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“This is the gayest thing you’ve done in a long time, Stan,” Cartman says genially.
Looping the end of a balloon around the tip of his finger to tie off, Stan thinks of this morning, when he’d had Kyle’s dick pressed against his own, hand wrapped around the two of them in a race to see who would cum first. Kyle won, like he always does. Stan doesn’t say as much.
Kenny does though, squinting down suspiciously where he’s rolling a joint.
“I don’t believe that,” he says wryly, not looking at either of them.
Cartman doesn’t know about him and Kyle actually bringing the fag accusations he’s been levelling against them for years to fruition. Easier that way, Kyle says. Stan thinks they should just bite the bullet and tell him. Not like he could say anything worse than he already does. He might even stop, the thought of them actually beating off together enough to turn his stomach. Or turn him on. Kyle seems to think it might be the latter. Stan doesn’t really know what Cartman’s deal is, and quite frankly, he has no interest in finding out.
“Kenny, dude,” he says, throwing the finished balloon down amongst the others littering the floor of his family’s basement. “Don’t smoke in here, my mom’ll flip out.”
Kenny rolls his eyes, joint already hanging from his lip.
“Not if she thinks it was Randy,” he says, sparking up and taking a long drag. The weed crackles with life as Kenny breathes through it, dims as he exhales and taps ash into a solo cup. “Lighten up, Stan. I’m pre-gaming.”
“We have drinks to pre-game,” Stan snips back, the smell of the weed cloying in the closed off little space. He crosses to the window in the top corner, clambering on top of a rickety old picnic chair to push it open. It screeches with resistance, and Cartman groans along with the sound.
“Don’t open that, idiot, it’s hotter than Satan’s fucking taint in here as it is! How’s the AC supposed to work if the window’s open?”
“Blame him,” Stan casts an uninterested hand towards Kenny, who grins while holding the joint out to Stan. Stan eyes it for a second, in consideration. Kenny’s pale brows creep up.
“Take the edge off, buddy,” he says, voice warm with the husk of smoke. “You look like you need it.”
Stan takes the joint. Kenny’s right, but he’s not going to give him the satisfaction of saying it. Cartman fans himself dramatically with the end of the banner he’s half-way through putting up, perpetually red in the face from the heatwave the town of South Park is experiencing at the moment. It isn’t normal for the end of May, and they’re all fairly ill-equipped to deal with it. Kenny’s been wearing nothing but a wife-beater and a pair of promotional Coors Lite swimming trunks for days.
“The fuck am I helping you two losers for anyway,” Cartman grumbles, fingers sticking to the plasticky film of the banner as he peels more of it apart. “I don’t give a fuck about Kyle’s birthday.”
“He’s not around to hear you insist that you hate him, Cartman,” Stan says, blowing his smoke into Kenny’s face for good measure before he hands the joint back to him. “We get it, you’d rather be anywhere else on earth right now. Did you need more tape?”
Cartman grumbles something Stan doesn’t catch under his breath, the film of weed settling comfortably across his senses. Scarred for life by Tegridy Farms as he is, Stan doesn’t smoke all that much, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t help settle his anxieties. Especially when it comes to something like this, a surprise party for the most notorious control freak in South Park’s history.
Kenny, because he’s omniscient or something (Cartman has this whole theory about it, which is why he can’t be allowed to smoke weed before he gets a drink in him, or they’ll be subjected to the Google Doc he keeps open on his phone relating to Kenny’s otherworldly exploits), says exactly what Stan is thinking.
“The fuck are you tryna surprise him for anyway?” he asks, setting the joint carefully on the edge of his cup-turned-ashtray, returning to his task of laying out plastic shot glasses on the coffee table. “Kyle fucking hates surprises.”
“He hates bad surprises,” Stan assures himself more than Kenny at this point, lifting another balloon and coughing softly before he fills it with wet air.
“And what, the concept of hanging out with everyone from our grade for the night is a good surprise?” Kenny quips, annoyingly sharp despite the two huge hits he’s already taken from the joint. Stan’s brain clouds over with the words, and he shakes it lightly to free the negative comments from catching and making him back out at the last second.
