Talk to me, please
You and Stan have been best friends for as long as you can remember, as thick as thieves people would say. And though you say you have no secrets between you, you hold back one thing. What happens when you pull away from him, to protect your peace?
Warnings: smut MDNI, fem!reader(afab) but I tried to otherwise be non descriptive, yearning from both sides, idiots in love, slight angst but happy ending, reader is alluded to being a virgin, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls), kinda switchy reader
WC: 6.8k
A/n: Y'all this took me so long, the writers block was BAD, but at last, she is out and ready for the world. I think I will be writing for Pope Cody next so let me know if you have any special requests:) -Colibri
The entirety of your life, Stan Rosado hasn’t been further than two steps behind you. Ever since the two of you were children, Stan’s small body trailing behind you like a moth to the warmth of a flame was not an uncommon sight to see on your kindergarten playground. His young mind didn’t quite understand why, but the moment your family moved into the house right next to his, and he saw your tiny face meekly hiding behind your mother’s legs as you clutched onto your golden furred teddy bear, he knew that you were something special, someone that looked into him, saw him.
Thick as thieves is what everybody would say at the sight of the both of you, never separate, always together. He’d always have his hand around yours as you both walked to school, defend you from other kids who picked on you, regardless of his comparatively smaller size. By the time middle school rolled around, the time you spent together went from foolishly running around in the backyard to sharing lingering hugs that left you both red in the face, and giggling while sharing secrets in each other's rooms, pausing only to roll your eyes when his mom would call you two down for dinner.
When you started high school, things changed a little bit…Stan was still Stan, the sweet boy who’d hold your hand during scary movies to ease the rising fear you felt, the boy who would walk you home after a late study where nothing got done besides him pestering you with smalltalk while you tried to keep him on track (without success)... But the dynamic between you had shifted.
You weren’t blind. Puberty had taken its grand toll on him, just as it did you, and with the newfound height, strength, and beauty, Stan’s social standing transformed as well. He wasn’t the short, inconspicuous, easy to miss freshman he once was when he first entered the lions den of high school. He became an athlete, star quarterback even, seen and heard by all, and though he still acted like the same guy you knew when you were kids, something newer formed beneath the surface of your bond.
When he’d walk up to you from across the hallway and wrap his arms around you in a tight embrace, it felt different. The smell of his cologne infiltrating your senses and the warmth of his chest pressing against yours paired with the feeling of his large hands, calloused with the years of football practice made you feel something warm that you’d only let yourself feel late at night, where your thoughts were the only thing keeping you company in the moonlit expanse of your bedroom.
As you laid in bed, you'd think back at the rosy tinge that would stain your face and ears at his touch, just as it did when you were young, but now, this lingering, burning pit in your lower belly would show itself at every touch you two shared, fluttering rapidly and making you squirm to remind you just how deep in feelings you were in. You honestly think he knows what his touch does to you, with the way his own face flushes and the way he lets go with an awkward clear of his throat as he slightly angles his body away from you. You think that he probably doesn’t say anything to prevent you from going through the embarrassment of rejection, or risking complicating the friendship that you have.
During those thought-filled nights, Stan would make an appearance in your mind at one point or another. It felt inevitable—fated even, but nurturing those thoughts wasn't an option because you knew it would never happen, it was stupid and naive… Nothing but hurt and disappointment would come from it if you continued on living a life of delusion where you thought that Stan Rosado would feel even the slightest bit about you the way you did for him.
Girls flocked towards him—cool girls, hot girls—girls who weren’t at all like you. He never gave them the time of day, always saying they were too superficial for him, but you saw the way he searched for your face through the crowd of people with every advance made towards him, like he wanted to hide the fact that he enjoyed the attention. Maybe it was to torment you, to say that he climbed up the grueling social hierarchy that ruled the student population of Harrington High, while you stay stagnant in your place, stuck with the humbling label of being the jock’s pity friend.
You thought about asking him many times—if he’d outgrown your friendship, if he needed something more than what you could offer to him as a friend, but doing so felt unfathomably pathetic because you knew the truth, and because you also knew he wouldn't say it to you. So instead, you settled for slowly pulling away from him, taking the initiative he was too sweet to take first.
