#sinwrites

[sinister-sincerely]

A Tipsy Tussle

Inspired by @wyervan and their Slasher AU | This story is about a particularly good month in the green for the arcade and a very rare celebration hosted by both Sun and Moon with the Reader

This particular story was inspired by this Asked answered by Wyervan

Rated T for Suggestive Themes | Alcohol mentions

Word count: 2.8K words

It wasn't just a good month—it was a great month.

Sun had checked the numbers more times than you cared to count, his lanky frame hunched over his small computer monitor, fingers tapping excitedly against the desk. Each time, the results were the same—the arcade was finally in the green.

Your bosses were ecstatic. Moon, grinning ear to ear, looking almost impressed, while Sun boasted to anyone who would listen (mostly you) about his impeccable spreadsheet skills.

Normally, you declined their offers to hang out outside of work.

As much as you liked them, the line between professionalism and something else (something harder to define) blurred each time...

But this time, when Sun had looked at you, eyes shining with unfiltered pride, you couldn't bring yourself to say no.

You did at least put on a bit of a show (again, mostly for yourself), dragging your feet just enough to make it seem you weren't too eager to follow them into the van.

It was a half-assed attempt, considering the corners of your mouth twitched upward every time Moon wrestled with the radio, grumbling under his breath when the dial refused to cooperate.

Eventually, after a good open-palm smack from Moon to the dash, a Pop-station settled from the static. The moment the upbeat melody filled the van, Sun immediately launched into an off-key rendition of what he must have assumed the lyrics were (they weren't).

You tried. REALLY tried- but despite your best effort you laughed, Moon joining in shortly after.

Eventually, you reached their house, the van rolling to a stop with a soft lurch as Moon twisted the key and cut the engine.

The second the vehicle settled, he was already moving, shoving the driver's side door open and slipping out with an effortless bound. He barely spared a glance back as he waved you forward in a swift, impatient motion.

You hesitated, shifting slightly in your seat in the back, and your moment of confusion must have been obvious because Sun quickly chimed in, his voice light but tinged with a nervous chuckle.

"Oh! Ah—you're going to need to climb over to the front," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "The back doors only open from the outside—keep meaning to get those fixed~"

His laugh was breezy and casual, but something about how he said it, about how Moon hadn't even looked back, left a faint, nagging itch at the back of your mind.

Then again, the two of them were always a little weird, weren't they?

Shoving the thought aside, you braced yourself against the seats, awkwardly maneuvering over the center console.

Your knee knocked into the gear shift, and for a brief moment, you found yourself sprawled gracelessly across the driver's seat. A few choice words slipped past your lips as you scrambled upright, hands finding purchase on the cool, worn leather as you finally managed to ease yourself out properly.

By the time you clambered out, Moon was already halfway to the front door. Sun, waiting just outside, watched you with that ever-present, too-wide smile.

"-ll need some snacks." Moon cast a knowing glance toward Sun, who only hummed in response.

With a flick of his wrist, Moon tossed a set of keys into the air, which traveled briefly before disappearing into Sun's hand so quickly you nearly missed it.

"I'll get the place all setup! We'll need music, I'll have to turn on all the lights—oh! And drinks, we need drinks! Whiskey, right, Moonie~? We still have some left..." Sun chirped, excitement bubbling through his voice, his posture unnervingly upright, practically thrumming with energy. He slid past Moon toward the door with the effortless grace of two acrobats in perfect sync, moving on a rhythm only they seemed to understand.

Even as he disappeared inside, his voice still carried—rambling on, listing every little thing he planned to prepare.

Moon let out a low chuckle, shaking his head at Sun's boundless enthusiasm before turning his attention back to you.

Then, his gaze locked onto yours... intense, sharp, unblinking.

"Follow." Typical Moon, sparing with words, but his meaning was always crystal clear.

You shrugged, half-hearted, offering a small smile before jogging lightly to keep up with his pace as he started to walk.

"Soooo~" you drew out the word, trying to stay within earshot of his long-legged, lanky-assed strides, "what kinda food do you guys even have around these parts, anyway?"

Your voice came out light, relaxed, anything to ignore the way your nerves were getting to you.

"The good kind." Moon's reply was effortless, delivered in that matter-of-fact tone you'd come to expect from him.

"Better be," you teased, taking a few longer strides to finally match his pace. "I'm giving up prime television time to hang out with you two."

"Oh?" Moon glanced at you; finally, a smug smirk pulled at the edges of his sharp features.

Before you could react, his hand ghosted across your lower back, his touch deliberate but careful, nudging you toward the opposite side of him, further from the street.

You almost yelped, not expecting the shift, but Moon didn't so much as blink. His stride never broke, his posture fluid, nearly lazy, but there was something undeniably protective in how he maneuvered you.

A silent, reflexive correction.

You were grateful he couldn't clock the way you deepened several shades darker...

Moon delivered on his word, leading you to a small corner store tucked just out of view, its presence unassuming but undeniably inviting.

The moment you stepped inside, you were hit with the rich, indulgent scent of cooked meats and freshly baked sweet bread.

Moon strode ahead, moving with the same effortless confidence he carried everywhere, weaving past shelves lined with canned goods and crinkling snack bags without so much as a glance. He made a beeline for the back counter, where an older man stood expectantly, barely acknowledging the laminated menu above before placing an order: three servings of take-out chili fries. His voice was smooth, assured like he had ordered them a hundred times before.

You raised a brow. "Chili fries?"

There was a beat, a pause long enough for you to consider pressing the question...were they really the best option? But whatever doubt you had shriveled when Moon turned to you, his grin cutting through the dim lighting, sharp teeth flashing, eyes flicking toward you with something unmistakably mischievous.

That was answer enough.

When you arrived back at the house, it was immediately clear that Sun had been busy transforming the space into something festive, haphazardly thrown together but oddly endearing in its effort.

The living room was bathed in the soft, uneven glow of Christmas lights strung haphazardly along the walls. Thin wires snaked across the room, held up by strips of duct tape, a rushed but strangely thoughtful attempt at decoration.

It was a chaotic mix of sloppy and sincere, an obvious last-minute effort, yet… you couldn't help but feel that it was all for your benefit more than theirs.

The same pop radio station from the car blared through the space, the bass thrumming beneath your feet as you trailed after Moon. The music clashed with the dim, cozy atmosphere, an oddly fitting contrast for the two men who lived here.

You let your gaze wander, taking in their living space for the first time, piecing together small details and hints of their lives outside of work.

…Not surprising was the unmistakable circus motif woven into every inch of the space.

A framed poster hung proudly on one wall, its edges worn with age, the colors slightly faded yet still bold enough to announce a long-forgotten show.

Nearby, a shadow box displayed an array of meticulously arranged ticket stubs, some yellowed with time, others still crisp, as if recently added. The attention to detail was uncanny; each piece was placed with careful deliberation and was a shrine to some unknown past.

But then, your gaze landed on something odd.

A large section of wall, conspicuously bare amidst the surrounding nostalgia. The emptiness stood out, almost intentionally, as if something had once hung there but had been removed—scrubbed clean.

"Good, you're back!"

Sun's voice rang out cheerfully as he emerged from what you assumed was the kitchen, his ever-present enthusiasm practically radiating off of him.

He carried two drinks in his hands, both looking impossibly small in his grasp. One was a vibrant, syrupy red, nearly overflowing with maraschino cherries stacked high in a tall, narrow glass. The other was far simpler—a familiar whiskey glass, a rich amber hue swirling lazily around a melting ice cube.

He held both out toward you.

You hesitated only for a second before reaching forward, fingers curling around your choice.

The beginnings of fuzzy warmth brought on by alcohol settled in your chest, spreading slowly and steadily, dulling the usual professional barriers between you and them as you lounged on the couch.

Sun had been talking about everything and nothing in particular for what felt like an hour now.

The history of vending machines.

The psychology behind claw machines.

The exact number of lightbulbs that had to be rotated out in the arcade on any given day of the week.

It was a cascade of trivia, the kind of endless conversation that might have felt exhausting in any other setting, but here, with the soft sound of the radio still playing in the background and the lingering heat of the drink in your hand, it was... easy.

What surprised you most was that Moon hadn't completely tuned out.

He contributed here and there, an occasional scoff, a low, amused chuckle, a muttered correction when Sun got a bit too carried away with one of his more absurd claims.

It was subtle, but it was something and that made you feel strangely included in their rhythm.

Then, just as the last bout of laughter faded, the mood shifted... not abruptly, but enough for you to notice.

Sun's grin softened into something thoughtful as he leaned forward, bony elbows braced against his knees, his drink held loosely in long fingers.

"You know... I see it," he said, his voice lighter and less performative.

You blinked slowly, the words catching you off-guard. "See what?"

Sun rolled his glass between his fingers and palm, gaze still steady on you. "You. Trying."

He let that sit for a moment before continuing, his tone unusually sincere.

"At work. With us. You're not just coasting. You're there. Really putting in effort. And I just—" Sun chuckled, shaking his head before meeting your eyes again. "I just wanted to say… I appreciate it."

The sudden shift left you scrambling for a response, a smart-ass remark, a quip, anything...

"He's right."

Moon's voice cut through before you could even get a word out, his response flat but not unkind.

You turned toward him. He was slouched back against the couch, whiskey glass resting lazily against his thigh. He wasn't looking at you directly, but his focus was there, fixed on the floor like he was weighing his next words carefully.

"A lot of people don't even try." Moon exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly toward you to stare at you through the streak of white in his hair. "...or don't care. You do. That's rare."

A tightness crept up your throat before you could stop it; something unspoken lingered in the space between the three of you.

Sun seemed to pick up on how on the spot you felt because he suddenly laughed, breaking the tension.

"See, THAT is a huge compliment coming from Moonie."

Moon rolled his eyes, lifting his drink for a slow sip, but, notably, didn't argue.  

As the night stretched on, the mood eased back into something lighthearted, the earlier weight of conversation dissolving into familiar chaos.

You watched with quiet amusement as Sun, ever persistent, slowly inched his way closer to Moon.

It started subtly, easing off the couch to sit on the floor, then shuffling a little closer, then a little more. Eventually, he reached the edge of where Moon was seated, one hand absently tugging at the hem of Moon's sweater, testing his ability to drag the man down with sheer determination alone.

"You remember that, don't you, Moon?" Sun's voice had lifted into something almost theatrical, words slightly exaggerated as he latched onto Moon's sleeve. "That one loud lady—the one who just wouldn't accept we weren't open on Tuesdays?"

Moon hummed in vague acknowledgment, but Sun wasn't finished.

"She ASKED to speak to the OWNER, STAR!" Sun suddenly whipped his head toward you, eyes wide with a manic kind of disbelief, like he was reliving the moment in real time. "THE OWNER! WHO DOES THAT, STAR?!"

He tugged harder at Moon's sweater for emphasis, his whole body leaning into the effort.

Moon, who had been doing his best to stay upright, finally gave up with a resigned sigh, sliding down from the couch and onto the floor beside him.

"Sun. Loud," he muttered, rubbing at his temple, though the slight curl of his lips betrayed his amusement.

The drinks had settled nicely, warming your chest and loosening the last of your reservations. You were already on your third, the pleasant buzz making everything feel lighter, easier.

Sun, in particularly high spirits, was talking faster, laughing harder, clinging to Moon like he was the only thing anchoring him to the floor. Despite the noise, Moon didn't seem to mind. If anything, he was still smiling, something you weren't sure you'd ever get used to seeing.

At some point, the three of you had migrated next to each other onto the floor, backs resting against the couch, legs sprawled out in every direction.

Then, with a lazy groan, Sun finally peeled himself off of Moon, stretching his arms high above his head, his entire body lengthening like a cat shaking off sleep. His eyes glinted with mischief as he leaned, the expression one you recognized all too well.

"You know…" Sun mused, "I think I deserve a prize for all my kind words tonight."

You arched a brow, curious. "Oh yeah? Whatcha got in mind?"

Sun's grin stretched wider, but he didn't answer. Instead, he winked—slow and deliberate—before his hand, ever so casually, inched toward Moon's basket of chili fries.

It was a mistake.

The moment his fingertips so much as grazed a fry—

Moon was on him.

A blur of movement. A sharp yelp. A flurry of limbs as Moon tackled Sun down with zero hesitation, pinning him to the floor in seconds.

Chaos erupted, Sun shrieking in exaggerated betrayal. At the same time, Moon, ever the executioner, loomed over him, his weight pressing down just enough to prove a point.

"Thief," Moon accused, voice dripping with mock disdain.

They tumbled over each other in a blur of long limbs and chaotic laughter, Moon giggling between quick jabs while Sun sputtered out half-hearted protests, his words lost in breathless laughter.

It was a mess of flailing arms, tangled legs, and rapid shifts in speed as they wrestled across the floor, all sense of dignity long abandoned.

You did your best to stay clear of their warpath, quickly gathering the baskets of chili fries and tucking them safely out of range before one of them inevitably knocked them over.

But the longer you watched, the more your enjoyment got the better of you, a wide smile breaking across your face as their ridiculous antics played out in front of you.

Then... Sun reached out.

And in your drunken haze, without thinking, you reached back.

The moment your fingers brushed his, everything turned into a mess.

You barely had time to register what was happening before a yelp tore from you, the world tilting as you were suddenly yanked straight into the middle of their tussle.

Your body crashed against Sun's chest, his laughter ringing in your ears as he wrapped an arm around you, an impromptu human shield against Moon's relentless assault.

Moon's reaction was immediate... thankfully.

He stopped just inches from your face, his breath warm against your skin as he froze mid-strike, fingers still curled in preparation to grab Sun.

For a moment, everything was suspended, the heat of their bodies pressed close, the adrenaline still in the air, the way Moon's bright eyes locked onto yours, sharp and focused in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You coward," Moon muttered, his voice dripping with amusement as he flicked his gaze toward Sun.

Sun, still clinging onto you, merely grinned wide enough to split his face.

"Strategic retreat," Sun corrected, unapologetic, his arms wrapping around you just a bit tighter. "Star's on my team now~" he sang...

[the-sin-hole]

fuckin' brat

stanxreader, 5.9k words NSFW 18+ it's smut time again baby!!!

fem!reader, vaginal fingering, PIV sex, handcuffs, spanking + choking, multiple orgasms, general brat taming activities, this was supposed to be 2.5k words lord help meeeeeee

+++

A poor night’s sleep. Five tour buses at once. Some kid spilling a giant milkshake in the showroom. One tourist hitting on you. Several other tourists giving you multiple kinds of shit. Another kid spilling an entire half-gallon of lemonade in the gift shop. The twins accidentally breaking the Sascrotch during an impromptu game of “Throw The Dodgeball As Hard As Humanly Possible”. These things are all bearing down on you as the day ends. You’ve never been so happy to watch Stan flip the Open sign to Closed. You were starting to snap at customers in the final hour, something far outside your norm, and you could practically hear Stan’s teeth grinding as the last tourist left the shop.

You’re in his office now, counting out the tills as fast as possible while he nails the underpants back on the Sascrotch. He doesn’t normally let you do this, but today’s an exception considering all the extra closing tasks you’ll have to knock out before he’ll let you call it a day. As you count you hear Mabel, Dipper, Soos, and Wendy all rush out of the gift shop, followed by Stan calling after them, frustrated, asking what’s so important they have to skip out on work. Mabel rambles an answer on her way out and you can hear Stan’s aggravated grunt as the door slams. You sigh. It’s going to take even longer to clean up just the two of you. You neatly organize the tills, tuck the carefully counted profits into a large envelope and slide it into a drawer on your right. You stack the two tills and heave yourself out of his chair, mentally crafting a plan to blow through all the cleaning tasks as quickly as possible. You only make it a couple feet in front of his desk before it all comes crashing down.

When you collide with him it sends it all flying, including the two of you, bouncing against each other and falling back on your asses amongst scattered change and bills.

If you were both being honest, you’re both at fault. You were still looking down at the tills as you walked to the door, and he was focused on straightening a handful of dollar bills from the tip jar as he entered. But neither of you are in the headspace to give grace right now.

“You have GOT to be kidding me,” you exclaim angrily, not specifically at him, but rather to the powers that be.

“It’s not my fault you don’t watch where you’re goin’!” Stan immediately retorts, assuming your exclamation was pointed, and you can feel your irritation bubbling.

“Watch where I’m going? You’ve got eyes too, buddy. Unless those cataracts of yours are as bad as you try to convince the cops they are.”

“Yeah, they’re bad alright, and the only thing worse is your situational awareness.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, standing slowly as he does too. “Just say you’re sorry and we can move on!”

“I should say I’m sorry? Sorry but that ain’t gonna happen when this isn’t my fault. And it also wouldn’t happen even if it was.” He adopts an aggressive stance, one that you match by balling your fists.

“There you go, acting like I’m some sort of prissy bitch, when all I ever do is call you out on your shit!”

“I ain’t acting nothing! You’ve got an attitude, princess.”

Anger flares.

