Chapter Text
This infomercial is truly baffling. A guy is stuffing a kitchen drawer full of can openers and shaking his head sadly when they can’t all fit. Is this a common problem around here? What even is the product? You adjust your perch on the weird T-Rex skull in Stan’s living room. In the kitchen, Stan grumbles something indistinct, accompanied by the clinking of bottles.
Stan’s decor is… interesting, for him, like he got overzealous with the conceit of the Mystery Shack and let it overflow into his house proper. (It had been renamed last month from the way funnier Murder Hut, which you had bemoaned plenty to Stan’s deaf ears.) There’s inscrutable scientific equipment and wiring piled into corners, shoved away from a hastily-laid rug in front of the TV. The kitchen is at least more like him – the pine wallpaper tickles you every time you see it.
For reasons Stan seemed unwilling to share, he had recently smashed his VCR with a hammer, so now you’re both at the whims of Gravity Falls television, but that can be fun too. At least even the commercials are entertaining, and the horror marathon running for Summerween is showcasing movies that you don’t think anyone other than the creators have even seen.
Stan comes back from the kitchen with two beers and a bag of chips in hand. “I thought I had popcorn, but turns out the were-squirrels ransacked the cabinets, so. Chow down on some…” He squints at the bag. “’Potato circles’.”
He tosses the bag of chips haphazardly in your direction. It smacks you in your face and falls into your hands, and he busts out laughing as he makes his way to the horribly ugly armchair he liberated from a closing furniture store last week.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” you say as you tear the bag open. “You won’t find it so funny when I eat all of these in retaliation.”
“Hah, I’ll just take ‘em from you. Like candy from a baby.”
You crunch a chip between your teeth and roll your eyes. “Like I’d let you.”
“What?” He reclines in the chair and passes you your beer with one eye on the TV. “You sayin’ you’d be able to fend me off?” A very low-budget thriller starts to play out onscreen. The movie sets the stage by showing a shadowy figure climbing into an unsuspecting woman’s home through an unlocked window. She screams in terror offscreen as suspiciously ketchup-y blood splatters the walls.
“Hey, I’m plenty capable of holding my own!” You throw a chip at his face.
For some reason he just lets it fall to the floor.
“Heh… I hope so,” he says oddly. Something dims his smile a bit.
You furrow your brow at him.
Abruptly, he stands up, leaving his beer on the chair. “I, uh, I gotta check something real quick.”
“Wait, what’s wrong?”
Leaving your chips and beer on the skull, you wipe condensation onto your t-shirt and follow Stan out into the hallway. He’s fiddling with the excess of locks on his front door. Then he moves to the windows and checks those too.
“Didn’t peg you as one to get spooked so easily,” you try.
He looks over his shoulder at you, eyes wide. “Yeah, uh, well…” He wiggles the lip of the window upwards and it doesn’t budge, so he takes off to the gift shop. “The movie just reminded me weirdos live out here, is all.”
Baffled, you follow him. “So you have to do this… now?” What’s got him all keyed up? Just a second ago, you were both having a normal evening, looking forward to decompressing from your customer-oriented jobs, and now he’s acting like he got tipped off to the mob.
Did he get tipped off to the mob?
“It’ll just be a sec,” Stan dismisses. He ekes open the screen door, sniffs the air, then shuts and locks it up tight. There’s a possessiveness in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. Did he just growl a little?
Wait a minute.
It’s your turn to sniff. There’s Stan’s usual deep-forest pinewood, steady and calming, and that shampoo he uses that you don’t like (coconut). Under that, though…
You step a bit closer. He’s looking at you now, shuffling back a bit against the back door. You take another whiff. Nutty, with a warm hint of spice.
“Stan, are you going into a rut?”
“What?” He raises his hands and looks at every corner of the room to avoid your face. “Of course not!”
You raise an eyebrow. “So I’m supposed to believe you smell like that just ‘cause?"
“Yes,” he deadpans.