*****
It starts with slowly cutting your late, admittedly very useless study sessions short, mumbling excuses about having an early morning the next day, the same early mornings that you had no issue dealing with before, even when by the time you got back home, getting just a few hours of sleep would be a feat. The soft quirk of his eyebrows and the tilt of his head as he stares at you, like trying to decipher your thoughts, makes your heart twist, and though the doubt frames his face clearer than the moon that illuminates the sky above you, he lets you go, because that’s who Stan is.
Your dedication to pulling away from your best friend doesn’t end there. You start avoiding him in the halls, purposefully timing your retreat just as a buddy from the team gets his attention, or when you’re feeling particularly self-pitying and sad, you avoid the halls all together, shutting yourself in an empty classroom, surrounded only by the slightly concerning sounds the water pipes behind the walls make just to not have to see his soft eyes look at you with that expression that makes your chest ache and your resolve falter.
*****
Stan is visibly moping. He has been for the past two weeks you’ve been avoiding him and it’s killing you. The sunken bags under his eyes and the stunted morale he emanates isn’t just picked up on by you either. His friends notice it, the girls that want him notice it—hell coach Willis notices it too—but even with the multitude of eyes watching him, wondering why the star quarterback of all people is walking around looking like a kicked puppy, he couldn’t put on a face. This wasn’t like the times when he could hide behind a smile while his father put weight of the world on him, or when the stress of football got too much, this was about you, the girl who’s been by his side for what feels like his entire life, the person he goes to when nothing feels right, this wasn’t something he could just cover up like everything else in his life, so Stan chose to just navigate the halls with the burning hope that the two of you would just go back to the way you were.
By the time the Saturday before the third week rolls around, the silence Stan has been on the receiving end of has become completely and utterly unbearable. His every thought is plagued with hypotheticals of what he might have done to make you turn away from him, and anything he could do to just make you talk to him like you used to. I mean he gave you time alone, hoping that it would only take you a couple days to compartmentalise with whatever was bothering you before you would open up to him, but this was too long without you, the longest you’ve ever been like this, actually this is the only time it has happened and there is no way in hell he’s going to be able to take omre of this without losing his mind.
You’ve always been able to talk about your issues with each other. No secrets, is what you’d say, a pact that hasn’t been broken on either end the entirety of your friendship…to your knowledge at least.
Maybe she knows.
The thought that crosses his mind makes his heart drop to his ass.
What if she knows and she’s disgusted with you.
Stan feels a deep, cavernous pit open up within him, swallowing all his sanity in its wake. He thinks back to all the times he had tried so desperately to not give you any inkling of the one thing he could never tell you.
Every minute he would spend with you was filled with restraint, it had been like this for years. Restraint against all the ways he wanted to show you how much you meant to him. You knew he loved you, just as he knew that you loved him, as a friend, as a confidant, but what he had neglected to tell you for years was that he loved you far more than a friend. He hid the fact that he dreams about holding you in his arms after a long day, breathing softly into your hair as you hold him, just before he pulls back and leans down to meet your soft lips with his own. He dreams about being able to call himself yours, for everybody to know that there was nobody else for either of you, especially the guys that he’d catch gawking at you everywhere you went. He dreams of having the privilege of touching you the way nobody else has, of being the only person other than yourself to elicit the sweet breathy sounds he’d occasionally hear floating out of your bedroom window late into the night as he fisted his dick that strained miserably against his pajama pants before he couldn’t hold out any longer.
He knew that telling you about his feelings would change things, and maybe he’d end up losing you all together, and that was simply not an option. He’d much rather watch you live your life from afar, watching you graduate university, get a job, find love, maybe even get married and have kids with someone else than not have you in his life at all. He doesn’t know how he’ll deal if it ever comes to that, watching another man live a life with you that he never stopped wishing for since he was a little boy. Maybe he’d get a cabin in the middle of nowhere, cold and isolated, only leaving for town on special days like your birthday, just to see you smile before heading back up to his fortress of solitude as he lamented on not telling you how he felt sooner because seeing you happy with someone else made living feel like a chore.
He almost told you too many times to count, nearly every time he’s around you now that he thinks. But with every slip of his resolve, an image of your face drenched in disgust and betrayal flashes before his eyes, and just as quickly as the walls of his resolve break down, they build back up, strengthened, scared. He can’t risk being the reason for things to end between you two, so he instead shows his love to you in other ways… whether it’s with a gentle brush of your hair behind your ear when it gets into your face, or by hugging you so tightly after you gush to him about the A you got on your paper, even though it’s the only letter you’ve received on any of the ones before. He tries to hide the blush that washes over his face and the stiffness that graces his pants at the proximity, but god knows that he’s only a man, so hiding his unwilling bodily reactions with a slight clear of his throat and an awkward angling of his hips is the only tool he can use to stop his secret from becoming more obvious than it already is.
