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sagesbard · 2 months ago

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Busted immediately another banger

Pressure: Intox!PC!Stan x F!Reader

This was too long to be a smut shot! I'm kinda iffy about it because I usually do stuff in the past-tense and I wanted to experiment a little... idk, lmk what you think!

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Stan’s fingers are under my skirt and I haven’t said anything.

I should probably say something.

But he’s holding my drink in his hand, his mouth’s by my ear and his hand’s on my thigh like it belongs there.

Like he’s been waiting all night for the right time to slide it up slow, and now that it’s here, he’s not wasting a goddamn second.

The movie’s still playing. Something with explosions. Stan’s pretending to watch. I can feel his chest rumble against my back every time he shifts, but I haven’t looked up from my legs in the past five minutes.

His nose is behind my ear, murmuring half-sentences like he’s drunk enough to forget he’s so much older than me, and he’s not supposed to talk like that.

I wonder if he realizes I already gave in the moment I shotgunned four shots on an empty stomach and sat on his lap. The moment I agreed to spend time with him at his place.

“You’re soft,” He mutters against my skin, slick and syrupy, “Warm. Letting me touch you like this... Fuck, you’re almost ready for me,”

I know that he feels how ready I am, because my breath hitches every time he trails his knuckles up the inside of my thigh.

I'm sitting on his lap in my stupid pleated skirt and he's teasing me like I’m not already halfway to fucked. Like he didn’t clock the flush on my cheeks three drinks ago.

He shifts the glass in his left hand, takes a slow sip, like he’s savoring my drink on his tongue, and makes a sound like he just tasted me through it.

He hums against my neck, lazy and pleased, fingers slipping higher, “This the one with the peach in it?”

“Sex on The Beach,” I mumble as my thighs tense.

I didn’t mean to. It’s instinct.

Just like the little gasp I make when his fingers skate past the edge of my panties and press.

Right on my clit.

“Goddamn,” Stan breathes, feigning surprise, like he didn’t just drag me through a slow, anticipatory burn for the last ten minutes, “You’re perfect. You’re just gonna let me keep touching you?”

I don’t nod. I don’t move. I just melt right into him, right against the heat of his hand and the heat of his chest and the fabric of his stupid polo pressing against my back.

My pulse is in my throat. My legs. My everything. And he knows.

Of course he knows.

Because when I don’t say anything, when I just tip my head to the side and breathe real quiet, he laughs.

“That’s what I thought,” He murmurs, and his hand dips.

I forget what movie we were watching.

His hand is so fucking bold right now.

Like, not even pretending. Not skimming or teasing or testing the waters. Just sliding right over my panties like he already knows he’s welcome, like we’re not still halfway through a movie, like I’m not sitting on his lap pretending I can focus on anything except for him.

I can still feel his breath at my ear.

He’s so close.

Stan’s that dangerous kind of drunk where his voice gets low and sticky and full of desire, as if everything he’s saying is more for him than for me.

Like he’s narrating his thoughts out loud because they’re too fucking filthy to keep in his mouth.

He’s still holding my drink.

That’s the part that’s killing me.

The lazy fucking confidence of it. One hand wrapped around my glass like it’s his, the other one between my legs like he’s just checking in.

Like I’m something he already unwrapped.

“You feel good, you look good...” He mumbles near my temple, like it’s a secret, “You always look good,”

I don’t say anything. I just breathe real slow and try not to press down into his hand like a complete mess, but of course he fucking feels it when I do.

He chuckles low, all smug and slurred.

He dips his fingers just a little further, right where I’ve been aching since he pulled me into his lap during the opening credits and started playing with my hair, knowing I’d let him get away with more.

“You want me,” He says it like he finally noticed how long I’ve been holding tension in my thighs, how many times I’ve shifted against him without moving away, “You’ve been sitting here all soft and sweet, but I knew it. Knew it. You always act like you’re in control,”

I held back a whimper.

“But I’ve got you like this,” He keeps going, drunker now, almost breathless, “Got you sitting on me, letting me touch you like you’re mine. You like it. You don’t even care how long I’ve been thinking about this. Touching you. Feeling you. Taking my time,”

His fingers shift, just enough to start rubbing lazy circles over my clit.