“What – I know your scent, genius!”
“Well, maybe you’re wrong!”
You stare defiantly at each other. A low rumble starts in his throat, which doesn’t give his argument much weight. He backs off.
“Let’s just get back to the movie, or whatever! ...Once I check the kitchen windows.”
“Stan.”
“What?”
You point to his mouth. “Your fangs are coming in."
“Really?” A hand flies to his lips, a fingertip tentatively poking at his lengthened canines. He groans. “Motherfucker.”
Now that you know, the sudden protectiveness makes sense. And the eagerness to bring you a drink when you asked. And the way he ushered you inside like it was dangerous to stand on his porch for a second longer.
“It’s alright, I think they’re cute,” you say lightheartedly.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll still think they’re cute when I end up barricading you in my house and biting you like a moron,” he mutters. Then he’s sweeping you out the gift shop and towards the front door.
“Whoa, Stan, what are you doing?” At the liberally-locked door, you dig in your heels and cross your arms.
“I’ll grab your beer so you’re not leavin’ empty-handed, at least. Actually, is that jacket warm enough?” He points to the windbreaker you tossed over the banister when you came in. Then he looks at the darkness swiftly descending outside. “...Could also lend you a gun.”
“No! Wh – I don’t need a gun, and I’m not going anywhere!”
At that, Stan growls. “Are you blind? Alpha in rut! Unclaimed Omega! Ringin’ any bells?”
“Okay, I might be concerned, if you were an asshole, but you’re not!” You throw up your hands, then peer at him. “I – did you not know it was coming?”
He looks at the floorboards and mumbles, rubbing his neck. “Thought it was gonna be further out. Cycle ain’t regular.”
You blink. “They make meds for that,” is all you can think of saying.
“Yeah, well. S’not like it’s a problem, usually. Once it comes on I just hunker down and power through it. The first couple hours are the worst before I get a handle on it, so… out ya go.” He pushes past you and starts undoing locks.
“Stan, come on.” Your hand shoots out to grab his arm. He lets go of the locks, inhales sharply, and stares at the contact, then at you, pupils dark. The smell of rut and pine needles fills your nose.
A bit of slick slides down into your underwear in instinctual response.
“Shit! I’m sorry!” You wince. You weren’t thinking – any touch right now is going to be aggravating. You take a deep breath and carefully let him go, raising your hands. “Look, I’m not worried.”
He crosses his arms and deliberately backs away from you. “Well, why the fuck not?”
“Because! When I was an unclaimed Omega in an unexpected heat, you were nothing but nice about it. And didn’t you say yourself that you’ve got a lot of control over yourself during a rut? Which is not common, by the way. I think you need to be studied.”
He snorts. “Yeah, they’ll use their findings to end Alpha aggression worldwide.”
You crack a smile. “Seriously, if you want to be alone for your rut, that’s totally fine. But if you don’t, I can... stick around?” Despite being the one to offer, you know your cheeks are red. “If you need someone. If you’re only pushing me out because of a misguided fear, don’t. I trust you, Stan. I did then and I do now.”
“I…” For a moment he seems lost for words, which is a true rarity. He tugs at the sleeves of his hoodie, then pushes them up past his forearms. He must be getting warm now. Then, he sounds smaller than you think you’ve ever heard him. “Uh. Haven’t had someone around for a rut in a long time now.” He’s looking at you warily, with wavering eye contact.
“Do you… have solo ruts often?” You try to sound delicate. Rut suppression isn’t as common as heat suppression, but if anyone asks, you think it might be because Omegas are more commonly seen as responsible for making Alphas comfortable. Supposedly, Omegas need to keep a lid on their heats, while Alphas are more forgivable in their ruts.
That doesn’t mean solo ruts don’t suck. Not as much as solo heats, by general consensus, but Stan must still be aching for something to protect, for skin-to-skin contact, the grounding scent of an Omega, someone to claim. It must be lonely.
