut, of course they have, but Stan draws back and you slowly blink them open to catch him staring at you. “You like grinding on me, huh? Fuckin’ desperate for it.”
For as mean as he sounds, Stan looks about as wrecked as you'd expect. He's panting, his breath reeking of alcohol and pizza grease fanning across your face. His lips are a shiny shade of red, glistening with spit, and there's a generous dusting of pink to his whole face that crawls down his neck. Stan's hair is a mess, his red fez long lost to the throes of a drunken romp on the floor. His brown eyes are dark and hungry, taking in your own gaze, your parted lips, the glittering evidence of his drool on your chin.
“You look like a mess,” you say, voice strained. You mean it. Stan scoffs, some spittle landing on the bridge of your nose and making you wince. “Ugh, don't spit on me! That was a compli—m-ment! Ah—shit,” you choke out, sliding an inch across the floor when Stan humps his thigh against you hard enough.
“Yeah, you sure know how to make a guy feel special,” Stan bites, sarcastic. Even then, he's grinning at you, at the way you let out little yelps whenever he rolls his knee against your clothed clit.
“D-Don’t—Fuck, come on, hurry up, I'm—Oh, shit,” you squeak, surprised when Stan shrugs your hands off of him and plants both hands on either side of your head to push himself up to his knees. Then he's fumbling with his belt buckle, grumbling under his breath, and you quickly scramble to just, ugh, get your stupid fucking pants undone, fuck, the zipper is stuck—“Ow, fuck, careful, be careful.”
Stan's slacks are shoved down, caught around his mid-thighs and temporarily forgotten. He's grabbing the waistbands of your pants and underwear instead, lifting your hips up with how roughly he's tugging them down. Then they're at your knees, and you're kicking them off, almost kicking Stan's jaw in the process.
“Hey, watch it!” he scolds you, smacking your ankles to the side as you snicker at his flinch backwards. “Oh, you think that's funny, huh? Wise guy, you think that's—You think you can get away with laughing in my face?”
“What are you gonna do about it, old man?” you taunt, your legs swinging down on either side of Stan's body so you're spread out in front of him. It's normal not to be naked when you hook up with Stan, but the thrill is always there. It makes you giddy, the thought of being so impatient that neither of you can bother to take all your clothes off.
“Gonna make you regret it,” Stan threatens, shuffling closer to you and shoving his pants further below his boxers. You want to see his dick—You love how it looks when he's horny enough to be mean to you, when the final scraps of his patience are worn thin. His dick is always rock-hard when he's like this, always a ruddy pink color at the tip and straining upwards towards his belly. You love tracing your gaze from base to tip, love how Stan squeezes himself when you do.
You don't get a chance this time, though. Before you can see it, Stan spits into his hand and reaches back down. Then he leans over you and kisses you again. He's messy about it, literally slobbering all over your mouth more than anything, and it makes heat spike in your abdomen. Your hands automatically slide up his chest again to cup his face. You try to keep up, with the movements of his jaw beneath your palms, but then you can feel his arm moving, pumping his dick, and the thought of Stan fucking his own tight fist makes you drool.
“You want it? You gonna ask me for it?” he says against you, groaning when you take the opportunity to lick at his bottom lip. Stan's hand on himself stutters in pace just as his hips hitch forward, and you get a little nudge of his knuckles against your inner thigh that makes you laugh against his chin. Stan doesn't even know what you're laughing at, but he snorts, too. “Hey, stay with me. Use your words, sweetheart.”
“Mm—Yeah, yes, fuck me,” you say, scratching gently at the perpetual stubble on his cheek. Stan moans openly against your lips, and one of his hands comes up to your right knee to push it aside and spread your legs wide for him to lean into. You gasp when the tip of his dick finds your cunt, prodding accidentally at your clit before finding your entrance. “Oh, fuck. Fuck me, I'm so… You're… Shit, shit, you're fucking big.”
“You're fuckin’ tight,” Stan grunts, propping one elbow beside you again. You turn your head to catch some fresh air, your voice cracking near Stan's ear as he slowly pushes in. You're so wet, you know you are, but Stan's cock is huge and it's been a week since you've taken it. You moan, long and low, as he stretches you open with one consistent press of his hips. Stan groans along with you, his voice gravelly against the side of your head as he pushes in, in, all the way to the hilt so that his hips are pressed closely to yours. “Holy shit, sugar. Your little cunt missed me, didn't it.”