I blink hard. The movie’s still playing, all noise and flash and violence. None of it cuts through the heat building under my skin or the way my stomach drops when he groans like he’s losing the battle against his own restraint.

He presses his lips behind my ear again. Softer this time. Slower.

“You drunk enough to let me have you?” Stan whispers.

I am. I am and he knows it and I don’t even try to hide it. I just tilt my head and let him kiss my neck while his hand finally moves.

His fingers pull aside my panties like he owns me.

I’m too far gone, head tipped back against his shoulder, mouth parted, thighs loose around his wrist like I forgot how to be modest the second he slipped his hand under my skirt.

My chest’s tight. My breath’s shallow. And Stan’s still got my drink, sipping it like he’s not slipping knuckle-deep in me.

I should be embarrassed.

“God, you’re soaked,” He groans against my ear, and my spine arches before I can stop it.

My whole body’s at his disposal. Every nerve ending is tuned to him, to the way his fingers curl, to the low rasp of his voice when he’s drunk.

Half-daring, half-delirious.

He’s talking like he’s dreaming out loud, like he doesn’t care if I remember this tomorrow, as long as I feel it now.

“I knew it,” He keeps whispering, the kind of truth he only spills when there’s whiskey in his blood and his mouth is pressed to my skin, “Knew you’d let me do this. I just had to wait until you were warm enough. Loose enough. Mine,”

I should stop him when he says mine. I should make a joke. Roll my eyes. Say something bitchy and remind him I’m not some girl who melts for a few dirty words from an old man.

Instead, I’m grinding down, slow and shameless, letting Stan work me open like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.

He shifts beneath me. I feel his thigh flex. The bulge under my ass. The deep, shaky inhale he takes like he’s trying not to lose it too fast.

“You wanna come on my fingers?” He breathes, and my whole chest stutters.

I nod once. Tight. Shaky.

And the way he groans when he feels me tightening up is almost as filthy as the fingers dragging through me.

He’s wrecked. I’m worse.

I’m going to come.

That’s where this is going. That’s what’s happening. On this couch, during this dumb movie neither of us is watching. My drink is still sweating in his one hand, and I’m soaked on his other like I’ve never been touched before.

Like every other time was just preparation for Stan Marsh, slurring filth in my ear while his fingers press deeper, slower, messier.

And Stan knows. Of course he knows. He’s drunk but not stupid. Not with the way I’m grinding down, breath caught in my throat, legs twitching every time he hits that one perfect spot like he’s memorized it.

“Fuck,” He groans, lips against my jaw now, “You’re so good like this. Can’t believe you’re letting me...”

I’m not letting him. I want this. I need this. Every inch of me is screaming for it. I’m wound so tight and so wet, that if he stopped now, I’d break something. Maybe him.

He curls his fingers inside me and I choke on a gasp. My thighs clamp around his wrist and I fucking whimper.

“Yeah?” He murmurs, dragging his mouth along my cheek, voice so low it barely makes it past the pulse hammering in my ears, “You like that, huh?”

Everything’s starting to blur, and I’m shaking, and–

Oh my God, Stan’s making me come.

Right here. On his lap. On his fingers.

He shifts again, deeper this time, and his breath catches when I stutter against him, hips jerking, mouth open, silent. His grip on the glass tightens. His fingers never stop moving.

“Go ahead,” He says, rough and ruined, “Come for me,”

And I do.

I can’t breathe.

The pleasure hits harder than I thought it would, like my whole body’s trying to curl in on itself and stay open at the same time. My thighs are shaking, my hands gripping his jeans as bliss swells and crests inside of me.

My breath comes out in these shallow little stutters, all spine and heat and instinct, and I swear to God... I see stars.

Stan doesn’t stop. Not right away. Not until I’m gasping, twitching, practically writhing on his lap with my skirt bunched around my waist.

He slows his fingers, softens them, murmuring something against the back of my neck I can’t even hear because I’m still coming down. Still wrecked, still flushed, still feeling every last aftershock.

I want to be mad. Or smug. Or something.

But all I can do is breathe. My heart’s beating in my throat. My chest. Between my legs. It’s everywhere.

And he’s still behind me, arm around my waist now, pulling me back into him like I didn’t just completely fall apart in his lap.

“Fuck,” He whispers again, a little more sober this time, like he just realized what he did. What we did.