He used to wonder how you didn’t know about the way he felt, because as much as he’d like to think that he can lie, he knows better than to be naive, especially when the lying is to you. The teasing he’d get from his teammates didn’t help his situation either, their teasing exaggerated wet smooching sounds as he mentioned having one of your movie nights in lieu of hanging out after practice as you waited for him patiently at the bleachers, passing your time by doodling or finishing up homework always made his shoulders stiffen with the possibility of you finding out.
He didn’t better his chances of preventing you from figuring out his secret with the way he’d follow you around the halls like a watch dog, desperate for attention, or the way his round eyes would quickly find yours across any room when girls would hit on him, wearing the same startled expression a devoted husband would when someone other than his wife flirts with him. It made him feel like he was cheating, which was dumb because you’d need to be together for that to happen, and you don’t even know that he loves you, he thinks.
Maybe you knew about his crush, but just didn’t mention it to him. Maybe lying about that knowledge became too much, so much that you couldn’t be near him any longer.
The isolation hurts. More than anything he’s ever felt before, and he decided that he was going to do something about it.
*****
It’s seven in the evening now and you’re an hour late to your study session for Mr. Carter’s algebra test next week. He was going to talk to you about the growing rift you both feel. The doubt of whether you would show up to his house at all today lingered in the back of his mind, but he had pushed that idea away because you promised to come over while his parents were out of town for the weekend. With each ticking minute, the hope he has slowly wanes away at the absence of your sweet voice that should’ve filled his room by now. Two more minutes pass with Stan pacing back and forth, nearly wearing a hole through his floor before he can’t take the wait anymore.
*****
You lay on your back on your bed, the gentle thrum of your wallclock’s ticking echoes, and you’re actively breaking your promise to your best friend. You promised him that you’d come over to study for your satan incarnate teacher’s test, but you couldn’t be near him, not alone at least because you know that the wall you’ve built the past two weeks will come crumbling down if you have to see the desperate, misty look he gives you in the halls up close.
Tears burn your eyes at the knowledge of being the reason he wears that face so often nowadays. As you bury your head into your pillows with the prayer that these emotions go away a sharp knocking against your window startles you out of your self-loathing time of reflection.
You’re met with a red-faced Stan clinging onto your windowsill when you open your curtains to investigate the strange noise. He looks up at you as he mouths something unintelligible, it takes you a while to open the window so he could actually get in and say whatever it is that he wants to.
“Did you jump out your window onto mine?” The question escapes you the moment Stan enters the confines of your room.
“You’re ignoring me.”
The words hang heavy in the humid early summer air, not a question, but a statement. The way his eyes search to meet yours doesn’t escape you, but the fluff of your carpet seems to be exceptionally interesting to look at all of a sudden. The gentle sound of your name coming from his mouth forces you to look back at him.
“You’re ignoring me,” he says again.
“I’m not, I was just tired ‘s all.” The lie that spills from you so naturally makes you feel sick in a way that you’ve become all too familiar with the past couple weeks, but still, breaking your promise to always be honest with each other without the buffer of a noisy hallway, full of people rushing to get places or the loud trill of crickets that consume the street at night emphasises the gravity of what you are doing.
“You’ve been tired for two weeks?” He asks incredulously, the fact that you just lied hits him heavy in the gut. “...Yo-you don’t have to lie to me y’know,” Stan continues, “I just want to know why, is it something I did, or something I said…I- please, talk to me.” His voice cracks as he pleads with you.
The following silence that fills the room hurts. Too much to let it linger.
“I know you’ve outgrown me as a friend Stan,” you said, “I can tell…” It feels humiliating to say it out loud, the sharp prickling feeling erupts on your face as you struggle to even look at your best friend.
“What are you talking about?”
“I see the way you look at me in the halls—or when we hug… I know I embarrass you.”
“Embarass me?” He says your name sternly, “what are you talking about right now, because the last thing you do is embarrass me, tell me, when have I ever shown that I was embarrassed of you?”
