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“Staniel!”
Richie kicks the door to their dorm room open, letting it bounce off the wall with a sound loud enough to wake the entire floor.
“Staniel, I can’t believe you missed it! It was amazing!”
Stan begrudgingly pulls his face away from his pillow as his roommate flips on the light, flying around the room in a flurry of movement. He carefully settles his guitar on his bed before tossing his shoes every which way, stripping his clothes off in a tornado of limbs until he’s down to his boxers.
“You’re the only one that didn’t show up, you know. Even that girl from my calc class was there. The one with the tits,” Richie holds his hands out in front of his chest for emphasis, waggling his eyebrows. “Got her number too, since you decided you don’t love me.”
“I told you, Trashmouth, I have a midterm in the morning,” Stan groans, stifling a yawn. “Besides, this is your third show this month. It’s not like I missed your first one.”
Richie holds his hand over his heart like a damsel.
“And yet, it still hurts me so.”
“So dramatic.”
Stan’s silent for a moment, eyelids starting to droop again as Richie continues with his post-show antics. He’s in the middle of a monologue about a guitar solo when his earlier words catch up to his muddled brain.
He immediately sits upright, the action so startling that it tears a yelp from Richie’s throat.
“Jesus! Warn a guy!”
“You got a girls number?” Stanley asks.
Richie stops in his tracks, fingers poised over the Rubik’s cube he’s acquired from Stan’s desk. He grins.
“Why?” his voice is mirthful, borderline teasing. “Jealous?”
Stan can feel his mouth tug down in the beginnings of a frown as something hot burns in the pit of his stomach.
“No,” he snaps.
Richie drops the puzzle back where it belongs—a blessing among blessings—and saunters over to the foot of Stan’s bed, sprawling across it like he belongs there.
“Liar.”
For the disaster that he is, Richie looks good like this: stripped down to almost nothing, long legs, long arms, fair skin, a constellation of freckles across his cheekbones, collarbones, shoulders. He’s grown into something beautiful, something that Stanley desperately wants to feel and taste and touch. And he knows it too, the absolute shit.
Stanley schools his face into a mask of nonchalance.
“I don’t care.”
And he shouldn’t. Stanley shouldn’t care because technically, he and Richie aren’t anything. Just roommates. Roommates that fool around sometimes, sure, but still, just roommates.
But now that Richie’s so close, he can see it, the digits scrawled neatly along the palm of his right hand, and what’s the name over them? Kari? Kathy?
Heat blazes down his spine—a white-hot jealousy bordering on rage as he pictures a faceless girl pinned beneath Richie as he devours her mouth, runs his hands down her spine, grips the soft skin of her thighs.
“Aw, Stan my man, don’t be mad,” Richie teases, poking him in the knee with one of his stupidly long fingers. Stan takes his hand and flips it. The ink says Katy.
“I’m not mad,” Stan says. His mind is moving fast, faster than his jealousy, and a plan is in action before it’s even fully formed. He looks at Richie, wide eyed and innocent, a complete juxtaposition to how he’s feeling inside. He knows his games, knows he’s upset that Stan missed his show, knows he wants Stan to be jealous.
Stan places a soft kiss to the inside of Richie’s wrist just to hear his breath hitch.
“Just a little disappointed,” he continues, giving the skin underneath his lips another kiss.
He knows his roommate’s weakness, knows the best way to quell his mischievousness.
“O-oh?” Richie’s voice is shaky. “Why’s that?”
“Well, you’ll be too busy with Katy now to take care of me, won’t you?”
He gives Richie the saddest, sweetest look he can muster, and watches him melt.
“Baby,” the other boy coos, scrambling to his knees, “no, it’s just a number—”
“But, you promised to call her, right?”
He traces his mouth from Richie’s wrist to the tip of his thumb, and Richie, hypnotized, traces his lower lip several times before answering with an intelligent:
“What?”
“You promised to call her? Katy?”
“I mean, I could...not.”
Stanley lets Richie dip his thumb into his mouth—gives it a gentle suck, listens to him sigh.
“That’s not nice.”
He drops Richie’s hand in favor of undoing the buttons on his pajama top.
