Nothing's Gonna Hurt You, Baby

by SapphosScribe

Summary:

Stan Pines would be the first to admit he's never been good with relationships, but what he has now with Fiddleford is different. Things between them are comfortable, easy, and so natural that Stan can hardly remember what life was like before they were together.

Except, sometimes, he does.

And while he wants more than anything to move on and enjoy his newfound intimacy with Fidds, the past keeps rearing its ugly head: dredging up unwanted memories and emotions that are getting harder and harder for Stan to shove down....

*This takes place within the story "A Human Condition", but can be read separately*

Notes:

Happy Pride, everyone! 🏳️‍🌈

Please note that there will be discussion of sexual abuse/trauma in this fic with vague references to forced prostitution. If that's triggering for you, feel free to click away or read with caution.

Now, on with the Fiddlestan!

There was something to be said about having the same sexual partner over and over, Stan thought as he pressed past Fiddleford’s entrance and seated himself inside his lover who was squirming and moaning breathily beneath him.

Stan had assumed he’d eventually become bored of doing it with the same person. That was always what happened before: He’d meet some John or Mary, they’d fool around once or twice, maybe three times. He’d take some temporary comfort from them, but, inevitably, they would leave or, more often, he would. A life on the road didn’t really lend itself to relationships that lasted more than a night, and Stan had resigned himself to what that meant long ago.

But this was different.

Stan panted, adjusting the angle of his thrusts to hit that spot that made Fiddleford writhe and groan. His long fingers gripped at Stan’s shoulders, flitting up to his hair, and back down to knot in the sheets.

Stan had never had the chance to truly learn someone’s body until now. Sure, he knew what people generally liked: where to lick, suck, bite, and how hard; how to use his hands, mouth, and cock to their best advantage. He prided himself on being able to get his partners off no matter who he was bedding, but those encounters had never meant anything. Not really. Not like Fiddleford.

“Stan, please,” he whined sharply, the word ending in an appreciative gasp as Stan reached down and wrapped a hand around his partner’s dick, giving it a long, smooth stroke in time with his thrusting. Fidds arched into the touch with a whimper.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve gotcha,” he chuckled low, leaning forward on his next thrust to press a brief kiss into the sensitive part of Fiddleford’s neck. Another soft noise of pleasure came from him that sent a bolt of heat to pool in Stan’s stomach.

Having sex with someone you liked over and over was turning out to be way better than a one night stand. Stan no longer had to waste time pulling out his usual tricks and waiting to see which ones would work. Now, he just knew.

Their second night together, for example, Stan had learned that there was a soft place on the back of Fidds’ right knee that caused his whole body to shiver when Stan kissed or sucked at it. Another time, he discovered he could get Fidds to make the softest, breathiest noises by slowly fingering him open and rubbing at his inner walls in deep firm caresses. And, perhaps Stan’s favorite thing he’d learned—.

Fidds’ breath hitched and his hands scrabbled up to wrap around his shoulders, tugging insistently. His lover tensed and squeezed tightly around Stan’s cock in a way that had him moaning low as he increased his pace, diving forward to mouth and suck at Fiddleford’s neck.

“You’re so fucking good. So perfect. Best I’ve ever had. Every time. Come on, sweetheart. I gotcha. Cum for me,” Stan murmured, nipping at his jaw. Fiddleford made a strangled noise, the tight ring of muscle fluttering as his release spilled across Stan’s fingers. He worked him through the orgasm, rapidly reaching his own.

“Stanley, Stanley,” Fidds begged softly, his name sounding like a prayer on the other man’s lips as his legs cinched even tighter around Stan’s waist. With two more thrusts, Stan followed him over the edge, pressing his forehead against his partner’s with a moan and a sigh as electricity raced up his spine and pleasure arced through him unrelentingly. Fidds hands moved to card through his hair in the way he liked, allowing Stan to ride out the aftershocks, before he pulled out and flopped over onto his side of the bed.

Stan’s favorite thing he’d learned about Fiddleford was how, more often than not, a few simple kisses and pretty words pushed him over the edge faster than anything else. Those sweet, throaty whimpers he made when he was close, the way Stan’s name fell fervently from his lips, it was better than any music. Plus, the idea that Fiddleford wanted him near, that he wanted Stan touching him as much as possible, well… that was hot. Though Stan was sure he’d rather die than ever admit it aloud.

“Whew. That was-. You sure were something tonight,” Fiddleford hummed dreamily, looking loose and contented as he grinned ridiculously at him in the afterglow. He rolled over, pulling him into an open mouthed kiss Stan savored like a fine wine.