“Y-You asking me, or telling me?” you attempt, chuckling a little. Then your legs tense, your toes curl, and your head rolls back against the floor as Stan draws back, leaving you inch by inch until only his head is nestled in your body. Then he pushes back in, without stopping, and you swear to god he feels so fucking deep you think you can feel it in your stomach. “Ah, fuck. Oh, fuck.”
“I'm tellin’ you,” he breathes, continuing like that. Stan fucks you in long strokes, filling you up all the way each time, splitting you open. “Your pussy missed my fucking dick. You don't know what to do with yourself without it, do you?”
“I—I don't, I don't know,” you mumble, your hands gripping at the fabric of his shirt. He's talking too much, he always does, and you always love it. You love how dirty he talks, how he groans into your ear as he stuffs you full. It's the kind of sex you think about all the time. “Oh—god, holy shit.”
“C'mon, baby, tell me,” Stan grunts, pushing himself all the way in you. Then he stays there, unmoving. It takes you a moment to register the loss of movement before you whine a little, trying to move your hips, trying to fuck against him. “You want me to fuck you that bad? Tell me what you did.”
You know what he wants. Stan gets off on being wanted. He likes hearing how much you missed him, how much you love his cock, how you couldn't cope with spending so long without it.
Your whole body shivers when you think of one night, in the early days of sleeping with him, when you both went two weeks without seeing each other. When you finally had the time to meet, Stan had fucked you, hard, not even caring to draw it out. He came inside you without asking. Then he made you tell him about the times you had masturbated thinking about him, and he made you watch him jack off while you spoke.
“I-I didn't do much, I just—ngh, how the fuck does that feel good,” you gasp, when Stan just presses his hips closer to pin you to the floor. He sighs, and presses his face to the side of your head. He's not even moving, he's just keeping his dick to the hilt inside of you, but the stretch is incredible and he's so fucking deep and you're so, so wet. You try to gather yourself, but thinking about how hard you made yourself come that night sends a shock of thrill through you. You whine, high in your throat, and say, “I touched myself thinking of you, just—I just rubbed my clit, wishing you were there to play with it. And then I thought about how well you would fill me up afterwards.”
“Like this?” Stan mutters, adjusting his weight to one forearm and dragging two of his fingers down his tongue. You shudder as he sits up further, planting his clean palm on the floor and then sliding his spit-slicked hand down between you, going for your clit. Your eyes struggle to focus on his face, but you see his gaze locking in on the place where your bodies are joined. “Rubbed yourself nice and slow for me, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah,” you gasp, your back arching upwards as Stan touches you. He rubs small, slow circles into your clit, but his touch is too gentle, and it has you trying to hike your hips up to get better friction. Stan doesn't let you. He just huffs out a laugh, looser than usual, made bubbly by the alcohol. The sound spikes a feeling of affection in your sternum, even as you can feel your mind going numb with need. This… isn’t the alcohol. Stan always makes you feel like this eventually, all floaty and fuzzy and so good.
“Then what? Did you go all the way?” he asks, interest pitching his voice upwards. He glances up at you and smiles in that sleazy way that makes your abdomen tighten.
“No,” you say, meeting his warm brown eyes. Your chest grows warm. Your head becomes that much hazier. Your voice drips with honest vulnerability when you confess, “I wanted to wait for you.”
Stan's smile falls. He takes his hand away from your clit and a protest stutters out from your mouth, but then he shoves your legs upwards and presses his hands against the bottoms of your thighs to spread you open. Then he grinds against you, just once, and pulls back, and starts fucking into you with a speed that has you melting into the floor. It’s so much, almost too much, and your voice is caught in your throat for a few seconds before your brain catches up to your body.
“Stan, slow—ah, slow down! Oh, fuck, oh shit,” you gasp, instinctively reaching to hold onto him. Your hand manages to land on Stan’s, but even as you grip his wrist, he keeps up his brutal pace. Stan’s mouth falls open, and you catch a glimpse of sweat building at his temple before he pushes your thighs further up and hits a spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Oh fuck—Fuck, that’s fucking good.”
