#(ten minutes under the hood) what the fuck stanley

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

Hold on im thinking about gravity falls (affectionate) and rick and mortuary (derogatory)

[urmomsmainbitch]

american idiot - chapter one

link to wattpad story // link to series masterlist // link to writing

word count: 2.7k

warnings: the bowers gang, weapons, violence, basically the whole thing (if you're not comfortable with violence or abuse -- which henry faces during the movies and during the book -- then i recommend you don't read, but i'll try to tag appropriately!)

a/n: i hope you don't think it's ass but this is probably going to come out every other friday or so but this is more of a trailer than the start of the actual series

HENRY DIDN'T REMEMBER a better time in his life than when he heard the news that Tommy 'Gun' Lee was coming back to Derry for the summer. To him, nothing topped the moment where is dad was slurring over his dinner (leftover hot dogs -- again), and let it slip that the "ungrateful little bitch" was coming back for a few months over the summer, and that "your whore of a mother" didn't mention if she was staying for the year or not.

He remembered huffing and puffing, grumbling something under his breath before excusing himself, and running to call Patrick like it was fucking Christmas morning.

Something about his darling little sister coming back made his heart race and a smile light up his face, and it was evident from the way he stepped into Derry Middle on the last day of school.

Oh, this summer would be perfect! His deal with Denbrough was over, the gang was all together, and his perfect sister was coming back from San Diego for the summer. Tommy Lee Bowers, he knew, would make this the best summer he;d ever had -- and by fucking God, he wasn't going to let anything stand in his way. Not that stuttering freak or the stupid Tozier kid who's mouth ran a mile a minute or his father's thriving alcohol addiction -- absolutely nothing.

His Tommy Gun would rule that fucking school the second she stepped in to pick him up, and every one knew it.

Word travels fast at Derry Middle, and when it got around that Bowers had a little sister coming, the first thing Bill Denbrough did was panic.

She couldn't be too different, could she?

The same blood ran through their veins, the same color skin on their bones, and most likely, the permanently upturned smirk tattooed to their lips. His hopes didn't improve when he saw the girl himself, waiting outside on the hood of Butch's car, throwing rocks at little kids passing by as she sat patiently for Henry to come outside.

He'd promised her a tour of the school -- it's only fair, he put it, that a queen knows her kingdom before taking it over. Henry had no doubt that Tommy would run the school when it was her time in September. A grade below Tits and the rest of his ugly friends, it would be more embarrassing than anything else to watch them suffer socially at the hands of a twelve year old girl.

(Henry very much looked forward to that moment. So much so, in fact, that he near goddamn skipped his way to the front of the school to open the door so they could start the tour. It helped that he was getting out of math class.)

It was only in the few moments before she walked in the door (immediately claiming the whole goddamn building with a footstep) that Bowers caught him by the bag and dragged him into the bathroom, away from the rest of the kids, and most likely, where he'd lay dying for the rest of the school day and foreseeable future (Stanley refused to shit in the school bathrooms, and seeing as he was the only one on this side of the building, he was screwed.).

Bill had never liked being alone with Henry Bowers. Nothing good ever came out of it, and he didn't want to stick around this time to find out why he'd been pulled into a bathroom and away from the rest of the student population. Henry let go of Bill's bag, letting him stumble around for a second or two before straightening up and backing him up against the wall.

"W-what d-d-do you w-want, B-Bowers?" Bill nearly spat, looking the older boy in the eyes. Henry's permanent smirk seemed to grow a few inches on either side, because he just chuckled softly -- albeit cruelly -- and looked down at the Denbrough boy. Bill could smell his breath, even though the two weren't standing particularly close to one another.

"Well, B-b-billy," he mocked, nearly laughing as he relaxed his posture a little bit and backed away from him. (Any one is passing who didn't know them might have said, "Hey, I bet those two boys are damn good friends.") "I have some news for you and your group of stupid fucking friends, and let me tell you" -- Henry stopped to laugh for a second, like he was cracking himself up -- "it's going to make your life a living hell."

Bill gulped. He didn't think, realistically, it could get much worse.

"You got a free ride this year because of your little brother," Henry reminded, smiling a little bit, seeming genuine. "But the ride's over Denbrough. This summer is going to be the worst summer of your entire life."

(Bill didn't expect him to say anything else -- but honestly, every summer was the worst summer of his entire life. He didn't catch a break from the older boy and his group of goons, but there was a feeling down in the pits of his stomach that told him that this time, this time, for real, was going to be the worst summer vacation he's ever going to have as long as he lives.)

"But I do have a little piece of extra advice I'm gonna give you."

Bill huffed. "You're so generous," he started, rolling his eyes, as he tried to walk out of the bathroom. Henry grabbed onto his backpack, "but I think I'll have to pass with this one."

He was cut off as Bowers kicked him on shin and onto the cold bathroom tiles. So much for being brave.

"I think you might want to hear this." Henry squatted down to look Bill in the eyes. There was still a hint of a smile on his face. Boy, this is gonna be good. "If you think I'm a pain in your ass--"

"I d-do think you're a p-pain in m-my a-ass."

Henry paused for a second, sending a menacing smile, and pushed him back on the ground as he got up and stepped over the boy on the floor, before beginning to make his way out of the bathroom before looking back, before lending Bill a hand to get up. He hesitantly took it and brushed off his pants, lips pressed tightly together as he looked at Henry. "Then you're gonna hate the girl sitting on Belch's car."

"Why's that?" Bill asked, feigning confidence, already knowing the answer. Henry could tell, just exhaling and giving him a big mischievous smile, hands behind his back.

"Not important, but she's not gonna be as nice as I am," he said with a grin, "but I'm just looking out for you, Billy Boy. Wouldn't want Tommy Gun to whip your ass without some working, right?"

With that, Henry left the bathroom, a smile plastered on his face as he went to greet his sister, and Bill raced out of there like his ass was on fire -- warning Richie not to talk to or about the pretty girl sitting on Belch's car.

-- -- --

"Best feeling ever!" Stan groaned, grinning ear to ear as he dumped out everything from his backpack. School had finally let out for the summer — no more stupid math classes or dumb reading assignments and annoying history tests, just Stanley and his bird book for three whole months.

A piece of his own personal heaven. Points if the pretty girl on Belch's hood was with him but hey, he wasn't picky.

"Really?" Richie asked with a grin on his face, "Try tickling your pickle for the first time." Eddie rolled his eyes, but Bill smiled. Stan let out another groan -- not a good one, this time -- even though, if he had to be honest, this seemed like it would be the best summer of his whole entire life.

Richie felt it too, if he were going to tell the truth (as he so rarely did -- or at times, so bluntly did), that this felt like it was going to the be the absolutely best summer he would have for the rest of his life. He had a whole checklist and everything for things he wanted to do (kiss some girls), things he wanted to see (some girls' boobs), and things he wanted to experience (there were a number of interesting things on this list).

And quite frankly, he felt as though every single thing on every one of his lists could be accomplished with the girl sitting on Belch Huggins' car hood, smiling mischievously as she watched the kids coming out of school.

God, did she really and truly look like an angel. Deep brown hair, straight in some parts and wavy in others, came down a little bit past her collarbone (not super cared for, but neither was his), cherry red lips, and a cute line of freckles going across the bridge of her nose. She was the most impressive tan he'd ever seen in his whole life, a very deep beige from the summer sun — even though it was only June.

The top part was being held up by some clip, and Richie could see his own Hawaiian shirt going over her tank top instead of the open button down she was wearing on top. It was lazy looking and careless and little bit disheveled, but that day, Richard Wentworth Tozier II was convinced he saw the hottest girl to ever be created.

Eddie interrupted his dream, snapping him back for only a second. "So what do you guys want to do tomorrow?"

"I start my training," Richie responded immediately.

"Training for what?"

"Street Fighter."

"You're going to spend your whole summer inside of an arcade?" Eddie couldn't imagine that prospect, but with Richie, anything was possibly -- no matter how disgusting it might seem.

"Beats spending it inside of your mother, oh!" Richie's goofy grin came back in an instant and leaned over for a high five from Bill when his hand was brought down by Stan. "And, 'course, my summer bucket list."