“Like anyone’s even gonna show up,” Cartman huffs, finishing taping the banner up along the wall. He admires his handiwork before shooting Stan a wicked grin. “Not everyone has their nose up Jew-boy’s ass twenty-four seven. How do you know they’re even gonna come?”
“They’ll come,” Stan says defiantly, throwing a balloon half-heartedly in Cartman’s direction. Worry licks its way up his fingers, and the balloon just bounces lazily across the floor between the two of them.
“Yeah, they’ll come! Everyone likes a party, whether or not they like Kyle,” Kenny says, in an attempt to be supportive, Stan knows, but it doesn’t do much to quell his fears. “Quit tryna psych Stan out, fatass.”
“Yeah, shut the fuck up, fatass,” Stan mumbles, returning to blowing up balloons. Cartman giggles wickedly to himself, throwing himself down on the couch next to Kenny and idly knocking over each shot glass he’s just put out with his socked foot.
“Like it’s hard,” Cartman grunts. “Take your meds this morning, Stanny?”
Kenny elbows him then, rather viciously below his ribs and Stan’s eyes zero in on Cartman’s smirking face.
“What? Who told you about that?”
Stan’s not sure why he even bothered asking the question. Obviously Kenny told him he’d just been prescribed anti-depressants, and obviously Cartman thinks that’s funny for whatever reason. Kenny hits the joint again, offering it cautiously out to Stan who shakes his head. Voice muffled by the cloud of smoke in his lungs, Kenny shoots Cartman a flat look.
“I told you that because I thought you’d be supportive, dickwad. Aren’t you on anti-psychotics?”
Cartman laughs.
“Sure, but I know better than to mix ’em with that shit,” Cartman sniffs, nodding towards the joint smoking between Kenny’s fingers. “Not as if Stan is known for his strong stomach. Take it easy, big guy, or Kyle won’t get his birthday bj.”
Stan just turns away from them, furiously finishing blowing up the last balloon. He’d rather swallow it whole right here and now than admit Cartman is right on the money with anything he fucking says. It stings. Kyle thinks the meds are a good idea, which is largely the only reason Stan has finally agreed to start taking them. Apparently tugging down your boyfriend’s jeans to suck him off is less appealing when you’re met with a face-full of new cuts on the insides of his thighs. Whatever. Stan’s not mad with Kyle about it anymore. It’s never really been Kyle he was mad with about it, but it's easier most of the time to redirect his distaste for being alive with the person who’s constantly bitching at him about how he needs to do his calculus homework.
Stan takes a deep breath. Now is not the time.
“I think we’re finished,” he says, stepping back surveying the space. The basement isn’t big, and too hot for the weather, but Stan knows if he were to host the bulk of the party upstairs, his fucking dad wouldn’t be able to resist trying to sneak downstairs and gatecrash. His mom promised she’d keep him corralled in their room, but Stan knows they’ll probably only get a few hours in before Randy is busting out his bong and desperately trying to seem cool.
The HAPPY BIRTHDAY bunting Cartman had strung up is a little crooked, but it's cute, fluttering with every weak swipe of the fan across the ceiling. The floor is littered with balloons, drinks table along the wall stacked with cups and bags of unopened chips and soda. The chest freezer and fridge in the corner are stocked full of ice, and notably beer. Randy being a complete asshole is useful for some things, and when Stan had gone to him insisting he needed booze for Kyle’s party, Randy had been beside himself to provide. He’d thrown an overzealous arm over Stan’s shoulder, which he’d tolerated for all of ten seconds, before driving him to the liquor store and reminiscing about all the partying he used to do in his youth.
Probably another pseudo-invite in Randy’s head to join the festivities, but as long as Stan can avoid him, it should be okay. Kenny’s usually pretty good at wrangling Randy. He’d never say no to free weed, and Randy packs the good stuff.
“Time is it?” Stan asks, swiping through his phone to change the playlist he’s carefully curated for Kyle’s party. He enjoys some of the same stuff as Stan, but mostly his taste in music is obnoxious. When Stan tells him as much, Kyle always goes pink with irritation. It’s great. He always gives the best head when he’s a little ticked off.