“I know it’s good,” Stan huffs, punctuated by a low groan from his chest that makes your lower body tense. He’s smug about it, but he’s right. You swear to God you can feel his dick pressing against your lower belly with every thrust in. “No one knows how to fuck you like I do. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”
“No, n-no one,” you stutter, shaking your head as best you can through the force of Stan’s hips thrusting against yours. It’s hard to do when you’re getting fucked like this. It’s so hard to think. But you swallow the saliva building behind your teeth and manage, “Only you.”
And you’ve been trying to look at Stan, to watch his face grow red and sweaty, but you can’t help it. Your eyes slip shut as your head lolls back against the shag carpet with each thrust. In some nonsensical way, you imagine Stan’s dick warming you up from your core, your abdomen, then slowly up your spine. The heat manifests in a flush on your neck, your face, and then it only takes a few more deep presses of Stan’s dick into your body for the heat to fully cloud your mind.
“Hey,” Stan says, catching your attention. It only felt like a few seconds of you floating, spacing out, but the tone of his voice sounds like this isn’t the first time he’s called for you. Stan’s thrusts are slower now, his hips moving in long strokes. Out, almost all the way, so only the head of his dick is within you; then in, a little slower, making your back arch until he hilts inside you and grinds purposefully against your body. He raises his hand to your cheek, patting your face a few times to get you to look at him through lidded eyes. There's a shit-eating grin on his face when he says, “There you are, sweetheart. It's Thanksgiving, right? You oughta thank me for my dick.”
“Whuh?” you ask, trying to blink away the blurriness in your eyes.
“Say thanks. You're grateful, aren’t you? Say, ‘thank you for fucking me,’” Stan coos, mocking the lilt of your voice.
“Thank you,” you whine, and Stan's brows raise like he didn't think you'd give in so easily. Then he smiles, more genuinely, before roughly adjusting your hips and picking up speed so he can fuck into you with hard, deep thrusts that shake you to your core. You cry out, clawing at the carpet beside you as Stan fucks you with vigor. Your words come pouring out of you uncontrollably. “Fuck—! Fuck, fuck, thank you, thank you for fucking me, th-thank you—thank—fuck, that’s—Stan—!”
“You’re gonna come on my dick,” Stan says gruffly, and he’s right, he’s right, you’re so close, his dick feels so good, you’re not even touching your clit but the fiery heat crawling up your stomach is getting you so close, it’s—it’s so—You moan loudly when one of Stan’s broad hands comes up to your lower stomach, pressing hard. It makes the pleasure build quicker, like you’re about to burst, and Stan’s dick is so big you imagine it bulging up against his palm. “Come for me. Wanna feel how tight you get.”
Then you’re coming, your body squeezing around Stan’s dick, and he keeps pumping his hips at that pace to fuck you through it. He groans, the sound stuttering in his throat as he keels over your body, muttering something like, “Yeah, fuck, that’s it,” but you can’t be sure because all you can really focus on is the careful unraveling of that tight coil of tension in your body. It feels different than other orgasms you’ve had, more definite, like something in your body has come undone. Your breath is caught in your throat as you reach your peak, but then you finally make it past that crest and slump down with a big gasp of air.
“Thank you, I just—Hah, thank you, th-thank you,” you babble, drool leaking down the side of your mouth. Stan is still fucking you, one hand still pressing on your abdomen and the other wrapping around your leg to pull you closer by your upper thigh. You whine when he speeds up, his rhythm gradually coming apart, shooting little waves of heat through your used cunt. The sounds of his body slapping against yours sound sharper post-orgasm, the room filling up with those sounds and the smell of sex. “Oh my god, oh my god.”
“Fuck, you feel that? Got it all over your thighs, baby,” Stan pants, a new kind of satisfaction underlying the gruffness of his voice. He’s leaning over you, and this time you’re able to look up at him, to see the way his eyes clench tight and his brows furrow together. Some strands of his silver hair are stuck to his face with sweat, and that gold chain around his neck swings with each movement, the medallion shining softly in mid-air from the lighting of the TV. “Fuck, that was hot. Love making you come.”
“Y-You always do,” you say, your legs starting to shake with the stimulation. Stan sighs harshly and his hips slow gradually. You whine when he comes to a stop and reach down to his hands, pawing at his wrists. “W-Why did you stop? Don't stop, I-I want…”
“You're insatiable, y’know that?” Stan chuckles, and the loss of his movements quite literally makes you pout. But he brings one hand up to pat your face gently before reaching to the side. “Don't want it to be over just yet. Plus, I need a fuckin’ drink.”