Eddie sent him a pity glance, "No girl's gonna let you fuck her this summer, Richie. If they have any brains at all, no girl is going to let you go within a ten foot radius of her without realizing what she's doing." Richie pressed his lips together. Of course Eddie would be cynical, it's just because — "and don't tell me that I think it because I just haven't hit puberty yet!"

Richie gave him a toothy grin, "Aw, shucks, Eddie Spaghetti, you know me so well. When you see a pretty girl, like say, that one over there—" he pointed discreetly towards the girl on the hood —"you'll get that feeling of butterflies in your stomach and just think, 'Wow, I've just seen an angel.' I don't mean Bowers, I just-"

"Yeah, you mean his little sister." Eddie looked up to Richie for a response, only to see him at a loss for words, jaw dropping and face paling.

For once, Richie Tozier was speechless as Eddie laughed and slapped his back as Bill mentioned something about the Barrens and Georgie and finding him — even though everybody had long accepted the fact that Georgie wasn't just missing.

It was like a switch. Everything changed in that instant. It was like she grew fangs and claws, and he watched Patrick look at her like she hung the fucking moon. It was incredibly painful, but he assumed, in a sense, they deserved each other. It took a second before he realized what this would actually mean for him: having to worry about a double in the hallways — a hot double that could potentially fool him into forgetting her Bowers-ness — and someone else to make fun of him in ways that he'd never tjough imaginable.

Sure, Bowers wasn't awfully bright, but he sure as hell was creative when it came down to it.

"Gunner!" Richie heard Bowers (the boy one) laugh as she shoved him in the side, cackling along herself, cigarette never leaving her mouth — opting just to talk out of the side of it.

Oh, so her name must have been Gunner. That's unfortunate, he thought to himself. But then again, she seems awful, so maybe she just deserves it. He smiled to himself. "Tommy Lee, we've gotta start heading out soon."

Wait, so was it Tommy Lee? Or was it Gunner? Was that just the gang's nickname for her? More importantly, if it was, why the fuck would they choose a name like Gunner for her? Nothing was settling about that fact, and although Richie wasn't typically one to spiral, it was hard to control himself.

"You didn't tell me you had friends, Henny!" Tommy exclaimed girlishly, making Patrick spit out his sofa and slam his hand on the car hood, flicking out her cigarette and letting Patrick snuff it out. She put a hand on her heart. "Oh, you've grown up so fast! I remember it was just yesterday you took a massive shit in that kids backpack and had to do forty hours of community service!"

Richie could tolerate a lot of things. One thing he couldn't tolerate though, was not being able to chime in when his story was being used and told all wrong — or mentioned without his name. Luckily, he was spared his intervention by a howling Belch Huggins.

"It was four eyes!" Huggins nearly screamed, warning a howling laugh from Tommy and shove from Victor, followed by a point led by Patrick. "Yeah, him!"

Richie could feel his face heating up, but before he could say anything, the bright blue TransAM was firing up the engine, and was getting ready to peel out of the school parking lot like a man man was driving.

Bill was the first to say anything. "Sorry about that, Rich. Bowers is a real asshole."

"So is his sister," he made out through his teeth.

Richie saw himself as a 'go with the flow' kind of guy, but goddamn it, he wasn't going to let Tommy Lee shit all over him and get away with it.

He was too stubborn, too arrogant, and too proud to let that happen, but with only a second or two of knowing she existed, he knew she was the exact same way. He could get tell it with the way she walked and talker and immediately took control of some of the scariest kids in Derry Middle.

But she wouldn't come out on top of this one.

There's no way. He refused to let it happen. Letting her win would show everyone else that he was just a loser who couldn't stand up to a girl who's was going to beat the living daylights out of him if he looked at her the wrong way.

She already had Henry and Patrick and Belch on her side — an even, if not better, match to four decently sized seventh graders. There was no excuse for them to get beat.

Grinding his teeth and tearing his eyes away from her, laughing mischievous and almost secretly as she put her cigarette out on Belch's hood as not to be noticed by he coo around the corner (Rich didn't know that the cop around the corner was her father who would beat her till she couldn't stand if he caught her smoking) he said, "So, Barrens tomorrow, right Bill?"

And right as Tommy Lee Bowers and her newfound gang pulled out of the parking lot, she and Richie Tozier locked eyes and made a silent pact — an agreement — something they both agreed on — something he'd be thinking about all night and the whole next morning:

Derry is two small for the two of us.

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (gene/paul, nc-17) (part 23 of 29)

part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4   part 5   part 6   part 7   part 8   part 9   part 10   part 11   part 12   part 13   part 14   part 15   part 16   part 17   part 18   part 19   part 20   part 21  part 22   part 23   part 24    part 25   part 26   part 27   part 28   part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter:  Paul and Gene watch T.V. and continue to delay the inevitable.

          They went home after that, stopping only to pick up some more takeout for dinner. Paul was bemoaning it a bit, and offering to make them both sandwiches instead, even when he was pulling up to the restaurant.

         “I’ve gained three pounds just this past week.”

         “You’ve been weighing yourself?”

         Paul looked at him weirdly.

         “Well, yeah. Every day.”

         “Even since this happened?” Gene was a little bewildered to think that even getting cursed hadn’t been enough to distract Paul out of that particular concern.

         “Yeah. I think I’m still gaining it all in the abdomen.” Paul took a disgusted glance down at himself, assuming he could even see his stomach past his chest. Gene was beginning to wonder. “We can’t keep eating like we’re on the road.”

         “Can’t we?”

         “Fuck, no.” Paul grimaced, shaking his head as he parked the car and turned off the engine. “I spent the entire break trying to get my weight down.”

         “You look fine. Why are you so worried?”

         “The costume girls’ll have a fit.”

         It was the first time either of them had mentioned anything related to the tour all day. It cut through the Central Park fantasy like an Exacto knife. Gene wasn’t going to have some cute girl—this cute girl—hanging on his arm for much longer. Maybe no more than a few hours.

         Gene rubbed his elbow uncomfortably. Paul, gazing at his own reflection in the car mirror and pushing his hair in front of his shoulders, didn’t seem to notice, so Gene pushed the rest of his thoughts aside. They got out of the car together; Gene paid for the food, and they returned to Paul’s place soon after. Half the takeout was gone before they’d even gotten home with it. They finished off the rest at the kitchen island, then laid around on the couch awhile, T.V. running in the background while Gene read and Paul doodled.

         It was kind of funny, really. Occasionally it felt like nothing had really shifted. Still watching T.V. together like they used to in the hotels, back when getting laid after the show was a distant hope and not an inevitability. Eating out of Styrofoam boxes. Joking around and shooting the shit.

         The rest of the time, Gene was painfully aware of how much had shifted. There was the sex, sure, even if they hadn’t gone all the way, but that wasn’t the whole of it. He’d still have his gloomy spells, sure, but overall, Paul seemed so happy. So open. So—maybe Gene was giving himself too much credit, but Paul seemed—taken with him. He’d never been aware of anything like that out of Paul before. If those big, dark eyes had ever looked Gene’s way with half the warmth and attention he was getting now, then—well, then, Gene hadn’t noticed.

         He’d thought Paul didn’t like him a bit when they’d first met, in fact. He’d been high on his own bravado, and Paul had just hung in the periphery of his circles. Somebody had introduced them, and Gene had popped off immediately, something like oh, you write songs?, and Paul—well, he’d been Stan, and Stanley if you wanted to piss him off, back then; he hadn’t gone by Paul until a year or two later—had snapped right back with an affirmative.

         He remembered asking him to play one for him, and Paul had. The song was a lousy, incoherent mash-up of the Stones, Bowie, and the Beatles at their most soused, and his playing was worse. But somehow after, they’d just… Gene didn’t know. He couldn’t remember a definitive point where they’d clicked. Paul had still been in the process of nearly flunking out of high school, while Gene was a sophomore, or maybe a junior in college. But he remembered starting to call him up after classes, inviting him to parties and jams. He remembered thinking Paul was standoffish and nervous, not cut out at all for the rockstar career he was so desperate for. But he didn’t remember ever getting the feeling Paul dug him. More that he was just lonely.

         He didn’t want to delve into it too deeply. Rethink nearly ten years of interactions. It wouldn’t do any good, and it wouldn’t change any of the way things were right now. He watched Paul kick up his ankles against the arm of the couch, and finally spoke.