And maybe I should care. Maybe I should fix my skirt or sit up straight or say something sharp to reestablish control, but all I do is tilt my head back against his shoulder and close my eyes.

He set down my drink and I didn’t even notice.

His hand’s finally still.

But Stan’s not done.

I can feel it in this shift in his breathing, the way his arm tightens around my waist like he’s steadying me. I’m still shaking, but he’s not being sweet.

Not really. There’s something else humming under his skin. Something hungry.

I know that sound in his throat. That low, breathy groan he only makes when he’s holding back. Except he’s not holding back. Not anymore.

Stan’s not just touching me because he can, not just drunk and curious or bored or playing. No, this is different. This is desperate. This is him barely holding it together, voice thick and shaky and wrecked every time I moan, every time I clamp down around his fingers like I can’t help it. Because I can’t help it. I’m gone. I’ve been gone.

His fingers are moving again. Slower this time. More deliberate. Like he wants to feel everything. Like now that he’s dragged me over the edge, he’s gonna take his time pulling me apart all over again.

My thighs twitch. My hips flinch. I’m still sensitive, raw, wet and wrecked.

And he knows that. He’s doing it on purpose.

“I can’t believe how pretty you come,” He murmurs and I feel his lips brush my cheek like punctuation, “Like, fuck. You’re shaking. You feel that?”

I feel everything. Every press, every drag of his fingers, every syllable he spills like he’s drunk on me now instead of the alcohol. I nod, barely. My head’s fuzzy.

My body’s tighter than before, aching and so, so close to that edge again it’s making me dizzy.

“Thought that’d be enough,” Stan says, more to himself than to me, “But you’re still fucking squeezing me. Look at you. You want more,”

I should say no. I should say stop, or slow down, or let me breathe.

I press my hips down.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And he groans, deep and low. His breath falls against the curve of my jaw, and then his fingers slide deeper, firmer, filthy.

“You’re not going anywhere,” He says, slurring it now, cocky, obsessed and fucking right, “Not until I get another one out of you. You got more in you, right?”

I whimper. That’s the only sound I make. Broken and soft and goddamn pathetic.

Stan’s going to ruin me.

I can feel it in the way his fingers don’t hesitate anymore. No teasing, no pretending, just pressure and rhythm and heat that coils low and tight and unbearable. He’s not trying to be careful. He’s not coaxing. He’s working me, like he’s got something to prove. Like he knows I’ll give it to him, whatever it is, if he just keeps touching me like this.

And I will. God, I will.

My body’s already betraying me, hips twitching, thighs trembling, breath coming in soft little gasps I can’t swallow down. I’m too raw, too sensitive, too wrecked from the first time, but it doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Because he’s got me again. Back in the palm of his hand, literally, and he knows it.

And now he’s gripping me tighter, arm locked around my waist, still dragging me back into him like he needs me closer. I can feel him. All of him. He’s hard against me, so fucking hard, and he’s been grinding up this whole time, biting back every sound that would’ve given him away too soon.

But now he’s done pretending. I feel it in the way he groans when I clench again still twitching, still pulsing from that orgasm that left me slumped against him like a rag doll in heat.

“Fuck,” Stan pants, and his voice is raw, “You’re driving me fucking insane,”

Good.

I don’t say it, but I think it. I feel it, thick and smug and hazy through the wreckage of my body. My thighs are still shaking, but I shift in his lap anyway. I grind down slow, real slow, and his whole body jolts like I slapped him.

“Don’t. Don’t do that unless you want me to fuck you right here,” He gasps, barely holding on, barely sane.

And oh my God, the way he says it. Like he’s been thinking it. Like he’s been dying for it. Like this couch is the only thing stopping him from taking me apart completely.

He’s panting now. His hand’s still between my legs but he’s not moving it, like he’s scared he’ll come just from touching me like this. His forehead’s pressed against the back of my neck. His breath is hot and shaky and furious.

Stan wants me. Bad.

And it’s driving him crazy that he hasn’t had me yet.

He’s shaking.

I can feel it in the way he breathes against my neck, shallow and ragged, like he’s holding something back with his teeth clenched and his whole body locked around mine. Like just being here with me is testing every ounce of control he has left.

I shouldn’t love that.

But I do.