“Your face turns red when we hug,” You see Stan’s body tense at that, “and you always turn away after like you can’t even stand the sight of me, and don't think I don’t notice the way you make sure I’m not there when another girl throws herself at you incase she gets turned off by the fact that you even associate with me!” The pent up frustration fills your increasingly strained voice.
With your words, your previously confrontational best friend can no longer find it in himself to hold your gaze. You watch as his eyes dart everywhere around the room except for where you stand on your frilly carpet.
With a shaky exhale the boy in front of you finally speaks, his eyes still refusing to meet yours, “It’s not embarrassment—" a scoff of disbelief escapes you before you know it, “no seriously, I would never be embarrassed by you.”
“Then what is it Stan?” You ask.
You see him hesitate and swallow deeply, like he’s holding in something that physically hurts to do so. A small inkling of hope swells within you, maybe he feels the same way, but as the silence between the two of you continues, the hope slowly begins to ebb away. Just before you reach your wits end and ask him to leave so you can save yourself from the torment of this situation, Stan’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“I love you.”
You were no stranger to telling Stan that you loved him, to him knowing you loved him, especially as young kids, but the frequency of those words being exchanged between you dwindled to none as you got older. The words got too real, the meaning became different, no longer just friendly, and the connotation became too complicated. You know what he means with the words he just said—hell you’ve wanted to say it more times than you could count—but you still feel like you’re filling yourself up with false hope.
Stan finally looks up at you to gauge your reaction before he continues, “I love you —more than a friend, and I didn’t want to scare you off o-o-or ruin what we have, but now you won’t talk to me anyways so I might as well. I miss you so much and I’m sorry I made you think that you’re not important to me because you are an-and you mean so much to me, and I love you and I’m sorry and I just want you to talk to me like you used to, please forgive me.” He was aware of how stupid he must look, teary eyed, out of breath, and nonsensically rambling as he tried to tell you what he’s been feeling for so long, but he can’t bring himself to stop.
Your lack of response to the word vomit he just spewed out makes his stomach lurch with anxiety. “Talk to me please,” he begs.
You don’t say anything, you can’t with the way your heart pounds against your ribcage with the knowledge that the man you’ve been in love with for what feels like forever feels the same way about you, but you’ve always been told that actions count more than words, so that’s what you do, you act.
Stan watches you, eyes still watery, and bottom lip wobbling as you slowly walk towards him. He curiously calls out your name as you get closer, sandwiching him between yourself and your bed. You’re in his personal space now, and you can feel the warmth of his ragged breaths as you look up at him to make eye contact with him. You take a step forward, and with the slight push of your body, Stan stumbles back onto your bed.
He doesn’t stop looking at you expectantly, praying that the words that will come out of your mouth—if any—will not be ones of disgust. “Please,” he whispers.
“Please what, Stan?” You respond back. You wait a second, simply looking down at him sitting on the edge of your bed before you boldly swing your leg over him and sit down so that you are straddling his lap. His eyes widen to the size of saucers and his hands shoot up to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Please what, hmn?” You tuck a small curl behind his ear, urging him to speak.
“Please,” he swallows deeply, “please talk to me.”
“But I am right now aren’t I?” You question back with confidence you couldn’t imagine feeling just five minutes back, but the obvious effect you have on your best friend and the fact that your feelings are reciprocated has ignited something within you, it makes your inexperience feel insignificant. Stan huffs with a pained expression painting his pretty face, clearly frustrated with your snarky teasing.
“Do you hate me?”
The worry that laces his voice pulls at your heartstrings. You cup his cheeks in your hands to make him look at you as you tell him what you’ve been waiting to tell him for a long time.
“I love you Stan.”
The shaky exhale that leaves him as he processes your words echoes through your bedroom, it only serves to highlight the weight of what you just said.
“Really?” Insecurity is clear in his voice as a fresh wave of tears well in his eyes “because I don’t want you to think you have to say this because I did.”
You don’t respond, instead, you lean your face closer to his, angling your head to press a soft, gentle kiss on his cheek. The quiet sound and feeling of your warm lips meeting the flesh of his cheek causes Stan’s eyes to squeeze shut, especially with the fact that this is one of the only instances you’ve touched him in the last two weeks, other than when you sat on his lap just a minute ago. The heat of your body against his, your legs spread across his lap, so close to where he’s dreamed of you touching him makes him squirm, an increasingly uncomfortable tent forming in his pants.