         “What did you take us out for, anyway?”

         Paul glanced up from his drawing. It was something weird and abstract, not the eerily-accurate dick sketches Gene was accustomed to out of him. Hatchmarks, parallel lines, and weird, elongated shapes were well on their way to completely covering the sketchpad.

         “To pay you back. I told you.” The pencil resumed its scratch across the page.

         “No, why did you really do it?”

         “Because we’d never get to again.”

         That was all he said for awhile. The words hung like streamers. Gene sort of wanted to argue him down, even though he wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know exactly what Paul meant.

         “You can take me out anytime.”

         “Not like that.”  Paul shifted abruptly. “I’m gonna go shower.”

         Gene raised his head, half at the words, half at the slight thump of Paul’s sketchpad next to him on the couch.

         “Want some company? I hear there’s a water shortage.”

         Paul shook his head. Gene felt guilty at his own weird relief. For whatever reason, Paul wasn’t ready yet. They could keep on pretending for awhile longer.

         “Maybe later tonight.”

         Gene nodded. Paul’s expression seemed a little bit strained, but he turned and headed for the bedroom, not closing the door behind him. A minute or two later, Gene could hear the sound of the water running.

         Then he got up, looking through the living room’s bookshelf as if he hadn’t done it prior. Paul didn’t really read for pleasure. He had stuff like  The Power of Positive Thinking,  Games People Play, I’m OK – You’re OK, and a ragged copy of  How to Win Friends and Influence People, the last of which was highlighted like a book of scripture. Gene had been flipping through it while Paul drew.

         Then he had magazines with his face or KISS’ picture on the front cover. No intellectual reading material at all, though that wasn’t what he was looking for. At the bottom of one shelf were Paul’s junior and senior annuals and a small line of photo albums. Gene pulled one of the older-looking albums out at random.

         It was green and typical, with thick black pages. Probably one Paul’s parents had started of him. The initial contents weren’t surprising. A faded birth announcement. A taped-in lock of baby hair dated August 2, 1952—Paul’s parents hadn’t bothered with upsherin, so maybe it was no wonder he’d never had his bar mitzvah. Sepia infant photos—Gene swallowed a bit when he realized that even in the pictures where Paul was barely able to sit up on his own, the photographer had him posed with his head turned to the right, to hide the microtia. Some pictures from birthdays. A picture of him along with the rest of his second grade class. They were lined up by height, and Paul was standing towards the back, easily recognizable just from the eyes and expression. By that point, he’d apparently figured out the pose on his own; he was almost aggressively facing right, while everyone else was looking the camera head-on.

         All that misery and insecurity over two square inches of missing cartilage.

         Gene shook his head. He flipped past most of the rest of the pictures of Paul as a kid, past even the awkward handful from when he was a teenager, before finally coming up on photos slightly closer to current. He’d apparently kept a few Polaroids from Wicked Lester and the earliest days of KISS, before they’d even had the makeup. Then, as he turned the pages, he found a scattering of random, more recent shots. Paul goofing off in hotel rooms. Paul lounging in swim trunks by the pool. Paul in a tux sucking cake frosting off his fingers at Ace’s wedding.

         He was trying to hammer in his head that this was how Paul really was and really looked. He was trying to figure out if he’d still be attracted to him once he was back to normal. If he’d feel something while he looked at the pictures. Start getting hot under the collar, maybe, the way he did with Playboy centerfolds. But—well, Paul only tried provocative poses when he had on the greasepaint, and most everything in the album was barefaced and fairly candid. Gene wasn’t sure he was feeling anything beyond some fondness while looking over pictures of Paul in front of the Eiffel Tower or eating poi in Hawaii.

         That bothered him. Not that he was planning on jacking off to a stupid picture of Paul sitting shirtless on the hood of his car, but—he’d—he’d wanted something definite out of this. Arousal or repulsion. He needed to know. Whether Paul had wanted him for four days or four years, Gene owed him that much.

         The dull white noise of the shower cut off. Gene put the photo album and the book back on the shelf and waited for Paul’s returning footsteps. Maybe later tonight, he’d said. Maybe later than that.

--

         Paul spent longer than he meant to in there. Cleaned himself up, washed his hair and shaved. He’d gotten into the habit of shaving almost everything but his chest and sometimes his underarms because of the tours. Now that he was basically down to only having to worry about his underarms and legs, the effort took two minutes or less, leaving him just standing useless for awhile under the spray.

         He knew what his next move ought to be, just as well as Gene did. Invite him in, get rid of the whole virginity problem, and get back to normal. There was no reason to keep delaying it. He’d had his time with Gene. More of it than he probably deserved, the way that they’d already wormed themselves out of the curse’s terms of consummation, like wily lawyers with contracts.

         He wasn’t scared. Well. He wasn’t just scared. He knew it was probably going to hurt. He hadn’t tried to penetrate himself since that second night with Gene, and even Gene’s fingering had pretty much been rubbing. If he couldn’t tolerate a finger inside him, a dick would be even worse. Paul was tempted to blame it on Carol, but if one less-sexy Playboy article was anything to go by, it was really just his nerves. He’d have no bulwark against them, either, no drugs or alcohol, when he slept with Gene. When he really slept with Gene.

         That wasn’t his real problem, anyway. His real problem was the same as ever. Knowing it would all be over as soon as he let it happen.

         He skimmed a hand over one newly-smooth thigh, fingers sliding across his wet skin. Up to his stomach, then his breasts, idly pushing them together. Considering. Wondering how it must’ve felt for Pinocchio once he got everything he ever wanted, once he was flesh instead of wood. Funny how that was Gene’s takeaway from that movie. Work hard, get your wish. Input-output. But he wasn’t going to get his wish here. Paul couldn’t be a real girl for him. No part of him ought to have ever wanted to try.

         He’d just have to steel himself up for the end, that was all. Delaying it too long was only going to make it worse. It was—it was abysmal, not having taken care of it already, when he’d been so desperate to do it only the day before. But he couldn’t bring himself to commit just yet. Whether out of cowardice or longing, he didn’t know. He wanted to keep messing around with Gene as long as he could. Have Gene keep looking at him, keep touching him. Keep being with him. 

         He swallowed thickly, stepped out of the shower, and dried his hair off a bit with a towel, pulling on a bathrobe before heading back out to the living room. Gene was still on that same couch,  Hawaii Five-O playing in the background. Jack Lord was really starting to look craggy now.

         “You wanna go to bed?”

         “This early?” Gene looked a little amused, but Paul thought there might be something else there. Something on the border of disappointment.

         “There’s nothing on T.V.”

         “Did I play my cards right?”

         “You didn’t play them wrong. We can fool around some more. I’ll keep my top off.”

         It was a lousy offer for a guy who had girls chomping at the bit to sleep with him, and Paul knew it. But the grin he got in response was enough to make some of his guilt, some of his self-disgust, ease off, if only briefly.

         “C’mon, I’ve got an idea.”

--

         Gene followed him to the bedroom affably, taking off his borrowed t-shirt and tossing it on the floor. He didn’t start on his pants, but Paul did for him, unzipping and tugging them down. Gene’s mouth crooked up, uncertain but pleased.

         “You’ve got an awfully wide berth for fooling around, Paul.”

         “I’ve got an awful lot of practice.” Paul untied his bathrobe but didn’t take it off yet. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing beneath it. His hair was still pretty wet, skin pink from the shower. The musky scent of him was almost gone, rinsed away by the shower and soaps, only readily apparent again when Gene’s hand moved between his thighs. It was kind of a thrill to find that earlier hadn’t been a fluke. Paul just kept getting wet for him easier than even a groupie.

         Kissing down his neck as he kept stroking, getting a couple soft grunts in response, Gene wondered what Paul was up to. He was positioned a little awkwardly, legs spread wide, with Gene kneeling in the space between them. Paul kept shifting on the bed, posture a little stiff. Not like yesterday; he just seemed like he was deliberating, anticipating. Gene didn’t think Paul was comfortable enough to pull out any toys or handcuffs. Even light bondage seemed like a little much. Possibly—

         “Did you want to 69?”

         “Nah, I hate that shit. Give me your hand.”