“I told you not to call me that! And I don’t have a fucking attitude! I just don’t bow down to everything you say!”

He steps forward.

“Yeah, and things would be a lot easier around here if you did.”

You stand your ground.

“You’re just a stubborn old man, and you can’t handle a stubborn woman? Embarrassing.”

He steps forward again. He’s only couple feet away now, trying to loom over you.

“The only thing embarrassing here is you throwing a fit!”

More anger flares.

“You started this shit! You know what your problem is? You can’t handle any pushback! As soon as anyone questions you—” you jab a finger into his chest to emphasize your point, tilt your face up to him, and hit him with your best glare, “—you just—”

He grabs your left wrist, yanking your hand away from his chest, cutting you off.

“You know your problem? I know the real reason you’re such a brat. You’re under sexed!”

You blink.

“Excuse me?!”

“You heard me! I ain’t stupid, sweetheart” —the term of endearment, however sarcastically said, sends something through you— “I see the way you look at some of the tourists that run through here.” He unconsciously squeezes your wrist. “I see the way you look at me.”

A shock runs through your spine.

Fuck. You’ve been that obvious?

“Sorry for stealing a glance every now and then, boss. You’re a gross old man, you should be familiar with the practice,” you say with as flippant an expression as you can muster, though you can’t stop the slight heat creeping up your neck.

His eyes dip down to your body quickly before jumping back up to your eyes. He hasn’t let go of your wrist. You’re starting to feel something too close to arousal for your liking… You have to get out of here before you do something extreme.

“That’s it. I quit.” You try to wrench your wrist away but he doesn’t let you. A pulse of warmth throbs within you at his strong grip, and you curse the heat you can feel now rising to your cheeks.

“You don’t get to quit. Cus I’m firing you. In thirty minutes.” His face is serious, but something in his voice sounds… eager?

“Seriously? Thirty more minutes? You that desperate for my help?”

“Once those thirty minutes are up, you can walk outta here scot-free. I’ll even give ya your pay on the spot.”

You’re trying to read his expression. It’s not working- you have no idea what he’s thinking. You don’t really want to quit- you just wanted him to admit he needed you. But maybe after a half hour you’ll both have calmed down enough to renege. Still, you’re not going to back down that easy. Not yet. You’re still riding your wave of frustration, needing the outlet.

“Fine. You get me for thirty more minutes. As long as after that I don’t have to work for your overbearing ass ever again, I’m satisfied.”

His eyes glint. He’s still holding your wrist.

“I don’t think you are satisfied. You got anything you wanna say to me before you’re no longer my employee?”

“No.”

“Anything you wanna do?”

“No,” you repeat, more firmly this time, more to yourself than him, keeping unwavering eye contact. The glint in his eyes sharpens.

“You’re real good at sayin’ no, aren’t you?”

“Better than I am at saying yes.”

“Heh. Cute. We’ll see about that.”

He pulls your arm back, forcing you to step closer to him. His left hand grabs your jaw from underneath, four fingers on one side and a thumb on the other, holding you firm. He slams his lips into yours. The sudden unexpected contact has your nerves alight, your heart jumping in your chest, and an undeniable throb running through you.

He steps forward, pushing you back to his desk, pressing his hips hard against yours and making you hop up on the desk to escape the pressure. He slides between your legs. You try to scooch back to allow more room but the hand on your wrist finally leaves to find the small of your back and pull you back to the edge, against his groin. His lips are aggressive against yours, as if he’s still trying to fight you wordlessly.

You break for air. His hand remains on your jaw. You place your palms behind you on the desk, lean back on them so you can look him in the eye. “You’re just trying to get out of paying me, aren’t you? Hoping I’ll forget?”

He bears down on you. Your chests are nearly pressed together.

“Oh sugar,” he starts before leaning in. You reflexively lean back further but his hand moves from your jaw to the back of your head, grabbing a fistful of hair to hold you in place. He tilts your head to the left, exposing your neck. His lips find your ear and he veritably growls,

“I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name.”

A shiver runs through you. You like the sound of that. But you’re not going to make it easy for him.

“I should sue you for sexual harassment, old man.”

He bites your earlobe, the hand on the small of your back running down to grab your hip and squeeze.

“You can tell me to stop aaaaany second now, princess. But I think we both know you’re too desperate to do that.”

“Oh fuck off,” you say, irritation at the demeaning nickname flaring, “If I were desperate I would have taken that cowboy up on his offer to take me for a ride this morning. I’m just here to make sure I get my money,” you lie, in an effort to rile him up even more.

The hand on your hip moves up under your shirt, up to your breast. Despite the throb of arousal that runs through you when he grabs your breast, you continue.

“I’m sure this won’t take too much time… how long can an old man like you last anyway?”

He finds your nipple and pinches, bites your earlobe again. Your back arches.

“Can’t wait for you to find out.”

Before you can retort, he suddenly moves you. His hand moves to your sternum and he presses, guiding you down to lay longways on his desk. He throws his other arm out in one large swipe to get rid of the various papers, pens, and knicknackery on the desk and allow you space. You swing your legs up on the desk and the lamp tumbles to the floor. Fully sprawled on his desk now, he looms over your right side, taking in the look of surprise and fluster on your face with great pleasure. You quickly shake it off, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“Let’s get this over with then,” you say, reaching a hand out to his crotch. He intercepts it, then grabs your other wrist, bringing it into his left hand and pinning them to the desk over your head.

“Oh no, it ain’t time yet sugar,” he says, and his right hand trails down to your shorts. He’s already unbuttoning them, unzipping them, and diving beneath your underwear when he says,

“I wanna hear you beg for it.”

You fight the throb that runs through you.

“Tch, you haven’t even done anything yet—”

His finger finds your clit and presses hard. You squirm despite yourself, the touch sending hot flashes of pleasure through your body. He releases the pressure for just a moment before applying it again, just as harsh, just as exhilarating. He repeats the cycle, each time making your body seize.

“Haven’t you ever- nngh- heard of a delicate touch?”

“I can tell you’re one of those who doesn’t like a delicate touch.”

You can’t deny it to yourself- you’re already desperately aroused. But you don’t need to let him know that.

“You don’t know shit about me.”

“You can stop tryna act up” —suddenly his finger leaves your clit, and he thrusts two large fingers inside of your wet pussy— “proof’s right here.”

You gasp when the fingers enter you, arch your back at the sudden penetration. You’re ready for his fingers to work inside you when just as fast as they entered you, they leave, and he’s right back to work on your increasingly sensitive clit.

“Nngh- stop wasting my fucking time, already. I’m getting bored.”

“You got a real smart mouth, you know that?”

“Yeah, and you’re gonna have to work- nngh- way harder than that to shut it up.”

His hand leaves your clit again. He shoves his still-wet fingers into your mouth. He massages your tongue, smirks down at you, enjoying how quickly red spreads across your face.

“I know you’re easier than that, sugar.”

You clench your thighs together, getting more aroused every second. Then his fingers dip too deep, traveling into your throat, making you gag. You strain against the hand holding you by the wrists.

“Heh, didn’t expect you to have a gag reflex. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that.”

You take the first two thrusts in your throat, horny enough that you almost let yourself fully submit to him. Almost. When he goes in for a third you bite down on the fingers that are now knuckle deep in your throat. Stan removes his hand quickly. You manage to break free of his grasp and you sit up, close to his face. Through your arousal and red hot face you manage to pant out,

“I’m not gonna just lie there and take it.”

You expect to find displeasure on his face. To the contrary, Stan looks pleasantly surprised at your defiance.

“Yeah, you will.”

He grabs the back of your head again and kisses you, this time shoving his tongue inside your mouth. His tongue works against yours in a few large strokes before he moves you yet again. He breaks the kiss and twists your head to the left, other hand forcing your right hip in the same direction, flipping you over, and before you know it he’s pressed your left cheek to the hard wood of the desk and your body is now fully prone in front of him. Holding you down by your neck with his left hand he uses his right to reach under you and grab your groin. With a mighty lift he hoists your hips up so you’re on your knees, ass in the air. With that same hand he yanks your shorts down, your underwear coming down with them, down your thighs, exposing you. Before you can fully comprehend the new position he’s put you in, he smacks your ass. You let out a short “ah!”- both at the stinging contact and the rush of arousal that makes your pussy throb immediately after.

“You gonna apologize for biting, princess?”

You’re stunned by the sudden escalation. You definitely don’t want to apologize. And you definitely do want more of what you just got.

“Not ‘til you apologize for how weak that was-”

He smacks your ass again, a little harder this time, eliciting another short high moan. He doesn’t give you a chance to speak before laying two more on you, each stinging more than the last, the hand on your neck squeezing while he does it. The sting is almost too much, as is the intense yearning in your pussy for any sort of stimulation as a result of it.

“How about now?” Your face is turned away from him, but you can hear the satisfaction in his voice as he asks.

You’re breathing heavy, panting, head swirling with arousal, hands clenched in fists on the desk. He lays another one on you as you don’t respond, and another deep throb of desperation runs through your cunt.

“Aaah— S-sorry”

Another smack. Another throb.

“Sorry who?”

You know what he wants to hear. You’ve refused to call him this since your first day working at the Shack, rolling your eyes whenever he’d urged you to do so. You grit your teeth. “Sorry… sir.”

“Atta girl,” he replies deep and low, and you’re almost embarrassed at the shot of excitement those two words induce.

He runs a hand against your ass, getting dangerously close to your cunt.

“Just a few little spanks and you’re dripping back here, huh?”

“Are you gonna do something about that or just keep wasting my time?”

He lays a gentle tap against your swollen cunt that spurs a sharp groan in your throat. He chuckles.

“I’m gonna keep wasting your time. I’m having too much fun hearin’ you make all those noises. And you can act tough all you want, but I can see you are too.”

He gropes your ass a few times, each grasp teasing your desperate pussy. You can feel your thighs tensing with arousal, and the low hum you ca hear him making in his throat tells you he can too.

“I think I’m gonna need both my hands for this next part though.”

The hand on your neck leaves you, and you actually miss the pressure it had on you.

“Don’t move a muscle, or else. That ass of yours is red enough as it is.”

He walks around behind you, hand trailing from one side of your ass to the other, gently grazing your pussy as it does. He pulls open a drawer, grabs something that clinks in his hand. You identify the sound instantly.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me-” you start to raise up on your palms on the desk so you can turn to him and properly mock what you know is coming. He swiftly walks back around the desk and pushes your upper body back down onto the hardwood, pressing your left cheek back down onto the desk. He takes your wrists and places them in a pair of cold steel handcuffs behind your back.

He smacks your ass again. You moan.

“Told ya not to move, sweetheart.”

“G-great, so you got me handcuffed like I’m in a bad porn. What’s next, you gonna pretend to be the pizza boy?”

He goes back to his spot next to you on the desk. His left hand grabs a fistful of hair. It doesn’t pull, just rests against your scalp so you’re aware that he could so do whenever he wanted. His right hand runs from the underside of your left thigh, up to your ass, before finally letting the tips of his fingers run over your wet cunt.

“Why would I wanna roleplay when I already got you right where I want ya?”

He shoves two fingers inside you again, and you let out a whine at the penetration your pussy was so desperate for. But this time he doesn’t stop, he keeps thrusting his fingers hard and fast, pressing downwards and dragging against your g-spot. You can’t help the long moans it draws out of you.

“You sound like you haven’t been handled like this in years. Too much for ya?” he asks from behind you, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“H-hardly. I was j-ust thinking how small they f-feel— aaah!”

He shoves a third inside without hesitation. Your moans get louder.

“If this is how you act with just a few fingers in ya I can’t wait to see how you cry when you get the real deal.”

You can’t even respond to that one. You’re building up to a climax and trying to hold back. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of making you come so fast. Unfortunately for you, he’s perceptive.

“Speaking of real deal… it sounds like you’re real close.”

His fingers leave you and you immediately miss their presence. You take in a gasp of air to catch your breath when he takes your thighs and pulls, bringing your hips to meet the short edge of the desk, then turns you over. The edge of the desk digs into your sore ass, the handcuffs on your wrists dig into your lower back. The discomfort only bolsters your excitement. He looks down at you, red and sweating through your shirt, with great satisfaction. Now that you’re facing him you can see he’s starting to get red too, heat creeping up his neck. Your eyes find his. He’s looking at you like he wants to devour you.

He pulls your shorts and underwear off your legs the rest of the way, letting them drop to the floor.

He places one hand on your left hip while the other shoves three fingers right back inside you, continuing their relentless pace. You’re still trying to hold back, but it’s no use. After just a few thrusts you feel it about to crash over you. You reflexively turn your head as it mounts.

“Look at me.”

You barely hear him say it.

The hand on your hip raises to your jaw. It grips hard, turns your face up to his. He leans over you so he can better look at your face. That look of hunger in his eyes is inescapable, and it pushes you over the edge.

The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. Your hips buck, your head reflexively tries to snap up as the pleasure rolls up your spine, but the strong hand on your jaw keeps it in place, keeps your eyes with Stan’s as he drinks up your face in the throes of ecstasy.

You come down. Stan’s fingers don’t stop, only slow, and the continued sensation is almost overwhelming.

Stan chuckles as he sees your face screwed up, desperate over the stimulation.

“I’m not hearin’ a thank you.”

You’re barely holding onto coherent thought.

“Th-thank you.”

“Thank you who?”

“Thank you, asshole”

He picks the speed of his fingers back up and you let out a cry. He chuckles again.

“Still got some fight in ya, huh? I like it. Let’s see how much longer that lasts.”

His fingers leave you again as he straightens up. You let your head loll back, swallow deep breaths at the break from sensory overload. He’s still standing between your legs at the edge of the desk, but you hear him reach a hand back into a drawer. You manage to raise your head enough to see him tear a condom from a roll. You swallow.

“W-wow, how long have those been g-gathering dust in there?”

“Got these about six weeks ago.”

It takes you a second to realize the timing.

“Don’t tell me…”

He chuckles as he unbuttons his pants.

“You were so busy lookin’ at me you didn’t see me returning the favor. Even in the interview. You really gotta work on that subtlety.”

You hear him unzip. You try to raise your head up further to watch him pull it out, heart working overtime to manage the come down from your orgasm in addition to a new wave of arousal at the prospect of him sticking his cock inside you. Stan notices; he reaches up and grabs your jaw again, forcing your head back against the hardwood, unable to look at anything other than the ceiling.

Another bolt of arousal shoots through you, blooming through your spent cunt and making it throb again. Hand still on your jaw, his other hand rolls the condom on. He places the head of his cock at your entrance.

“You think you can take it, princess?”

The demeaning nickname you hate so much makes even more aroused.

“Oh please,” you respond, trying to keep your voice steady despite the intense excitement, “there’s no way it’s that big.”

He enters you slowly. You realize instantly you’re going to swallow your words. You can’t hold back the high moans that escape as his head pushes into you, his girth stretching you far wider than his fingers had just a minute ago. He keeps going, still holding your jaw so you can’t see how much further he has to go. Every second the moans in your throat get higher, more urgent. With every inch that enters you you’re sure that’s it, his hips are going to meet yours, but he keeps pushing in. You start babbling “oh my god” over and over again, completely beyond yourself at the sensation. After another inch you can finally feel his hips about to meet yours. His free hand grabs your left thigh and lifts it, throwing your knee over his shoulder so he can go even deeper, and for a moment you think you might not be able to take it. Finally, he’s to the hilt, and you’re panting like you’re trying to run a marathon in between loose, weak “ohmygod”s.

Stan finally lets go of your jaw and lets his hand trail down to your chest. He pulls your shirt up so he can watch your breasts heave as you pant. His hand continues to trail downward, caressing your torso as it goes. His thumb finds your clit and presses just as hard as he did before, forcing a strangled “ahng!” from your throat. Your hips try to buck, but Stan uses his grip on the thigh thrown over his shoulder to keep you in place, keep you impaled on his cock. He doesn’t thrust, just assaults your clit with friction and pressure to watch you twitch and writhe.

“When was the last time you had dick this good, princess? When was the last time someone hit you this deep?”

You don’t answer at first, still reeling. He presses even harder on your clit and you answer in a desperate whine.

“I d-don’t know! I don’t remember! Probably- nngh- never!”

You look at him, standing at the edge of the desk, balls deep inside you, one large hand gripping your thigh and another working your clit. He’s got a cocky grin on his face as he takes you in. He’s also red, starting to break into a sweat, not quite panting yet but certainly breathing heavily. You’ve fully recovered from your orgasm and the initial shockwave of his large cock, and your arousal is building up in earnest again. He releases your clit. He reaches up, undoes his tie and the first few buttons of his shirt, gold chain and chest hair in full view, and you can’t help but stare. His grin somehow gets more cocky.

“I’ll make sure you remember this.”

He pulls his hips back slowly, pulling more high moans from your throat. He pushes back in, faster this time, and you cry out at the feeling of his girth stretching your cunt, his length hitting you so deeply. Heat flushes to your face as your blood pumps. Again he pauses, watching you pant, letting out small “hah”s as you struggle to adjust.