“Just after seven,” Kenny says, in the process of rearranging the shot glasses Cartman had just knocked over. “Time’s this shit starting?”
“I told Wendy and them eight, so she’ll probably be here at seven thirty, and Bebe’ll probably still be getting dressed,” Stan says, heading for the stairs up from the basement.
“Think she’ll be dressed at all?” Kenny asks Cartman seriously. “She got written up in homeroom yesterday because she had her tits out. We humble mountainfolk have been blessed by this heatwave, I’m telling ya. Think her boob sweat tastes good?”
“Weak,” Cartman mutters. “You’d probably get herpes if you motorboated Bebe.”
“Don’t try and motorboat Bebe,” Stan hears the tailend of the conversation halfway up the stairs, turning to point a finger in Kenny’s direction. “Clyde’ll have a shit fit and burst into tears and I don’t want you giving Craig the excuse he wants to punch you in the face before Kyle even gets here.”
“Craig doesn’t wanna punch me in the face,” Kenny says in a singsong voice, rolling his head onto the back of the sofa, grinning up at Stan and fluttering his lashes. “Who’d wanna punch this face?”
Cartman takes that as an invitation to shove a thick palm into Kenny’s nose, smacking him upside the face. Not quite a punch, but enough that the air exits Kenny’s lungs in a sharp hiss as Cartman guffaws with laughter.
“Why’d you even invite Craig and them?” Cartman asks as he presses harder on Kenny’s face as he flails, blocking his airways with relative ease. Stan sighs, the night ahead of him suddenly seeming arduously wrong. All of this to give Kyle the perfect birthday present. At least he’s worth it.
“There’s like forty people in our graduating class,” Stan says, turning to finally exit the basement and take a shower. “I cut out anyone with noticeable BO and went from there.”
Kenny, who has just managed to free himself from Cartman’s thick fist by shoving two fingers up Cartman’s nostrils, huffs out a laugh.
“The fuck is Cartman invited for then?”
Stan goes for his shower, the comforting fog of weed having already faded into oblivion.
Kyle had better appreciate this.
*
“Then, my mother made me sit at the head of the table, and it was just a revolving door of relatives swapping in and out of the seat next to me, making me repeat the shame shit over and over. Yes, I’m trying to get into Princeton, no I don’t remember what happened at Uncle Ernie’s shiva, yes, Ike is weird but he’s just a stupid kid— like what do these people want from me? I can’t wait to just hang out, man, I’m so over today.”
Stan is suddenly very concerned that Cartman’s prediction is going to come true and he’s gonna blow chunks all over the sidewalk.
He’d gone to pick Kyle up from his house when most of the guests had arrived at the party, shooing them all down into the basement and ordering Kenny to make sure they shut the fuck up when he texted that they were entering the house.
“Stan? Are you listening?” Kyle asks, in that bitchy little tone he gets when he’s already decided that Stan isn’t listening.
“Yeah, man, yeah,” he says, squeezing Kyle’s hand tentatively where it hangs between them. It’s still hot, even for being nearly nine, and the two of them are dressed in thin T-shirts and basketball shorts. Kyle’s hair almost looks damp, humidity clinging to the curls and making them shinier than usual. Stan abruptly wishes he hadn’t bothered with the whole party thing and was just taking Kyle up to his room to fist at his hair and his cock and ignore the rest of the world outside.
It’ll be worth it, he tries to convince himself. It’ll be so worth it.
“Are you okay?” Kyle asks, wickedly sharp as ever. His expression softens a little as he raises a curious brow. “Is it the meds? Are they making you feel a little foggy?”
Stan’s only been taking the low dosage of SSRI for a week now, and it has brought a little fog with it, but mostly he feels fine. Kind of annoying, because it means Kyle was right and the meds are doing their job. He smiles, pulling on his best I’m totally fine don’t you worry about me mask, despite the fact he knows Kyle can see right through it. They reach the front door to his house, and he tugs out his phone, shooting Kenny a quick text.