And you only went through a solo heat once, when your heat suppressants failed. Apparently he's done this enough times to have a system.
His face reddens, and he presses his lips together.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, I just, uh… I mean, I try to suppress them, when I can. But I can’t always. So I learned how to get through them the old fashioned way.”
As he talks, he heads into the living room, apparently conceding to your presence. You follow.
He picks up the beer he left on the armchair and takes a sip, shrugs. “Usually I just push it all down and white-knuckle it with nose plugs, locked doors, and masturbation.” Notably, he positions himself between you and the doorframe, blocking threats from the front door. He’s still tense, but maybe a little looser, which you’re grateful for.
You laugh and pick up your own beer. “Minus the nose plugs, that sounds like an average night for me.”
“Real funny,” he says, but he smirks, so you count that as a win.
“So no suppressants? Think I’d die without mine.”
“Hey, I remember you having a great time when yours turned out to be duds.” You punch him in the arm, and he cackles. “Nah, I’ve been off ‘em for, what, eight months? Moved here and just never put in the work to find a store that sells the ones that work on me. Again, finicky ruts.” He rolls his eyes.
“That must be annoying as hell.”
“Eh.” He waves a hand. “Like I said, I can power through. Just didn’t know it was happening now or I wouldn’t have had ya over.” He looks at you sidelong, eyes drinking you in just a little eagerly. The signs of his rut are starting to appear – flushed skin, tense shoulders, the way he clutches his beer like someone’s going to take it from him. Large pupils, a sheen of sweat.
“Do you want to power through?”
Some lucidity enters his eyes and he frowns. “You better be real clear about what you mean real quick.”
“I mean… now that we’ve established you won’t lose control like an asshole Alpha in a shitty romance novel.” You take an overly-casual sip of your beer. “You took care of me. Want me to take care of you?”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in that pretty throat of his. A strand of his bangs is starting to stick to his forehead. Flighty, he glances at the thriller on TV, but you see him biting his lip.
“Seriously," You say. "Whatever you want. If you want me to leave, I can leave. Or I can stick around without us doing anything.”
He sighs, resigned, and looks back at you. “Nah. I don’t want you to leave.”
You watch his face. No fear, just nerves. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The word is deep in his throat. “I want to -” he laughs and shakes his head. “Wanna hide you away, actually. God, I’m starting to get the urge. To just pick ya up and put you somewhere and…” he trails off, looking sheepish.
You just nod. “Sounds fun.”
“Fun?!” He chokes, laughing.
“Yes! Wanna do it?”
“You’re asking me if I wanna go all claim-y on you.”
“Well, do you?”
His eyes are black whirlpools, his cheeks flushed. He smells really good – most Alphas’ ruts don’t affect you much, but Stan’s is special. He lets out a wry chuckle. “Don’t ask me. You know what I’ll say. And, uh. How we’ll end up.”
“It doesn’t have to go that direction.”
“Okay,” he swallows, face neutral.
“But do you need it? Want it?”
His eyes don’t meet yours. You can tell he’s tensing up, trying to control himself. He scratches his cheek and grasps tight onto his beer. “I mean...”
You shrug. “Look, it’s not like we’re mating each other. You’re hot and my friend. And you know I’m not getting pregnant.” You give him what is hopefully a reassuring smile. “So what’s the harm? I think you deserve to let go sometimes, Stan. I know you won’t hurt me.”
You take a leap of faith and lean in to nuzzle against the scent gland at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, trying to impart your own steadying scent, knowing he won’t detect any fear in you. His own scent is heavy with anticipation and lust. His breath hitches. You pull away. “Besides, I think I remember someone saying I triple-owe him?”
A rumble in his throat sends tingles down your spine. “And if I wanna cash in?”
You reach over and grasp the neck of his beer bottle to tug it out of his grip. He pulls back on it with surprising force, sending your body tumbling into his with a gasp. He's solid and warm under your hands when you reach out to catch yourself.