“I told you I’d have you cryin’ on my cock.”

He pulls back again at a steady pace. After a moan you manage to eke out,

“Just c-cus it’s big d-doesn’t mean you know how to u-use it-”

He slams into you hard, making you cry out again.

“Oh I know how to use it. And I’m gonna use it to fuck the brat right outta you, sweetheart.”

He fucks you fast, watching your body tense and writhe in front of him, watching you strain against the handcuffs under you. His eyes travel up to your face, screwed up again in pleasure and overwhelming sensation, mouth open as it lets out a stream of high moans. He can tell you’re getting close again.

“Look at you, ain’t even been five minutes and you’re drunk on my cock. You’re takin’ it good, too, takin’ the whole thing for me. How’s it feel?”

His talking you through it has you beside yourself because he's right, it's almost embarrassing how close he has you after such a short amount of time, you're just so pent up, not just from the frustrating day, but from the weeks of daydreaming about Stan, wondering what he'd feel like inside you, and now that you're here it's almost too much. Another orgasm is about to shoot through you. Before you completely lose the ability to talk, you stutter out a lie,

“I-it’s fine.”

“You deny it all you want with that mouth of yours but the cunt squeezin’ around my cock says somethin’ different.”

That does it. With a few broken sobs you come, and it’s hot, sharp, rolling through you, making you jerk against him. He holds you down so your bucking hips can’t interfere with his thrusts, the hand on your thigh gripping it hard and pinning it flush against his torso, his other hand pinning your hip. You feel like putty in his grip, mind swirling at the intensity of the orgasm wracking your body. You come down and he slows the tempo, again not stopping entirely, just relenting enough for you to catch your breath. Once he sees you stabilize he reduces his rhythm to painfully slow, gradually pulling all the way out before pushing all the way back in.

“You done bein’ a fuckin’ brat yet? Or am I gonna have to pound it outta you even harder?”

“Nngh- d-don’t give y-yourself a heart attack.” You’re almost slurring your words as you struggle through the response.

He chuckles. You look at him, still thrusting his hips into yours. While the grip on your thigh remains, the hand pinning your hip to the table is now wandering, feeling up your torso, your waist, your breasts. Beads of sweat line his brow and his cheeks are are fully flushed red. The cocky grin is still there but underlined with something more ravenous. The newly slowed thrusts are drawing whines out from your throat, embarrassingly high and desperate sounding, but you can’t help it. He’s keeping you on the edge of overstimulation. Your pussy is sensitive from your climaxes and you’re fighting to recover.

“You need to be careful, sugar. I got you right where I want you. You’re not exactly in a position to fight back, y’know.”

“D-don’t -nngh- need to be. I know you’re about to bust, I’m in the -nngh- home stretch.”

He grabs your breast, gropes it hard. He lets out another chuckle.

“Who says I’m letting you go after I’m done with my first round?”

The threat sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.

“O-oh yeah? And what do you think -nngh- you’re gonna do to me?”

“I’ve been meaning to fuck that smart mouth.” Another wave of arousal. They’re hotter now, feeling like lava pooling in your lower half. He’s keeping the same arduously slow pace, still pulling out entirely with each thrust, and you can hear the slick of your come with each reentry.

His hand wanders up from your breast. It travels up your sternum, brushing past your clavicle before finding your throat. He rests his thumb on one side and lets his fingers fall in line on the other.

“I bet I’d like what you say a lot more with my cock down your throat.”

He squeezes gently, applying light pressure to the arteries under your jaw. You gasp- you immediately feel lightheaded. Your brain was already struggling to maintain coherent thought and is now fogged over, barely able to register any thoughts other than how good his fat cock feels sliding in and out of you.

“There we go,” Stan growls, and your cunt throbs on his cock. “Tell me how it feels.”

“N-not bad.”

He applies a little more pressure. You gasp again.

“G-good.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He watches you closely as more lava-hot arousal builds within you. The feeling of thrust after thrust after thrust emphasized by the fingers around your throat and the restraint of the cuffs and his grip is all starting to drive you insane. Before long you feel burning hot, feverish, an almost primal lust blooming within you. You start weakly trying to get him to increase his speed with your hips, but he doesn’t let you. He keeps his torturously slow pace.

“P-pick it up old man-”

He pulls out entirely and keeps his head at your entrance. You feel so empty when he leaves you, you want his cock back inside you immediately, no, actually, you need it, and you try to push your hips to lead it back to your pussy but he holds you in place.

“You want my cock? I’m gonna need to hear you beg for it.” He fully releases the pressure on your throat, giving you the ability to speak unhindered.

“P-please, I want your cock,” you mumble.

“Didn’t quite hear ya.”

“Please, I want your cock,” you begrudgingly say louder.

“Who’re you talking to?”

You let out a noise halfway between an exasperated sigh and a moan. “Please, I want your cock, sir.”

He nestles the head of your cock between your folds, pushing in just an inch before pulling back. You whine.

“That doesn’t sound like beggin’ to me.”

“Please fuck me, god, I just want you to fuck me sir!”

He slides the first couple inches in but goes no further, looking down at you expectantly.

“Please sir, I’m desperate for your cock, I’ll do anything if you just fuck me again, I’ll shut up, I’ll be good, I’ll—”

He slams his hips into you and you yelp. He doesn’t fuck you as fast this time. Instead he slams into you hard and rolls his hips, mercilessly pounding every inch of your cunt. You’re yowling, babbling ‘thank you’s and ‘oh god’s and arching your back as an unbearable pressure builds in your body, and as he fucks you he’s telling you how good you are for taking his cock, how he knew he could shut that bratty mouth up, how next time you talk back to him he’s gonna bend you over the counter in the gift shop and fuck you however he wants, how pretty you look crying on his cock, and oh god you are crying, the intense stimulation after two strong orgasms making a few tears well up and spill over, and as you get closer your babbling dies in your throat, you’re only able to make small strangled “ah”s, pathetic little noises that make Stan fuck you even harder, and-

-fuck-

you’re coming. It’s sharp, less like a wave and more like a dam breaking. Your body is wracked by powerful throbs making you seize against Stan’s relentless hips, but finally as he watches you struggle on his cock for the second time, he lets himself finish too, giving you a few final pounds before plunging deep and remaining there as he groans.

The two of you come down together. He’s panting heavily, you’re all but whimpering. He takes you in. You’re a sweaty mess blinking tears out of your eyes and gasping for air. He pulls out of you slowly, watches you react one final time to his cock. He lets your thigh slide down off his shoulder. He takes the condom off and pitches it. He reaches back into the drawer.

He grabs you by the shoulders and gently hauls your upper body into a sitting position. You fall forward into his chest, barely able to support yourself after all that exertion. He reaches a hand down behind you and unlocks the cuffs. Your arms fall down and find purchase pressing against the same edge of the desk digging into your thighs. He stands there, letting you pant together as you lean into him, and rubs small circles into your lower back where the cuffs had dug in and made impressions in your skin. You nuzzle against his chest for a minute letting him do so, feeling fuzzy and rubbery in the afterglow. After that minute passes, you lean back and look up at him.

“Well, good news Stan. You’ve convinced me to not quit.”

He chuckles.

“Good. Cus your thirty minutes were just about up.”

You smile, and he looks down at you with a smile far softer than you expected. It sends a different kind of warmth through you. Stan, seeming to become self-conscious of his intimate gaze, clears his throat.

“I’ll keep ya around. But you better stay in line, sweetheart, otherwise I might have to call you into my office to, uh, discuss your performance. I’m big on employee discipline, y’know.”

You smile wider and nuzzle back into his chest as he continues working out the impressions.

“Oh yeah. I’ll be real careful.”

[gachapains]

In preparation for the LaDs writing blog I'll inevitably make, I did a little Caleb study; bc I haven't written anything in a year (my last fic was neatly 10k words LMFAOO)

No warnings, all fluff and a lot of teasing!!

Tags: Established relationship, teasing, use of "pips", clothes stealing, both reader and Caleb have a degree in yearnology for each other

Man... My Caleb brain rot is so bad

»»————-　☾　————-««

“Pips! I'm back early, I picked up some groceries on my way here I was thinking of making some- is that my hoodie that got lost?" There in the dim light of your apartment, you're caught red handed by your boyfriend wearing his stolen hoodie. "I… perchance will you let me stache this somewhere and pretend like you never saw this?” You stutter out, a face a fierce shade of scarlet. "Not a chance.” Caleb says matter-of-factly, a smug smile absorbs his handsome features. " In fact, I'll be soooo kind and let a little thief explain themselves.” Caleb sets the groceries he bought on the kitchen counter and plants himself on one of the island chairs crossing his arms playfully. “Go ahead, I'm waiting." There's no malice behind his words whatsoever, just a teasing boyish smirk.

You cautiously step into the kitchen, eyes darting around for an escape route. You may be a deep space hunter but being teased by your boyfriend triggers your fight or flight. Your feet land in front of him and your eyes slowly drift to his. You take in a deep breath before beginning. " So uh, do you remember the last time I was in Skyhaven?” "Of course, it was the last time I saw you after all.” " Right right, I uh, well you went for a run before we went to bed because you had to leave earlier than usual the next day. You went to go shower and… I kinda saw your hoodie you were wearing just sitting there and I knew I wasn't gonna see you again for a few weeks so I just kinda I dunno… took it?" You mumble quietly. Caleb snots, shaking his head in disbelief. “So why last week when I told you my favorite hoodie was missing you didn't confess?" He presses, an eyebrow raised tauntingly. “I was going to tell you I swear! I just… This is humiliating and I'm never going to recover- it smells like you alright!! I miss you and it smells like you, so when I miss you really bad, I put it on.” You bury your face and the oversized sleeves.

Caleb is trying his best to fight back the massive stupid lovestruck grin on his face, but ultimately loses. “So you're a thief and a pervert. Who would've guessed…" Your face couldn't possibly get more red as you rip your head out of your hands and go smack him on the arm, however he easily intercepts the blow pulling you into a tight embrace. “If you wanted something that smells like me, you could've just asked. You know that right?" You nuzzle your burning cheeks against his chest. “I know, it's just humiliating and I don't wanna make you feel bad, because we both have demanding jobs.” He scoffs. " My hot girlfriend asking me for an item of my clothing that smells like me because she misses me; would make me feel weirdly honored, thank you very much.” You wack him lightly on the chest. " Who's the pervert now?” " Mmm, still the pretty girl who decided to steal my gross post run hoodie I think.”

»»————-　☾　————-««

[fallingrealms16]

Destiel Fic Recs Part 3 <333

yes a part 3? omg i just love these ficsss

Salio (to the end) by BekasStrife

96K Words // Chapters: 31/31 // 22K Hits // COMPLETED

//MATURE//

Salio (Latin): To leap, to jump forward. Right after losing Sam to the cage, Dean finds both Bobby and Castiel standing beside him at the cemetery: unharmed. Alive. Both human. As they fight to move on, Dean struggles to fulfill his promise to his brother, while Castiel adapts to what being human means, in all the ways that matter. Will choosing each other be enough? What to do when Chuck comes for them, spurned by vengeance?

Love As An Act of Merciful Conquest by dean35111

15K Words // Chapters: 17/? // 4K Hits // UNCOMPLETED

//TEEN AND UP//

In the summer of 2001 Sam leaves Dean his gun and the simple instruction to shoot first. For the first time, Dean is completely alone. The angels pick up on the distress signals of Michael's vessel and send Castiel to protect him in order to ensure the vessel's safety for their upcoming war. But Dean Winchester needs more than someone to protect him. He needs someone to save him and it's Castiel's duty to learn how.

People are monsters by Nachsie

7K Words // Chapters: 1/1 // 8K Hits // COMPLETED

//NOT RATED//

Castiel is the only prince in the long line of werewolves, soon to inherit all of his father’s rule. He until then occupies his time as a very known and respectable cop who just so happens to hate the owner of the roadhouse bar. Dean winchester is a human man who cares too much about money and doesn’t cut off his patrons till their card declines. Castiel hates him. Especially since Castiel has to come clean up their mess, and deal with the drunks every night. After one drunken mistake, Castiel accidentally ends up mated to Dean, which is suppose to be IMPOSSIBLE! But if that wasn’t also a problem. Castiel is ALREADY engaged to a female chosen at birth to be his mate. He needs to clean up his mess ASAP. However, the only way he seemed to come up with is...to kill Dean... Easier said than done, when all of Castiel’s plots to murder Dean keep end up with their clothes on the floor.

Inmate 241 by Sinwriter

30K Words // Chapters: 21/? // 4K Hits // UNCOMPLETED

//MATURE//

Angry and a bit sad. Blue eyes and slowing steps behind. Family on the outside. Sorry to say we will call you insane. When you tell us about the demons behind your walls.

Trope Springs Eternal by VioletHaze

41K Words // Chapters: 8/8 // 34K Hits // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

Dean's in love with Cas. Cas is in love with Dean. That much is obvious to everyone who sees them. But instead of acting on it, these two idiots seem bound and determined to score gold medals in the pining olympics. The staring, the longing, the unresolved sexual tension that's strong enough to combust and engulf the planet…is there anything that can push them out of their safe, cowardly positions? Leaving them to their own devices hasn't worked so maybe it's time to pull out the big guns.

[st-kitten]

guysss im thinking of starting a patreon for sasusaku content. it'll also include nanami kento, toji fushiguro, and some other 'nice' looking guys.

i might draw fanart for my own stories T_T

most posts will be public, but i might make some of the nsfw art for members.

[aquariasmoon]

Everyone Loves Neoborg:

Fire (Tala/Tyson)

☆ Read on A03 here ☆

Manga Tala! For those who have not read the manga: In the manga, Tala and Tyson do *not* make up after the first world tournament and Tala very much holds a grudge against Tyson for defeating him at the end. In fact, this is pretty much his whole motivation for coming back in the G-rev manga to fight Tyson again! Manga Tala is a whole different breed of feral I love him. ------ Warnings: ------ None, Just a dumbass who doesn't understand feelings

He didn’t understand.

Things had normally been so clear. A born leader by nature, problem-solving was instinctual to him, most situations were easily fixed when you applied basic logic to them after all. A logical answer for a logical problem, facts weighed against facts but this method of problem solving did nothing to help him figure out what he was feeling. Feelings weren't facts, facts were neat and clean and had rules, Feelings warped and took their own shape in completely illogical ways. Treating things like a puzzle to be solved normally worked but this puzzle’s pieces had warped sometime into putting it together, he couldn't solve a puzzle whose pieces no longer fit no matter how hard he tried.

Anger. 

An emotion he was very familiar with, the red hot searing feeling deep in his chest, the one that made him want to scream and lash out at everyone and everything, a wild beast whose hunger was normally only situated with the destruction of someone or something. 

Hate. 

Something he felt for few people but for those it was directed at the feeling was strong, people who had wronged him, people who deserve his scorn, his revenge.

So why? 

What was he doing here? 

Laid down on a futon, a person he supposedly hated pressed against his side and he was letting it happen. He was known for not being Touchy, people didn't just go up and touch him it was unheard of. Even before people found out about his aversion to the closeness of others people were simply too scared and intimidated to attempt to get close to him. But He didn’t want to move despite the closeness, ‘the touching’ . He didn't let people touch him freely so why was he letting it happen now? 

The storm raged on outside, howling wind and heavy rain only broken by the occasional strike of lightning but it seemed nothing compared to the thoughts racing around his head. A hurricane bad enough that all flights had been cancelled had stranded multiple teams set to leave earlier that day. They had all somehow ended up at Tyson's home hunkering down waiting for the storm to end so they could all go home. 

Now they were all in the dojo laid in neat rows of futons, the complaining of the other teams having to sleep in the same room as the Russians had thankfully been minimal due to how exhausted everyone had been. Most people were asleep by now, it was the early hours of morning no later than 2am but he could still hear the quiet titter of a few people still whispering to each other. 

He couldn't sleep, not with so many unfamiliar people around, not sleeping in this unfamiliar bed in this unfamiliar room. It had nothing to do with the fact he felt someone else's breath on his neck. 

Tyson sighed deeply and shifted nuzzling a soft chubby tan cheek into his pale shoulder before settling down again, sleep not disturbed by the panicked thoughts of the redhead he was cuddled against. He slept so peacefully not knowing how much danger he was in, that it was Tala's bed he had rolled over into. Even Bryan knew better than to disturb Tala when he was trying to rest, it was best to leave him alone. A half asleep Tala was not the best at distinguishing a threat from a friend.

But despite the hammering in his chest, the strange breathlessness he felt he didn't feel in danger. He felt that familiar flame deep in his chest that hot prickly feeling whenever he saw Tyson. The one that got bigger and bigger the closer they were to each other the one that yearned to beat him, for Tyson to acknowledge he was stronger. 

The one that needed his attention. 

Hate.

Hate? 