“Dude, yeah. It’s your birthday, and I’m just sorry you’ve had a shitty day. Lemme cheer you up,” he says. Kyle, already a little pink with sunburn from the past few days, blushes a darker shade and furtively glances out towards the yard to make sure they’re alone. Stan smiles, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. He tastes like the salt of sweat, glowy on his freckled skin. Kyle licks his lips when Stan pulls back, as if chasing the kiss. He smiles, that secret one he only ever lets Stan see, tentative, but hungry for whatever it is Stan will give him. He always feels like Kyle wants him more, is ready for more. Tonight, he’s gonna prove otherwise.
They enter the house, and Kyle automatically goes to climb the stairs to Stan’s room, smile widening when he does a quick check to see if any of his family are around and confirms they’re alone.
“You know, I kind of did something a little special for tonight—”
“Uh, we’re in the basement tonight,” Stan says quickly.
Kyle’s soft expression immediately hardens into one of confusion.
“The basement?” he asks, his eyes just short of narrowing. “Why?”
“Um.” Stan swallows the lump of panic in his throat and waves a useless hand in the direction of the basement door. “Heat rises! My room is like an incinerator. Figured we could hang out where it’s cooler.”
Kyle descends the few stairs he’s already climbed, still watching Stan suspiciously. Stan avoids his gaze, rushing over to the basement door.
“C’mon, dude,” he says, opening it and urging Kyle towards the descent. “I thought it might be fun to be… somewhere else for a change.”
Kyle’s eyes glitter with that, and Stan knows already that his little exhibitionist brain is already ticking over with the promise of some kind of sex-act outside of the sacred confines of Stan’s bedroom. Thank fuck he’s insatiable, because that seems to spur him on enough to enter the basement door and start walking down into the darkened room. Stan follows, a few steps up from him as the lights flip on, and everyone jumps out, yelling at once.
“SURPRISE!”
Kenny and Jimmy Valmer are blowing obnoxious party horns, and most of the girls pull the tags on party poppers, the smell of them smoking hot and sweet, the confetti and little paper streamers immediately becoming lodged in Kyle’s hair.
“Happy birthday bud!” Kenny says happily, rushing forth to ruffle Kyle’s hair and tug him into a one armed hug. “Did we get ya?”
Kyle nods, his eyes still owlishly scanning the crowd as a nervous little laugh escapes.
“Yeah, you got me,” he agrees, but the shock seems to wear off as a smile comes over his face, his cheeks bunching up happily as he surveys the crowd. Kenny ushers him down to the foot of the stairs to receive well-wishes, as Stan catches his breath for a second. Way more nerve wracking than he thought it would be, cool. His heart only feels like it's about to leap out of his mouth, no biggie. He descends the stairs too, where Cartman suddenly appears at his elbow, two shot glasses in hand.
“You look crazy,” he says, clinking the edge of the plastic off Stan’s. “Bottoms up, bitch.” He swallows his shot as Stan mimics him through mostly muscle memory, the sting of tequila only lasting a second before it’s chased with comforting warmth. Cartman snorts. “Bottoms up. That what you say to Kyle before you lay pipe?”
Stan rolls his eyes, the lick of tequila bolstering his confidence.
“As if I’d give you more material for the spank bank you sick fuck,” he says, enjoying the way Cartman immediately yells something about how disgusting the thought of Stan and Kyle fucking is. Jimmy, who is still standing close to the edge of the stairs, gestures for a shot of his own, grinning at Cartman wildly.
“Me think the lady d-do-doth protest too much, ey, St-St-Stan?”
Stan laughs, the buoyancy of the liquor and the relief at the surprise going off without a hitch suddenly making him feel giddy. A little nauseous, but mostly giddy. Cartman pours the three of them another shot from the bottle of tequila he seems to have procured in Stan’s absence, and as soon as he’s finished throwing it back, Kenny appears with the birthday boy in tow.
“Be a lamb and pour Kyle a shot, Eric,” Kenny says brightly.
“I’m not sharing with him! Covetous motherfucker,” Cartman grumbles, but he obediently pours more tequila in Stan’s shot glass for him to hand to Kyle. Kyle actually snorts out a laugh, licking his lips and wincing as the liquor passes his lips.