I love how wrecked he sounds when he swears under his breath, how his hips twitch up against me even though he’s trying so hard not to move. Like his whole body’s screaming to take, and he’s gripping the edge of the fucking earth just to stay where he is.

I shift again. Barely.

And Stan growls.

Not loud. Not wolfish. Just this quiet, ruined sound in the back of his throat like I hit some switch he’s been trying to hide from me all night.

I can feel every inch of him pressed against me, hard and throbbing under denim that’s got to be killing him by now. I know exactly what I’m doing, sitting like this in his lap with no space between us, my thighs still slick, my skirt rucked up around my waist like a goddamn invitation.

I just lean back against him, roll my hips one more time, slow and deep and devastating. Just to hear that sound again. Just to feel him lose that last bit of control.

And he does.

Stan snaps under me, low and guttural, like the sound tears out of him before he even knows it’s coming.

His hands clamp down on my hips hard, fingers digging in like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on. And I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

His forehead drops to my shoulder. His breath shudders against my skin. He’s panting like he ran a mile, and I didn’t even have to touch him.

Just sat here. Just let him touch me. Just rolled my hips and let him see how far gone I was, and how easy it is to make me fall apart when it’s him.

And now he’s the one falling.

His cock is pressed up against me, straining and thick under his jeans, and every breath he takes punches into my back. He’s holding on by threads now. He’s done pretending he’s not this far gone.

“Fuck,” Stan hisses, hands sliding from my hips to my waist, one splaying over my stomach like he’s trying to ground himself, “Don’t do that unless you mean it,”

I do mean it. I’m soaked.

I’m still pulsing from everything he’s already done to me.

He’s focused now, grinding up into me with one hand and dragging the other between my legs like he’s got a point to prove. Like all the teasing was just buildup. Just foreplay. Just him biding his time for this.

I’m soaked. Again. Still. It doesn’t matter. My whole body’s tuned to him. Every time Stan moves, I get tighter. Hotter. Louder.

And the things he’s saying? The things he’s murmuring against my skin make it worse.

“You feel that?” He rasps, fingers circling, pressing, curling, “You’re fucking dripping. I could probably slide in right now and you’d take me so easy,”

I moan. Loudly. I don’t mean to. It’s humiliating and perfect and real, and he eats the sound like it’s proof. Like he needs it.

His other hand grips my hip, harder this time. Pulling me back into him. I can feel how badly he wants it as he grinds up into my ass, how close he is to giving in. How much he's aching.

And I want all of it.

So I arch my back. I press against him. I let his fingers work me open again and again, and I don’t look away from the wall, the TV, the nothing playing in front of us.

Because if I look at him, I’ll beg.

And he’ll give it to me.

He should give it to me.

I want it. I need it.

My whole body is screaming for it, slick and aching and wound so tight that I’m shaking in his lap, one of his hands between my thighs and the other bruising my waist like he’s trying to keep himself from tearing me in half.

Why is he still holding back?

Why is he still breathing like this is something he has to survive instead of something he’s allowed to take?

I grind down again. Slow, deeper, mean.

He groans, low and helpless, right into my neck like I’ve dragged the last bit of restraint out of him with just a roll of my hips.

“Fuck...” It’s not a warning. Not anymore. It’s a plea.

And that’s it. That’s the breaking point.

Stan shifts beneath me, and suddenly I’m being moved, turned in his lap so I’m facing him now, straddling his thighs, knees digging into the couch cushions on either side of him. My skirt rides up to my hips. He doesn’t even pretend to fix it. His hands are already on me, one gripping the back of my neck, the other sliding up my thigh like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

His mouth slams into mine.

It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s all tongue and saliva and heat. Now that he’s started, he doesn’t know how to stop. And I don’t want him to stop. I press into him, fingers tangled in his shirt, legs tightening around him like I’m trying to fuse us together.

I can feel him. Hard. Desperate. Pressed right against me, so ready it’s obscene.

And when he breaks the kiss, just barely, just enough to look at me, eyes dark and wild and so goddamn hungry, I don’t even breathe.

“I need to be inside you,” He says it like a confession.

And I nod.

Because yes.

He should.

I’m nodding still, like once wasn’t enough, like I have to show him how much I mean it.

He’s fumbling now, shaky hands between us, working open his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough to free himself. I don’t look away. I don’t want to. I want to see how desperate he is.