It was or it used to be. There was no mistaking that disgusted aftertaste in his mouth he had gotten after his humiliation at Tyson defeating him, and here the thought Tyson merely chipping Wolborg when they had met had been humiliation enough. Swallowing that defeat was simply not something he could do, Tyson had taken his perfect win record so, he had taken Kai. Kai had his own agenda but his plan was to take kai away from him, to take something away from him that he cared about. An eye for an eye. 

Tyson’s reaction had been worth it, seeing Tyson squirm and seeing him angry enough that Spencer had to step in and keep the smaller teen away from Kai. His satisfaction at that moment had been through the roof, a good and perfect revenge. He honestly wished Spencer hadn't gotten involved it would have just made it even better to watch Tyson actually take a swing at Kai. But that was Spencer for you, always the bleeding heart. Still… it hadn't been enough and in the end, he still lost out, never getting that victory he had sort after. The more he went over that event in his head he wished he had been in Kai's place instead, it was annoying how fixated Tyson was on Kai. It should be him. 

It had changed. He couldn't call it hate anymore but that fire still burned and he still wanted those things more than anything. To defeat Tyson, for him to acknowledge him as the stronger and superior person between them but now it was more clawing, it felt more desperate. It no longer felt like it was so tied to his pride, the disgust he had once felt was no longer there but the burning in his chest remained. No, it had gotten stronger it burned more deeply. 

Tyson mumbled in his sleep before shifting again seeming to be cold. He had rolled right out of his own futon and in his sleep seemed to be intent on trying to climb into Tala’s for warmth, already half under the edge of the blanket. A stretch, a mumble and finally Tala felt a chubby arm fall over his midsection. 

Alarm bells rang off in his head yet he stayed there, still as if he was frozen despite the smouldering heat he felt flourish within him. Outwardly he barely flinched, Inside he could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The temptation to jump up and throw the smaller teen off him and screech obscenities was all too great but again he didn’t move. For some odd reason, he didn't want to. His side simultaneously felt numb and too sensitive at the same time his natural and trained response of hating another person's touch. His instincts screamed at him, screamed to pull away, to strike out at Tyson but they were overridden by the feeling in his chest, that burning.

He swallowed trying his best to sort out his breathing once he noticed how fast it was, seeing the rise and fall of Tyson's head on his chest moving with each breath fully limp in his sleep, completely defenceless. He looked up at the ceiling, for some reason finding the image of Tyson sprawled across his chest a little too overwhelming. looking up at the wood beams seem to help, it dulled the sensation slightly. Closing his eyes only made it worse the image seemed to play on the back of his eyelids the sensation of the warm body next to him only got more vivid, he needed something to focus on that wasn't Tyson. Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he let out a few shaky breaths. The thought of Bryan turning over and witnessing his panic filled him with dread, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had never been more thankful that Bryan was such a heavy sleeper.

He got control of his breathing but his heart he couldn't stop from pounding. Before he would have thought this feeling welling up in him was anger. The red hot feeling deep in his chest, the prickle of heat in his face the rush of adrenaline of his body getting ready to fight and the blankness of his mind only being able to focus on what he was angry at. Those were all there but they were different somehow. 

His mind was blank, only able to focus on the slightly heavy weight of the arm across his chest, the soft long hair tickling his shoulder, The warm puffs of air he felt through his tank top. He fisted his hand into the fabric beneath him trying to focus on something else. 

His face did feel warm, hot like he had a fever but not the prickle of anger, the slight sweat from his body getting ready to lash out. No the heat pooled into his cheeks radiating a warmth he had never really felt before. 

The longer he allowed this to happen the more intensely it burned.

During sleepless nights like these, his mind would often wander and end up thinking about the smaller teen. A quest for revenge seemed to have settled into a strange rivalry, his anger subsided so why? Why now? Why now did he feel like he was on fire? Tyson had unintentionally lit this flame within him years ago so why had he waited all these years to pour gasoline on it? 

A loud crack of thunder rang out causing a few people to startle awake and whisper to each other after realising there was no danger. Tyson whined and tensed his limp arm tightening around tala's waist for a brief second before he relaxed again and rolled over sprawling out over his own bed. 

His heart had been beating too fast before, thumping against his ribcage almost painfully but it had all out stopped when Tyson had squeezed him. It was only a moment but his eyes opened wide and his whole body went rigid. If Tyson hadn’t let go so quickly and moved away Tala may have unintentionally lashed out at the smaller teen simply out of instinct. He sat up slightly leaning on his shaking forearms, he raised his head to look over at the blue-haired boy. 

Fast asleep, none the wiser to what he had just done. 

Good. 

He settled back down once again trying in vain to get control over his racing heart rolling onto his side to keep an eye on the smaller teen. Fisting the covers up to his nose He could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, his hands warmed by the thick blanket felt chilled in comparison to them. He just blinked watching the rise and fall of Tyson's chest, just as calm and relaxed as it was before. 

Despite Tyson returning to his own bed the area he had been pressed against still felt warm like their skin was still touching. Rubbing over the area by his hip with his hand didn't make the sensation go away fully either. He doubted he was going to sleep tonight but that was ok.

He felt warm. 

[ao3feed-cmbyn]

Friendship-Freundschaft

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2DD5x7I

by Sinwriter

Summary. Time after Oliver left passed. Slowly but also too fast. Sometimes time can’t even drive two hearts aside, sometimes life can’t build guards for unwanted bullets. This is the story about the life after summer 1983, they will collide.

Words: 2574, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Elio Perlman, Oliver (Call Me by Your Name), Samuel perlman, Anella Perlman, Marzia (call me by your name), Mafalda (Call Me by Your Name)

Relationships: Elio/Oliver (Call Me By Your Name), elio/marzia (call me by your name), Elio Perlman/Original Male Character(s), Samuel Perlman/Anella Perlman

Additional Tags: CMBYN - Freeform, Older Man/Younger Man, Gay, Love, Romance, Italy, Crema, Winter, Summer, Seasons, Sexual Content, Years Later, Travel, Poetry, Music, Musical Instruments, Violence, Vibrators, Rough Sex, Romantic Fluff, Fights, Protective Oliver, Bottom Oliver, Top Oliver, protective elio perlman, top elio, Bottom Elio, America

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2DD5x7I

[ao3feed-elioxoliver]

Friendship-Freundschaft

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2DD5x7I

by Sinwriter

Summary. Time after Oliver left passed. Slowly but also too fast. Sometimes time can’t even drive two hearts aside, sometimes life can’t build guards for unwanted bullets. This is the story about the life after summer 1983, they will collide.

Words: 2564, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Elio Perlman, Oliver (Call Me by Your Name), Samuel perlman, Anella Perlman, Marzia (call me by your name), Mafalda (Call Me by Your Name)

Relationships: Elio/Oliver (Call Me By Your Name), elio/marzia (call me by your name), Elio Perlman/Original Male Character(s), Samuel Perlman/Anella Perlman

Additional Tags: CMBYN - Freeform, Older Man/Younger Man, Gay, Love, Romance, Italy, Crema, Winter, Summer, Seasons, Sexual Content, Years Later, Travel, Poetry, Music, Musical Instruments, Violence, Vibrators, Rough Sex, Romantic Fluff, Fights, Protective Oliver, Bottom Oliver, Top Oliver, protective elio perlman, top elio, Bottom Elio, America

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2DD5x7I

[sinister-sincerely]

Let’s Get Physical

Ya know the drill! Inspired by @wyervan and their Slasher DCA AU | This story is about a little black book that should have stayed where it belonged and one curious Reader who gets in a bit too over their head with eyein' Sun and a quiet Moon... Inspired by the drop dead gorgeous artwork of Sun in his workout clothes HERE Seriously. LOOK AT HIM! I am a shameless simp. Rated 16+ | This is Extremely Suggestive CW: Voyeurism, Stalking / Obsessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Non-Consensual Touch (restraining, cornering) Word count: 3.2K words

You had been getting closer to your bosses over the last few months.

Workin' alongside them day in and day out, it was bound to happen. Managing the arcade and the occasional get-together outside of work made it feel like you were becoming... friends.

Sometimes, maybe more than that.

You couldn't forget that night at their place when you all were drinking together, Sun pulling you against him, his laughter grazing your neck. Moon had leaned down against you, eyes locked on yours, his usual cautious attitude dropping.

Nothing really happened that night, but after that, your opinions of them changed. You'd seen a side that felt real... vulnerable, almost warm.

But reconciling that with your growing doubt was gettin' harder.

The longer you worked with them, the more you noticed patterns...and the more it seemed like they noticed you noticing.

Moon's dark jokes used to feel like teasing, but lately, they felt more like test-watching how much you'd brush off.

Sun, however, would mumble anxiously whenever something seemed strange, fluttering his hands like he was trying to sort his thoughts.

Both seemed to watch your reactions closely as if waiting for something.

Then there were the disappearances, always someone with a dark reputation, someone connected to the arcade.

A bruised child's asshole parent, a partner roughing up their spouse one too many times, or just someone unsettling who lingered too long near the kids.

Eventually, they'd just be gone.

Later, the town would hear about the remains found in woods or abandoned lots. The details were never public knowledge, but it always hit the community hard.

People whispered theories, accidents, and wild animals, but the idea of foul play was quickly dismissed. "Nothing like that happens here."

But Sun and Moon's reactions never matched the mood.

Sun would flash a careful, almost relieved smile, while Moon would mutter about karma, his eyes glinting with something sharper.

It wasn't like they celebrated, but it felt like they were in on a private joke.

You kept telling yourself it was just paranoia, but curiosity got the better of you while cleaning one Monday:

The high school had an unexpected half-day, and the arcade was overrun with teenagers. Sun and Moon were forced to the front, leaving the office unlocked.

You knew you shouldn't, but you slipped inside to 'tidy' up.

Everything looked normal, papers scattered, the computer humming loudly, except for a tiny black notebook. Its plain cover blended into the mess, but you couldn't look away once you saw it.

You hesitated, but your fingers moved on their own, flipping it open.

The handwriting was obsessively neat: names, addresses, schedules, some marked 'Best' in red. Your heart pounded as you recognized some names, people who were now gone.

Worse were the dozens of other names you didn't know...

Whatever this was, it wasn't meant for you to see.

A shout from the front of the building snapped you out of it. You barely had time to run to the breakroom and stash the notebook in a locker before Sun appeared.

The rest of the day, you were an anxious wreck, trying to act like your nerves were from the kids... not the damn notebook searing itself in your thoughts.

By the time you left that Monday afternoon, you hadn't managed to return it...

Now, it was Tuesday morning, and you couldn't take it anymore.

After a restless night, you were on your feet the second the morning light broke, heading into the city to set your thoughts straight.

You decided to return to the arcade, find a way in, put back the notebook, and figure out your next move.

You couldn't risk being caught with it if your worst suspicions were right.

Outside the building, you gripped the splintering wood of the bathroom window ledge that conveniently looked out into the one alleyway that gave you enough cover.

The edge dug into your palms, tender flesh pinched down, the old wood groaning to support your weight, threatening to give at any moment.

You hissed out a curse that fogged in the chill air.

This was the only window you knew for a fact had a broken lock, the one place you could sneak into the arcade that didn't have you smashing a window or forcing a door open.

Getting inside any other way just wasn't an option—well, not without drawing unwanted attention from one of the other shops nearby.

Your sneakers kept slipping against the old brick siding, scraping against the uneven surface and sending pieces of flaking concrete to the ground. The muscles in your arms burnt, every nerve on edge to the real fear of being caught, stuck halfway up the side of the building like some stray cat.

Eventually, your foot caught on a solid ridge, just enough to give you leverage. You managed to push yourself up with clumsy coordination, meaning that your torso pushed painfully against the window's glass.

The window was stubborn, jammed tight from years of weather damage and Sun being too cheap to replace it. With gritted teeth, you forced your fingers between the frame and the dirty glass, trying to wiggle it open.

At first, it didn't so much as budge. Panic swelled in your chest, but you dug your fingers in harder, pulling til your wrists ached. Finally, with a shuddered groan from the warped frame, the window opened, sliding up just enough to give you a narrow gap.

With no time to lose, you immediately twisted your body awkwardly. Ducking your head in first, your hands braced against the sill, nails digging into unknown grime as you dragged yourself inside.

As you pulled, you felt your hoodie get caught by what had to be a loose nail. The momentum had you yanked back briefly, but you forced forward. Then, with one final push, you tumbled painfully onto the floor below, landing ungracefully on your hands and knees with a muffled thud.

You remained on the floor for a second, sucking in shallow breaths, all your muscles tight from a horrible mix of anxiety and ache from the fall.

The building around you was quieter than you had ever heard it before. In your head, you kept telling yourself that your bosses were at home, not here, but that did little to ease the prickling sensation crawling up and down your arms.

Even though you were safe inside the building, the sense of urgency did not let up. You forced yourself to move, pushing off the ground to get onto your feet. Your legs felt shaky as you left the bathroom, entering from the side of the main arcade floor.

It was strange to be there with no one else around- no shouting kids, no echo of Sun loudly reprehending someone for throwing a ski ball into the ball pit while Moon played Contra in the background.

Now it was just the low hum of the claw machines and the endless looped jingles of the game cabinets, playing to an empty room...

A nervous tickle was crawling up the back of your throat, which you forced down with a dry swallow as you made your way through the maze of games toward the hallway before the breakroom.

You eased the door open with your heel as a sudden harsh glare from the ceiling lights hit you head-on, forcing you to squint. It was a jarring shift from the dim arcade to the almost sterile-white light making your eyes sting.

Moon must have forgotten to walk through yesterday to shut everything off.

Your footsteps echoed against the ground as you crossed over to the wall of lockers, dropping to your knees in front of one of the bottom units that never saw any use.

The hinges of its door gave a soft, grating screech as you opened it, the sound cutting through the silence. You winced, but your panic eased the moment your eyes landed on the notebook tucked neatly inside, right where you had left it.

Once it was back in your hands, you flipped to a random page, and there it was again... The same careful handwriting, neat columns, specific notes... Someone had taken great lengths to document other people's entire life.

Even if it was a hobby, it was still stalking, at the very least.

A thread of doubt encircled your thoughts, quiet and insistent.

All you could think of was Moon giving you a smile. It was one of the rare ones not edged with sarcasm or teasing. Sun and that extremely fleeting soft look he sometimes gave when he thought you weren't paying attention.

Neither performative. Just...

They wouldn't do things like that if they were real monsters, right?

Maybe this was all still some twisted but harmless misunderstanding.

You closed the notebook, letting its weight settle in your palms. Dissociated, you stared into the open locker before you as if it might swallow everything.

If you were to put the notebook back, pretend you never saw it... could things go back to how they were—

A sound.

Soft but deafening against the stillness.

Your heart jumped as instincts took over. You shut the locker as quietly as possible before scrambling away, half getting to your feet, half running toward the adjacent hallway.

With seconds to spare, you pressed your body as close to the wall as possible, holding your breath from just behind a corner.

"—Let’s get physical! Physical! Da da da dah dahhh!"

Off-key singing rang out, the sound piercing straight through you.

At the recognition of the voice, your entire body seemed to freeze. A cold, sickly sweat rose on your skin, sliding down your back as you shoved the notebook into the front pocket of your hoodie.

Trembling, you stole a look.

It was Sun.

He came bouncing into the breakroom with that familiar, exaggerated energy in his step, practically prancing on those absurdly long legs, singing like no one was listening (and to his credit, he probably did believe he was alone).

Loud. Offbeat. Completely unbothered.

It wasn't the singing that struck you; it was the fact that Sun was wearing shorts.

Not just shorts—obscenely short shorts, in a garish highlighter yellow fabric that stretched and clung far too tightly against his narrow hips.

Up top was his usual sunflower-print button-down, half open at the chest. An orange gym bag slung carelessly over one of his shoulders as he swayed to the imaginary beat, heading toward his locker in full dance/walk.

You pressed yourself further into the wall, wishing for it to absorb you as you silently panicked, hating yourself for being more terrified to be caught spying vs having just broken in.

The sound of the locker door creaking open pulled your eyes and attention back to Sun.

He was closer now—close enough that you could make out the ginger strands of chest hair peeking from the open collar of his shirt...

Air caught in your throat, a heat blooming across your face as you tried in vain to stop your eyes as they drifted down—down the curve of his neck,

tracing the scattered freckles that led your line of sight to the inward curve of his collar bones.

It felt involuntary like your eyes were betraying you...

Unaware of your struggle, Sun had stopped singing to humming softly as he hoisted the gym bag into the locker. You heard the subtle rasp of a zipper, then saw him pull out a single piece of candy, amber-colored and wrapped in a very familiar crinkly plastic.

Werther's Original, if you had to guess.

The candy looked absurdly tiny in between his fingers. Sun unwrapped it with a surprising delicacy, slow and precise. He leaned forward, lips parted, the tip of his tongue slipping out to guide the caramel past his teeth.

A low, pleased noise purred from deep in his chest as he let it settle in his mouth, blue eyes half-lidded in brief, blissful focus.

