His name was Stan, and while his mullet wasn't exactly the peak of glamor, you couldn't lie and say it wasn't quite convenient to hold onto when he worked his tongue between your thighs. And he had his tongue between your thighs quite a lot.
You had to take advantage of it while you could, right? That's what he kept saying, anyway; that this was an in-between-town, he wouldn't be there long, just passing through. But that was four months ago, and his beat up El Diablo stayed parked in front of your place more and more, the scent of his aftershave and cigarettes seeming to take up permanent residence in your bed.
Your bed, where you awoke to the sensation of scruffy lips trailing up the outside of your thigh as you lay on your side.
You kept your eyes closed for a few moments, just feeling Stan's mouth travel a slow trail from your hip to your knee.
You had no clue what time it was; obscenely late or obscenely early, depending on your definition of time. Well after you had first shut your eyes to go to sleep around one, but before the sunrise. It was an hour that made you debate the idea of ignoring him and going back to sleep, until he trailed his lips back up your leg, his hand going to your ass and giving a little squeeze.
You sighed as you rolled languidly onto your back, Stan's mouth following easily, happily, moving to your hip as his hand ran up the inside of your leg.
“What're you doin’ up?” you slurred tiredly, a clumsy hand moving to rest on the back of his head as you took a long breath in.
He hummed distractedly, kissing a path across your lower belly, stubble scratching slightly against soft skin.
“Bored,” he mumbled gruffly.
“S’the middle of the night. Y’should be sleepin’, not bored.”
“Got up to piss,” he sighed, his thick fingers hooking on the inside of your knee and gently coaxing your legs apart. “Couldn't get back to sleep, so I got bored.”
“So you had t’wake me up?” Your fingers petted through his hair despite your mumbled complaint, answered by a soft little laugh against your pubic bone as he shifted over you, getting his shoulders between your legs, his hands curling under them on either side to grip your hips.
“Didn't think you'd mind.” He punctuated his sentence with his tongue—hot and wet as he parted your folds with a long lick, and you couldn't deny that he was right; you didn't mind, not when this was involved.
Instead of a verbal answer you just sighed again, shifting a little and opening your legs wider, cocking your knees out to the side and resting your heels against his bare back.
A long, soft hum of a sigh from his nose tickled against your skin as he settled in, circling your clit with a lazy swipe. It was nice; soft and mellow, perfect for this hazy pre-dawn fuck.
That was something you liked about Stan; he treated you like you were a luxury—something to be savored and reveled in, even when it was quick and rough between you. There was nothing quick and rough about this, though; Stan's tongue drawing soft and lazy around the little bud at the top of your slit, not avoiding it, exactly, but not trying very hard to hit it dead-on either. A tease, a slow build of sensitivity; he knew how it would get you squirming, how it would make you incapable of focusing on anything except your desire for his tongue on your clit.
His soft moan as he trailed his mouth away was equal parts frustrating and hot, his rough stubble prickling at your pussy lips with each kiss he pressed along your folds. A shallow dip inside your entrance with his tongue made you give a little gasp, fingers tightening in his hair for a brief moment.
He moaned again—though from the taste of you or from your fingers in his hair you couldn't tell—sliding a flat, wet lick back up to your clit like he had nothing else in the world he'd rather being doing at that moment. Perhaps that was true, his lips closing around your clit with a content sigh, rubbing gently and deliciously against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You breathed out with a tiny sound, not quite a cry, but more than a sigh, and it seemed to be all the incentive he needed to give your bud a firm swirl with the tip of his tongue.
It was electric, the way he worked and rubbed his tongue and lips with a low groan, his fingers flexing on your hips and his breath quick. It made your thighs tremble, the muscles jumping and twitching on either side of his head, back arching with a soft pant.
“God, Stan...” you whispered, biting your lip when he flicked his tongue rapidly from side to side just to make you squirm. “Fuck...”
He groaned in answer, the vibration of that low sound tingling its way through you deliciously. God, you wanted to come on that amazing mouth of his. He'd get you there, there was no doubt, but in his own sweet time.
So you took the time to touch him; fingers through his hair, down his shoulders, your calf along his upper back. He was always so warm under your hands, you barely needed the blankets when he found his way into bed with you.
You gave a little whine when his lips left you, smearing wetly along your inner thighs in a trail of messy, stubble-scratchy kisses.
“Want my fingers, baby?” he murmured, his hands squeezing your hips before trailing up to your thighs and back down, his rough palms leaving tingles in their wake.
“M'good,” you answered softly, combing your fingers through the shorter hair on the top of his head with a gentle scratch against his scalp. You can learn a lot about someone in four months, and Stan had learned that when it came to getting you off, sometimes less was more; that his tongue was good—his tongue was very good—so adding fingers could become a distraction rather than a turn on.