“I waited for you to come home,” he traces over his nipples as he parts his shirt, just a quick flicker of movement that sends a rush of heat to his cheeks.
“Yeah?” Richie sounds breathless.
Stanley nods.
“I’ve been so stressed over midterms…I’ve missed you,” he strokes his fingers down his chest, stopping to play at the waistband of his pants. “Your hands…your mouth.” He palms himself, stifling his gasp by biting his lip.
Richie grabs his jaw in a firm grip and Stanley’s eyes snap open.
“Don’t hide your sounds from me,” he orders. His pupils are blown wide behind his glasses, eyes so dark they could almost pass for black.
Stanley palms himself again and groans a soft noise that Richie echoes.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” he breathes.
He goes to drop his hand from Stan’s jaw to swell between his legs, but Stanley stops him.
“Don’t touch,” he says.
The look Richie gives him is positively desperate.
“Why?”
“You can’t touch me when someone else is waiting for you, Richie, it’s cruel.”
“Stan—”
Stanley arches up into his own hand with a whimper.
“I don’t know her,” Richie babbles. “I don’t even know her. I’ll call her right now, if you want. Tell her I can’t meet her. Just please let me touch you, baby, please.”
Victory burns bright inside Stanley. He reclines against the headboard of his bed, shimmying his pants and briefs down so that his cock springs free. He traces his thumb along his slit, feeling himself jerk against his own fingers, hearing Richie’s heavy breathing in the quiet of their room. Stan glances at him, coy.
“You can watch,” he whispers. “I won’t tell.”
“Oh my God.”
Stan closes his eyes, lets himself relax into his own touch and the feel of Richie’s eyes on him. He grips himself firmly, teasing with long, slow strokes. He can feel sweat beading at his hairline as his skin heats up, as his cheeks flush in the way that Richie always tells him is so, so pretty. And he wants that; he wants to look pretty for Richie right now—wants to look irresistible.
He wasn’t lying when he said he had waited for Richie to come home. He had stayed up as late as he could, hoping beyond hope that the other boy wouldn’t stay out late talking to anyone and everyone. But as the clock passed midnight and crept closer and closer to one in the morning, he’d had to give up his fantasy of going to bed next to warm body and instead lay down alone.
And as Richie eyes him with reverence, he thinks that this isn’t as good as having Richie entirely, but it’s still pretty damn good.
“Richie…”
“Feel good?”
Stan jerks himself faster, smearing the precum gathered at his tip along the length of him, making the glide easier.
“Yeah. Fuck yeah. Wish it was you. Always wish it was you…your hands, Rich, you’re so good. You’re so good to me.”
“Christ, Stanley, look at you.”
Stan knows he must look wrecked. He’s always been borderline hypersensitive, and while he used to be embarrassed about the short amount of time it takes him to finish himself off, the way that Richie looks at him—with something akin to worship—it strips all sense of embarrassment away.
“You’re so hard, baby,” Richie says in awe.
And he is. His cock is flushed a deep red, curved upward towards his stomach, weeping as his movements become more and more frantic. Stanley stares at Richie through eyelashes that are damp with tears of desperation, because he wants, and wants, and wants. He wants Richie on him, touching him, inside of him.
“Richie…” Stan keens, toes curling.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I wanna cum, please, I wanna cum, Richie, please!”
“Do you even know how sweet you sound?” Richie says, dipping his hand into his own boxers, jerking frantically without preamble. “You gonna cum for me, Stanley? Make a mess of yourself?”
Stan frantically nods his head, stroking impossibly faster as all the muscles in his body start to tighten. He finishes with a cry that’s too loud for their room, his release shooting up his stomach and chest. He forgets how to breathe.
A kiss to the hollow of his throat grounds him, and he’s startled to find that Richie’s finished too, already murmuring praises against his skin.
“Gorgeous. My beautiful boy.”
Stanley hums, content.
“Am I allowed to kiss you?” Richie asks.
“What about Katy?” Stan teases.
“Oh, for the love of…fuck Katy! C’mere!” Richie peppers Stan’s face with dozens of kisses as the smaller boy squeals.
“Stop, you’re getting the bed dirty! Richie!”