         “Paul, if you’re going to tie me up, I want a striptease first.”

         Paul shrugged off the bathrobe and tossed it at him with a grin.

         “I’m not gonna tie you up, Jesus. Just give me your hand.”

         Impishly, Gene offered the right one, already soaked in Paul’s fluids. He was surprised when Paul took it, grabbing his wrist and pressing Gene’s palm into his cleavage, guiding it up and down. Gene felt a shiver run up his back, dick stiffening to full attention when Paul let go of his hand. The thin streaks of clear fluid left behind were their own promise, one that only got more definite as Paul lowered himself onto the bed, gesturing for Gene to come forward. He did, straddling him carefully, cock resting between his slightly-slick breasts. Paul squeezed them together experimentally, the brief pressure enough to make Gene twitch. Fuck. He hadn’t even fantasized about this one. Fucking Paul against the wall, eating him out--sure, sure. Paul letting him go for a titfuck had been way too far out of the realm of possibility for him to picture.

         “It’s enough, right?” Paul’s voice was soft, vaguely pleased. Gene grunted an assent. They were definitely enough. Another squeeze, though Gene hadn’t tried to thrust yet, Paul watching for his reaction. “Figured we could put them to some use.”

         “What’re you getting out of this?”

         “The same thing you got out of me getting off on your leg. A good view.” Paul reached a hand up, stroking along Gene’s arm. “Now c’mon, I don’t wanna have to put K-Y on my tits.”

[sirkkasnow]

09 Catch Your Breath When You Can

Ao3 link

07/17/13 Wednesday evening

Stan was shoulder deep in the Fairlane’s engine compartment when the kids finally made it home late that afternoon. Dipper waved and headed straight inside; Mabel came over to lean casually against the front fender. “So?”

“There’s a meatloaf in the fridge for dinner an’ we’ve got potatoes, and I guess the fixins for salad if you’re into that kinda thing.”

Mabel pressed both hands over her eyes and groaned in protest. “Nooooooo. I mean did you call her? Did you get to do your something nice whatever it was? You’ve gotta be almost done with the car!”

“Yep, almost done.” Stan straightened up with a sigh and latched the hood. “Gonna fire it up in the morning, see where we’re at. Probably a day, day an’ a half to finish up, then she’s free t’go.”

“You’re not just gonna let her walk out of here, right?” She was peeping out at him between fingers now, looking horrified. “I know you’d both regret it.”

Stan pinched his lips against a smile - his poker face was cracking. “Well, I maybe mighta lined up a flick after dinner. So if you could help keep the nerd brigade occupied that’d be great.”

Mabel produced a whistle-shrill hypersonic squeal of delight and flung herself at him for a hug. “I knew you could do it! Consider the nerd brigade well and truly distracted! You report to me on everything, got it?”

“Mabel, c’mon, it’s just a movie.” He was grinning anyway as he swiped down his hands.

The five of them gathered for what proved to be a noisy meal. One tiny nudge from Mabel was enough to derail the conversation into DD&MD worldbuilding. “Clary’s about to leave,” she said firmly, “she hasn’t gotten to play one game and we need to fix that.” Within fifteen minutes the rulebooks were scattered across the crowded kitchen table and both Ford and Dipper were talking scenarios and taking notes.

Clary had spent most of the afternoon napping. She looked crisp and refreshed, a froth of peony pink silk knotted off-center at her throat, tossing an occasional suggestion into the chaos. Mabel vanished for a minute or two as the plates were cleared. When she returned it was with arms full of scrapbooking supplies and an unsubtle jerk of the chin towards the living room.

Stan took the hint and slipped out unnoticed, setting up a dinette chair next to the recliner. He tracked down a couple of pillows and a light blanket to make the whole thing a little more comfortable. Clary showed up a few minutes later, hands in pockets, still smiling to herself. “I’ve been banished,” she murmured over the background conversation from the kitchen. “So they can surprise me in the morning.”

“Damn shame, too bad, movies are under the TV.” He punched the pillows in a mostly-futile effort to fluff them up as she knelt to sort through the cabinet. He’d tracked down the remote and gotten comfortable in the recliner by the time she waved a worn black-and-white cardboard sleeve at him: Captain Of Her Heart.

“Old-school okay?”

“Um. It’s mushy.”

“I can handle mushy.”

“It’s sad.”

“I can handle sad and I’m not in the mood for nature documentaries.” Clary slotted in the tape, fiddled with the channels until trailers for twenty-year-old New Releases! began to play, and collected a box of tissues before settling into her seat.

“You a crier?” Stan nudged her tissues with a knuckle and she gave him a dirty look.

“Insurance. Settle down.” Clary stacked pillows against the recliner’s back corner, propped her elbow on the arm near his and made herself at home. He’d seen this one a million times, an obscure classic in his opinion with some really good on-location seaside shooting for its era. Familiarity never seemed to make this one hit any less hard.

He found that it was hitting maybe a little harder than usual. The bookish harbormaster’s daughter and the rough-edged first mate she’d spent the last hour falling improbably in love with walked the shoreline under a spotlight moon, switching to closeup against a painted backdrop for their wrenching scene of farewell.

Stan stole a couple tissues while she wasn’t looking. Clary already had one clutched to her lips, tears welling up at the corners of her eyes in resolute silence. Maybe she was a bit of a crier after all, though she held it together pretty well through the last ten minutes or so.

Once the ship had departed and the harbormaster’s daughter had slipped down to the docks in the night, dressed in a man’s traveling clothes and bound for parts unknown, Clary blew her nose in an undignified honk. He would have teased her if he weren’t busy trying to do the same without her hearing him. At last she settled close to watch the brief credits. When the tape ran out and the screen went to static he grumbled and jabbed at the remote until the TV snapped off.

They rested together in the near-dark. Stan listened as the rhythm of her breathing steadied. “Good flick,” she murmured at length, in no apparent hurry to move.

“One of my favorites,” he admitted, equally quiet. “I did warn ya. If, ah, if it’d help, there’s a sequel...or I could maybe get Soos to write some kinda fix-it, he’s good at that fanfiction stuff….” He felt rather than saw the subtle shake of her head. “What, no?”

“It’d be cheating.”

“C’mon, now, there’s nothin’ wrong with chasin’ a happy ending - “

“They’re hard to catch.” He heard her swallow thickly and felt her shift to turn a little more into him. “Why the heck don’t you have a couch? I don’t want to move yet but this is uncomfortable as hell.” Stan considered bolting to leave her some privacy, then held his breath and wriggled his arm free to lay it lightly around her.

“This a little better?”

Clary drew up her legs and nestled into his side without hesitation. “Much.”

“So - we don’t have a couch because we didn’t need one until everyone was leavin’ at the end of last summer, anyway - “ He was cursing the lack of a couch right now, because the arm of the damned recliner was wedged between them and this would be a very nice post-movie snuggle without it. “I’m not sure Ford an’ I ever really thought we’d be back for more’n a quick visit. Soos hasn’t had time to update the place much.”

“You said you’d been running the Shack for thirty years. Alone?”

Stan hissed softly, dragging his free hand through his hair. “Yep,” he said just before the pause went beyond recovery. “More or less. Kids first visited last summer an’ that changed a whole lot.”

“From what I’ve gathered in town last summer was pretty lively.” He felt her smile against him. “Funny, no one really wants to talk about it.”

“It was, uh.” He groped for the right word and finally said, frustrated, “Weird.” Clary laughed softly. “Listen. I am not the one who should be givin’ pep talks, you get that? But I can promise that sometimes y’catch the happy ending.”

The house had gone quiet around them, the kids retreated to bed, Ford probably downstairs. Stan flinched in surprise as her cool hand covered his at her shoulder. “I’ll take your word for it,” Clary murmured. “And thanks. For today. Not everyone handles - “ She tugged at her silk scarf with a fingertip.

“We both got history, kid, I got no right t’pry.”

“I’ve been preemptively dumped over this, you know.”

“Hah! Just as well. You don’t strike me as the type t’date idiots.”

“No. I’m not.”

A minute or two drifted by like that, comfortable, the warmth of contact something he hadn’t slowed down to enjoy in an eternity. Stan had about found the perfect angle to pillow his cheek against her hair when she stirred. He rumbled in protest before he could stop himself, arm tightening for a second then relaxing as she sat up straight.