He nodded with another kiss to your leg, trailing back down toward your center with a little hum.
“Fuck,” you breathed a moment later, the rough push of his tongue against your clit sending sudden spasms up your legs and tension through your belly; his hard, forceful flicks full of intent. He wanted you to come—he wanted you to squirm and gasp, he wanted you to curse as you went tight on the tip of his tongue. And fuck if you weren't completely on board with that.
But this wasn't just a one-way street; your hand worked its way under his hair to the back of his neck, where you knew the firm press of your fingers and thumb either side of his vertebra would turn him into putty in your hands.
He moaned, exactly like you knew he would, and you could physically feel his hips hitch against the mattress. You wondered if he was hard enough to start leaking yet, if his cock was drooling a little puddle of precome under him, if he was holding himself back from getting a hand down to palm his dick. Another hard squeeze and rub against the back of his neck made him growl, his fingertips bound to leave little bruises on your hips.
But fuck, his mouth.
You could feel it, the pleasure mounting in a tightening, hot spark through your cunt and up your spine, your breath quick, the hand on his neck shifting into his hair to grab hold, the other wound intently in the pillow above your head. Still Stan held you tight, keeping you pressed hard against his mouth, his panting breath fanning out across your sensitized skin in hot bursts.
“Ah!” You couldn't stop the soft sound from escaping your mouth as your back suddenly curved into a pleasured arch, fingers clenching, toes curling; the bliss of orgasm spreading through your pussy in a sharp wave. His satisfied moan vibrated through you in the most delicious way, his tongue unceasing, unrelenting until you went limp against the mattress with a whimper.
“That's my girl,” he husked out against your slippery flesh, relenting only in the intensity on your clit, messy tongue sliding down to probe your entrance with another moan.
Yes, yes, fuck yes you wanted him to fill you, but not with his tongue, and you pulled insistently at him for him to come up from between your legs.
“Come ‘ere,” you panted, fingers of one hand still in his hair and the other curling around the back of his arm, tugging gently but determinedly to get him to move up your body.
He finally obeyed, pressing a parting kiss to your pussy before his mouth laid a trail up your belly, leaving wet smears of your arousal behind. He paused when he got to your chest, cupping you in his hands as he bowed his head to take the soft flesh of your breasts into his mouth, nibbling and licking with a dreamy groan, shifting lazily from one side to the other.
It was nice, but not what you wanted, and you sighed with a degree of frustration as you wrapped your legs around him, locking your ankles across his back and trying to pull him down.
He huffed out an amused laugh, giving a little nip to your breast that he soothed with his tongue. “What’re you so impatient for, hm?”
His lips pressed a kiss to your sternum, his hair tickling your chin. “You can't tell me that wasn't good.”
Of course it was good, it was always good, but you squeezed your legs around him anyway.
“It was perfect,” you whispered against the top of his head, pressing a kiss there gently as your hands stroked his back. “That's why I want you to feel good too.”
He finally raised his head, and in the faint light peeking through the blinds from the streetlamp nextdoor, you could see the little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I feel great, babydoll.”
Arching your head up for a kiss earned you a quiet moan, the taste of yourself on his lips making you shiver. Fuck, that was sexy, and you dipped your tongue into his mouth to chase the taste. That seemed to make him melt a little, an uneven breath hitching in his chest, and finally more of his heavy weight settled on top of you.
You basked in the feel of him, his warm skin pressed against yours, the thick hair on his chest and abdomen such a masculine sensation rubbing against you.
Not quite as masculine as the thick feel of his cock rubbing against you, though. And you were right, he was leaking, sticky little trails of precome mixing with the slickness between your legs.
“You want me inside you?” he whispered against your lips, lining his hips up a little better with yours, the shiver sliding down his spine as he rubbed his dick through the wet arousal between your legs not going unnoticed.
“Yes,” you murmured, your hands petting restlessly over his shoulders and back, your legs giving him a firm squeeze. “Please. Come on, give it to me, Stanley.”
He didn't have to be told twice, a soft moan against your lips as he wedged a hand down to line himself up and push inside.
That first thrust was always the best one, in your opinion. The new sensation of fullness inside you sending your muscles and nerves into overdrive, processing that wonderful intrusion as pleasure sparks right to your brain.
If Stan's moan was anything to go by, he was having a similar experience from surrounding his cock with the tight, wet heat of you.