"Sorry," he mutters with no small amount of effort at control, breathing heavy at your proximity. He carefully tugs your beer out of your hands and puts both bottles aside.
You don't back away. You reach up to his face, stubble prickly under your palm, and rub your inner wrist, the glands there, slowly across his cheek. He shudders.
"Fuck." His warm fingers circle around your wrist, and each touch is like lightning. His pupils are blown. "You don’t wanna fend me off, do you?"
You shake your head.
With a grunt, he suddenly sweeps you into his arms, hooking your legs over one arm and supporting your back with the other. You let out a startled peal of laughter as he carries you out of the living room and up the stairs.
"Told you I'd hide you away," he says, taking the steps two at a time. He nudges a door open with his foot, and a wall of his musky foresty scent rolls into you.
It hits you that he's taking you to his safest and most private place, one of the few parts of his home hidden from prying eyes at all times.
He deposits you almost reverently on the mattress, springs squeaking under your weight. Then he shuts the door. You hear him click a lock and slide a deadbolt for good measure.
Looking around the bedroom, there’s dirty laundry in a corner on the floor, articles and photos taped up next to a wall-length mirror, a biker helmet peeking out of the closet. It's very bachelor pad, and very Stan, which makes your pheromone-impacted brain squirm happily. His scent is everywhere.
Hes trusting you with this.
You can't help but smile at his rut-drunk face as he comes over to the bed and leans his weight on it with one knee. "This okay?" He breathes, swallows, tracing the lines of your face. "You feel safe? Bed's alright? I can get more blankets if-"
"Bed's great." It's unmade, and you cozy into the nest of tangled blankets, pillows, and sheets. All of it smells like him. The Alpha scent wreathing you is so calming. "It's perfect."
A smile breaks over him like the Sun, and he clambers the rest of the way onto the bed. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you smile back. "I feel safe with you, Stan." And you do - the way he carried you, the way he set the locks and checked in, they all caress the needy Omega in you. If he were looking for a mate, Stan's would be one lucky son of a bitch.
He practically whines in the back of his throat and grabs at your clothes. You lean down to help, tugging off your jeans and getting your t-shirt halfway over your head before he growls and rips it off you so eagerly that it tears up the middle.
"Stan!" You laugh incredulously, glad you didn't wear anything you particularly cared about when it turned out you were visiting an Alpha in rut.
"Sorry," he says unapologetically, eyes roving over you. He wrestles out of his jeans and hoodie, showing off that impressive chest hair and the soft curve of his stomach. You barely have a moment to appreciate the sight before he descends upon you, sucking and nipping at your neck. You moan in surprise at the graze of his fangs against your scent gland. He inhales deeply with an appreciative hum.
"I'm a lucky guy," he pants against your skin. "A gorgeous Omega. Fuck did I do to deserve this?"
You crane your neck and he sucks hickeys there, making you gasp. "Stan!'
He's barely hearing you, eyes half-lidded. "I'm gonna take care of you. You're never gonna want anything ever again. Gonna keep you here." He pushes his clothed hips against yours and you both cry out. "Fuck, gonna take you over and over again, give you what you need, what you deserve."
You squirm and grind down against him, feeling your slick-wet underwear press against your hole where his hardening cock drags against the fabric.
He reaches out to your underwear but hesitates. You gently push your fingers against his calloused knuckles, guiding him to your waistband. He swallows thickly and tugs your underwear off, watching as it sticks to you with slick. It's not nearly as much as during your heat, but still plenty. Quickly, he shucks his boxers away into the room. The world is this bed. You can worry about the clothes later.
The glide of his hot length against your hole makes you squirm.
"Need to fuck pups into you," he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a lifetime. The fat tip of his dick presses into you slowly, and he grips your hips so tight you know it'll bruise.
"Holy shit – Stan," You moan. You're wet, but not as much as the first time, so you feel more of the stretch as he slides into you. You're so full of him.