“And you call me insatiable,” you mutter, just holding the back of one of his hands as you watch him. Stan stays buried inside you as he grabs a beer from the nearby case and cracks it open, then takes a few deep gulps. You watch the bob of his throat, feeling yourself twitch at how defined it looks in the light of the TV. “Hey. I want some.”
Stan snickers into the can, then lowers it. He looks down at you, at your gaze wandering from his throat, to his chest, down to his stomach. You're slow about it, just taking him in, watching him breathe. He doesn't believe you when you say it, not entirely, but you say it all the time anyway. Stan is hot.
“You’re so hot,” you murmur. When you look back up at his face, he's grinning.
“Flattery will getcha nowhere,” he says, even though you both know that’s blatantly untrue. Stan will do anything if you flatter him enough. But you play along.
“Please, can I have some?” you ask sweetly, your chest rising and falling slowly as you catch your breath. Stan chuckles. He looks at you for a moment, just sliding his gaze up and down, enjoying the view.
He keeps eye contact when he takes a deep swig of his beer, his cheeks filling out. Then he leans down, and you tilt your head up, and Stan places the can to the side to grab your face instead. You understand—you open your mouth best you can, even though Stan is pressing your cheeks together to mold your mouth into the shape he wants.
He kisses you, pressing his lips firmly to yours. And he lets the beer pour out, right into your mouth, and it’s gross and warm and you love it. You try to swallow, to take whatever he gives you, but some leaks out from the corner of your mouth and trails down your cheek, your neck. You whimper at the uncomfortable sensation, but swallow what you managed to keep in. Stan stays there, kissing you sweetly, before pulling back and licking his lips.
“You wasted some,” he says, tilting your face to the side to see the trail of beer glittering on your skin. HIs hand is tight on your chin. You know he wouldn’t, he never does, but part of you wishes he grabbed it hard enough to bruise.
“S-Sorry, I’m sorry—Oh.” You gasp when Stan ducks down and laps at the base of your neck, the frames of his glasses brushing against your heated skin. You scramble for purchase, gripping at the back of his shirt and clenching the fabric in your fist. “Fuck, that’s…”
Stan drags his tongue up your neck, following the trail, up to your jaw. You’re shaking, gasping in his ear, as he licks up your cheek, holding your chin still and pulling it down to open your mouth.
“Stick out your fuckin’ tongue,” he says, and you do, because what else are you supposed to do? Stan grins, all teeth. He digs his thumb into the center of your tongue. “You’re real cute when you listen to me. Feels good, don’t it?”
“Uh-hah.” The sound comes out too warped, too wobbly around the harsh press of his thumb. Stan chuckles. He moves his thumb enough to press a kiss to your tongue, and doesn’t let you kiss back.
He shrugs your hand off the back of his tank and pushes himself up to sit on his heels. He grabs the can of beer again, his thick fingers growing wet with condensation. Stan takes another swig, sighs when he swallows, and holds out the can a few inches above your face.
“Drink,” Stan says, and you nod once. He tilts the can, slowly, steadily, and you hold your breath as he pours the beer into your waiting mouth. It's good. It tastes like Stan's mouth. Of course it's good.
He's too heavy-handed, pours too much, but when you whine and try to tilt your head away, he just spills some over your chin. One of your hands comes up on instinct, ready to wipe it off, but Stan keeps going. He moves the can lower and spills a stream of drink into the hollow of your neck. He snickers when you squirm, when you tell him to “Stop, stop, you're making me sticky,” but your back arches when he pours beer over your tits and then moves his other hand to pinch lightly at your left nipple.
“Stan, you jerk,” you gasp, your hips rolling softly when Stan throws the empty can to the side and squeezes properly at your tit. “Ah—You made a mess, you're… Oh…”
“You like it,” Stan says, rocking his hips back and forth again. Anything smart you had to say about the stickiness of the beer on your skin, about the liquid pooling in the carpet below you, disappears; because Stan is fucking you again, nice and slow, and any words you had prepared are replaced by little moans that are more breathy than anything.
Stan plants one hand on your waist as the other one gropes you, spreading the beer across your soft skin. He breathes one long, low sigh, and squeezes your breast again before using his palm to drag the wetness down to your navel.