“‘Great at Sex’ might as well be my middle name, sweetheart,” he muttered, pulling a tired laugh from the other man who gazed at him with a tenderness Stan wasn’t sure what to do with.

“Well, thank you for bestow-icating your gifts onto me,” he joked, pressing a more chaste kiss to the side of his mouth, “I needed that.”

“Yeah? Me too,” Stan said, rising from the bed and stretching. He was tired, but he needed to wash off before Fiddleford’s cum dried on him. It was becoming a habit, one Stan increasingly found he didn’t mind.

Fidds reached out to try and pull him back into bed, but he laughed and dodged his questing hands.

“Nope. I’m not sleeping with you like that. Come on,” Stan said, whacking Fiddleford’s side and giving him a hand up before pulling him into the shower. His partner sighed under the warm spray, water falling in rivulets from his short beard. The sight made Stan’s heart all fuzzy in his chest.

There was a time he had avoided commitment like the plague, had avoided getting too close or ever having something like this with anyone. As Stan stood beneath the water, hair plastered to his head while kneading the fancy shampoo he loved to smell into his lover’s scalp, he wondered what he’d been so scared of back then.

A week later, he remembered.

 

/_\ /_\ /_\

 

It was something simple that started it all.

Nikola (which Stan still thought was a stupid name, for the record, but it was Ford’s cat, so whatever) left a dead rabbit on the front porch. She was sitting proudly next to it cleaning her paws when Stan opened the door to drink his coffee outside, the body splayed out like an offering. With a grimace, Stan had bent down to grab it, closing his hand around the squishy corpse and intending to fling it into the trash when a sharp spasm went through his lower back and, abruptly, the muscles decided to lock up.

He’d cursed angrily, hobbling hunched over into the kitchen to get rid of the offending creature before managing to straighten up with the aid of a chair. His legs still trembled, threatening to give out on him as he walked stiffly back into the living room, resolving to use Ford’s ointment and a heating pad for the rest of the day to ease the pain.

It had worked to some degree. By evening, he was mostly fine, though his range of motion when bending and squatting was severely limited. It hadn’t occurred to him how that might be a problem until later when he’d driven over to McGucket Mansion for ‘a quiet night in’ as Fiddleford had called it, though Stan knew exactly what he’d meant by that.

As much as he loved spending time with his brother and the twins, Stan also waited greedily for the opportunity to get Fiddleford alone and take him apart piece by piece. It wasn’t all about the sex, but the sex was still really nice. At least, it should’ve been.

“Fuck,” Stan hissed, partially collapsing on top of Fiddleford after leaning over him for a kiss. Wouldn’t you know, the muscles in his back had decided to lock up again. His partner was immediately alarmed, squirming to try and get a better look at his face.

“Stan? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he huffed, easing back and using a quick movement to bring himself into a sitting position, though he still sucked air through his teeth as the pain shot up and down his spine, “It’s my fucking back. I threw it out earlier.”

“Why didn’t you say so, darlin’?” Fidds purred, sitting up to kiss him gently on the mouth, “You just lay on down and make yourself comfy. I got a heated massage-a-majig that should help ease that quicker than corn through a goose.”

“No, no,” Stan admonished, catching Fidds’ hand before he could run off looking for whatever it was he wanted to find, “I’m fine. I don’t need you to wrap me up in a blanket or something. I’m not gonna break into a million pieces. Let’s just… take things a little slow, yeah?”

Fiddleford paused, lips thinning the way they did when he didn’t quite like what he was being told.

“You sure, sugar? We could watch that movie you been pestering me about,” he offered, and while the idea of having Fiddleford watch High Society Heist was tempting, Stan had an even better idea. He boldly hooked his fingers into the loops on his partner’s jeans, towing him in with a devilish look.

“The only thing I want to watch tonight is you panting and begging while you cum on my cock,” he growled, seeing Fiddleford’s eyes darken and his face turn bright pink. His partner dove back down, grabbing his face in both hands and gave Stan the type of kiss that had his toes curling in his socks. Fidds pulled back with a stern look when they broke apart for air.

“Oh, you’re fightin’ dirty,” he muttered before diving back in again.

“Whatever works,” Stan managed between kisses. He reached out, hastily opening the buttons on Fidds shirt to get his hands on the wiry engineer’s waist. Fidd’s breath hitched as Stan rubbed circles into his hip bones, feeling his cock twitch in interest against Stan’s stomach.

“Mmm. Oh. That’s good,” Fidds sighed. Stan dipped his hands below the waistband of his lover’s underwear, shoving them and his pants out of the way to make room for his hands.