Soft, slow, gentle; it was the theme of the evening, and this was no exception, the relaxed rock of his hips relaying just how much he wasn't in any sort of hurry. That was okay—he'd earned fucking you however he liked, your thighs still trembly from your orgasm and your cunt still spasming with aftershocks. Aftershocks that were making his breath hitch, his mouth drifting from your lips and down to your neck.
He was the kind of guy who liked to leave a bruise; liked to hold your chin in his hand the morning after and admire his handiwork, prideful of the patch of light purple signaling to the world “Stan Was Here.” The first time you had nearly smacked him one, infuriated that he had been so arrogant to assume he could mark you like property. And while you still weren't crazy about the looks you sometimes got for having such brazen proof of your sex life on your throat, you had come to understand his impulse.
You could learn a lot about a person in four months, if they let you.
At least he was gentle, sucking blood to the surface with his lips and teeth, doing it so pleasurably and artfully that you swore every time he had some kind of magic; hotwiring the ministrations of his mouth directly into your nervous system.
You sighed out long and slow, sliding your hand under his hair again, your thumb tracing the little ridge where the bottom of his skull met his neck. It made the rhythm of his hips stutter and you smile, loving this quirky erogenous zone of his. One that you took complete advantage of, naturally.
Hitching your legs up higher on either side of him as you squeezed a firm line down the back of his neck with your hand made him groan, his mouth leaving a hot, wet line down your throat until he pressed his face against the curve of your shoulder. He was in that blurry, half-out-of-it plateau; you could sense it in his breathing, his movement, his brain dug in deep in the pleasure he was feeling with no thought of coming up for air. You had to confess you liked him like this; it was raw, honest, no sign of the false bluster and quippy, silver tongue he often put on.
“You feel so good,” you whispered against the shell of his ear, squeezing your fingers around the back of his neck. You said it because he liked hearing it, but also because it was true; his body did feel good moving over you, inside you, even if another orgasm for you wasn't likely.
His, however, was definitely imminent, his thrusts getting a little harder, a little faster, the edge of his teeth against your shoulder as he panted making you shiver. You bit your lip, managing to get your free hand down to his ass with a little moan, squeezing the firm, flexing muscle, drawing him in that little bit harder, that little bit tighter.
“Shit,” he rasped, bracing his forearms harder against the bed, his fingers digging into the mattress. Close, close, close, you just needed to push him there.
Instead of biting your lip you tilted your head up to bite along his shoulder instead, gentle little nips along the curve that made him jerk and gasp, his thrusts getting uneven, erratic. Then the hard, deliberate squeeze of your pussy walls around him, your hands tight on his neck and his ass, and you felt him shudder, hitching in hard with a whispered curse.
A spill of heat, and you silently thanked the universe for the invention of birth control, because frankly you loved the feeling of Stan coming inside you.
“Good boy,” you whispered with a little grin against his shoulder, kissing along the trail of soft bites you had pressed against his skin, tightening your muscles around his cock with rhythmic squeezes that made him grind and groan. “Good boy...”
A final hard thrust in with a stifled grunt and he went still, panting and laying wet, messy kisses along your shoulder and neck. Then a breathless little laugh, running his nose along the edge of your jaw before lifting his head up for a kiss, his grin clear against your mouth.
“God, I love your cunt,” he murmured, taking your bottom lip between his teeth for a second with a soft moan. “Goddamn perfect, baby.”
You chortled, sliding your fingers into his hair to scratch his scalp, your other hand trailing up from his ass to smooth over his broad back.
You liked this bit too; when there was a long trade of kisses, one of his hands coming up to cup your head as you both enjoyed the afterglow, overheated and a little sweaty, but that was barely noticeable in comparison to the enjoyment of keeping him close.
When he finally rolled off with a long sigh, you stretched; your thighs unappreciative of how long you'd had them splayed open, the muscles a bit sore and overstretched. It made you wince when you finally got up, heading to the bathroom to clean up a little before coming back to bed.
You sighed as you looked in the mirror after using the toilet, washing your hands in the sink distractedly as you observed your reflection. He’d be pleased by the darkening bruise along your throat, no doubt, and you tilted your head back to get a better look.
“Dammit, Stan,” you sighed, drying your hands, but your words had no true bite to them.
Returning back to your bedroom to find it ice cold, however, gave your colorful expletive all the bite you could muster.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Stan!” Violent shivers broke out over your poor naked body as you moved as rapidly as you could toward your bed, practically diving back under the covers.
Stan had put his boxers back on, and was sitting on the floor by the half-open window, letting in both the frigid winter air as well as the light of the nearby streetlamp.
“Sorry babydoll,” he murmured with a little chuckle, shifting slightly, drawing one knee up as he turned his head to blow the cigarette smoke out the window. “But I know you don't like me smoking in bed.”