The wan wash of light from the hallway gilded the slope of her cheek; her shadowed eyes held a determined glint. “I’m in too good a mood to talk about ancient history, but I’d like to trade stories with you sometime.”

“Sure, but I don’t know when - “ She tilted her head in reproach and any further protest stalled in his throat.

“Stan. You made the fatal mistake of giving me your phone number.” Stan cracked a crooked grin and she went on, low-voiced and all velvet persuasion. “Let me know when you hit a port I can get to. Anywhere in the north Atlantic’s fine. If you end up someplace warm, like say Gibraltar or the Azores, so much the better. Drinks are on me.”

He almost barked out a laugh, a startled little huff like she’d just sucker-punched him. “You askin’ me out? Your treat?”

“Yes.” The practiced look of light amusement on her face faded by degrees into something more apprehensive. “If you’d like. I’d hate to never see you again.”

His brain locked up hard, spinning off into logistics and complications and the overwhelming desire to not fuck up the good thing he had going. Mercifully his mouth got out ahead, as usual. “Yeah. Definitely. I’d - really, really like that.”

She lit up in a split second of unguarded happiness for maybe the first time since they’d met. Clary leaned in too quickly to intercept, her lips grazing the stubble of his cheek as a fleeting whiff of her faded peony perfume curled into his nose. “Great. So would I.”

Stan’s hands twitched once with the sudden impulse to snag her by the waist and drag her into his lap before common sense shut that down. She couldn’t quite look him straight on as she withdrew and this time he laughed in earnest. “Oh, c’mon, counselor, y’can’t make a pitch like that an’ then go all shy on me.”

“Sure I can.” Clary’s fingers tightened in his, then slipped away as she rose. “I’d better go to bed before I say anything else incriminating. See you in the morning.”

“What, alone?”

“Stan.”

“It’s gonna be chilly, want me to drop off a couple extra blankets - “

“Stanley.”

“I got a sideline in personal furnace services - “

“Oh my god. Don’t make me regret saying anything.” The chuckle she was trying so hard to suppress laid a husky note under the words as she headed for the hallway.

“G’night, sweetpea.”

She slipped through the door with a last backward glance. He sat back to think it over, eyes closed, horrified and delighted all at once.

Mostly delighted, he decided, pressing fingers to his cheek where she’d kissed him.

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“I’d hate to never see you again.” She looks anxious, jittery with anticipation and a little sad all at once.

Definitely.

Maybe.

I just can’t.

[friendlycybird]

Stanuary 2019 Week Two - Travel

Stanuary Week Two - Travel

Summary: In the space of 24 hours one March Day in 1974, Stanley Pines experienced approximately six “firsts”

Word Count: 1593

Content Warnings: Homelessness, Prostitution, Implied Gang Activity, Seeming Suicidal Thoughts, Actually just Call of the Void. 

Notes: Because I fluffed too hard last week have this fucking mess of a chapter for week two. 

AO3

Stan knew he was in trouble when the air from his engine vents started to smell like cotton candy. He probably should’ve pulled over then and checked the engine, but he’d been less than three hours from his destination, and he’d been making good time. He could check the engine when he got there. He was still the better part of fifty miles away when the Stanleymobile sputtered to a halt in the middle of the highway. Some colorful curse words later and Stan had managed to coast onto the side of the road.

His first impulse was to just try to do the fix himself. The puff of pure white smoke that billowed up when he opened the hood put an instant end to that fantasy. He was out of his depth. So then there was a tow truck and an assessment at a garage in the wrong town. A balding man in overalls named Mike outlined everything wrong with his car to Stan in a droning voice and Stan felt dread set in. Then the bills came, and dread gave way to panic.

They’d keep his car until he could pay them. What’s more, they’d charge him for keeping his car too. The irony was more bitter than the shitty free coffee Mike offered customers. Stan was days away from a big break, a job that could make him hundreds if not thousands of dollars overnight. He had a meeting scheduled tomorrow at one, fifty miles away, to get him started on the path to his fortune, but was currently too broke to get to it. He had three cups of the coffee and braced himself for his first night without even the shelter of his car.

Hours later, just before sundown, sitting on a bench with his jacket pulled tight around him against the still chilly early March evening, Stan kicked his own ass back into gear. He wasn’t gonna give up. He wasn’t gonna turn into some hobo begging on a street corner. He was gonna make it. This opportunity had fallen right into his lap and he’d be damned if he let a little car trouble keep him from it. He needed cash? He’d find a way to make the cash.

The next morning, the cash was on the end table beside the first real bed Stan had slept in for almost two years. It was in an envelope with the name “Oren” scrawled across the front in hurried, lazy script. That’d been the name Stan had given last night, he hadn’t wanted his real name attached to his only plan. Stan was grateful that morning.  Not only had he woken up alone, but the owner of the house he’d slept in had left him enough money to cover the cost of his car repairs but also enough for a round trip bus ticket to his meeting and back. He’d utterly failed to negotiate for that, too nervous about the prospect of what he was offering. Yet here it was, enough for that and a good meal after. Or several crappy meals if he skimped, which, when did he not?

Then he’d stood up and sharp soreness tore through him. He gritted his teeth, reminded himself that he was close to success and he would never have to do anything like this again. Then he walked out of the empty house. He was halfway across the lawn when he realized he absolutely should have stolen stuff while he was inside. It was too risky to go back. So he walked to the bus station, got on a bus, and made it to his meeting ten minutes late.

Half an hour later he wished he hadn’t.

The last twenty-four hours had been a lot of firsts for Stanley Pines. First time his car broke down, first time lying about his name, first time with a man, first time exchanging sex for money, first time on a greyhound bus, and first time having a gun pointed at him.

Things had gone badly. They’d been off to a rocky start when he’d been late, but he’d smoothed that over with a few jokes at his own expense and soon the meeting was well underway. The sales part of the job, Stan discovered quickly, was a front for casing homes for robberies. He wasn’t totally sure how he felt about that, and made a few jokes to that end. One of them crossed a line. Then there was a gun and Stan spent just under a minute trying to talk them down before he ran.

He just had nowhere to run too.

He wanted to just get in his car and drive away at top speed. That had momentarily joined the ranks of wanting to go home, or sail the world with Ford though. Impossible. He needed another plan. At first, he just thought he’d hide out at the bus station, but two men in dark suits lurking by the far door had changed that plan.

He killed an hour in an inconspicuous coffee shop with the best scone he’d had since he was a kid. You’ve got to enjoy the little things. It was an expensive little thing but it kept him at a table in this hole-in-the-wall long enough to come up with a plan. Not that it was much of a plan. Really, it was just the obvious. He walked.

He tried to stay off the highway at first. Take a back road. Back roads don’t have much shoulder though, and half a dozen cars blew past him at a matter of inches away. What’s more, one of them cut around a ledge and it was a choice between leaning hard into a jagged rock wall every time, or standing on the edge of a cliff inches from a foot-high guardrail. Stan chose the later, and spent a lot of time looking over the edge of the cliff. By the third time the unwanted thought that he could always jump crossed his mind, he’d decided the highway might be a better choice after all.

Stan didn’t know how long he was walking on the shoulder of the highway before he gave up and started sticking his thumb out when cars passed. He knew he was sore in a way he never had been before. The muscles in his thighs and ass and up through his lower back all protested the abuse he’d put them through. What with the walking and the running and the...and last night. Had that only been last night? He’d been so hopeful then that he’d have everything put together by this time today. He’d been so wrong. One dumb joke and he was out of a job and looking over his shoulder for someone who thought he’d picked up too much information on how their gig worked.

The dark blue four-door sedan that actually stopped for him looked almost as old as Stan, and the woman driving it looked old enough to be his grandmother. “Where are you going, young man?” her voice had the high, wavering pitch that one would imitate when attempting to sound like an old lady. She was wearing a mostly pink muumuu and had her bright white hair done up fancy. Stan said the name of the nearby town where he’d left his car, and the woman waved to him, flapping her hand inwards at the wrist. “Hop in, hop in. I’ll get you there.”

Stan did as asked and bit back a groan as he took the weight of his body off his legs and back, and swallowed a whine as that weight redistributed to his ass. When he trusted himself to open his mouth again, she’d been driving for several moments. “Thanks.” he breathed.