Stan’s thick and flushed and already wet at the tip. All for me. All because I sat in his lap and let him touch me until we both broke.

His fingers slide up my thigh, guiding my hips forward, positioning me over him until the head of his cock presses right on my slit where I’m slickest, hottest, waiting.

“You sure?” He asks, voice wrecked, barely more than a whisper.

But instead of answering, I lower myself slowly, so slowly. I’m feeling every inch as he fills me, stretches me, takes up all the space inside me that’s been begging just for him.

His head falls back, mouth open in a silent groan, hands gripping my hips tight enough to leave bruises, and I love it. I love that I did this to him. Love that he's inside me, buried completely, and shaking because of it.

“Fuck,” He breathes out, ragged and raw, “You feel so fucking perfect,”

I start moving, gentle at first, testing, teasing.

Just enough to feel the way his hips twitch upward in response. He’s barely holding on, I can see it in his face: eyes half-closed, jaw tight, body tense underneath me.

I roll my hips deeper.

He gasps, fingers digging harder, pulling me down onto him, urging me to go faster, harder. And I do. Because I want to. Because nothing else matters right now. Just him, just me, just this rhythm we’ve found, hot and slick and urgent.

He whispers my name again, reverent and broken, and that's all it takes to lose myself completely.

Stan’s deeper than I thought he’d be.

I can barely breathe. My mouth’s open but no sound’s coming out, just these quiet, choked little gasps that get caught in my throat every time I sink down and feel all of him. He’s gripping my waist like he doesn’t trust himself not to lose it. Like if I move too fast, he’ll break.

And I want him to.

I grind my hips slowly, deliberately, dragging myself over him until I feel his whole body stutter beneath me. He’s cursing into my neck now, breath hot and ragged, muttering shit like “You’re so tight, fuck, how are you this tight,”

I can’t stop shaking. I want to laugh. I want to moan. I want to cry. I want to keep going.

His hands slide up my back, under my shirt, fingers spreading wide like he’s trying to touch every inch of me all at once. And the way he looks at me, completely gone, makes my chest tighten in a way I wasn’t ready for.

I roll my hips again and Stan groans loud, deep, feral. His grip tightens. His body jerks. He’s trying so hard not to move, not to thrust up into me, but he’s failing. Badly.

“Fuck, please,” He gasps, and I feel it. That edge. That pull.

He wants to let go. He wants to lose it. He’s right there.

And so am I.

Every time I move, I clench around him, tighter, needier, like my body’s begging without permission.

Every breath is a whine. Every grind brings me closer. I’m soaking him, riding him like I need this to breathe, and maybe I do. Maybe this is the only thing keeping me grounded. His cock, his hands, his voice in my ear breaking apart in real time.

He’s panting now. Desperate. Wild.

I’m still riding slow, steady, dragging it out just to watch him tremble underneath me.

And he is. He’s trembling.

His thighs flex under mine every time I drop down and grind, every time I clench around him on purpose, and his fingers are gripping my hips like he doesn’t trust them not to shake. I can feel how close he is. It’s in every breath, every twitch, every ragged groan muffled against my collarbone.

“You’re killing me,” Stan chokes out, voice rough and wrecked and so fucking real, “I swear, if you don’t stop, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna–”

I do it again. Deeper this time. Let my hips roll slow and nasty and right down the length of him, and his whole body jerks. His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise.

And still, I don’t stop.

Every time he gasps my name, every time he begs without even realizing he’s doing it, I get closer. My thighs are shaking again, my chest is tight, and I’m soaked, dripping down his cock and grinding into him like my body’s starved for this.

Like I’ve needed it to breathe.

His eyes snap open. They find mine. And for one second, he looks wrecked. Like he’s about to say something, do something, lose something.

And then he snaps.

His grip changes.

It’s not careful anymore, it’s firm. Demanding. Stan’s fingers lock around my waist like he’s done letting me lead. Like I teased him one second too long and now he’s reached the limit of what he can take. His eyes are blown wide and wild, mouth open, breathing like he’s been drowning and I’m the air he finally decided to take.

And then he moves.

Thrusts up into me so hard and deep I gasp, loud and embarrassingly high pitched. Before I can catch it, before I can even think, he does it again. And again.

He’s snapped.