“Covetous because I want a shot at my own birthday party? Sure, fatass, whatever helps you sleep at night,” he says brightly, as Kenny bullies Cartman to pour tequila directly into his open mouth. Kyle pokes Stan tentatively in the ribs as he watches, catching his eye with an undeniable twinkle. “You did all this?”
Stan shrugs, owing the warmth in his cheeks to the liquor.
“Kenny and fatass helped,” he says generously, but Kenny is already gurgling a protest as he swallows back too much tequila.
“It was all Stan’s idea,” he says cheerily, as Cartman rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, anything to win brownie points with his precious Kyle,” he sneers, cracking open a beer now and taking a slurp. He lets out a fat belch which reeks before he gestures between the pair of them. “You two make me sick. Make sure you do the rounds before you disappear into a corner to make out and cry, boys.”
Stan shares a quiet look with Kyle, lips pressed together as he tries to contain his amusement. It’s not like there’s gonna be any make out tears tonight, but Cartman’s partially correct. They need to make an appearance amongst the crowd that have turned up here tonight before they can sneak away and enjoy each other’s company.
Time slips away from Stan from that point onwards. He cradles a couple of mostly warm beers as he flits from group to group, watching Kyle do the same. Prom is only a few weeks away, the last minute preparations seemingly ruining Wendy’s life because of course she’s overseeing the committee prepping it.
“And the juniors are supposed to be decorating the gym, but like, do I even trust them to do that? I just don’t know. In here looks pretty good. Think I could get you and Kenny to help?”
“And Cartman,” Stan tells her, nudging the lip of his beer towards the man in question who is currently teaching Butters how to do shots of tequila with lime and salt. “He helped too.”
“Wonders never cease,” Wendy says dryly, and Stan laughs along with her at the thought of Cartman bossing a posse of juniors around the gym, directing the adornment of streamers and balloons.
He and Kyle team up to play beer pong with Tolkien and Craig, who has not yet tried to punch Kenny, most likely because Clyde seems to have successfully convinced Bebe it would be a good idea to make out with him. They’re pressed up into an armchair in the corner of the small room, sucking face and barely reacting as Jimmy and Red take it in turns to try and stack paper streamers on various parts of their bodies. Tolkien and Craig end up destroying Stan and Kyle at beer pong, mostly because Craig has been six feet since freshman year and it would take a literal metric tonne of liquor to fell him.
Kenny has fashioned a bong out of an old Fanta bottle, aluminum foil and what looks like the hollowed out plastic casing of a pen. The scent of weed predictably brings Randy Marsh knocking, but Kenny distracts him by insisting they go out back to smoke in the dwindling twilight. Kenny doesn’t really care who he’s getting high with, and nor does Tweek it would seem, who accompanies the two of them with already bloodshot eyes.
Stan is just the right side of drunk when he spies the door to the little water closet in the corner of the basement jolt open, and decides now is the time to put his acting skills to their biggest test yet.
“Kyle,” he says, tugging loosely on his T-shirt, making sure Red, Wendy and Nichole can hear him when he says, “I don’t feel so good.”
Kyle shoots him a look of concern at once, brain working faster than Stan’s could hope at this point in their booze fuelled evening, as his eyes flicker over to the water closet.
“Come on,” he says, hauling Stan up by the elbow like an invalid. “Stan needs to puke, guys, if you need to pee, go upstairs.”
The girls giggle, Stan’s notoriously weak stomach a point of amusement at this stage in their decades of friendship, as Kyle leads him over to the water closet.
He pushes Stan inside first, flipping the switch so the lightbulb which dangles precariously from the ceiling sparks into life. Sharon Marsh had done her best to make the room seem like a bathroom fit for purpose, nautical theme and all despite the tight squeeze. Kyle shuts the door and locks it, twisting on the spot to check if Stan is puking yet. Instead, Stan presses him back against the door, eager tongue already lapping into his mouth. Kyle squeaks in horror, shoving him off.
“Dude! I do not want you to vomit in my mouth, Jesus Christ—”
“I’m not gonna vomit,” Stan says, fingers already trailing idly along the waistband of Kyle’s shorts. “I’m gonna give you head in this bathroom. At this party. While all our friends are on the other side of that door.” He cocks a brow, watching as Kyle’s face rushes with colour. He can practically feel the heat radiating off him. Stan sinks to his knees, pressing his cheek to Kyle’s crotch and watching him through half-lidded lashes from his spot on the ground. “You’d like that right? You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I wanted to do something special for your birthday.”