Something primal reverberates in his chest as he leans over you. He’s completely gone, brow furrowed and mouth falling open, breaths panting out of him as he watches your hips meet with black eyes, the light of the rising moon from the window glinting off his fangs. You weren't kidding, they really are cute.
He doesn't give you much time to adjust before he's rutting into you like an animal, clutching your hips for leverage. You grab the sheets for dear life.
"Alpha, Alpha, Alpha -"
"Yeah," he gasps. "Yeah, fuck, keep saying that -"
You clench around his thick cock and whine when it presses deep inside again and again.
"Feels so good," he groans. "Could do this forever. God - feel you tightening around me – fuck!"
He's barely pulling out, giving you no reprieve as he fucks you open. The wet sounds of your slick fill the room. You reach out to him for something, anything of his to grab.
Something in his eyes goes soft and needy at that. He lets go of your hips, leaving a dull ache behind. He wraps his arms around you, crushing your body into the mattress. You gratefully grab at his broad back with desperate fingers. The springs squeak with the rock of his hips.
He's panting and growling into your ear with abandon. You breathe in his woodsy scent and the overwhelming smell of rut as he ravages you. Overcome, you lap at his scent glands and suck at his neck. He jolts and absolutely whines. With every wet thrust, precum spills inside of you.
"Won't let - hah - let anything happen to you," he gasps into your ear like he's begging you to believe it. "Won't hurt you." His voice breaks.
"I know, Alpha, I know," you soothe, rolling with the waves of pleasure, reaching up a hand to grasp at his long hair. You crush his head to your neck. "You'll be so good to our pups." You don't know what you're saying but it feels so right, with his strong body surrounding you, his smell all around you.
He sobs into your neck and fucks you hard. The headboard of the iron bedframe makes dull thuds against the wall. His knot grows heavy, pressing up against you and slipping inside.
"Come on, give it to me -"
"Fuck - fuck - fuck - !"
You tug at a fistful of his hair on a hard thrust. He chokes out a moan and his knot expands to the point that he can’t pull it back out anymore. You’re stuck on him, so full and fucked.
He sits up and grabs your wrists with a possessive growl, pushing them against the bed, sitting up and grinding down hard against your hips, sending the bed into slower creaks.
“Holy fuck, you’re so deep -”
“Yeah, God, ever had an Alpha this good?”
“No,” you cry out. “No, never.”
“That’s right, and you’re not gonna ever again, will you?”
“No, fuck, just you! Only you!”
With a strangled moan, he presses deep and pulses rope after rope into you.
"So good, so good, needed it so bad," he babbles, hips pulling back and forth as if he can fuck his knot any deeper if he tries hard enough. The drag of his knot makes your eyes roll into the back of your head. You gasp at the flood of hot cum spilling into you, the deep rolls of his hips, the stretch of his girth claiming you, the strength of his hands pinning you down.
"I can't stop," he whimpers.
You let your eyes fall shut. "You don't have to. "
He takes a shuddering breath and grinds into you, pushing his cum deep. You're so warm. His sweaty skin sticks to yours, and he leans down, drags the rasp of his stubbled jaw across the scent glands at your neck.
Then his hips shift back. His knot tugs at your entrance.
"Stan, you're not gonna be able to -"
"I gotta - I gotta - I need more," he bites out.
This is the first rut he's shared with someone in a long time, you remember. He must be losing his mind right now.
"Please, lemme try," he begs. "Need to move. Please."
Your face is blushing pink at his begging. You shift your hips, and cum escapes the seal of the knot to roll down your thigh. You're so full - he came so much - but he's still hard inside you. Damn, you forgot about that. You hadn't been with an Alpha for their rut in a hot minute.
The sensation of the knot pulling back hadn't hurt, it just threatened a wide stretch. Your hole is coated with slick and cum, and you think, maybe -
"Okay," you breathe.