“Fuck,” He grits out, voice low and furious and filthy, “You wanna ride me like that? Make those sounds? You think I’m just gonna sit here and take it?”

I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. I’m clutching his shoulders, nails digging in, eyes rolling back with every brutal snap of his hips. He’s holding me down, fucking up into me like he’s trying to burn this into both of us. Like he’s trying to claim me.

“You feel that?” He growls against my ear, “That’s what you fuckin’ do to me. You make me lose it. look at you. You want this. Don’t you?”

I’m a mess on top of him, clinging to his shirt, letting him use my body. My thighs are shaking again, worse this time, and I can barely sit up straight from how deep he’s hitting me.

I’ve never been fucked like this. Not even close.

Stan shifts, one hand sliding between us, thumb pressing my clit and I almost scream. My whole body jumps. I bite down on his shoulder to keep from losing it, but he groans, loud and ragged and shameless.

“Do that again,” He pants, snapping his hips harder, “Fuck, bite me again,”

I do. And he loses it.

He’s fucking me like he means it now.

No hesitation. No teasing. Just raw, relentless rhythm. Deep and fast and so goddamn good it knocks the air straight out of my lungs.

Every thrust drives me up, and every grip of his hands on my waist drags me back down, like he can’t get me close enough, like if he could pull me inside him, he would.

My head’s thrown back, sweat clinging to the back of my neck, moans slipping out of me like I don’t even care who hears. I don’t. Not right now. Not with the way he’s holding me. Not with the way he keeps swearing under his breath like I’m unraveling something inside him he didn’t know he had.

Stan’s thumb finds that spot again, fast and perfect and filthy, and my whole body jerks.

I grip his shoulders like I’ll fall apart without something to hang onto. His shirt’s twisted in my fists, bunched up and soaked with sweat where I’ve been holding it like a lifeline, and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but how full I feel, how good he sounds, how deep he’s buried inside me and how desperately I need more.

“I can feel you,” He growls, voice slurred and raw, forehead pressed to mine now, breath mingling with mine in hot, open-mouthed gasps, “You’re so fucking tight, so wet. God,”

Everything inside me is wound up, ready to snap, pleasure flooding through my veins. Stan grinds his hips up just right and my vision goes white.

I don’t scream. I sob.

And he moans when I do, like the sound of me coming on his cock is finally dragging him over the edge with me.

I can’t stop shaking.

My body forgot how to hold itself together and now it’s just coming apart in pieces on top of him. Every nerve ending is lit up and raw, and he’s still inside me, still holding me like he can’t bear to let me go. Like pulling out would take more strength than he has left.

I’m gasping into his neck, clinging to him, legs trembling on either side of his hips. My whole body feels too full, too hot, too wrecked to even pretend I’m okay. I’m not. I don’t want to be. I want to stay right here. Messy and ruined in his lap, his hands still bruising my waist, his breath stuttering in my ear.

“Holy fuck,” Stan murmurs, like he’s trying to catch up with what just happened, “You okay?”

I nod against his neck. It’s the only thing I can do. I can’t speak yet. My throat’s tight, my body still twitching in little aftershocks that make me clench around him involuntarily, and when I do, he groans. Deep. Filthy. Wrecked.

He’s still hard.

I feel it, twitching inside me. Still thick, still aching. He didn’t come.

I blink, dazed, pulling back just enough to look at him. His hair’s damp with sweat, cheeks flushed and jaw tight like he’s barely holding it together. He’s staring at me like he wants to devour me. Like I just broke him in the best possible way.

“You didn’t...” I whisper, voice barely there.

He shakes his head once. Sharp. Focused.

“No,” He breathes, “I couldn’t. Not until I felt you come,”

And something about how serious he sounds, how wrecked he looks just holding back... It makes my whole body react.

Because he’s not done.

Still thick, still pulsing, still so hard it’s almost unbearable now that I’m this sensitive.

Now that I’ve already fallen apart and everything in me is overstimulated and raw. And he’s holding still like it’s killing him. Like staying buried in me and not moving takes more restraint than anything he’s ever done in his life.

I can feel him trembling under my hands.

Stan hasn’t let go of my hips. His grip’s loosened, but he’s still there.

Still grounding himself, like if he shifts too soon, he’ll lose every ounce of control he’s got left.