“You'd just let me do whatever I want, wouldn't you?” he chuckles, shuffling forward a couple inches to make sure he’s hilting in you with each thrust. It’s so good, you’re sensitive from that first orgasm and so, so wet, he’s gliding into you so easily… “I could do anything, and you’d just take it.”
“Yeah,” you moan softly, your whole body jerking when Stan presses down on your abdomen again. His hand is heavy and hot, and you move one of your hands to press over it, just feeling his fingers flex over your body. Stan groans, starts building his speed again. “Hah, fuck—! O-Oh, oh my god, I’m… That’s so…”
“Your hand’s so much smaller than mine,” Stan mutters, more to himself than anything. His gaze is locked on your hand, watching as you grab his wrist. Then his gaze travels up, lingers again on your soaked chest, watching your tits bounce as he fucks you. “Fuck, you’re cute. Jus’ taking it.”
“Y-Yes, yes, just fuck me,” you say. You’re drunk and you’re fucked out and you sure sound like it, your vowels dragging on just a little too long. Stan takes his hand away from your abdomen and drags his thumb through the beer on your sternum, getting it wet. Then he leans over you and finds your clit with his thumb, rubbing it in tight little circles that get your breath caught in your throat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes.”
“Whaddya say?” Stan prompts, his mouth falling open a bit more as his breath starts coming out in heavy pants. His other hand slips beneath you, feeling your ass on the way, then planting itself on the small of your back to tilt your hips up. A high-pitched sound comes out of your throat when the angle changes and Stan’s dick presses against that sensitive spot in your cunt that has your eyes rolling back. “C’mon, baby. Don’t forget your—ugh, fuck—your manners.”
“Thank you, thank you, th—ah—ah, I’m gonna come,” you cry out, feeling that knot in your abdomen tighten again, so much, it’s so much, and Stan presses his thumb harder on your clit and one of your hands grips his forearm and the other claws for purchase on the soaked carpet, and—“I’m coming, I’m coming, oh sh-shit—Oh, holy shit.”
Your whole body is trembling as you come undone, squeezing Stan's dick, your legs tensing on either side of his body. He fucks you through it, relentless, his thumb grinding over your clit when your hips buck up too harshly. Your mind is mush and there are wordless noises tumbling from your lips, just babble and first syllables backing Stan's groan from above you. It's so hot, literally, it's like there's lava pooling within your core, leaking out of you, making it that much easier for Stan to move in and out.
“Gonna come in you,” he hisses, his rhythm stuttering when your hips jerk with the last remnants of your high. You’re still clinging to his meaty forearm, instinctively trying to keep him close, and you feel the muscles there tense when Stan abandons your clit to grip your hips, keeping you still. He’s breathing heavily, in sharp, gravelly pants, and when your vision clears up you can see his eyes are clenched shut. Stan’s face is pink, his glasses almost falling off his nose, and his mouth is wide open until he clenches his jaw and says, “You want it?”
“Yeah,” you say immediately, your voice shaky as Stan fucks little moans and breathy gasps out of you. “Yeah, yes, p-please—come in me, I want it, I want it…”
“There we go,” Stan says, as he opens his eyes to look at you. His gaze is dark, but a sideways grin creeps onto his face as he sees you, how wrecked you are. You can’t tell exactly what he focuses on. Maybe it’s your chest and neck, sticky with beer. Maybe it’s your flushed face, your lips wet with drool. Whatever it is, he licks his lips. “Perfect.”
Your mouth forms a round shape as Stan keeps at it, just chasing his own rhythm. Your body’s electric, thrilled at the fact that Stan is using your cunt for his own pleasure, the way it was meant to be used. You let breathy words and gasps and moans tumble out of your mouth as he fucks you into the puddle in the carpet, your cunt going numb and twitching around him.
“Ah, fuck, fuck, I’m—I’m so sensitive, I’m so sensitive, just come in me already, just—ngh—!” Your legs are shaking, and Stan is groaning above you, just driving his dick as deep as it’ll go, and, “it feels so good, so… I want you to fill me up, please, just…”
“Fuck—hah, fuck, holy fuckin’ shit,” Stan says, and then he thrusts hard, and stays there, tugging you closer by your hips so your flesh is squished up against his. Stan chokes on air, just for a moment, as he empties inside you. You tense, your breath caught in your throat as a searing heat pools in your body.