You had looked at Sun before, sure... But this felt different.

Alongside the usual curiosity... was fascination...

Not just at seeing him outside the structured chaotic rhythm of work, this was seeing him relaxed, unaware, caught in a private moment.

Layered beneath the intrigue was something heavier—a creeping shame that sat hot in your chest as you released just how closely you were staring.

You shouldn't be feeling these things, you told yourself, fingertips digging hard into the wall beside you as if the pressure could force the thoughts out.

Sun could be dangerous. Might have taken lives—hell, you had a whole notebook of reasons to believe exactly that.

And yet here you were in the dark, admiring the way he sucked on a piece of candy...

"Hmm... not in here either," Sun murmured, the candy clicking softly against his teeth as he leaned deeper into the locker before pulling back out with a soft grunt.

You felt yourself freeze as his fingers began to move to the buttons of his shirt, unfastening them one by one with slow, rhythmic ease. His eyes stayed low, focused on his task, unaware of how his lips pouted in concentration.

The fabric parted down his chest, freckles catching the overhead light, the soft movement almost hypnotic in how casual it was.

You told yourself to look away. Move, blink, do ANYTHING, but continue to watch.

But you didn't. Couldn't.

Drawn further, you leaned in as Sun slid the shirt off his shoulders. It hung loose briefly, clinging to his thick forearms before he carefully slipped one arm out, then the other unhurried.

Your body betrayed you completely, heart skipping a beat at the sight of him bare-chested.

His skin was pale, almost luminous under the harsh breakroom lights, flushed here and there in soft shades of red and pink. Freckles dotted his shoulders in the same scattered constellation you had seen on his neck, confirming what you already suspected: they were everywhere...

Sun folded the dress shirt between his palms, and you watched helplessly as lean muscle shifted beneath his skin. Every movement was smooth, second-natured like his body remembered how to perform even without a stage.

Then he turned, reaching back into the locker, and your gaze followed automatically. His stomach drew in with the movement, the sharp lines of his hips forming a deep V that dipped beneath the waistband of those obnoxious shorts.

A trail of red hair traced around his navel that disappeared with it—too low, too inviting...

Too distracted. Too caught up.

You never heard the quiet steps creeping up behind you until it was already far too late.

A sturdy hand clamped down over your mouth, unyielding and slightly cold. Your brain struggled to realize what was going on as an arm locked tightly across your chest, yanking you off the ground like you weighed nothing.

The pressure constricting your lungs, ribs straining against the sudden force.

There wasn't even enough time to gasp.

"—Naughty..."

The word rumbled low against your ear, more growl than a whisper. The voice was unmistakable, and your stomach immediately turned to lead.

Moon.

Panic flared, sharp and wild in your chest. You did not thrash, didn't try and scream; you knew better.

Memories of him when he was really annoyed popped up in your mind. The way he could shift from seemingly calm to snapping in a second. His patience waned before the way his hands moved without restraint.

"...Are you a rulebreaker, Star?"

Moon's voice was almost too close, curling itself in the limited space between the two of you. The grip on your chest tightened just enough to make it hurt. Your lungs stuttered, fighting for a breath of air around the seal of his palm.

It was no use, though; you could not move or answer.

How long had he been there just watching you?

Moon leaned forward in a slow, graceful pivot, his chin barely brushing the top of your head as he peered around the corner. You could feel his chest vibrate with a low chuckle, a laugh meant only for you, as he pulled you back against him.

"See something you like?" he asked, voice lilting with that taunting sweetness that never meant anything good coming from him.  

Moon loosened his hold slightly, just enough for you to suck in a thin, trembling breath.

"Be quiet." he warned, "Or Sunny might find out just how naughty you are..."

Your blood ran cold as Moon lowered you back onto the ground. His hand kept firm across your mouth, not removing it yet; he seemed to be waiting for something, measuring your body language.

Like a cat playing with its food...

You should have known better.

The thought rang loud through your head, scolding painfully obvious as you stood there frozen: Sun NEVER went anywhere alone. Moon was always close behind.

How long had both of them been here at the arcade then?

Unaware or uncaring of your spiraling state, Moon let go of you suddenly, the absence of his grip so abrupt it knocked you off center. You stumbled a step, body turning instinctively toward him...

It was a mistake.

He was on you again in an instant. Moving with the smooth, practiced ease of a silent showman. You barely had time to register the shift before your back hit the wall hard. The force was just shy of violent—controlled, precise. His weight pressed into you, locking you in place.

Too close to move. Too close to fight back, even if you wanted to.

Whatever your expression, panic, shock, or guilt seemed to delight him. Moon's eyes dropped, narrowing with a strange kind of satisfaction.

You could see it the moment he noticed, though. Something strange between the layers of your hoodie and the way your body was flush against his.

The notebook still carefully hidden in your front pocket.

Moon tilted his head, studying you closely like you were a puzzle he was halfway through solving. His gaze was razor-sharp, calculating, his lips curled slightly, not in amusement, but in recognition of your fear...

A raspy giggle broke his silence as he rolled his hips forward, slow but hard.

You felt the notebook flatten against your abdomen, caught between your body and his.

It was only a matter of time now, wasn't it?

Heat was radiating off your face from humiliation, terror, and... something you weren't brave enough to name.

The air in your lungs turning thick and useless.

"...What are you hiding, Starlight?"

Moon sang, low and rough, barely above a whisper, but his tone was unlike anything you had ever heard from him before.

He caged you in fully, strong arms braced on either side of your head, shoulders pulled in tight as he leaned down.

Moon didn't blink.

His eyes didn't wander.

They stayed locked on yours, sharp and unrelenting... probing.

Stripping you bare like he could peel the truth out from under your skin with nothing but a stare alone.

When you didn't answer... when you couldn't,

...he let one arm drop.

His hand moved slowly, tracing a path down the side of your neck. Fingers cold and heavy, their weight sending shivers down your body as they ghosted over your sensitive skin.

He gave your throat a faint squeeze, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he could.

Then his fingers slid lower, lower still... and you stopped breathing altogether as he neared the notebook.

You wanted to scream,

to run...

to disappear...

But you couldn't.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

So you did the only thing you could.

With all your desperation, panic twisting hot beneath your skin, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob—you reached up and grabbed hold of him.

Your fingers tangled in Moon's hair, thick and soft between your shaking hands, and you pulled.

Drawing him toward you with everything you had left. Not gently. Not sweet.

Raw survival that was driven by instinct and the pounding need to do something at that moment...

And then—you kissed him.

Author's note: I have more but it goes into explicit territory. Still on the fence about posting it to AO3 where I can tag appropriately! If I do I will update to say so. -Sin Thank you for reading, friends!

[the-sin-hole]

for warmth

stanxreader, 3.2k words NSFW 18+ it's smut time again baby!!!

fem!reader (no pronouns used), vaginal fingering, PIV sex.

+++

“This is comin’ outta your paycheck,” Stan says, hoping his gruffness is providing an appropriate cover for how he’s really feeling right now. You smirk. You’re not buying it.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Body heat ain’t cheap, y’know! I’m workin’ overtime here to keep us both warm!”

You’re sitting on the cold, hard ground of a subterranean cave next to Stan, huddled for warmth. The only illumination is dull and blue, courtesy of some glowing crystals hanging from the walls, just enough for you to be able to see each other. While trying to help the younger twins locate some creature for god knows what purpose, you and Stan took the less-safe route of checking a seemingly stable cave. You quickly found the stability to be lacking when the mouth of it collapsed, trapping you both in here. Luckily the twins heard your cries and Stan’s angry stream of almost-swears, promising to find a way to get you out before scampering away. That was almost twenty minutes ago now. In the meantime, you remained here, slowly freezing your ass off.

You’re wearing clothes perfectly appropriate for the eighty degree and sunny day Gravity Falls is enjoying above ground. Not so much for the forty degree dark, damp cave. Stan took pity on your increasing shivers a while ago, wrapping an arm around you. His performative bristling at your use of his body warmth was in response to you throwing your legs over his and scooching closer.

“Well if I’m gonna be charged for this, I better get my money’s worth,” you say with a grin and press against even more against him.

His free hand twitches. This is the closest you’ve ever been to one another, prior interactions never going beyond fleeting touches or accidental bumps. He’s trying to play it cool, but he can’t deny his racing heartbeat. He wants to grab your leg and pull you closer, run his hand up and down it, feel your flesh. He’s wanted to do that for a while now. Among other things of a more intimate nature.

He’s trying hard not to think of those things right now, though.

“Should we try to find somethin’ to build a fire with? Those kids could take all day to get us outta here.”

“No, definitely not. We need to stay close,” you say a little too quickly. “I-I mean, we don’t even know what’s in this cave! There’s probably nothing flammable, and what if we run into something that wants to eat us?”

“I bet it’d be warm in a big monster’s stomach.”

You snort. “I am not going to let either of us get eaten by a big monster today. Listen, I’ve done my research! The best way to keep warm in a situation like this is to use another person’s body heat.”

You pause briefly before saying the next part.

You’ve been trying to lay the hints on thick for weeks now. Getting closer to him physically, giving him more casual touches, spending more time with him. You’ve caught him staring, even blushing a few times- not many, but enough to make you confident your feelings are reciprocated. Now you just need to get it through his thick skull that they are.

“The second best way to keep warm is to keep moving.”

“So what, you want me to start doing jumping jacks?”

“No, definitely not. I’m just saying…” you trail off for a second before emboldening yourself.

“If there were a way to do both of those things,” -you look up at him, and your faces are so close- “we wouldn’t be cold at all.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, looking down at you in surprise. But then, in the low blue light, you see something change in his eyes.

“I’m, uh, not sure I know what you mean. I think I could use an example,” he says low and deep, and the change in tenor sends a shock of warmth through you.

“Well,” you say leaning upwards so your lips are barely an inch apart, “I think this would be a good start.” You press your lips to his. You do it softly, tender enough that Stan’s heart nearly aches at the careful contact. He presses his lips more firmly against yours. You return the escalation, heart racing. You both slowly escalate, kissing a little harder as the seconds go by. Stan is exercising all the restraint he can. His heart is beating faster and faster, he’s almost lightheaded, overwhelmed by it. Weeks and weeks of daydreaming about a moment like this and suddenly, without warning, it’s here. He wants to feel as much of you as he can, but he holds himself back. He doesn’t want to come on too strong, not right off the bat like this.

You pull away just enough to dart your eyes up and meet his. You can see the daze in his eyes.

“Was that a good demonstration?”

“Yeah,” he breathes against you, eyes darting back down to your lips, “but, uh, I still don’t get how that’s supposed to keep us warm. You got any better examples of that?”

More heat blooms through you. “I have a few tricks I could share.”

You reach up and grab his jaw with your hand as you kiss him again. Firmer, this time, less cautious, leaning your body into it so your chest and your legs are fully pressed up against him. The arm wrapped around you squeezes, and his free hand twitches. He doesn’t stop himself this time, reaching up and grabbing your calf, squeezing that too. You kiss him harder. The hand runs up and down your leg a few times before finding your upper thigh and gripping it. You run the hand on his jaw up to the back of his neck.

You kiss him harder, and he kisses back with even more enthusiasm. But he’s still holding back. So you escalate again for the both of you. You lick his lips and he meets your tongue. He presses his against yours in thick strokes, his tongue overtaking yours, making your heart race faster. Lust is starting to overtake your thoughts; you want more. After a few licks you escalate again. Keeping your lips on his you hoist yourself up and shift so you’re straddling him, knees meeting the hard ground on either side of him.

His hands find your waist. You hover above him for a while before slowly lowering yourself down on his lap. When you meet it you start slowly rocking back in forth in time with your kisses. Again starting gently, but slowly going harder, allowing more contact between your hips and his. He slides down a few inches to get a better angle, letting your groin sit flush with his, and he starts rocking with you. You’re completely lost in each other, his hands squeezing your waist, your hands running up from the back of his neck into his hair. Stan is working hard to keep his ever-growing desire under wraps, but the longer you go, the harder it is to do so.

When a small moan escapes your throat, his restrain slips. He shoves his tongue down your throat and grabs your hips hard, shoving them down harder against his crotch and moving you back and forth against him. You grunt against his tongue as he moves you- even through your shorts you can feel him growing hard underneath you. You work with his hands, rolling your hips more as he continues to guide them. You’re getting impatient with arousal. You want more, but you don’t know how to communicate it. So you decide to go the nonverbal route. You reach down and unbutton your jeans.

As soon as he hears the sound of your hand pulling down your zipper, all remaining strands of restraint are snapped. His hands wander from your hips downward, pulling your shorts down as much as he can in this position, plunging his hands underneath them, beneath your underwear, grasping what he can reach of your bare ass. He gropes you, hands wandering in time with his tongue from your ass to your hips to your waist to your chest. You can feel his cock straining against the crotch of his pants. Your arousal is making you lightheaded. You want to escalate again.

You quickly stand up just enough to step out of one leg of your shorts, letting them slide down your thigh and fall to the ground around your knee. You sit back down and Stan’s hands immediately find you again. His hands return to your backside, dipping underneath your underwear, groping more now that there’s less in his way. He squeezes your ass, shoves his hands in the space where you’ve mounted his lap so he can get at the underside of your thighs. His fingers get dangerously close to your pussy when he does, mere inches away. You throb at the tantalizingly close contact.

Lust has you grab one of his hands and bring it around to your front. You sit up from his groin and slide his hand underneath you. He reacts swiftly, eagerly, his fingers finding the crotch of your panties and sliding them to the side. He inserts one large finger and your breath hitches. He pumps it in and out a few times before sliding a second in. You moan against his tongue and it slides even deeper into your mouth, as if he’s trying to taste the sound of your pleasure.

He pulls back.

“You should be careful there, dollface,” he says with a smirk on his face. “Never know what could hear ya down here.”

His fingers press upwards, stimulating your g-spot and drawing more moans out of you, moans you attempt to hinder by pressing into his mouth again. He works harder, eliciting sounds progressively more difficult to muffle. You can hear your wetness as he works his fingers in and out of your pussy; his palm is starting to wet. Your body is radiating the heat it was so sorely needing just a few minutes ago, and you feel your brain fogged over with lust and molten-hot want, caring little about anything other than more escalation. You reach down and unbutton his pants, pull the zipper down. You rub your hand up and down his cock straining against his boxers and dimly realize through your fuzzy brain that it’s thick. He groans along with your moans as you grope his cock. You pull his waistband down and grab his length, start pumping with as much rhythm as you’re able to with your dizzy mind.

Your thumb runs up to his head and feels the precum leaking from it. You run your hand over it and pump with a firmer grasp, using it as a lubricant, and the groan he lets out against your tongue makes you whine. You pull back.

“I want you.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” he breaths back, fingers still working inside you. “But I didn’t exactly prepare for this if you get my drift.”

“I’m on birth control.”

“Works for m-mmph—”

You cut him off, crashing your lips back together. You pull his cock towards you and his fingers leave your pussy. Your heart feels like it’s trying to jump out of your chest as you readjust, knees dragging against the cold hard ground to make sure you’re angled properly to sit on his cock. Right hand on his shoulder, the other grasping his length, you position his head right at your entrance. Stan’s hands have moved back to your hips and they squeeze hard in anticipation.

You swiftly lower yourself a few inches, too eager to take it slow, and you immediately realize you were a little overconfident in your approach. You slap your hand over your mouth to cover the yelp that comes out of you, your other hand pulls Stan’s shirt in a shaking death grip. Your thighs are trembling. His cock is stretching you, heat is pooling in your cheeks and you can feel your heart in your throat as you pant desperately beneath your hand. It’s completely cut through the horny haze you were mired in. Now your entire body is pulsing at the sensation of the stretch, searingly hot, not able to perceive or think of anything else.

Stan has his own firm grip on your hips. His restraint has returned, for now, at the sight of you shaking on his cock. His face is growing a red similar to yours, his chest moving up and down with deep breaths to stabilize his racing heart.

“You alright there sugar?” He pants.

You nod. You manage to pant out, “M-more than I expected…”

“Too much?”

You look down at him. You can see genuine care in his eyes when he asks. But it’s everything around that look of care that you’re more interested in right now. You can tell he’s exerting a lot of control to keep himself from just pulling you down, impaling you, making you take it all. You throb at the thought.

“Fuck, no. I can take it, j-just give me a minute.”

He starts moving his hips slightly underneath you. Not pushing any more inside of you, only working the first few inches already there. His thumb goes to your clit and gently brushes it. Your hips buck slightly at the contact, sensitive and throbbing as you are. He repeats the motion while gently rolling his hips. That lustful haze is quickly returning. You raise your hips a few inches, trapping whines in your throat at the friction. You go back down, slowly this time, having learned your lesson. You make it another inch down, stay there for a few moments before raising back up. You slowly work your way down, Stan letting you go at your own pace, watching you with a look in his eye that makes you feel even warmer, gently massaging your clit the entire time until finally, with shuddering breaths and a stream of small “ah”s coming out of your mouth, you’re sitting fully on his lap. Your thighs are clenching and unclenching, hips weakly writhing as you sit there. You lean forward and bury your face into his neck, both hands weakly gripping at the front of his shirt. The sound of your struggle so close to his ear makes his cock twitch inside you.