He tries to scoot back to further the distance between you and the throbbing hard on he’s sporting, to be a gentleman, but that only draws your attention towards it sooner. His face whips to look at yours when he hears you gasp, and immediately his hands shoot out to cover the obscene bulge in front of you.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He rushes out, with an all too familiar red tinge gracing his cheeks.
Watching the colour on the boy’s face as he squirms anxiously finally opens your eyes to an explanation you’ve been too oblivious to notice the entire time. “Oh my god, is that why you always avoid me after we hug?” You ask, finally having connected the dots regarding his odd post-hug behaviours.
He screws his eyes shut with embarrassment, and though he doesn’t respond to your question, the silence he gives fills in the blanks just as well.
“Stan I thought you hated me, or that you felt weird knowing I liked you or something,” you said, “but the whole time, this is why you couldn’t look at me afterwards?”
His head hangs in shame, assuming that you were ridiculing him.
“Hey, don’t be embarrassed… I like it.”
His head snaps back up, clearly not expecting the meek confession from you. What he also does not expect is to feel you move yourself up on his lap, your nightgown bunching up a little more as you sit yourself down over the bulge of his jeans.
Stan can’t help the desperate whimper that rips from his throat with the fact that you were sitting your bare cunt on him with only two layers of fabric separating the two of you. The fact that you wear no underwear at home was something he learned by accident a year ago, when the two of you were hanging out in your room on your bed when you decided to crawl to the end of your bed to try and grab a snack off your vanity.
He still remembers the way his breathing stopped as your frilly nightgown rode further up the more you reached, revealing not only your pert ass, but also the prettiest pussy he had ever seen in his entire life, faintly glistening in the dim, warm light of your bedroom—not that he’d seen many—but he knows, that nothing in the world could ever live up to the visual you had unknowingly gifted him, he knew that as he rushed to your bathroom, blaming a terrible stomach ache with all the candy you two consumed as he thrusted his leaking dick into his fist, pretending it was your mouth, or your cute pussy that got him into this predicament in the first place wrapped around him instead of his hand. And to now know that the very same cunt that caused him so many sleepless nights is resting right on top of where he dreamed it would be someday, has him shaking.
“How much do you love me?” Your voice brings him out of his trance.
“So much,” Stan replies with a whisper of your name.
His hands still hover by you, so close, but still not touching. You slowly reach for his hands, feeling the way they tremble slightly in yours before you guide them to your waist. The silent push is all the encouragement he needs to wrap his arms around you completely, pulling you tight against his own body and resting head against your chest. You can smell the cologne he wears everyday on him, a faint, masculine scent with a touch of sweetness, a fragrance that you’ve missed more than you can say in the past two weeks. You try not to inhale too deeply like a weirdo, but the isolation from him makes trying to look normal seem entirely unimportant. The scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him paired with the pressure of his head on your breasts make your hips involuntarily buck against his.
“Oh-ohh fuck-”
Stan’s head tips back, mouth falling open with heavy pants as he feels you rock against him. You start to move more intentionally now, putting more weight into your rocking just to feel the seam of his jeans brush up on your sensitive clit. The bulge of his cock is so warm against you, and you feel the way he gently bucks up in desperation, progressively getting worse at restraining his thrusts against your wet cunt.
A particularly needy buck from underneath you guides your attention to your best friend’s face. You watch as he stares at your hardened nipples poke through the thin fabric of your nightgown with glassy eyes and breathy whimpers leaving his pink lips, like he’s in some sort of haze. You’d never seen Stan look more pathetic, and he’s never been more irresistible as his soft parted lips, damp with spit murmur your name like a prayer. Your body moves instinctually, leaning down to teasingly brush your lips against his, reveling in the frantic huffs you feel coming from him. The moment you finally bridge the gap, fully meeting his lips with your own and take his plump bottom lip between yours, suckling softly as he moans into your mouth feels like a dream, but the violent twitch of his dick in his pants, and the deep red colouring on his face keeps you grounded in reality.
While Stan is too busy focusing on kissing the girl he loves back and trying not to cum in his pants like a pubescent boy, you reach towards the straps of your nightgown on your shoulders, steadily bringing them down to let the cups of your dress sit underneath your tits as you bare your chest in front of him for the first time. You move back a little on his lap, wanting to see his reaction fully.