“Sure thing, sure thing.” the lady responded. “Were you walking very long?”

“Coupla hours.”

“Oh my.” and the lady was off, jabbering away about how many miles a day she would walk in her youth, and the scoldings she would get for ending up so far from home. Stan listened to her talk the way he’d listen to the radio, letting the noise fill the air and sink into his bones. He’d make noises of agreement or astonishment here and there to keep her talking. It helped quiet the spinning thoughts he’d been alone with too long that day.

Her name was Daisy Adams, and she drove through a McDonalds and got Stan a burger because he’d absentmindedly been honest about the last time he’d had more to eat than a small scone. She had four children and going on ten grandchildren, and she’d been going to the same town as Stan for a bible study. Stan wondered vaguely if she’d be helping him if she knew what he’d done the night before. She dropped him off at the garage, informed him that she’d be praying for him, and left to arrive late at her bible study.

Stan paid his bill at the garage. He shook hands with Mike and had another cup of coffee. Then he got in his repaired car and drove away.

A low, black, two-door pulled in as Stan pulled out, and a chill went down his spine. He spared a moment to hope it was nothing. To assume Mike would be okay. Then he pulled onto the highway, and did his best to never think of it again. Any of it. Meanwhile, it was time to put as much distance between himself and the last 24-hours as possible.

[thegreatwhiteferret]

Attention

Summary: Richie chose drugs over his relationship with Stan, but can't stand the thought of him moving on. Now he will do anything to get Stan's attention back on him.

A/N: It’s a lot of feelings and smut y’all and I am sorry in advance. [NSFW, Aged up to 18, right before High School graduation. Drug use, Underage Drinking, Angst, Revenge Porn, and Feelings.]  

NSFW under cut...

Stan was pacing the floor. Watching the phone. He would pause every so often to straighten something on the coffee table, his overwhelming need to have everything organized ticking away at him even in moments like this. Richie was supposed to call. He was going to go home, check in to see how bad his parental situation was, and then call Stan. That was two and a half hours ago. He sighed, sitting down on the edge of the couch and ran his hands over his face. Richie was flaking more and more as of late. Coming up with weak excuses and bailing on their plans. Stan missed him, missed the crazy chaotic boy that held his heart.

When he had waited three hours to no avail, Stan decided he was done. He trudged up the stairs and ripped off his sweater and ass accentuating pants, it was Richie’s favorite outfit, that’s why he had worn it. There was no point in being dressed up now. He stared at his reflection in the mirror above his dresser.

He had carefully groomed himself when he had gotten home from school from top to bottom. He had spent 45 minutes trying to tame the curls on top of his head, the corkscrews were resistant to product and still popped up all over the place. He had attempted to tame his lower half as well, carefully shaving, cleaning, and prepping so that he would be ready for Richie later. He was hoping that tonight they would be spending some time making his prep worthwhile. They hadn’t slept together in almost a month, Richie always coming up for some excuse as to why he had to head home. It killed Stan, he was starting to think that something was wrong with him, that he couldn’t please his boyfriend anymore. He was hoping that tonight he could break them out of the slump and get back to who they were, but now he knew that it was a wasted effort.

Stan shook the thoughts of his missing boyfriend out of his mind. He pulled a polo and some khakis on, making sure everything was straight. He marched down the stairs and grabbed his jacket, slipping his shoes on by the door, and calling a goodbye to his parents over his shoulder. He headed out into the cold, and began walking towards the Derry Arcade, where he knew he would find Bill and Mike.

He could see the lights of the arcade in the distance when he heard a loud commotion in the alley between two buildings. He knew that he should keep walking but couldn’t help himself, he looked over at the noise and saw a group of kids whooping and hollering. He froze. In the middle of the group, laughing loudly was none other than his boyfriend, Richie Tozier. Stan looked on in horror, this is what he had waited for? His boyfriend, who was living it up with these random kids? Then it took a turn for the worse, Stan looked closer, and noticed that some of the hoodlums appeared to be snorting a white powder off the hood of a beaten up car.

Stan watched as Richie stepped up to the car and took a long hit, closing his eyes in bliss, when Richie opened his eyes again they met Stan’s. He panicked.

“Shit! Stan! Stanley!” He called, rushing towards the boy, but Stan was already running. He felt Richie grab his arm, damn him and those super long legs. Richie pulled Stan around to face him and was just about to speak when Stan lifted his hand and slapped him right across his face, Richie stumbled back and grabbed his cheek.

“WHAT THE FUCK, RICHIE?” Stan wailed, “I wait at home all night for you to call so that we can hang out, and this is what you’re fucking doing?”

“I can explain, Stan...it’s not what you think, you’re overreacting.” Richie slurred, trying to calm his boyfriend down while his mind was beginning to fully swirl from the bump of cocaine he had just done.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? I’m overreacting? Drugs, Rich. You’re doing drugs.” Stan scoffed, wrapping his arms around himself as the chill from the air and his boyfriend’s demeanor began reaching his bones.

“Jesus Christ, Uris. You’re so fucking uptight.” Richie responded, “So dramatic about everything. It’s just a bit of coke, it’s not a big deal.” Stan rolled his eyes, this was so like Richie, deflecting his own issues by insulting those who actually gave a fuck about him.

“If this is no big deal, why didn’t you tell me? We tell eachother everything! If you have a problem…”

“I don’t have a problem, I can stop whenever I want.” Richie cut him off. “And maybe I didn’t tell you because I knew that you would be a little bitch about this. Looks like I was right.”

“Fuck you, Richie.” Stan said, tears threatening to well up in his eyes, he willed his body to keep them in, “I’m done. Enjoy your fucking drugs and new friends, obviously they are more important than our relationship.” With than Stan turned and walked away, not even turning around to see Richie’s reaction.

*

A giggle erupted from Stan’s mouth. It was an uncharacteristic sound, so free and pure, but it was certainly a welcome change. He writhed and wiggled as fingers pressed into his rib cage. His eyes were watering from laughing so hard.

“All you have to do, Stanny, is say that DC is better than Marvel.” The owner of the fingers chided, digging them in at just the right spot for Stan to squeal again.

“Not a chance, Archie. Marvel has way better storylines and character development! Batman is just a rich guy with stupid gadgets!” He protested through his giggles. Archie sighed and relented. “You give up way too easy.” Stan laughed when he caught his breath and a tongue was stuck out at him in response.

“Good lord, why don’t you too just make out already?” Bev joked from behind the magazine that she was reading while sprawled out on overstuffed chair in the Hanlon’s den. Stan and Archie both blushed and moved away from each other slightly. Mike gave her a pointed look. “I was just joking. Lighten up, would ya?”

“S-so, are w-we carpooling to B-Ben’s party this w-w-weekend?” Bill asked, attempting to change the topic and relieve some of the awkwardness. Mike plopped down next to him on the couch and wrapped his arm around his shoulders.

“Sure, Babe, we can take the farm truck, all of us should fit if we squeeze in.” Mike suggested, looking around for answers from the remaining members of their crew. Bev gave a thumbs up and Eddie agreed as long as he was allowed to sit in a seat with an actual seat belt.

“Is it okay if I meet you there a little bit later?” Archie whispered to Stan, “I have to spend all day Saturday working on my lap report for physics, someone has been distracting me from actually getting it done.” Stan ducked his head and blushed a little bit. He had really enjoyed getting to know Archie, it had helped pull him out from his three month long depressive episode after splitting up with Richie. He felt good, really good. His worries melted away when he was talking to the other boy, he was so easy to talk to and be himself with. He never called him over dramatic either.

“Hmm, well whoever is distracting you must be pretty awesome.” Stan winked at him and Archie rolled his eyes. “But yeah, that’s totally fine. Ben’s parties usually amp up around ten or so.”

They hung out a little longer, talking about school work and the latest gossip, before they started to break off so that they could get home before dark. Stan and Archie headed out last, leaving Bill and Mike to be the adorably disgusting boyfriends that they were. They walked down the dirt road leading back to town. Stan kicked a rock with his shoe, mind swirling in his head.

“Penny for your thoughts, Uris?” Archie asked, giving the curly haired boy a sideways glance. Stan looked back over at him, compiling his thoughts.