“I f-feel like I’m going insane,” you say weak and high into his neck.

“You want help?”

“Yes.”

His hands move from your hips down to your ass once more, grip hard. He slowly lifts you a few inches before letting you back down. You feel so weak, drunk on the sensation of his cock stretching your walls, the friction all you can feel. All you can manage is more weak high pitched moans into his neck while your fists feebly grip his shirt. He keeps guiding you, a few inches up, a few inches down, before raising you up almost entirely off of his cock, then all the way back down. He’s not even going fast but you’re nearly babbling as you feel his full length leave and reenter you. Stan’s restraint is slipping. He uses the last of it to murmur in your ear,

“You tell me if it’s too much.”

You manage a weak “Uh-huh” in response.

He raises you all the way up again, but instead of a slow descent, he lets you fall back down quickly. You bite back a yelp as he does it again, and again, and again, picking up the pace each time. He’s going harder, too, the sound of his hips against you getting louder. Each penetration sends a shock through your body that wipes your mind totally clear of all thought. All you can think is all you can feel; his hands gripping your ass, his hips slamming into you, his fat cock pumping inside you, making you feel the entirety of his size each time. Your face has sunk so it’s buried in the crook of his neck, and the overwhelming sensation has you nearly drooling against him.

He’s going faster now, raising you less and less before plunging back in. Before long he’s not lifting you up at all, he’s holding you in place so his hips can do the work. He’s not thrusting- considering his position on the ground it’s more like rolling, his fat cock ruthlessly grinding against your g-spot, nearly reaching your cervix. Your eyes are starting to water as you feel an orgasm building deep within you. He can hear your noises starting to fade as you get close. He’s been working hard to keep himself from finishing before you- there’s nothing he wants more than to feel you come. He keeps his fierce pace and you feel almost unbearably warm, the heat pulsing and building within you until it releases, and you can’t restrain the loud strangled moans that come out of you as the orgasm rolls through you. It’s sharp, hot, making you tremble as Stan holds you in place, relishing the feeling of your soaked cunt seizing around his cock. A few more hard rolls into you and he stops, buried to the hilt, so deep he’s almost at your limit, and he comes as your cunt continues to twitch in the throes of your climax.

You both slump as you come down, panting, chests heaving against one another’s. Stan is letting out deep “hooough”s, you’re letting our desperate “haaah”s, almost harmonizing in post-bliss. You finally gather the strength to lift yourself up out of his neck, brush the hair out of your face. Your eyes meet his almost shyly. In the immediate aftermath doubts are starting to form- what if that was too much? Not enough? Is that all he wanted out of you, and now his interest is going to wane?

Your worries are snuffed out before they can even take hold. Stan’s hand finds your chin, lifts it up, and presses his lips to yours gently. Almost romantically, if you were to allow yourself the thought. You smile slightly against his lips, and you feel his lips upturn too.

“Well, I think we did a pretty good job keepin’ each other warm.”

You left out a soft laugh. “I think we did a great job,” you say, wiping sweat from his brow. “Thanks for the help. How much is that all gonna cost me?”

Stan’s turn to laugh. “It’s on the house this time. I think you did your fair share.”

“'This time', huh?”

Stan flashes a grin when he realizes the implication of his wording. “Yeah. We’ll play it by ear next time.”

You smile back. You gain enough strength to lift yourself up off his cock, letting out one long moan as you do.

You kiss him again as you hover over his lap. You start to stand on wobbly knees, readjusting your underwear and pulling up your shorts.

You look down, he’s looking at your with a glint in his eye. He opens his mouth to speak.

A small explosion comes from the other side of the cave wall.

“Guys!! Don’t worry, we found Grunkle Stan’s secret supply of dynamite and we’re gonna get you out of here!”

You look- a small chunk of the rocks are blown away, letting in a tiny stream of sunlight. You both hurry and redress, help each other straighten out your appearances.

As more sunlight starts to stream through, you share a glance and smile. You’re excited for next time.

[the-sin-hole]

blowing off steam

stanxreader, 1.2k words NSFW 18+ it’s smut baby!!!

fem!reader, PIV sex

+++

You’re so filled with adrenaline it doesn’t even hurt when Stan grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls.

You were both standing in the woods, covered in sweat, scratches, bruises, and dirt after fending off an attack from a horde of projectile marmots. Ford asked for your assistance in acquiring one of their eggs for the purposes of some sort of reinforcement ritual for the anti-Bill barrier— and now you see why he passed the job off to you two. They proved to be very territorial. And very eager to use their own little furry bodies as a weapon. But you and Stan worked well together, forcing your way through repeated small hirsute attacks until you nabbed an egg and they scampered away in defeat. You both stood your ground, not letting your guard down until the last one was out of sight. Stan then looked at you, sweating and pissed and panting, and the adrenaline still coursing through his veins drove him to step to you, grab your jaw with both hands, and forcefully pull you into a rough kiss.

You were stunned to find your face suddenly mashed against his but you quickly reciprocated, kissing him back as hard as he was kissing you. You didn’t hesitate when he lapped at your lips— you met his tongue eagerly. He guided you a few steps backwards, pushing you up against a large oak tree. As soon as he had you pinned his hands started wandering. He wasn’t gentle, grabbing at your waist, your hips, your chest greedily. One finally traveled up to your head, running his fingers through your hair before gripping it and pulling, breaking the kiss so he could start laying kisses and small bites down your jaw to your neck.

And now here you are, red hot, throbbing against him, mind dizzy and racing from the post-fight adrenaline compounding with pre-fuck adrenaline.

You let out soft moans as he nips at your flesh, not wanting to make too much noise and potentially attract more creatures. You wrap a leg around his and he moves his hips so he can slide a knee between your thighs. His lips travel back up and he thrusts his tongue back into your moaning mouth, slowly grinding his thigh against your crotch. He can hear the low hums you’re making in your throat at the blunt contact, and he immediately wants more.

He moves his thigh away so one of his hands can undo the button on your shorts, pull down the zipper. He wants to shove his fingers inside of you, feel you from the inside, but he keeps his dirty hands on the other side of your underwear, settling for rubbing vigorously until he can feel your wetness seeping through the thin fabric. You’re squirming under his rough fingers, the hums in your throat escalating the longer he goes without stopping. After you let out a small high moan into his mouth he removes his hand. Your throbbing pussy immediately misses the sensation. Both of his hands find your hips, hook fingers under your waistband and pull down. You wriggle to allow the shorts to fall to the ground and step out of one of the leg openings. Before you can do the same with your other leg his impatient hands grab your ass and hoists you up.

You immediately wrap your legs around him as he lifts you so your pussy is right against the erection trying to escape his zipper. Your arms grab his shoulders as he pins you against the tree, a little harder this time to help keep you in place, the bark digging into your back. His tongue leaves yours and one of his hands leaves your ass. He pulls his hips away from yours just enough to undo his pants and pull his cock out. You’re both panting hard and he hastily positions it against your entrance. You look down, trying to catch a glimpse of it but it’s obscured by his torso— the hand goes back to your ass and squeezes, giving you just a second to mentally prepare before he pushes inside you.

It’s not enough time to prepare. His head enters you and your whole body reacts— your eyes widen, a hot pulse runs through you, making your muscles seize, making your nerves flare up. A thoughtless yelp escapes you and Stan quickly removes one of the hands holding your ass again to slap it over your mouth, stifling the moans you can’t bring yourself to hinder as his thick cock continues to push inside you. Your eyes meet his. He’s watching you intently, drinking in the sight of you struggling to take his cock, relishing the stifled whines against his hand. His hips meet yours and he takes a few second’s pause, basking in the sight of your increasingly flushed face and hazy eyes above his hand. Each quick and labored breath you take is accompanied by a brief high moan as you struggle to adjust to his girth. He pins you harder against the tree, sinking just a little deeper, making the bark dig into your skin. The discomfort combined with the pleasure combined with the adrenaline is almost making you lightheaded.

Stan doesn’t give you more than those few seconds before he pulls away from you, eliciting another stifled moan, and slamming back into you. Your eyes widen again at the intense sensation. He does it again, and again, and again, fucking you almost aggressively. The hand still on your ass grips it hard. He’s still watching you like something bearing down on its prey, red starting to flush from his neck upwards. You’re still making moans and whines under his hand, looking and sounding desperate. The heat within you is starting to become intolerable. His cock is pounding you ruthlessly and you feel almost feverish as your arousal mounts, deep and hot. Your hands gripping his shoulders start to squeeze, your face screws up, your eyelids lower and your gaze becomes hazy again. He keeps his merciless pace. He’s single-minded now, not even caring about his own pleasure, only wanting to watch you come, feel you seize around his cock, hear your thoughtless noises. And after only a few more thrusts he gets his wish. He sees your eyes roll upwards and immediately removes his hand from your mouth.

The orgasm strikes through you quickly, every muscle tense as it wracks your body. Strangled urgent moans fall from your throat as each throb of pleasure rolls through you hot and fierce. Stan keeps fucking you, his cock not letting the heat subside as you come down. It’s almost too much. Your eyes find his face and refocus, and you’re about to tell him between gasping whines that you need a moment to recover when he slams into you one final time with a deep groan. You take it, cunt still throbbing from your climax, lower half on fire as he comes inside you. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against the bark of the tree next to your head and breathing hard, your chests heaving against each other’s as you both struggle to regain your breath.

After a few stabilizing pants he turns his head. His lips travel to your neck and start lazily pressing kisses against it, traveling up to your jaw, then your face, then your mouth, his lips now far more tender as they meet yours. He releases the pressure on your body, still holding you in place but no longer pinning you against the tree. You smile against his kiss, and make a mental note to ask Ford to send you both on another annoying quest as soon as possible.

[the-sin-hole]

fold 'em

stanxreader, 3.2k words NSFW 18+ it's smut baby!!!

fem!reader, vaginal oral + penetrative sex, a little anal stimulation and a couple spanks

+++

Your fourth old fashioned tastes even better than the first three. Or, wait. Is this number five?

You decide you don’t care as you sip it down. You look at your cards- a shitty hand. You’re glad you’re not playing with real money. You’d be broke eight rounds ago. You look up at Stan, sitting on the other side of the table in the living room, brow furrowed at his cards, his own fourth (or fifth) old fashioned already half-drunk in his other hand.

“I’m all in!” You announce confidently. Stan looks up at you through that furrowed brow of his. A flash of heat bolts through you. Even drunk, his gaze does something to you. After a second of weighing your decision, he puts on a cocky grin and says,

“You know that ain’t the best strategy, right? You can’t go all in every time and expect that to work as a bluff.”

You scoff. “I’m playing mind games over here, Stan. You don’t even know my long con.”

“Well, keep playin’ whatever games you’ve got, because I'm having a great time winning over here. I’m all in too. Aaaaaaand-”

He plops his hand on the table. How the fuck did he get three aces?

“Read ‘em and weep!”

You toss your assortment of twos, fives, and eights on the table, unbothered. He chuckles as he pulls the Stan bucks and monopoly money you’ve been using as barter to his side of the table.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up, Pines,” you say, sipping from your beverage. The alcohol has you loose and warm, almost sweating under the flannel you’re wearing.

“If I’d known you were such an easy date I woulda invited you weeks ago,” he says, smirk on his face. That flash of heat finds you again. Date, huh? Well, getting drunk with your boss after work and playing a no-stakes game of poker isn’t a date in the classic sense. But you’re not mad about it being considered one now.

Your sloppy drunk tongue speaks before you can even attempt crafting a witty response.

“Oh, you didn’t know? I’m a total slut,” you say facetiously. He blinks for a second, then laughs.

“Thanks for the heads up. I ain’t a prude, but if I catch you in the storage closet with any of my customers you’re fired.”

“I might be a slut, but I have standards!” You respond with a dramatically offended air. “Most of the guys that run through here couldn’t give me what I need anyways. I need someone with a lot of stamina, if you know what i mean.”

“Oh? You hard to please?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” you say, suddenly flustered at the direction you steered this conversation in, but your drunken tongue pays no mind. “I can’t even tell you the last time someone was able to get me to, uh. The finish line, so to speak.”

“Sounds like you’ve just had a buncha slackers,” he says, tone light and joking, but his eyes are glinting in a way that makes your heart beat a little faster. “A real man knows how to make it work no matter what he’s workin’ with.”

This is completely inappropriate. You’re in your boss’ house, alone, drunk. You’ve only known each other for a few months. Sure, you’ve been nursing a crush on him, but you definitely should not make this conversation even more sexual than it already is. That would be weird, right?

Your rational mind stands no chance against your now-empowered baser instincts.

“Are you saying you’re a real man?” You ask, tilting your head down and to the side far more flirtatiously than your rational mind would have liked.

“You tell me, sweetheart.”

You let out a giggle. “So you’re saying, on the record, you think you could get me to finish?

“That’s not what I’m sayin’” -he responds in a lower tone, and it makes your spine tingle- “I know I could.”

You actually blush at that.

“That’s a big promise you’re making,” you say through the ever-increasing heat in your body.

“Wanna bet on it?”

The question is said simply, casually. You chew on your lip as you study him. He’s still smiling like he’s joking, but the underlying seriousness has only increased.

“Sure, I’ll bet,” you start slowly. “But I’m not going all in up top this time. I’m gonna play this a little closer to the chest. And how are we gonna make this work, anyways? We’re not about to play strip poker, are we?”

“How ‘bout we do this truth or dare style. Whoever wins each hand gets a question or a command.”

You grin through a bitten bottom lip. Your heart is starting to pound. “That works for me.”

Stan takes the cards, deals again. You grab your hand- shit again, just like all the other hands you’ve had tonight. A jack, a nine, two threes, a king. Only one matching suit. You toss the king and jack into the discard pile, then place your threes on the table. He’s got a straight, beating your paltry pair. He smiles, and you can’t help but mirror it. “Alright, what am I doing?”

“How ‘bout you take a seat over here,” he says, patting his right thigh. Your heart thumps. This is more than you’d expect he’d start with. You stand, make your way around the table, trying to keep your pounding heart calm.

“Well this isn’t fair. You’re gonna see all my cards,” you tease as a cover for your nerves.

“I just won’t look, promise.”

You sit on his thigh side saddle. He wraps an arm around your waist and twists your torso, making your legs splay on either side of his thigh, straddling it, before leaning forward to grab the deck and shuffle. He hands you your cards face down, and you hide your hand by turning to your right, holding it close to your torso and out of his line of sight.

Shit again. You slap a pair of fives on the table. He places a four of a kind on top. His voice, deep, coming from behind you sends a twinge down your spine.

“Take that shirt off.”

“I didn’t think we were playing strip poker,” you say, nervous and excited as you reach up and start undoing buttons.

“I could tell you were gettin’ hot. I’m just doin’ you a favor.”

You take the shirt off and toss it to the floor, leaving you bare except for the thin bra underneath. The exposure sends a throb through you.

He deals again. Better, this time. You present a flush of spades. He puts down a straight flush.

“Take off those shorts, too.”

Your heart is beating wildly. You stand just enough to remove them. As soon as they hit the floor his hand grabs your waist and guides you back down to his thigh. You’re fighting back arousal now that just one thin piece of cloth separates your groin from his leg, but your attempt at repression just makes it all the more potent.

Again he shuffles, deals, plays his hand. Again you’re given jack and shit. He wins, and you can hear the slight smile in his voice as he says,

“Start moving those hips.”

You straighten a bit as a jolt of arousal shoots up your spine at the command.

“W-what do you- I-I mean are you sure you-”

He puts his right hand on your right hip. He guides you to thrust slightly back and forth on his thigh, grinding yourself against it. You swallow whimpers at the blunt stimulation. After a few seconds of guided thrusting you pick up the pace yourself. But his hand doesn’t leave you.

Your mind is starting to get fuzzy with arousal. You’re trying hard to keep focused, but your throbbing is giving you trouble.

Stan shuffles and deals again, one handed this time so he can keep the other on your hip. It feels like it takes hours before you get your dealt hand. And wouldn’t you know it... It’s shit again. You can’t help the excitement that runs through you as you lose.

“Take off those underwear.”

Your thighs clench slightly around his at the command. Your heart feels like it could pound out of your chest with nerves and exhilaration. You don’t argue, sitting up from his leg just enough to slide them down your hips, thighs, and letting them drop to the floor with your shorts. You sit back down almost tenderly.

Stan grabs your hip again, but this time pulls you back against him so your ass is against his hips, your back flush with his torso. You arch your back slightly, arousal intensified by the sudden proximity. He leans into your ear.

“I didn’t tell ya to stop moving.”