The sound that comes from his mouth as he takes in your frame is nothing short of a whine. “Oh my god,” he stutters out. His eyes dart rapidly between your face and your chest, “Can I-” his words get interrupted by an involuntary moan when you move yourself closer to him again, putting your tits right in front of his face. “Fuck, can I touch you?” He pleads, “Please baby lemme touch you.”
Your pussy flutters helplessly at the new term of endearment.
“Please Stan, I want you to touch me.”
You feel the rough surface of his palms trail up your sides, hands lingering and rubbing your flesh. The corners of Stan’s mouth lift slightly at the sigh you let out as his fingers brush the underside of your tits. He continues touching you like that, drawing out more sweet sounds from you that make the pathetic wet spot in his pants grow bigger before moving further up to gently circle the pebbled skin of your nipples, pinching them lightly between his digits. The callousedness of his fingertips against the softness of your skin is unlike anything you’ve felt before. “Yeah?” He asks, “that feel good?” The sound of your name on his lips elicits another moan from you.
Plush auburn curls tickle your sternum as a warm wetness covers your nipple. The heat of his mouth is instantly followed with the cool bite of air hitting damp skin as Stan pulls back. If you thought that the touch of his hands was something, this was otherworldly. When you look at him, you find that he’s already returning the gesture, face flushed and anticipating.
No words need to be exchanged, it’s like the two of you can speak just fine through looks and deep breaths because the wanton expression you wear is enough encouragement for his lips to dip closer to where you wanted him once again. You watch as his pink tongue slips past his lips to gently lick the sensitive peak of your breast, teasingly, like he was testing the waters.
Just as a whine of annoyance starts to form in your throat, his entire mouth surrounds your nipple. The filthy sounds of him sucking reverently and swirling his tongue against your pebbled flesh float around your bedroom, pitchy sounds of your pleasure and the muffled noises of his own join to make the environment more depraved than it already is. You feel heat prick your cheeks as you grind your hips harder on the damp fabric of his jeans. “Fuck, Sta—oh my god I’m close.”
He groans deeply at your confession, sucking deeper before releasing you with a wet pop to shift his attention to your other breast as he grabs and guides your hips on his with determination. “You can do it,” He whimpers your name, “mm-god yeah I can’t believe I get you like this, never thought—ohhh fuck—never thought you’d want me”
“Always want you Stan.” You say as you near your orgasm, he grips you tighter. “Wait,” your movements slow abruptly.
He stops instantly, hands loosening on your hips as he searches your face worriedly. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no I just-,” you kiss his lips between your words, “I want to feel you without the clothes, wanna feel you against me.” Your voice is desperate.
The next few moments are silent, except for the rustling sounds of clothes being taken off and sloppy kisses being shared. Once the both of you are completely bare, Stan moves to sit at the far end of your bed, back leaning against the headboard. He just stares at you as you stand in front of him—more so, he stares at your pussy and the wet mess you’ve made of your inner thighs. His dick twitches against his thigh at the sight, tip flushed a deep red as it leaks onto his skin.
Stan’s throat bobs with a nervous swallow as you saunter toward him, and both of your mouths fall open as you retake your previous position on his lap, now without the barriers of multiple layers of fabric dampening the feeling of each other. He’s so thick between your legs as you fully sit on him and you’ve never felt more sensitive in your life. The heat of his cock feels almost unbearable against your clit as you slowly begin to slide back and forth. You desperately continue gliding your hips along his, reveling in the whiny sounds Stan lets out at the feeling of you.
Callused hands halt the languid movement of your body. “I’ll…You have to—I wanna last,” he grits out, chest heaving and flushed with exertion.
“Okay,” you mumble against his lips while you try to quell the aching that burns through your entirety. Rocking your hips back and forth with the little range of motion you have under his firm grip almost makes the neediness you feel worse, but your body craves the fleeting release. The restrained pants of your best friend as your pussy wets the length of his weeping dick makes stopping feel unimaginable, and when the sensitivity gets too much for him, so much so that he slumps back, sliding further down the headboard with his hands still holding you as you roll your pelvis enough to let the leaky tip of his cock catches against you clit again, and again, and again.
“Please baby—oh fuck—please I’ll come if you keep moving,” he says, mouth open against yours. He watches the way he disappears between your cunt before his tip pokes out, the ridges of him stimulating you and causing your back to arch in pleasure.