“I was just thinking about how grateful I am to have met you.” Stan replied, carefully gauging Archie’s reaction. They hadn’t talked extensively about their respective sexualities. Archie knew that Stan was gay, and had heard from the other Losers that he had gone through an awful break up shortly before they had met. Stan knew that Archie wasn’t so cut and dry, he had had a serious girlfriend before he had moved to Derry, but he had been flirting with Stan...unless Stan had read the signs wrong and he was just super friendly.

“I’m glad I met you too. Moving here was super hard, but knowing you has made it way easier.” Archie said sincerely, stopping in his tracks and grabbing onto Stan’s hand. Stan cocked his head to the side, wondering why they had stopped and then he felt lips press to his own. He responded quickly, Both boys melted into the kiss, and Stan pushed them backwards until he had Archie pressed up against a tree.

They made out for a little longer before they actually walked home; faces flushed, stomachs jittery, and hands intertwined.

*

“H-hey, Stan. C-can I talk t-to you for a m-minute?” Bill asked as they unloaded books into their lockers and got ready for their calculus class.

“Sure, Bill, what’s up?” Stan asked, putting his textbooks back in schedule order on the shelf of his locker. There was never a situation that didn’t improve with organization.

“It’s s-shit, but I t-thought that I s-should tell you b-before someone else d-does…” Bill started, before being cut off.

“Well what do we have here? If it isn’t the Jewish cum guzzling twink of Derry?” Henry Bowers laughed and his crew chimed in.

“Look at this little faggot, he just wants to be on his knees.” Victor Criss spat, “Such a hungry little cumslut.”

“Look at those shorts, so tight, however do you hide your girly panties under there?” Belch added, “Such a little fag, I bet you want to wear bras too.”

They continue to laugh loudly and hurl homophobic insults at him as he rushed down the hallway, Bill hot on his tail. He could feel tears prickling his eyes and was grateful when Bill pulled him into a bathroom and locked the door behind them. He quickly checked to ensure they were alone before full on breaking down.

“What the Hell, Bill? What’s going on?” Stan asked, heaving out breaths and tears flowing down his cheeks.

“St-stan this is w-what I w-was trying to t-tell y-you…” Bill started, sighing before pushing on, “R-Richie has been s-saying some n-na-nasty things about y-you. About w-what you two w-would do t-together.” Stan looked at him questioningly, “S-sexually.”

“Why would he fucking do that?” Stan’s eyes were wide. He had been called homophobic things before, Hell, the whole damn Losers Club had, but never things so specific. Who knew what all Richie had revealed.

“I...I d-don’t know, S-Stan, b-b-but it gets w-worse.” How could it get worse? Stan’s thought was answered when Bill pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Stan. He unfolded the paper carefully and almost puked when he saw what had been photocopied onto it.

There in black and white on the paper was a picture of Stan, on his knees, licking Richie’s dick. He could just make out the lacey panties and stockings that he was wearing, and the mascara that had made his eyes super defined. He recognized the picture. Richie had begged him to let him take a picture of him with his brand new Polaroid camera. Stan had protested, telling him that he didn’t want something like that getting into the wrong hands, but Richie had promised and told Stan how happy it would make him, so he had relented. That was yet another huge mistake that he had made with Richie. Stan threw the paper on the ground and started heaving into the sink. When he had emptied the contents of his stomach, he turned to look at Bill.

“Where did you get this? Are they everywhere? Is there more?” He was panicked. He couldn’t believe that Richie would release this picture.

“T-they were all o-over the q-quad earlier. W-we g-grabbed as m-many as we c-could, but a w-whole bunch of k-kids had t-them.” Bill looked apologetic. “I’m s-sorry, Stan.” Stan’s heart hurt so badly, he felt so betrayed. He had trusted Richie because he had loved him with his whole heart, and Richie was trying to destroy him. He just couldn’t figure out why.

Bill agreed to skip the rest of his classes and take Stan home. He wasn’t going to be able to focus anyway, knowing how badly his friend was hurting. They had almost made it out of the school, when they saw Bev and Ben walking down the hallway. Bev rushed forward and wrapped Stan in her arms, he broke down again and sobbed into her shoulder, any hopes of keeping his dignity were gone.

“I’m so sorry, Stan. I can’t believe that he did this.” She said stroking his back. “Why don’t we go get a whole bunch of ice cream and watch movies. Would that be okay?” Stan nodded and let his friends take him home and take care of him.

*

Ben had told Stan that he didn’t have to make an appearance at his party. That everyone would understand, but Stan wasn’t letting Richie’s shit ruin his life. He was going and he was going to get blitzed out drunk and was going to have fun with his possible new boyfriend. Archie for his part had been super sweet and supportive of Stan. He swore that he hadn’t seen the pictures and had shut down anyone who had tried to spread rumors about his sweet boy.

So Stan was going to this party. He was going to drink his fruity cocktails and dance with Archie, and do whatever the fuck he wanted. He was done letting Richie Tozier control what he did. He put on his tightest pants, black jeans that Bev had bought him from a trendy shop in Portland that made his ass look fantastic, with his favorite pink lace panties underneath. He slipped a black undershirt on and then buttoned up a denim shirt. His curls actually stayed manageable for once, and he swiped a bit of mascara on. It wasn’t the style that he would usually go for, especially not in public, but he felt good.

He raced down the stairs when he heard Mike honk the horn of the trunk and jumped into the backseat with Eddie and Bev. Bev looked over his outfit and smiled at him, he pressed a kiss to her cheek in thanks, and then sat back preparing himself for the night ahead of him.

Stan was beyond tipsy. He was feeling himself. Eddie had tried switching him to water a while ago, but Stan had waited for him to turn his back and had replaced the water with vodka. He could feel the music pulsing through his body and kept thinking of the cute freckle faced redhead that would be showing up soon. He was going to show Archie a good time. Bev had laughed hysterically when he had voiced this out loud, but he didn’t even care.

Suddenly there was a loud bang as a group of grungy looking teens burst into the party. Stan scoffed, at their rudeness before sneaking a bit more alcohol into his cup. When he turned back around, he saw him. Tall and gangly, dark messy curls spilling into his eyes and thick glasses. It was Richie. The other Losers noticed his arrival as well.

“Shit, Stan. I swear I didn’t know that he was going to be here.” Ben sounded like he was panicking, like it was his fault that Richie was a piece of trash asshole. Stan knew that Ben was sincere, he wasn’t mad at him.

Stan was suddenly overcome with rage towards Richie though, so he chugged the rest of his vodka, handed his cup to Eddie and stomped his way over to Richie. Bill tried to reach out to stop him, but Stan shrugged him off and kept moving.

“Hey Trashmouth, you stupid fuckface!” Stan called out, Richie spun on his heel quickly. His face quickly turned from looking as if he had seen a ghost to a shit eating grin.

“Oh hey there, Babygirl. Got your panties in a wad, do ya?” He snarked and his druggie friends laughed with him. Stan had to mentally talk himself down from punching him in his stupid fucking face. Richie looked like shit. Looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, his cheeks had hollowed out even more, cheekbones looking razor sharp. He wore a beat up leather jacket with a grey thermal underneath, and black jeans with holes in them. His eyes were red, not like he was high, but like he had been crying. Stan shook the thought out of his head. Richie was still an asshole who had released that picture to everyone. Who just called him “Babygirl” in front of the entire fucking 12th grade.

“Shut the fuck up, Richard.” Stan screamed, the tips of his ears turning red, “You’ve been running around and throwing dirt on my name! Talking some stupid shit, Trashmouth, considering that I still know all of your secrets.” Richie’s eyes grew in size, he had dished out a ton of shit, just to get a reaction out of Stan, but hadn’t thought about what Stan could do to him in return. “It fucking ends now!” Stan stomped his foot in anger.

“Hah!” Richie gawked, “And what the fuck are you going to do about it?” Stan suddenly remembered where he was, and how many people were staring at them. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the other Losers, faces looking concerned. Bill looked like he wanted to race up and save Stan, like he always did. Stan quickly grabbed Richie’s arm and pulled him up the stairs and into the guest bedroom. He ignored the sound effects that the crowd of teenagers made as they went.