"Fuck." He leans back and takes your waist in both hands, face naked, chest hair slick with sweat. You don't think you've ever seen him so blank and blissful. There's usually some confidence or boisterousness in him, but now he's at his basest, taken by the rut.
The knot catches, then pulls. You breathe a bit faster.
"Not hurting you?" He pants. You shake your head, biting your knuckle.
Eventually, slowly, you both gasp as his knot slides out, cum spilling onto the sheets and coating his cock. He keeps the head inside and presses forward. You grunt when it splits you open again, stretches you wide.
The intensity sends you reeling. Your head falls back. "Stan…"
"Holy shit," he breathes. "Oh my God. Can't believe you're taking it all."
"This is way better than bad TV," you manage.
He huffs out a laugh and pulls back, his eyes fluttering at the feeling of your tight walls squeezing his knot on the way out. "I hope you know how hot this is," he murmurs. "Gonna be thinking about this for weeks – shit!"
"It's so fucking big -" The knot pushes you to the limit, abusing your sensitive rim, his cockhead rubbing against that perfect spot deep inside. "Oh my God, I - ah -"
He moves faster, fucking his cum out of you. "You're perfect, you're perfect - oh, shit!" His large hands push you up and down on his knot by your waist.
Tears spring to your eyes at the quicker stretch.
"Fuck, are you -"
"No, 's good," you grunt. "So good."
A ragged moan leaves him. He leans down to lick the tears starting to roll down your cheeks, and you drag frantic fingers down his back. His rhythm is faltering, hips slapping wetly with slick, cum, and sweat.
"You're mine," he says. It's not how Alphas say it in shitty movies. He says it with wonder. Like he can’t really believe it. “God, I needed this.”
His harsh pants fill your ears. "Gonna keep filling you, make you pregnant so everyone’ll know, gonna – fuck, gonna -"
“That’s it, that’s it -”
At the last tug out of his knot, he slams back in to the hilt with a sobbing whimper and lets go. Those fangs bite into the soft flesh of your neck. You cry out and clench hard around him, falling apart at the final slide of his knot and the twitching of his cock inside you, the painful pleasure of the flesh between his teeth, the idea of being claimed as his.
"Stan!"
His seed spills into your overfull body in bursts, dripping out of you with nowhere else to go. He whispers a mantra of thank yous into the bruised stretch of your neck, licking the skin there.
These sheets are so fucked.
You come down from your haze with him still pumping into you. Belatedly you hear stifled whines. Stan is making quiet little noises against your shoulder, rocking minutely, legs trembling.
You wrap your arms around him and he does the same to you, shaky breaths exhaling against you. He holds you like he would fall to pieces otherwise. You're still stretched deliciously by him and the feeling sends little pleasant aftershocks through you.
"It's okay," you say quietly. "It's okay. I've got you."
There's a swallowed sob. His hips still. That warm bloom inside you slows to a stop.
You run a hand through his hair and take deep breaths, feeling his rabbiting heartbeat against yours. "I think we made a bigger mess than last time."
He laughs wetly and crushes you to the bed with his body, caging you in protectively. "'S okay. I know someone who owes me a favor or two."
"Asshole."
Once his knot goes down, he carefully pulls out. You shut your eyes and hiss at the sensation. You're gonna feel it tomorrow in your hips, your pelvis, your muscles. More cum pools beneath you. Your inner thighs are covered in both your fluids.
"You okay? I-I didn't hurt you, did I?" The bed creaks and dips as he settles beside you.
"No, no - just haven't taken anything like that in a while." The siren call of sleep is immediate and tempting, but not while you’re both dirty; you’re pretty sure you can feel the cum and slick already trying to dry on you, which isn’t great. You pry your eyes open.
His rut smell has turned sweeter, and you turn to look at him. He's messy and sweaty, hair stuck to his face, his body curled to the side to block a line of access from the door to you.
There are tear tracks on his cheeks.
"Whoa, hey." You frown. You've never seen the guy outright cry before. "What's up?"
