#hope this is good..

“No way we just cut straight to nipple play. It’s been three minutes.”

“One moment you’re delivering pizza, the next you’re slobbering on a stranger’s tits,” Stan says solemnly, making you crack up. He grins at you, proud, and you try to get your laughs out before pulling another toke. “That’s just how it was back then.” You resist the urge to snort and lower the joint, sucking fresh air between your teeth.

“Back in your day?” you tease, then breathe slowly out. Stan barks out a laugh.

“Hey, I’m sharin’ real history here,” he jokes, reaching out again. You titter and hand the joint over again, your fingertips brushing briefly before you’re able to lean back into your side of the couch. For a guy who thought a decent ounce of weed still cost twenty bucks, max, he’s got the tolerance of a god. You're taking it easy, taking smaller hits than Stan is.

“I don’t trust your judgment, old man,” you say, wagging a finger at him, before a loud, overdramatic moan pierces the air. You both whip your heads to the screen, already laughing by the time you register Delivery Guy’s long, skinny dick sinking into Bachelorette’s pussy as she’s bent over the couch’s armrest. “That was nothing! No foreplay, nothing!”

“You don’t need foreplay in the movies, bud. That’s the magic of Hollywood.” You cast Stan a serious side eye, squinting at him as he eyes the joint. The bright cherry at the end has died down, and Stan glances around a moment for your lighter. You spot it next to him, halfway between the couch cushions, and point to it. “Hey, thanks.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who ‘doesn’t believe’ in foreplay,” you say. Stan scoffs at you as he raises the joint to his lips, his other hand flicking the lighter with ease.

“Not in the movies. Movies are different, y’know,” he grumbles, touching the flame to the burnt end to reignite that cherry again. You watch as the tip turns bright red, blazing hot, and Stan’s cheeks suck in slightly as he takes a drag. Then he lets the flame extinguish, brings the joint away and lets his head roll back to the top of the couch cushion as he breathes the smoke out.

Your gaze is drawn to the long, sturdy line of his jaw. The sharp shadow underneath, the dim glow of the television casting light across the planes of his face. You lean back against the couch’s armrest, letting your gaze trail lazily towards the wisps of smoke reaching, stretching towards the ceiling. You open your mouth to say something.

“Yeah, yeah, stick that hot dick in my pussy,” Bachelorette says from onscreen, and your laugh this time is more out of surprise than anything. Stan snorts, blessed enough to have been paying at least a little attention to the movie. He doesn’t seem fazed by the change in position; Delivery Guy is sitting like a normal person on the beaten fabric couch, with Bachelorette’s back to him, her front facing the camera. She moans, long and high, as she sinks down on his dick. “Yes, yes, yes!”

You still have the remnants of a smile on your face as you watch, the top-notch weed keeping you bright-eyed. But you’re quickly lost in the movie. The bachelorette’s mouth falls into a satisfying circle, her back arching as she starts bouncing in her partner’s lap. Delivery Guy’s face is out of frame, but his hands are tight on Bachelorette’s hips. Your eyes follow the flexing of his fingers, dragging her down all the way onto his dick and then letting up his grip when she moves upwards. Every so often he lets out a groan, backing the impressive vocals of the woman riding him like a champ.

Huh. This part doesn’t feel as cheesy as the others.

“Oh yeah,” Bachelorette whines out, her eyes clenched shut. “Fuck, yes.”

In your peripheral, Stan takes another drag. Lowers the joint. Then he exhales slowly, so slowly, the smoke gliding out in a loose stream towards the television. The silence between you two isn’t awkward, not really—you’re just watching a movie. He's just smoking some weed.