Stan threw Richie into the room and closed the door behind them. Richie sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, while Stan kept his back pressed against the door, trying to clear his head that was still swimming from the alcohol. Richie opened his mouth to undoubtedly make a smart ass comment, but Stan cut him off.

“How could you do this to me, Richie? You loved me at one point, didn’t you? Or was everything about our relationship a lie?” Stan’s anger broke to utter despair.

“Stan.” Richie breathed out before trying to compose himself, “I...I never. I lied. I was shit, but I did love you. I still love you. But you deserve better than some stupid druggie, better than someone who is broken beyond repair.”

“We are all broken, Rich, but that doesn’t mean that you hurt the people who care about you. You promised me that you would never show anyone that picture, and then posted it all over the walls. Do you know what people have been saying about me, just because of the shit you’ve been spreading?” Stan’s anger was rising again, the effects of the alcohol flowing through his body, he couldn’t bring himself to feel pity for someone who hurt him so badly. “I was finally starting to be happy. Finally getting out of bed again, without feeling like everything hurts. And you pull this bullshit.”

“That’s right. You found someone new to focus your affection on and give your body to, I heard about that.” Richie picked at the dirt under his fingernails.

“Oh my fuck.” Stan shook his head, finally understanding. “That’s why you did it. That’s what this is all about. You just can’t stand the thought of me with someone new. You want everything to be about you.” Richie stood up from the bed and moved towards Stan slowly. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking touch me, Tozier!” His words fell on deaf ears as Richie pulled him close to his body and pressed his lips. Stan tried to fight back, but he felt sparks take over his body. The familiarity and love that could only be brought on by Richie Tozier.

Richie nibbled at Stan’s bottom lip and the shorter boy gasped letting him in. Any thoughts of how wrong this was went away as Richie’s tongue slid against his, he had waited for this for so long. Had been craving Richie’s touch since long before they had broken up. Richie walked them backwards until Stan’s legs hit the edge of the mattress and the boy fell back.

Richie was on his knees in an instant, pulling on the button of Stan’s jeans and working to wiggle them down his hips. He made a choked sound when he saw the pretty lace of Stan’s panties. He ran his thumbs over the delicate material, driving Stan crazy, then placed a kiss right above the lace on his hip bone. Stan mewled in response. He continued his mission to get Stan’s pants off, but damn was it a struggle since they were so tight. Stan helped him by kicking them off the rest of the way, as Richie began working on his shirt.

Stan laid back on the bed, clad only in his panties and Richie stood back looking at him, he wanted to devour him.

“Let me blow you.” Stan whined, he wanted some contact, wanted Richie’s thick cock in him. Richie nodded, because who wouldn’t want something as beautiful as Stan Uris to pleasure them? He quickly shrugged off his jacket and shirt and unbuckled his jeans, letting them fall to the ground. Stan was on his knees, pulling Richie’s hips to the edge of the bed in no time at all. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the taller boy’s boxers and pulled them down. Richie’s cock bounced up against his stomach and it was just as beautiful as Stan had remembered.

He took the tip in his mouth and sucked like he was born to do it, pulling deep groans from Richie. He pulled off and looked Richie dead in the eye as he took him all the way in, letting the head slip into his throat. He pulled off and licked a stripe up the side. Richie was a mess, an absolute disaster as Stan kept working him with his mouth. Stan grabbed Richie’s hand and placed it in his hair, allowing Richie to control how fast and deep he went. Richie would swear up and down that Stan would be the deep throat champion of the world, he would take him all the way in, let him fuck his face, and never complained.

Richie was so close that he could feel his toes tingling, so he pulled Stan off of him. Stan whined at the loss, but Richie just pulled him into a kiss. He reached behind Stan into his panties and felt that Stan’s hole was already lubed up and prepped. He groaned, he used to love when Stan would do this. Play with himself and get himself ready, edging himself off to increase his pleasure later on. Then he would grind on Richie or talk dirty until Richie would throw him on the nearest surface, only to find that his dirty boy was already ready for him.

“Who were you planning to fuck tonight, baby? Couldn’t have been that nerdy ginger.” Stan went to protest, but Richie slipped one finger in easily and Stan moaned into his neck where he was previously sucking a love bite. He slipped one more in and scissored them slightly. He was met with some resistance, Stan’s hole was always incredibly tight, even with prep, but he kept working him open. When Stan was ready, Richie laid him on his back, and pulled his panties off, carefully to not destroy them. Richie knew how much he hated that. He pulled a small bottle of lube from the pocket of his jacket. Stan quirked his eyebrow at him, and Richie shrugged. It never hurt to be prepared. He coated his cock with the lube.

Stan pulled his legs up, thighs resting on his chest, baring his hole for Richie to devour. Richie wasted no time at all pushing in and drawing out a choked moan from the smaller boy. He gave him no time to adjust, knowing that Stan fucking loved the feeling of being stretched out on his fat cock, he pumped in and out at a murderous speed. Impaling Stan repeatedly. Stan bit his fist, trying to keep himself from crying out. He dropped his legs and wrapped them around Richie’s waist pulling him deeper and deeper.

Richie was so close, but he wasn’t finishing before Stan, he wanted to give this boy all of the pleasure. He wrapped his hand around Stan’s dick and began pumping in time with his thrusts. Stan was coming undone, inhuman sounds coming out of him in between ragged breaths. Richie flicked his wrist and Stan was done, his dick pulsed as he came all over his stomach.

“Come on Rich, cum in me baby.” Stan breathed out, egging the taller boy on, breathing through the slightly painful edge of overstimulation.

“Stan.” His eyes flew open, it wasn’t Richie who had said it. He looked towards the door and saw Archie with tears in his eyes, face crumpling.

“Archie, No!” Stan called, trying to push Richie off of him. Archie took off and Stan finally got out from under Richie, he slipped his panties on, Richie’s hot cum leaking out of his ass. He pulled on his pants and shirt as fast as possible and took off after him, leaving Richie alone in the room. He raced down the stairs and outside barely catching Archie before he got in his car. “Archie, wait, I can explain. Please listen, I’m so sorry!”

“So that’s Richie, huh?” Archie asked bitterly. “Your druggie ex who aired all of you dirty laundry. God, to think that I held you while you cried over what that prick had done.”

“Archie…” Stan was crying, standing barefoot with his shirt undone, and abused hole leaving a mess in his pants. What had he done.

“I don’t want to hear it, you filthy little cum slut. I want nothing to do with you. Go back to your boy.” With that he got into his car a drove off, leaving Stan on the front lawn of Ben’s house a sobbing mess.

Bill got to him first of course. He was Stan’s real life superhero, and held him in his arms. Eddie handed him a tissue from his fanny pack so that he could blow his nose, while Bev rubbed his back. He looked up to see Mike and Ben trying to restrain Richie from getting to him.

Richie looked...sorry? That couldn’t be it. Richie never apologized for anything when it came to Stan, even when he was lying about using drugs. Stan couldn’t even look at him. He was disgusted with himself that he had let Richie back in like that, that his kiss had melted him.

“You.” He said, pointing a finger towards Richie. “You stay the fuck away from me. You just want attention, you don’t want my heart. You just hate the thought of me with someone new, you fucking said it yourself. Well congratulations Tozier, the whole world knows how much of a pathetic cum slut I am for you!” Stan had to stop to gag, he could feel his anxiety pushing all of the alcohol up his esophagus as he heaved and vomited all of it up into the grass. “I can’t do this anymore. You made your choice. You loved the drugs more than me.” Stan was crying again, and Bill decided to intervene, the whole situation wasn’t going to end well.

Mike helped Bill load him into the truck and the other losers joined. Stan watched Richie’s figure get smaller and smaller as the truck pulled down the road. He hated himself for giving into Richie and for being unable to get over him.

*

Stan woke up with a massive hangover and his ass was throbbing. He rolled over to see Bill sleeping peacefully, he figured that the losers chose Bill’s house to stash the very drunk boy because Bill’s parents just didn’t care what their son did anymore. As Stan laid there in the quiet of the Sunday morning a thought kept plaguing him, he needed to see Richie Tozier as soon as possible. In his mind, he knew that he should be thinking of how to apologize to Archie, but that wasn’t what he wanted.

Stanley Uris only wanted Richard Tozier.