Kyle presses a hand automatically into Stan’s sweaty hair, petting it back and off his forehead as he chews on his lip. He laughs, a breathy huff of a thing.
“So you set up a whole surprise party just to entertain my semi-public sex fantasy?”
Stan nudges at Kyle’s crotch with the tip of his nose, where he can already feel his cock filling with intrigue. He allows his tongue, lazy with liquor and emboldened by the flush on Kyle’s pretty face, to trace the shape of him through his shorts.
“I’m a good boyfriend, aren’t I?”
Stan knows he sounds desperate. He also knows Kyle likes that.
Kyle strokes the tips of his fingers across Stan’s cheekbone, biting his lip as his smile threatens so wide it could split his cheeks open.
“Very good,” Kyle tells him softly. “You’re a very good boy, Stan.”
Stan’s dick jumps in his own shorts, and he rubs an anxious palm over it to calm himself down. It won’t do if this ends before it begins. A soft whimper escapes the back of his throat, unbidden thanks to the alcohol, and Kyle presses a finger to his own lips in a signal to keep quiet, as Stan hooks his fingers in his shorts and tugs either side of his belly button. A trail of dark red hair appears gradually, and Stan noses at it affectionately, the smell of Kyle hot and hard already heady in the small space. He pulls his dick out, tongue sneaking out to taste where he’s slick at the tip, the musk from the heat of the day salty. Stan feels his tongue seize with it, already salivating at the prospect of tasting it all the way in the back of his throat. Kyle’s dick is still growing in his palm where he’s squeezing it gently, allowing his tongue to swirl around the head on every other pump of his fist, catching in the stack of nerves just below the ridge. Kyle hisses, and his grasp on Stan’s hair becomes rougher, nudging him more fiercely towards his dick. Stan’s lax grip on it slips, the length of Kyle’s cock heavy as he shoves it up against his cheek.
“Don’t be a tease,” Kyle whispers. “Good boys don’t tease.”
Stan feels arousal shoot through him then, like a bolt of electricity held to his spine and sent straight to his aching balls. Fuck, he loves when Kyle treats him like this, needy and eager between his legs for Kyle’s wicked smile and the feeling of his cock on his tongue. Stan fastens his lips carefully over his teeth, sucking the tip of Kyle’s cock into his mouth.
“Take it easy,” Kyle says gently, like he’s coaxing Stan into taking some kind of nasty tasting medicine. He kind of is. The thought makes his balls clench. “You wanna make me feel good, right?”
Stan nods enthusiastically, dropping his jaw lower so he can swallow more of Kyle back. He’s gotten a lot better at this since they started fooling around, not quite as much of a natural as Kyle had been (jealousy sizzles at the edges of his consciousness when he considers this, because he’s pretty sure Kyle’s natural ‘talent’ in sucking dick had actually been down to practice). The jealousy just makes him burn hotter with want, with need. He needs to make Kyle feel good, needs to make him forget about anyone else who might have ever offered themselves to him like this.
Stan isn’t graceful about it, sloppy in the way he bobs his head and spit oozes from the edge of his mouth as he chokes back Kyle’s dick as far as his soft palate will allow. Kyle’s hips make little aborted thrusts every now and then as he alternates between stroking Stan’s hair in adoration and squeezing it with impatience. Stan pulls off for a second to spit in his hand, letting saliva sour with liquor make his fingers sticky as he sucks Kyle’s dick back into his mouth and lets his fingers probe further back over his balls. Kyle shivers, a full body thing that Stan can feel in the jerk of his cockhead on his tongue, mouth flooding with more saliva as he tastes the bitter threat of Kyle’s release.
Stan can feel where his own dick is straining against the inside of his thigh, slick with sweat and the sting of his own arousal and he whines with discomfort as he swallows Kyle down further. He has to leave off a little, the roil of his stomach muscles threatening as his gag reflex fails him, and Kyle puts both hands on either side of his skull as he fucks his face in earnest.