You bundled up under the covers as tightly as you could, cursing him again for leaving them tugged down to let all the heat out. You gave him a glare, peeking out of the cocoon you were making for yourself.
“I don't like you smoking at all, those things will fucking kill you.”
Another chortle from him, then a long inhale, the spiteful bastard. “Only the good die young, eh?”
“Good?” you questioned with an amused laugh. Stan was a lot of things, but a saint certainly wasn't one of them, no matter how thoroughly he fucked you. “By that logic you'll live for fucking ever.”
He laughed at that, low and scratchy, turning his head to blow the smoke out the window. “Gee thanks, kid.”
“You're welcome.” You made sure he could see your smarmy smirk over the edge of the blankets, and he shook his head at you with a snort before taking another drag.
You glared at him as he filled his lungs with smoke, the burn of the ember on the end of the cig glowing bright with the inhale and casting faint shadows on his face. Those things would fucking kill him, but he’d look damn sexy doing it; the relaxed, post-sex looseness of his joints paired with the half-lidded gaze he kept trained on you making him look like some kind of arthouse porn.
“Christ, will you finish that thing and come back to bed? It's goddamn freezing in here,” you groused, another shiver ripping down your spine and sending goosebumps all over your skin.
He gave you a little smirk before blowing the smoke out the corner of his mouth and through the open window, then flicking the ash off the end of the cigarette and into the tray resting on the sill. How he was sitting there not shivering was beyond you; you were mildly convinced he might not be human, with the way he put off heat like a furnace. It was a heat you were desperately missing right then.
He burned the cigarette all the way down to the filter before stubbing it out in the tray, blowing his last lungful of smoke out of the window with a forceful puff. The window snapped closed a moment later, Stan getting up with a little groan, cracking his neck as he made his way back to the bed.
You shivered again as he got under the covers behind you, the cold air sneaking in with him.
“Son of a bitch!” you hissed a moment later, when his icy fingers curled against your side, making the goosebumps on you skin increase tenfold. “Goddammit, Stanley!”
He chuckled softly, the asshole, scooting closer to your shivering body and hooking his stupidly strong arm around you. You cursed again as his forearm pressed along your abdomen, his hand cheekily curling up to cup your breast. His whole torso was absolutely freezing to the touch, though he somehow still wasn't shivering (inhuman, had to be).
“You're a jerk,” you informed him, huffing as you wiggled around in his grip, turning over to your other side so you could face him, his hand shifting to span across your back instead.
“Handsome one, though.”
“Jesus, shut up.”
You rolled your eyes, irritatedly hiking your knee up onto his hip as your arm circled around his middle, rubbing your hand over his cold skin. He probably didn’t deserve to be warmed up, being that he was the idiot who opened the window in the first place, but you convinced yourself your motivation was purely selfish; you wanted to cuddle, you wanted him to warm back up to his normal, space heater self for your own comfort. His comfort had nothing to do with it. Right.
In the dim light you could see him smirk, then he shifted a little with a comfortable sigh, getting his arm under your neck, curling it up to cup your shoulder as his other arm settled low in the small of your back.
You sighed in answer, pulling the blanket up a little higher before returning your hand to the circular motion of rubbing his back and arm, the other hand trapped between you. He moaned a little when you decided to use it to comb lightly through the thick chest hair over his sternum, the coarseness of it tickling your palm.
“Are you sure you’re not secretly a werewolf?” you teased him, pinching a few strands between your fingers and giving a little tug, ignoring his “Ow, hey!” of indignation.
“You’d know,” he grumbled, squeezing his arms around you. “I was here the last full moon, remember?”
You did remember, the two of you had fucked in the kitchen, and you had remarked how big the moon had looked, looming outside the window, watching you go at it.
“Hm... guess so,” you sighed, letting your eyes slip closed with another little pet through his chest hair. “Maybe you’re part bear, then.”
He chortled with a little shake of his head, and you wrinkled your nose slightly at the smell of smoke on his breath. Maybe if he stuck around long enough, you’d convince him to quit.
You guiltily tried to swallow that thought down, which became a hell of a lot harder to do when he kissed your forehead with a content hum.
Stan might not have been the peak of glamor with his mullet and his worn clothes, his beat up El Diablo and his vague past, but the longer he stayed, the harder “just passing through” was becoming to swallow. You didn’t want the scent of his aftershave and cigarettes to fade from between your sheets, you didn’t want his El Diablo gone from the curb outside.
Now was not the time for that. Now was the time for holding him a little tighter, the warmth returning to his skin as you convinced yourself to go back to sleep and wait for sunlight.
“‘Night, Stan,” you whispered.