“It’s…oh my god…okay if you do Stan,” you breathlessly mumble back with a gentle peck against his bottom lip, the chaste quality of the kiss a stark contrast to your current actions.
“No, I want to be inside you when I come.”
You whine as your hand snakes down and wraps around him, stroking him languidly before lifting yourself slightly while bringing him to where you want him the most. You know that you aren’t the most experienced person in the world, and you also know that Stan knows that too. A sudden sense of anxiety washes over you at the thought of disappointing him, of making him regret sharing himself with you like this.
“Hey,” Stan's voice hums while his hand reaches up to cup your cheek. “I love you… don’t have to worry about anything, it’s just me.”
His soft voice reminds you of who you’re with, and why you fell in love with him in the first place. It also reminds you of how silly you must have looked, but you don’t dwell on that for long since you’re too preoccupied with Stan’s hand guiding your hips down onto him.
His eyes lock on to yours as he fills you up inch by inch. The stretch almost burns uncomfortably, and it probably would if his fingers weren’t rubbing slow circles on your clit. You watch as his eyes roll into the back of his skull as he sees himself sink into you, he can see the way your cunt squeezes around him, and god can he feel it.
“I love you Stan.” Your voice transitions into a moan so pornographic it makes your face burn with embarrassment. You shakily lift yourself up till only the tip of him is left in you before you slowly bring yourself down. The feeling of him hitting your cervix brings tears of pleasure to your eyes and tears a stuttered cry from the boy beneath you.
“Yeah? Fuck I love you so much, wanted you like this so bad.”
“Mhm.” forming actual words seems to be a lost art with how he feels inside you.
In an instant, you feel both of his arms wrap around the small of your waist tighter, bringing you to his chest as he fully falls back onto the bed. His hips buck up into you, grinding against the spot that makes you feel like you’re gonna pass out from sensitivity as the trimmed hair at the base of his dick rubs against your clit deliciously.
Animalistic sounds come from you as he grabs the hair at the back of your head to bring your face to his, his dusky pink lips—now flushed brighter with all the kissing you had been doing sucking desperately on your tongue. This kiss is messy, gnarly, full of saliva and want. You can hear the sounds of your mouths moving together, swallowing the noises the other makes.
“Harder,” you beg.
Without another word uttered from him, Stan flips you over so that you’re on your back underneath him with your thighs bracketing his sides before he hooks the arm that isn’t holding him up beneath one of your knees, pulling you closer so that you feel him deeper, all without pulling out from you for a moment. His hips move with a ferocity that can only be explained by the frustration of years of yearning and wanting you while thinking that nothing would ever come of it.
“I need you to come for me, not gonna last long.”
“I’m so close, please don’t stop, please.”
The tip of his cock keeps ramming into you in a way that makes your legs shake and stomach clench at your impending orgasm. His hand that isn’t holding himself up over you carefully lets go of your leg and moves away a lock of hair that sticks to your flushed face before trailing down to your lower stomach and resting there.
“Oh fuck!” You involuntarily clench around his throbbing cock as he presses the palm of his hand down into the flesh of your belly. His dick twitches hard at the feeling of you contracting around him. The added pressure paired with the intensity of his thrusts is what makes the coil snap. “I’m-I’m coming” is all the warning you can let out before your pussy spasms uncontrollably, gushing around him so hard that you swear you lose your ability to hear for a second.
Your whimpers and moans don’t stop as Stan continues to fuck you through your high, nearing his own climax as well. You tiredly move your hips to match his thrusts, even if the stimulation is getting too much to handle. “Want you to come Stan, come inside me baby.” Your sweet fucked out voice tells him to fill you up, asking him to do something so dirty so sweetly makes his hips stutter. He groans and hides his face in your neck, inhaling your scent as he empties himself inside of you.
Stan arm gives out and he lays his entire body weight on you. The room is quiet sans your heavy breathing and the unmistakable sound of wetness as he grinds his cum deeper. Your hand plays with the damp curls at the base of Stan’s neck as pepper little kisses across your shoulder, then neck, and over your face. You can’t control the giddy giggles that he pulls from you, especially after you see the grin that’s plastered on his own face.
You have never felt more at peace.
“I love you,” he whispers, kissing you softly.
“I love you.”
Sleep catches the both of you pretty quickly, but this time, instead of dread filling you like it has been recently, you feel serenity knowing that your love is reciprocated, knowing that your love is here with you.