His forehead’s pressed to mine. His eyes are closed. His mouth is slightly open, like he’s stuck in that moment between need and restraint, and he’s barely surviving either.

I could end it right now. I could shift my hips. Tighten around him again. Whisper something reckless and cruel right into his ear like “Finish what you started,”

He’d come in seconds. I know it.

But I don’t.

And then his eyes meet mine.

Dark. Bleary. Wrecked. Like I’m the only thing left in the world he wants to survive for. And his voice is low when he speaks, low enough to burn.

“I’m not done with you,”

Not a question. Not a plea.

Just truth. Plain and wrecked and urgent.

He doesn’t wait.

Stan’s hands tighten on my hips, jaw clenched like he’s trying to keep from losing it too fast. He shifts under me, braces his feet, and then he thrusts up slow and deep, until I can’t breathe.

I gasp. My head falls forward. My nails dig into his shoulders because I can’t not hold onto something when he fucks me like that. Like now that he’s got permission, he’s going to make me feel every second I made him wait.

“God, you take me so fucking well,” He groans, breath hot against my ear, “Like your body’s made for me,”

I shudder. Every muscle in my body tightens up. It’s too much and somehow not enough, and all I can do is whimper, quiet and needy, already dizzy from the stretch and the slick slide of him moving inside me again, deeper this time, more focused. Less frantic.

He’s not snapping now. He’s owning it.

Setting a pace that builds, slow and brutal, unrelenting, like he’s chasing something low and dangerous in his gut. Every thrust hits harder. Every drag out is slower, meaner, teasing the edge of my sanity.

And I can’t stop moaning. Can’t stop grinding into him, meeting every thrust like I’m chasing it too. My legs are shaking again. My pulse is everywhere. Stan’s got one hand between us now, thumb finding that same spot he already knows makes me cry out, and it’s too much.

“Come again for me,” He growls, breathless, “I wanna feel you come on my cock. Wanna feel it while I’m inside you,”

And I do. God. I do.

It hits harder the second time.

Like I was already on the edge and he knew exactly where to push. My body tense before I can stop it. My hips stuttering, thighs locking around his waist, breath catching in my throat in this gasp that doesn’t sound human.

I can’t even pretend to be quiet. I don’t care if the whole town hears me. He fucks me through it like he’s trying to memorize how I fall apart. Like every tremor, every twitch, every sound I make is something he’s been chasing for years.

I swear I black out for a second. Just white heat. Full body shiver. Everything clenching around him while he keeps thrusting, keeps talking, keeps holding me like I’m the only thing that matters.

“Good girl,” Stan pants against my neck, fucked out and desperate, “Fuck, you feel that? That’s mine now. You– God– You’re mine like this,”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My mouth’s open, my nails are dragging down his back, and he’s so deep I think I see stars when I blink.

He’s close. I can feel his muscles are tight, shaking, trying not to come too fast but right there, right at the edge, body trembling under mine like I’ve stripped him down to something raw and real.

“I’m gonna– Fuck, I’m gonna come,” He groans, voice breaking, “Where– Where do you want it?”

Every thought slips out of my head at once.

I just pull him in deeper.

I hold onto him and take it

I feel him break inside me.

He buries himself deep, hips snapping up one final time, body going rigid as a groan rips from his chest so raw and loud it sounds like pain.

But it’s pleasure. Hot, overwhelming, perfect. His fingers digging bruises into my hips as he comes, filling me until I feel it everywhere. Inside me, around me, throbbing through me.

I hold him tighter. Wrap my arms around his neck, breathing in his scent, whiskey and sweat. It’s something warm, comforting, and his.

I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m so far gone, still twitching from the aftershocks, still pulsing softly around him, feeling every last second of his release like it’s mine too.

Stan doesn’t move. He stays right there, forehead pressed to my shoulder, breathing shallow and ragged against my skin. It’s quiet now, just the hum of the forgotten TV and the sound of our breathing, shaky and uneven. His heart’s hammering against my chest, racing in sync with mine.

Finally, he lifts his head, eyes glazed and soft. He looks wrecked. Undone. Beautiful.

“Fuck,” He whispers, still catching his breath, “You... Holy fuck,”

I don’t answer. I just lean in and kiss him, soft and slow.

Because right now, I don’t care about anything else.

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