“Th-thank you, thank you, thank you,” you whine, fumbling to keep your hands on him, thinking of how warm his load is inside of you. Stan pulls out halfway, and slides in one last time. He groans out a sigh as your babbling gradually comes to an end and you focus on trying to breathe. He lowers your body to the floor, his dick sliding out of you a couple inches at the movement. Then he looks at you, half-lidded and smiling as he starts to catch his breath.
“Heh. You good?” You take half a moment to stare at him. His deep brown eyes, his square jaw. The stubble on his flushed face. The glow of some commercial on the television casting a shadow across his wide nose. His broad chest, heaving under his tank, trying to recover from the first semblance of a workout Stan has done since he’s seen you last. You nod, suddenly kind of… shy.
“Yeah. You?” you ask, and Stan chuckles at you with something that must be drunken giddiness. Because if it’s anything more than that, you fear that flutter in your chest would keep you up at night.
It takes a little longer than usual for the both of you to clean up, considering the mess. Stan lets you use his shower while he takes care of the carpet, and though you don’t have any of your own toiletries at his place, you don’t mind stealing his. When you come out, he barely lets you wrap up in your borrowed towel before barging into the bathroom and pushing a set of overnight clothes into your chest.
“Been drinking,” he states the obvious, avoiding eye contact. You take them silently, eyeing the baggy flannel pants and oversized tee. “And you never know what's wandering the roads this late. Just stay the night.”
You’re stone-cold sober. You take the clothes and try not to stare when Stan stomps towards the shower three feet away and turns it on to the setting he likes.
You get dried off and dressed, staying in the bathroom even though the steam is clinging to your skin and making you sweat. You wait for the several minutes it takes Stan to wash up, and when the handles squeak and the water stops running, you say,
“I’ve never stayed the night before.” You’re standing in front of the sink. The mirror above it is all fogged-up. Stan is silent for a few seconds.
“It’s holiday season,” he says finally. A few water droplets plink on the edge of the tub. “It’s not like I wanna keep you around or anything.”
“Oh.” Your mouth upturns at the gruffness of his voice. Behind you, Stan pulls the shower curtain open and yanks his towel from a bar beside it. “Really?”
“Really,” he says, voice even. With your bare hand, you wipe some condensation off the mirror in front of you. Water droplets form and streak down from the large patch you’ve made on the glass. You see Stan’s reflection, his dripping hair, his pink face, the way he’s tugging the towel around his waist and ignoring the water pooling on the floor as he steps out of the shower. “If anything, it's killin’ me to host so late. Really, you're more of an inconvenience than anything, maybe you should be heading back home, if-if you'd rather do that, or if you don't even wanna stay—”
“I'll stay,” you interrupt. Stan's reflection looks at the back of your head. Gives you a once-over, taking in the sight of the old, baggy shirt slipping off your shoulder. You haven't put on the pants he gave you. Stan finds your gaze in the mirror then, staring back at you and blinking once, twice. You smile at him. Then repeat, “I'll stay. It's holiday season.”
“... Right,” Stan says. He just stares at you, his eyes softening. Droplets of water fall from his hair, down to his shoulders. He adjusts the towel absently, making sure it won’t fall. You turn around to meet him properly, leaning backwards against the sink.
“Besides, someone's gotta make sure you don't choke on your own spit in the middle of the night. You snore when you sleep,” you say matter-of-factly, and Stan rolls his eyes at you but there’s a grin crawling across his face.
“You keep poking fun, I’ll make you drive home after all,” he threatens, but takes those few steps necessary to stand over you, pressing you against the sink.
“No you won’t. You like me too much,” you tease, looking up at him, keeping his gaze as he brings one big hand up to your face. Stan snorts, gliding his hand up until his forefinger is resting behind your ear and his palm is cradling your jaw.
“You have no proof,” he says. His voice gets a little lower, a little softer, that attractive gravel rumbling through his bare chest and making your heart flip. And then, stilted, he adds, “Thanks. For coming over.”
“Yeah,” you say, matching his volume. “Of course.”
Then Stan’s kissing you. His other hand glides under the hem of your borrowed shirt, finding your bare hip. His hair drips onto the bridge of your nose. Your hands come up to his waist, ghosting over his stomach, settling lightly at the firm center of his sternum. Stan sighs into your mouth and pulls you closer. Something tells you that’s proof enough.