He rolls away off the bed and scrubs at his face. You can tell he's loathe to leave your side, but he does anyways. "What? Nothin'. I gotta - gimme a sec."
Silently, you watch his retreating back as he unlocks the door and slips out.
Quickly, he returns with some waters and some damp washcloths, setting the locks again.
"Stan -"
"Lemme do this."
Carefully, he lifts you up to swap the soiled sheets and blankets. Boneless, you just catch your breath, sip some water, and let him; he's clearly working through something with the motions. Then he wipes the both of you down and tosses the dirty laundry in a random pile.
You hold out your arms to him.
He collapses limply into bed, forehead pressed against your shoulder.
"Are you okay?" You ask. “Was that okay?”
His eyes are closed, eyelashes making delicate brushes against your shoulder. "It was fucking great. Sorry. Dunno what came over me there."
"It's a lot. Especially during a rut. I think getting emotional is totally normal." You run a palm slowly over the hair on his shoulder. "I almost cried when I was in heat and you gave me a glass of water."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
He turns his head to meet your stubborn eyes, and you stare back. But he doesn't have a counterargument.
“Stan, have you… ever had a rut with someone?”
“Duh,” he says defensively, wiping at his cheeks. “Just, uh. Nothing that… nice.”
Something in you twists and melts. “You deserve a nice rut.”
He sniffs and looks away.
"Drink some water," you tell him softly. He sits up and does. When he’s done, he leans back against the pillow; he still doesn’t look at you, but he reaches out a tentative hand to yours, and you take it.
"When I said I wanted to take care of you this time, I meant it," you say, turning his hand over in yours, examining the hard skin of his knuckles. "I'm glad you let go."
He stares into the middle distance. Softly, he asks, "Yeah?"
"Yeah. If you need something like that again, I'm happy to be that for you."
A light blush dusts his cheeks. "Uh. If you're sure. I might finally find those suppressants though. Don’t wanna be caught by surprise again." Then his eyes widen. "Man, if our rut and heat ever matched up, we'd be a hot mess."
You snort, although there's a tendril of heat coiling in your abdomen at the thought. "It would certainly be hot and a mess."
Both of you laugh.
"Um." You run a hand through your sweaty hair. "Do you have a shirt I can borrow? Mine kinda…"
"Oh shit. My bad. Yeesh." He rolls off the bed and roots in a dresser, tossing you an oversized tee. "I kinda lost it there." After a second thought, he throws a clean pair of boxers too.
"No biggie. Thanks." You inspect the boxers with a quirk of your lips. "Are these holes?"
"Ungrateful," Stan mutters as he grabs his own pair.
Some cleanup later, you're back downstairs, stuffed two to the armchair as the horror marathon soldiers on. Stan's practically curled around you, his chin on your head, a purr quiet but steady in his throat. He blushed when you first pointed it out, but like his fangs, you thought it was adorable. You share the bag of chips between you.
"Thanks," he says, as a slasher stalks through a forest on the TV. He tightens an arm around you at the fictional threat, rut scent lingering, but you don't mention it. "Having someone around for this. 'S nice."
You hum happily and nestle into his side. "Happy to do it."
"Did you, uh. Did you also, I mean. Like it?"
You lean back against his broad chest with a snort. "Stan, I came so hard I almost fell asleep immediately. It's a miracle I'm still conscious for this conversation."
"Hah! I still got it."
You hear the pleased rumble in his chest behind the posturing, and you smile.
“Hey, wanna see something cool?”
That never bodes well. You crane your neck back to look up at his mischievous grin. “Depends. What is it?”
He’s very proud of himself when he points to his extended fangs and says, “Taught myself how to pop open a beer bottle with these babies.”
“No you did not.”
“Sure did. Here, I’ll show you.”
The beer and shards of glass sent across the kitchen floor are worth the way you both laugh so hard you almost throw up, wheezing against each other and wiping tears from your eyes.