You shudder as his deep, low voice runs through you. You get back to it, writhing onto his upper thigh, against his upper body. His left hand gathers all the cards to he can shuffle and deal once again. As it does, his right hand moves from your hip, dipping down, easily finding your clit. A sharp “Mmmph!” escapes your throat as his finger rubs against it, almost casually so as his other hand works the cards. Stan takes his sweet time shuffling the deck while you writhe against him.

He deals your hand, and you can barely keep the cards upright with your overwhelming arousal. Your hand is shit yet again, but you couldn’t care less about that right now. You toss three random cards onto the table, no match for his royal flush.

“Sit on the table.”

You don’t want to leave, his fingers on your clit feeling too good, but the thought of what could be next propels you forward. You stumble up on weak knees and take your spot, jumping up on the sturdy hardwood table. You’re soaking wet and quivering with want as you watch him rise from his chair and come to stand in front of you.

He places a hand on your chest and gently pushes you back. You let him guide you. He reclines you enough that you place your elbows on table to prop you up. Satisfied with your position he places his left hand next to you on the table, leaning over you. His other hand wastes no time. He slowly, almost tenderly pushes two large fingers inside of your soaked pussy. The sudden penetration sends a veritable shock wave through your body. Your back arches and you slap a hand over your mouth to stifle the high moan that escapes you. Stan pulls his fingers back, the walls of your cunt tightening around them, and you pant under your hand. He reaches up and takes hold of your wrist, pinning it to the table.

“Let me hear ya, sweetheart. How else am I supposed to know what’s workin’?”

He lets go of your wrist and quickly thrusts the same two fingers inside you, quicker, harder. You let your moan go unhindered, sharp and loud. He laughs low in his throat.

“Sounds like it’s workin’.”

He starts thrusting his fingers steadily, not too fast, just slow enough to make you want more. You don’t hold back any of the increasingly-desperate moans that leave you. You can feel Stan’s gaze eating up every part of you as you squirm and pant on the table beneath him.

“Y’know, when you said you had trouble finishing, I thought you meant real trouble. But it’s obvious from how soaked your pussy is… this ain’t gonna be a problem.”

“B-but I’m not even close-“ you pant between moans. It’s not a lie; despite how aroused you are and how good the stimulation feels, you aren’t close to an orgasm yet.

“Trust me, sugar,” Stan says and removes his fingers, lifting them up to his face, licking your wetness from them without breaking eye contact. He swiftly kneels down in front of your pussy. He grabs the undersides of your thighs, pushes them up and open to expose your dripping cunt. He passes over your clit with his tongue in one long slow stroke, making your legs quiver as he goes, eliciting breathless moans. He pulls back.

“It ain’t gonna be a problem.”

He goes again in one slow stroke. And again. And again. And again. The tender monotony is driving you insane. Your face is red hot with arousal. You try to clench your thighs on either side of his head so you can get more stimulation, but his firm grasp keeps your legs open. You squirm, weakly try to rock your hips, but his glacial pace continues. After minutes on minutes on minutes you’re throbbing almost painfully. You can’t help it: you start pleading.

“S-Stan- hah- please- hah- I need more-“

He ignores your pleas, but you can feel him make a noise low in his throat. You try harder.

“G-god Stan- hah- you’re making me fucking insane- hah- I don’t know how much longer I can take this-“

Another low hum, more like a growl in his throat. Your pussy aches with the desire for penetration. Your voice grows more desperate.

“Please, please, I want more-“

He groans against your cunt and you, swollen, hypersensitive, can feel it. You moan with him. Finally he pulls back and looks up at you. You’re panting hard, sweating, desperation evident in your heavy lidded gaze.

“I dunno if you’re ready, sugar. You close?”

You’re certainly closer than you were before… but you’re not sure if you’ll be able to finish. Though at this point you’re so desperate for penetration you’ll say anything.

“Yes,” you say quickly. Too quickly. He raises an eyebrow. He roughly runs his thumb over your swollen clit.

“Nngh!” You let out between clenched teeth, and your legs twitch involuntarily.

“You bein' honest?”

You take a second to respond, debating whether or not to lie once more. He does it again.

“Nngh-no! I-I don’t think so! God, I just want you to fuck me!” You say loud, pleading, the throbbing in your pussy almost unbearable.

“Atta girl,” he says, and stands. “Honesty is the best policy y’know.”

He pulls your hips to his at the edge of the table. He grinds against you, and you can feel his cock pressing against his zipper, bulging against your cunt.

He gives you no rest. His thumb once again finds your clit, now working in steady circles. You roll your hips against him as you gasp and moan, trying to entice him to pull his cock out and fuck you. But he’s playing the long game. His thumb circling your clit is steady as he leans forward and starts placing kisses on your neck. The kisses slowly evolve from gentle pecks against your skin to licks, then to sucking and finally small bites, trailing all the way from your jaw to your breasts. Your moans are getting lower, deeper as the stimulation ever increases. His mouth finds your breast and his tongue flicks against your nipple. You’re so stimulated your hips buck at the contact.

Suddenly, as if that was his cue, he stands upright again. You feel less drunk from the alcohol than the prolonged intense state of arousal he’s kept you in. You’re finally starting to feel like you’re getting close. You look up at him and tremble while you wait for what’s next.

“Flip over, sugar.”

It’s a bit of a struggle, getting your feet back down to the floor without your knees buckling under you, but you manage it. When they meet the floor you’re right up against Stan, your naked flesh against his partly undone suit. Your eyes meet for a few seconds before you do as you’re told and turn, placing your hips against the table and bending over the table. You don’t bend fully, not at first. You just lean forward and place your hands on the table. But Stan quickly rectifies this. He gently pushes against your back so you press yourself fully against the hardwood. Once you're fully submitted, he presses your hips against your ass. His other hand grabs the underside of your right thigh and lifts it up, placing your knee on the table, exposing yourself to him once again.

You hear the sound of a zipper being opened, and you’re so excited you feel like you could pass out then and there.

But he doesn’t give it to you, not yet. He instead just presses the length of his cock against your soaked cunt and rocks his hips slightly. You can’t exactly tell how big he is, but you can tell he’s thick.

“Oh fuck Stan, please, I- Augh!”

As you beg he pulls back just enough to position himself and slip the head of his cock inside you. A fresh wave of heat rolls through you at the penetration. He rolls his hips, not entering you fully, just his head tantalizingly stimulating the edge of your cunt. You’re about to start begging again when his left hand spanks your ass and you yelp, pushing yourself a little more onto his cock, and he reacts by running that same hand up your back, your neck, tangling itself in your hair and holding you down firmly.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself sweetheart,” he says and spanks you again with his other hand. Your body tries to buck like it did before but Stan’s grip keeps you in place.

“We’re almost there,” he nearly growls, the words low in his throat.

His right hand gropes your ass before traveling inward. It brushes over your asshole, then presses slightly, before working in a small circle like he did to your clit just a minute before. He resumes rolling his hips, letting himself delve an inch deeper into you as he does. You try so, so hard to move yourself back up into him, but his grasp won’t let you. After a minute more, the thumb against your asshole slips inside. You let out another loud moan at the meager penetration, every sensation now heightened after all this time. Finally, you say it, and it’s true:

“P-please Stan… I’m close-”

The weak desperation in your voice makes it obvious, and that’s all Stan needs. Before you can utter another syllable he slams his hips into you. You nearly howl at the overwhelming sensation. He’s definitely bigger than you expected, and you feel almost impaled on his cock. Before you can recover he pulls back and thrusts again, just as hard, and then again, and again, and again, and the combined sensation of his thumb in your ass and his giant cock ruthlessly pounding against your G spot is finally enough. Your moans get higher and higher before you start choking on them, only able to make small stutters as the orgasm finally hits you, rolls through you like a hot violent wave. Your body moves of it own accord as your muscles tense and your nerves alight. Your mind is utterly blank for dozens of blissful seconds as you come down, your cunt twitching around his fat cock as he restrains his pounding to slow, almost tender thrusts.

“Atta girl,” he says again, and somehow, despite the intense orgasm you just had, you feel a tiny throb of arousal when he does. He doesn’t remove his thumb or stop his careful thrusting, but keeps the gentle momentum as you speak between gasps.

“I’ve never been- so happy to have- such shit luck at poker.”

He chuckles.

“Oh, sweetheart, that had nothin’ to do with luck. I was counting cards the whole time.”

You raise your head up from the table and look over your shoulder at Stan.

“What?!”

“Yeah, sorry sugar.” He thrusts a little harder, making you press your forehead against the table as his cock wracks your sensitive cunt. “You never stood a chance.”

Another throb.

"Oh yeah?"

You gather up all your remaining strength and prop yourself up on your elbows, brush the hair out of your face, and turn back over your shoulder to Stan once more.

“Bet you can’t do it again.”

[the-sin-hole]

fighting a losing battle

stanxreader flashfic, 897 words gender neutral, reader is 21+, no warnings apply i've got a fever and the only cure is pining

+++

Stan wakes up scowling.

This happens a lot, honestly. Whether he's plagued by sour dreams or another random body pain, he doesn't usually wake up on the right side of the bed, so to speak. But this morning he has an entirely new thing to angrily confront in his first few moments of consciousness.

Feelings. Ugh.

He lays in bed as he plays mental damage control. He'd really hoped what he felt last night was a fluke, a byproduct of the environment and the alcohol. Something he'd sleep off, shrug off, look back on and chalk up to a temporary loss of faculties.

The fact that you're the first thing he thought of this morning proves that to not be the case.

A new exhibit at the Shack had broken and caused some damage to your car earlier that week. You expressed your hesitance at the giant fake automaton Bigfoot several times, Stan brushing each of your concerns off one by one. You've only been working there about a month, but you both got along quickly, and he values your input as much as a man stuck in his ways can. Still, your rapport was not enough to convince him that maybe the rickety former carnival attraction wouldn't be able to juggle several coconuts at once. And you were proven right when it flung one of them right into your car's windshield.

Stan knew a guy, as he always does, at the local shop who fixed it for you on the cheap. Still, instead of compensating you financially, he offered to make it up to you by buying you a few cheap beers at the local bar after work on Friday night. You accepted, knowing that was the best you were going to get out of him.

Stan had no nerves going into it. This was just a few drinks with another adult, no big deal. He tolerates your company perfectly well. He thought he might even have a good time. And unfortunately for him, he had too good a night.

You were seated next to each other on stools at the bar, clinking your third beer bottles together. After your sips you both spotted a man with an unreasonably-large handlebar mustache sitting a few spots away. Stan leaned into your ear and cracked a joke. He can't even remember the joke, not anymore, because what happened next short circuited his brain.

Not wanting to alert the victim of the joke to Stan's mockery, you slapped a hand over your mouth as laughs tried to escape. You weakened as your body was wracked with restrained laughter. That weakness combined with your desire to keep the chuckles under wraps led you to turn to your left, towards Stan, and lean onto his side. You pressed your face against his upper arm to help stifle your sounds, placed your other hand on his forearm and squeezed. You remained there for a good ten seconds while your laughs subsided.

Stan was paralyzed. His heart was jumping in his chest. He felt warm, too warm, way too warm, and something tingled deep in his gut. When you finally pulled away and looked up at him, face flushed with mirth, hand now removed to show a wide smile up at him, other hand giving a tighter squeeze to his forearm, he realized to his immense dismay that he wanted to kiss you.

That thought was very quickly replaced by another: "Oh, fuck."

Suddenly his nerves found him. He spent the rest of the night fighting back anxiety, working overtime to entertain and make you laugh that hard again, make you get close to him again. Unfortunately you called it a night after your third round and left to walk back to your apartment, taking with you all the warmth that had found him which he now sorely missed. When he went to bed that night he kept fighting back rushing thoughts about you with the same sentence, repeated increasingly louder the more you wriggled through.

It's fine. It's fine. It's fine.

He repeats that mantra as he gets ready for work, prepares himself mentally to face you when the Shack opens. He's drinking coffee in the kitchen when he hears you enter and take your place at the register to count your till. He sips his coffee and tries to talk himself down.

Last night was nothin'. You just got caught up in makin' em laugh. It's not like they're some big shot. They're just a normal person with normal looks and you feel perfectly normal about them. You're gonna walk in there and it's gonna be fine. You won't feel any of this dumb ooey-gooey bullshit. And if you do, you'll squash it like a bug and never have to deal with it again. You're not gonna let some feelings win out over you, are ya? Hell no. You've got this. You'll win.

He drains the last of his coffee, places the mug in the sink, and walks to the gift shop with an excess of confidence. He reaches the doorway, pushes through. You're humming to yourself as you count your bills, a sweet tune that may as well be a battle cry to him. You register his approach and look up at him, slight smile on your lips and a softness in your eyes that threatens to pierce his defense.

It's fine. You'll win. It's fine.

You say "Morning, Stan", and he loses.

[the-sin-hole]

headrush

stanxreader flashfic, 1k words gender neutral, smoking, no warnings apply

+++

“I don’t give a shit what Saturn looks like,” Stan says, trying to sound abrasive, but the smile forming around the unlit cigarette between his lips betrays him. “S’far as I’m concerned what happens up there is nunna my business ‘til some aliens come down here and try to abduct me.”

You’re standing in the yard of the Mystery Shack under a sea-dark sky slathered in bright white pinholes. Stan threw another party at the Shack and most of the cleaning fell to you two. A month ago you’d expect him to order the kids do it. But you’ve watched him soften over the weeks since they came, and tonight he only made them clean up half of all the spilled drinks and tracked-in dust and scattered confetti before allowing them to call it a night. He toothlessly harangued you to stay late and help under the guise of owing him one after letting you drink all the Pitt from his fridge yesterday, but you didn’t need convincing. It was enough just to spend one on one time with him.

After doing a perfectly respectable half-assed cleaning job, the two of you retired to sit on the porch for some well earned smokes. Stan quit for the sake of the kids, but sometimes he can’t help himself from bumming a stray or two from you. You handed him one before he even asked as you stepped outside into the warm summer night air. You were immediately struck by the sky, letting in a small gasp of air at the sight of so many clear stars. You pulled Stan by the crook of his arm into the grass with you and started pointing out the celestial entities you were familiar with. Stan wasn’t looking at any of it. His eyes were fixed on you.

Your voice faltered as you pointed out Saturn, when your eyes darted back to him and found his gaze. It was unreadable. Part of you thought, if you tried really hard, you could see something in that gaze that looked a little soft. The thought made something in your gut writhe.

You broke the eye contact, instead putting the cigarette in your mouth and holding up your lighter to its end. It took a few spins of the flint wheel but it lit, and you pulled in the meager flame, sucking the filter several times in quick succession to let the heat gain purchase before letting the lighter falter. You handed it to Stan, risking regained eye contact and catching his small smile just as he claimed his indifference to the stars.

You snort and roll your eyes at the bold proclamation. “Oh wowwww, mister cool guy here is too big and tough to care about the vast wonder of space, huh?”

“You better believe it,” he replies, tilting his head down to meet the lighter in his hand and shifting the cigarette between his teeth at the front of his mouth. He spins the wheel a couple times to no avail, a little harder each time, furrowing his brow as he repeats his attempts. “What’s space ever done for me, anyway?”

You smile as you pull on your cigarette. He makes a frustrated “Eh” as more clicks of the lighter prove fruitless. His eyes dart up and he looks at you through his thick grey brows— his gaze is once again unreadable, but it sends something through you. He’s been doing that to you a lot, lately. Just being close to him can make your heart beat fast, something that at first was highly frustrating, but now you can’t help yourself from chasing the small highs, each casual graze against his arm or lingering eye contact feeling just as good as a deep inhale of fiberglass and nicotine.

You’re about to interrupt your current inhale to ask why he’s looking at you when his eyes dart down to your lips.

He reaches a hand up and lightly grabs your jaw, four fingers on one side, thumb on the other. You feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach. Heat radiates from that gut punch through your entire body in an instant. The two fingers you had gently resting on either side of the filter in your mouth twitch, almost flinging the cigarette out of your mouth entirely. His eyes are cast down, not looking you in the face, which you’re grateful for, as you’re sure you look ridiculous. You can feel your eyes widening, the heat flooding your face.

Stan leans in. The smoke you just inhaled is now caught swirling in your lungs as you hold your breath. He positions the tip of his cigarette to yours, the fingers grasping your jaw tightening just a little bit to make sure you don’t throw off the alignment. He purses his lips and draws in the heat, igniting it. He could pull away now, if he wanted. But he draws just a few more times. After seconds that stretch into an eon he slowly leans back. He leaves the fingers on your jaw for just a moment longer than he needs to. Just long enough to send another punch to your gut.

His hand finally leaves you, moving to the filter in his mouth, ready to take it once he’s finished his first long drag. He straightens up and finally meets your eyes once again. You’re still holding your breath. He removes the cigarette from his lips and exhales through his nose, the smoke coming out in great furls. You can see a slight smile behind the smokescreen as he says,

“Space is for suckers. I got everything I need right down here.”