“That’s it, Stan, take it,” Kyle urges him, eyes fixated on the way his dick disappears back and forth between Stan’s lips. They feel puffy and abused, almost numb from the repetitive motion and it makes him feel like he’s floating. “You wanna finish, don’t you? Are you gonna cum in your pants? It’s okay if you do, baby, I’ll still love you.”
Stan can feel the tear that runs the length of his face when it drips off his chin, gurgling slightly as his nostrils flare, trying to suck oxygen in as best he can. The loss of it is making his face so hot, his head so high in the clouds he barely has any sense of what’s going on anymore. Kyle’s hips are twitching, his rhythm becoming stunted and unsteady as he chases his release.
“Touch yourself,” Kyle tells him urgently. “Through your shorts, do it.”
Stan obeys. It's his pleasure, really, to do anything and everything Kyle asks of him, which means he’s more than able to obey the next instruction that leaves Kyle’s bitten red lips.
“Gonna come Stan, want you to come for me too, for me, do it for me.”
Stan feels the hot spurt of cum in the back of his throat, spilling over past the edge of his lips as he presses a palm to his cock through his shorts, and feels his balls tighten with the sharp, sudden burst of release. He’s trembling, knees nearly giving out from beneath him on the hot tile as he comes in his pants, the overwhelming sensation of having his throat filled with Kyle’s spend and releasing his own dizzying.
Kyle bends at the waist, his dick slipping out of Stan’s wet mouth with an unceremonious slump. He’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon. Stan can see where his own knees are trembling as he tries to hold himself up against the door, stroking the back of Stan’s head like he’s a precious pet. Stan lets his cheek rest against the inside of Kyle’s thigh, sticky with sweat and comforting in a way he’s scared to try and articulate.
The music from the party beyond comes back into focus as Stan becomes aware of his own body again. Kyle reaches behind him to grab some wadded up toilet paper, handing it to him to clean up the cooling mess in his underwear. Stan’s fingers still shake with the aftershocks of his orgasm, and Kyle huffs out a soft laugh as he watches him.
“Those anti-depressants really do help with premature ejaculation, huh?”
If Stan’s face wasn’t already blazing hot, the blush would kill him. He shoves Kyle lightly in the leg with his shoulder, tucking his dick away again.
“They’re supposed to kill orgasms, period,” Stan mutters, embarrassed. He doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to lasting once Kyle wraps his fingers around him. “You can kiss watching me cum goodbye once they really start working.”
Kyle sinks down the door so he’s resting on his haunches, before he presses a gentle kiss to Stan’s still swollen mouth. His eyes glitter when he pulls back, his smile small, and proud. He always looks at Stan like this when they talk about him managing his depression or whatever.
“I’ll just have to work a little harder,” Kyle promises, kissing him again. Stan melts into it, overwhelmed with fondness. This secret side of Kyle, soft and willing and tender, a face he only really lets slip curled up in the cradle of Stan’s arms. It makes him ferocious with pride, like he could do anything. He could. If Kyle was there, Stan could do anything.
Except, perhaps, predict the future. Which is why when the door to the water closet is nearly torn open off its hinges, all he can do is brace for the fall as he and Kyle tumble out onto the floor, tongues still halfway inside the other’s mouth.
“I had to fucking see it to believe it!” Cartman yells, ruddy in the face with alcohol and seemingly furious. “I knew you faggots were fucking behind my back! We’ve been friends for YEARS, and this is how I find out? Because you couldn’t keep it in your pants until the party I slaved to prepare was over?!”
Kyle blinks back the shock of suddenly being on his back, peering up at Cartman from below where Stan had managed to catch himself from crushing him entirely. Cartman is like a raging bull, his eyes shining like he’s genuinely offended. He’s clutching a beer pong ball in his fist. How long had they been in the bathroom?
“Look, Cartman—” Stan begins, unable to keep the giddy, nervous laughter out of his voice as he realises everyone in the room is looking at them now, but Cartman squawks like a puffed up bird and throws down the beer pong ball.
“No, fuck this!” he yells, turning at the foot of the stairs to flip the room at large the bird. “Screw you guys, I’m going home!”