You finally pull the filter from your mouth. His eyes dart down quickly to watch you let out a deep exhale, smoke spilling from your lips as they twist into a smile. The windless night lets the smoke hang in the air between you, small plumes lazily intertwining. When his eyes find yours again, there’s no mistaking it. His gaze is soft.

[the-sin-hole]

vacillator

stanxreader flashfic, 2.4k words gender neutral, mutual pining, no warnings apply

+++

You don't know how else you can make your intentions clear.

You started by laughing extra hard at his jokes. You’d put a hand on his arm now and then when you talked, leaning in close during conversations. Fuck, you even batted your eyes at him the other day. You’ve pulled these moves before, with an excellent success rate, you might add. These are classic moves! And you’re sure he’s into you, too. You've shared too many intimate after-work moments —on the couch, at the bar, or in his kitchen— joking, talking, and getting closer (both physically and emotionally) each time. But he isn't responding to any of your more overt techniques. Why isn't this working?

So you decide to go for broke. One day after work, you join him on the porch couch. The kids are gone, Soos and Wendy are gone. It’s just you. He gives an amiable grunt at your presence, a signal you’re welcome to join him. You talk for a bit, joke about the customers that came through that day, bounce ideas for a new exhibit. He cracks a joke, and you take your opportunity.

You laugh hard and lean toward him, closing the already meager distance between you. You put your hand on his knee and look up at him with eager eyes.

“You’re funny, y’know that?”

Something in his eyes shifts. You’re not sure what it is— you hope for the best and plow forward.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something...” you say in a low, sultry tone, really laying it on thick. This has never failed you. This is going to work.

He grabs your wrist.

For a heart-stopping moment, you think he’s going to pull you in, kiss you just like you’ve been daydreaming about for months now. But his body stiffens. He turns his head away from you, looking at you side-eyed before saying:

“Keep it to yourself, kid.”

He pulls your hand away from his thigh. Your heart sinks into your gut. He called you “kid” your first few days working here. You berated him to stop, and he did. After he liked you well enough.

You swallow the lump that’s gathered in your throat. You take a quiet, deep breath. You stand, and he lets his hand fall away from your wrist. Eyes locked forward, fixed on the horizon line where the yolk-yellow sun is starting to dip, you say as solidly as you can manage:

“I told you not to call me that.”

You walk down the porch steps without another word. He does not stop you.

You mope in your apartment that night, letting yourself feel good and pitiful. It’s been a while since you’ve been so swiftly rejected. But even as you wallow and wade in self-deprecation, you know one thing for damn sure: there’s no way you’re going to let it show how much it bothered you. That would only make it worse.

So the next day at work, you’re chipper as ever. You greet Stan bright and casual, joke with the kids and customers as if nothing is wrong. To your immense relief (and maybe a little bit of disappointment), he acts similarly. Good. Better to just forget it ever happened.

Days go by in the same fashion, just acting like nothing happened. Beneath that act you’re nursing your bruised crush— fantasies still play in your head every night. You can’t help but hope that maybe he’d change his mind, corner you, and confess some feelings to you after he had the time to think it through. But the longer that fantasy doesn’t come to pass, the more you just tell yourself to shake it off, forget about it. You tried. It didn’t work. Get over it.

It’s hard to get over it.

A week later, you’re stuck helping a customer after what would normally be closing time. It’s not a big deal— they’re pleasant enough, just a dawdler taking their sweet time deciding on a purchase. As you’re about to finally convince them that, yes, that snow globe would look perfect superglued to the dashboard of their car, Stan walks in. He shoos the customer away, following them close so he can immediately shut the door after their exit. He turns and gruffly tells you not to keep the store open for stragglers. You furrow your brow.

“But I was in the process of making you more money.”

“Ain’t always worth it. Get to closing, and then you can get outta here.”

He walks away before you can respond. You frown at the back of his head. That was… rougher than usual.

The next day, you’re trying to fix an exhibit in the showroom in between tour groups. It’s not normally your thing, but you couldn’t find Soos, and sticking the loose arm back on the Six-Pack-A-lope seemed like an easy enough fix. Stan walks in, having seen the same need for repair as he passed through earlier. Again, he adopts a more abrasive tone than usual when he sees you trying to fix it.

“Let me do that.”

“It’s alright, I got it.”

“That wasn’t a question. Just gimme that screwdriver.”

You turn to him, eyebrow knit together, confused why this is suddenly a point of contention.

“Why? This is an easy fix. I can knock it out in less than a minute.”

“I just can’t afford to have you messin’ it up worse than it already is.”

You stare at him for a few seconds, trying to read his expression. He’s not angry, but he’s resolute. You have no interest in fighting this fight, your ego still bruised by your rejection, so you roll your eyes, put the screwdriver down hard on the stand of the exhibit, and leave.

The next day, it’s even worse.

You’re in the kitchen after work, helping the twins design a specialized net to catch Lockbody Mantises. This isn’t unprecedented— you’ve spent a fair bit of time in the homey spots of the Shack before. Stan walks in to grab his usual post-work Pitt Cola, and he immediately bristles when he sees you.

“I’m not payin’ you to play babysitter.”

You bristle right back. What is his problem?

“I’m not babysitting. I’m just spending some time helping my coworkers here with a project,” you say in a measured voice that barely contains the irritation underneath.

“Yeah, and I’m not payin’ you for it,” Stan replies as he leans into the fridge to grab his can.

The kids take the crayon-made blueprints and scram when they see your stony glare at his back. You stand, steel yourself. You wait until you hear them run up the stairs to the attic before proceeding.

“If you’re trying to force me out of here, let’s just make this easier for both of us. Fire me already.”

He pulls back from the fridge and turns to you, looking surprised.

“What? Why would I wanna fire you? You’re the only one around here who does anything.”

“Yeah, no shit! But you keep telling me to do less so I’m getting some mixed messages here!”

He’s taken aback, as if he hadn’t considered his actions.

“W-well, I was just, y’know—” he trails off, obviously unsure how to respond. His hand grips the can a little too hard. You exhale sharply through your nose.

“Whatever. I need the money, so I’m coming to work tomorrow. Either fire me, or I’ll keep coming.”

He doesn’t fire you. After an evening of internal angst you come to work the next day, and god, it’s getting harder to act like nothing’s wrong. But you’re not about to fold because of a guy like this. He has to step up and tell you something’s wrong if he wants something to change.

And for the first time, he does act like something’s wrong. He’s almost shy around you, avoiding you, and this makes you more nervous than anything previous. Right before the end of the day, after he shepherds the last tour group out the door, he walks over to the register you’re standing behind.

“Hey, uh, you mind stayin’ after for a minute?”

Your heart stutters with anxiety. You fight through it and study him— his own anxiety is evident. Is he actually going to fire you?

You give a curt “Sure” and turn away from him to busy yourself with getting a head start on counting tips. You don’t see the look of increased anxiety on his face at your steely response before we walks away.

The final few minutes pass by, and when close finally hits, he returns to the gift shop. He walks over to the front door and turns to you, nervously gesturing to it. He opens it for you and you walk through. What a gentleman, you think with the enthusiasm of a person being led to death row.

You both sit on the couch, same as you did over a week ago now. You watch the sun make its way to the tree line as he struggles to find words. He keeps his head forward to mirror yours, but his eyes keep darting to the side to steal glances at your stoic face.

“So, uh. Y’know how I—”

You keep your eyes on the horizon.

“Well, remember how the other day, I—”

He should have practiced this more. He’s been running through rehearsals in his head all day. And the entire night before. But that obviously wasn’t enough.

He wasn’t trying to push you away. At least, not consciously. But he knew you shouldn’t have gotten so close. You’re someone with your whole life ahead of you, he thought. Any more time spent with him than absolutely necessary would just serve to drag you down. You need to spend less time at work. Spend less time with him. So he pushed you away. He wasn’t gentle, either, because he didn’t know how else to do it. He’s not good at being gentle. Neither are you. And that’s part of why he liked you so much.

You were brash and forward and loud, and god, did it hurt him to turn you down before you could even start. He didn’t sleep that night. He just stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, mind swirling, trying to tell himself he made the right decision for your own sake, all the while trying to shove out the memory of how your wrist felt underneath his hand.

His hand, currently sitting awkwardly in his lap, unconsciously twitches at the thought of your skin.

In the days following his rejection he tried to reinforce his decision. He definitely didn’t want you to stop working—he knew he needed you, as far as employees go. But he also needed to sever the bridge that formed between you. After your confrontation yesterday, he knew he couldn’t have it both ways.

Still, he had to try. He had to apologize for being a jerk, but not too much. He had to entreat you to keep working for him, to smooth the waters over, without revealing anything deeper in his request. If he let slip any hint of the fervent desire in his chest to keep you around, to be able to see you every day, to be able to watch you joke with customers and flash a smile his way when he threw one of his own, to steal even the most chaste physical contact like you throwing an elbow to his ribs or placing a hand on his arm and leaning in close... he might crumble entirely.

It’s that part he’s having trouble with now. He shakes his head at himself and proceeds.

“Look. I’ve been a little bit more of a jerk than usual. And, uh, I probably shouldn’t be. So. Y’know.”

He darts his eyes to the side again to see you. Your eyes are firm on the horizon. You say nothing. Internally, you’re asking yourself: Is that it?

Stan shifts in his seat. Words bubble in his throat, fail to coalesce, disintegrating into small groans and throat clears.

You sigh.

“Hey, this isn’t easy for me, alright? You wanna know how many people have gotten a genuine apology outta Stan Pines? I can count ’em on one hand!”

“Thanks, Mr. Pines.”

The words cut through him like a hot knife. He’s never heard you call anyone Miss or Mister, let alone him. And the tone of your voice… He knows what this means. You’re cutting off all intimacy with him. No more casual. All business.

Those three words make him realize such a thing is intolerable.

You put your hands on your knees and heave yourself up onto your feet, feeling heavy. You hesitate for a second as you watch the breeze flicker the tops of the pines in front of you. You take it in. You’re obviously not going to get the luxury of relishing this view again. You’re about to step away without another word when he grabs your wrist.

It shocks you out of your malaise. You jump in your spot, turning to him. He’s looking up at you from the couch with immense earnest, his brow knit and the eyes under them suddenly sharp. It unmoors you, and suddenly the past nine days’ repression is failing you.

“You look like you got something you want to say to me,” you say, trying to keep your voice from betraying your heart's sudden desperate thumping.

“What were you gonna say that night? Last time we were both here?”

The hand on your wrist is serving as a conductor, letting the ever-increasing heartbeats run between you and amplify. Stan feels almost nauseous—he does have something he wants to say to you. You’re struggling to keep your mounting anxiety from overflowing, not sure how to respond—but he’s here, he’s asking, and you’re on the spot. You might as well rip this horrible bandage off so you can work on recovering from a second round of rejection.

In unison, you both say:

“I like you.”

The shock of the twin revelations keeps you both frozen for a moment. Eyes wide, you both feel like you’ve slapped the other, almost not sure if it’s real. But after a few seconds, neither of you can help the giddiness spreading across your faces. Nor would you want to. As the smile on your face gets wide enough to almost hurt, he pulls the arm attached to the wrist he holds, yanking you into his lap, where you stay until long after the sun dips below the sharp pines of the horizon.

[the-sin-hole]

unwell

stanxreader flashfic, 1.2k words gender neutral, alcohol use, no warnings apply other than Excessively Melodramatic Romantic Vignette

+++

He’s so sick of you.

He can barely stand to look at you anymore. It makes it even worse when you look at him with that confusion in your eyes, wondering why he suddenly doesn’t want to get drinks after work anymore, why he doesn’t talk with you as much between tours anymore. And it’s particularly awful right now, trapped in a broom closet with you.

The sweet smell of your shampoo is almost making him nauseous. He keeps brushing against you, each small contact shooting through his nerves. And you keep looking up at him. Each time you do, the outline of your face in the dim light makes him repress a shiver.

“Okay, I’m just gonna ask.” The tone of your voice isn’t angry, just a bit tired, and that makes it even worse.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

His heart seizes in his chest. Of course.

“I haven’t been avoiding you.”

He sees you raise an unconvinced eyebrow in the dark.

“Don’t look at me like that, everything’s fine! I don't know what you're talkin' about!”

“Stan. Come on. It’s obvious enough that Mabel locked us in a closet. I… if I did something that pissed you off, just tell me, and we can move on.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and remains silent. He doesn’t know what to say. You sigh. You’re about to sit there in silence with him, but you push yourself to talk.

“Look. Do you… do you remember last week when we drank those hippies under the table at that bonfire so you could steal their magic garden gnome?”

“‘Course I do. Those patchouli huffers never knew what hit ’em.”

“How much of that night do you remember, exactly?”

His heart seizes again. He remembers all too much.

“A bit,” he answers noncommittally. “You?”

“Not very much. The last thing I remember is when they tried to get us to sing that silly Beatles song. And I have a brief memory of you helping me into Soos’ truck. But aside from that, it’s really fuzzy. And I—” You take a quick breath.

“It was after that night that I noticed you were avoiding me, so I just need to know, did I do something when I was drunk to make you mad at me?” You ramble off the final sentence quickly, getting to the point.

Stan shifts awkwardly in his spot, still silent. It’s making you increasingly nervous.

“Don’t make me beg here, Stan. Please. I… like hanging out with you, y’know. And if all I have to do is apologize for some dumb thing I did when I was drunk so we can move forward and watch that stupid detective movie together tonight, then tell me so I can do that. Because I’ll bet ten bucks that I can figure out who the killer is before you can.”

Stan looks down at you. His gaze is softer than you expected.

He thinks back to that night. Soos was your designated driver for the hippie heist. Stan did help you into the backseat, staying there with you to make sure you remained upright on the ride back to your apartment. When Soos finally pulled in, you were clearly in no position to get up the flight of stairs to your front door. So Stan pulled you out of the truck into a bridal carry and did it for you.

You were giggly in his arms, slurring thank-yous and holding onto the collar of his shirt with one hand that kept grazing against the hair on his chest. You were able to dig your keys out of your pocket and unlock the door so he could step through. He did, flipping the light switch up with an elbow, closing the door behind him with a soft kick.

“Pu’ me on the cousch,” you directed, and he did so, slowly lowering you supine onto the couch. He was about to pull away when you stopped him.

“Wait.”

He froze above you, arms still around your body. Your faces were very close, and he saw a brief moment of clarity flash beneath the inebriated haze in your eyes. One of your hands clumsily found its way up to his jaw. You kept it in place and raised your lips up to his, brief, tender, sweet enough to make him feel like he’d been punched in the gut.

“F’real. Thank you, Stan.”

He let himself stay a mere inch away from your face for a few more seconds before hastily pulling back and straightening up.

“You’re gonna regret that in the mornin’,” he half joked to cover his internal reeling.

You just smiled back at him, sinking into the couch with heavy eyelids, fighting off sleep enough to tell him,

“Psshhhh, regret nothin’. I been waitin’ t’do that f’r a while now.”

Stan watched as sleep took you. He pulled the blanket thrown over the back of the couch onto you, found a small trashcan in the kitchen to put by your head, just in case. Once he heard your snores, he took his leave.

Since then he’d been wanting to ask what you meant by that, wanted to see how you really felt, because for the last two months he’d been operating under the assumption that his crush on you—god, he thought, he’s a sixty-year-old man, who the hell does he think he is getting a crush on someone—was unrequited. The thought of reciprocity made him almost dizzy with excitement. But the thought of you balking at your drunken action, telling him it obviously meant nothing, maybe even laughing at it, scared him more than not knowing. So he decided he’d prefer to never know.

It’s better for both of you, he thought. What’s someone like you even gonna do with someone like him? You probably only spend your time with him out of boredom, and you’ll probably be gone once the summer ends anyway. There’s no way you’d stick around. Keep that special little moment. Treasure it. Then push you away so it can’t be ruined.

And so he became sick of you.

Sick of the way your laugh bounced around the gift shop. Sick of the way your smile made your whole face light up. Sick of your quips, the way you grab his forearm when you want his attention, the way you stretch your body when you yawn. Sick of all the ways he wanted to be close to you when he told himself he should stay away. So sick it's all he could do to wait until your temporary employment was up and he'd be cured.

But now, staring at you in low light, eyes looking back at him wide and lined with genuine concern, he realizes how stupid he was. Why would he ever want to be cured of you?

“I, uh. I can show ya what ya did.”

You blink.

“Okay. Show me.”

Stan unfolds his arms and steels himself.

He takes your jaw in his hand and tilts it up. He presses his lips against yours softly, and his heart bangs against his sternum like a drum. He pulls back swiftly, not wanting to overstay his welcome. He finds your eyes again but he can’t tell what’s behind the stunned stare.

“I can't believe I did that."

Anxiety begins to churn in his gut when you say,

"Can we do it again?”

The churn vanishes, replaced by something far more exhilarating. He smiles.

“Well, twist my arm—”

You cut him off with another kiss. His heart is racing, heat is rising to his face, his nerves feel like they’re on fire. He hopes this fever never breaks.