“Have I mentioned lately how much I love your ass?” Stan sighed, nipping and sucking at Fidds’ collarbone as he squirmed in his lap.

“I would-, hah, I wouldn’t mind hearing it again,” Fidds managed, hands gripping at his shoulders.

“It’s perfect. Two nice handfuls,” he said with a fond squeeze, feeling the solid muscle underneath, “Love how you squirm.”

Stan panted softly, fingers dipping down to rub between his cheeks as Fidds forehead knocked against his own.

“I want you inside me,” he growled, voice low and hungry. The sound went straight to Stan’s dick as he swallowed around the dryness in his mouth.

“Yep. Okay. On it,” he said, rolling them so that Fidds was underneath. The position made his muscles protest, but he tried to ignore them until he reached for the bottle of lube on the bedside table and a sharp pain shot down the length of his body.

“Shit!”

Within seconds, Fiddleford’s bedroom eyes had become more lucid and he’d cocked his head at him.

“Stanley?”

“It’s fine!” He said, trying to straighten back up from where he was stretched across the side of the bed. He tried to do it in a quick motion, but that only brought more pain.

“Ah, okay. Less fine now,” he groaned and Fiddleford immediately came to his rescue.

“Here, just shuffle forward a little. Yep. There ya go. Now kinda angle yourself.”

Stan followed his guiding hands and directions until he was slightly reclined against the headboard without any hope of sitting up from this position.

“Goddamnit!” He huffed, unable to do anything but cross his arms angrily in front of him.

“Calm down,” Fidds said, though the words came out through a chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” He demanded. Fiddleford’s grin widened as he gestured to the way he was sitting.

“Nothing. You just look like a pouty toddler. It’s real cute,” he said, softening his words by pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m not fucking cute. I’m devastatingly handsome,” he scoffed, uncrossing his arms and recrossing them behind his head. Fiddleford gave him a fond look.

“Why not both?” He offered. Stan leaned forward to try and capture his mouth in a kiss, but aborted the action halfway with a grimace and a muttered curse.

“I’ll go get a heatin’ pad,” Fidds said. Stan groaned.

“Would you knock it off with the heating pad? I told ya I’m fine. I’m just trying to figure out a way to do this,” he said glaring between their half naked bodies as if it was a problem to solve.

“And I don’t want you injuring yourself just for a little nookie,” Fidds said, “You jarring around is just gonna make it worse. One night a’ rest ain’t gonna kill ya.”

Stan knew he had a point and let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

  “We could do some hand-mouth stuff, I guess,” Stan sighed, feeling vaguely disappointed, though he supposed it was better than nothing. A flash of something suddenly passed through Fiddleford’s eyes as he shifted on the bed to face him.

“Or…,” he began, hands slapping quietly at his thighs while he hesitated, “We could… try something else.”

“Like what?” Stan scoffed, a bit concerned with how cagey his partner was being.

“Like me on top? Opening you up a few fingers at a time until you’re stretched out enough I can make love to you proper-like,” Fidds purred softly, eyeing Stan who suddenly felt incredibly exposed and vulnerable lying on his back, “That sound good to you?”

He forced out a nervous laugh.

“Oh. I, uh… didn’t think you’d go for that,” Stan said while Fiddleford watched him with those blue eyes that felt far too perceptive, “I kinda assumed, I mean, every time we’ve done it before…. You seemed to, uh, like it the other way.”

A soft look came over Fidds’ face and he crawled up beside him, running a palm over the center of his chest.

“Oh, I do. You always take such good care’a me. I thought I’d go on and seize the opportunity to do the same for you.” Stan swallowed hard, heart fluttering in his chest as he tried to take a few deep breaths through the adrenaline that was suddenly flooding his veins.

“Sure, if that’s what you want. Why not? I’m not doing much good like this,” Stan chuckled willing his expression into something normal.

“Hush now. You do plenty. You just relax. I’ll take the reins for a while,” Fidds purred with a wink, trailing his hands down Stan’s sides, helping him out of the t-shirt he’d worn over here.

Fiddleford hummed in pleasure at the sight of his chest, pressing a soft kiss to his right pec before retreating lower to begin unbuttoning his pants and pulling them off, taking care to do it without Stan having to arch his back.

He felt his heart skip a beat as that layer between them disappeared, his underwear the only thing keeping him from being completely bare before Fidds’ hungry gaze.

“Lord, I never get tired of lookin’ atcha,” his partner sighed, fingers tracing over his thighs and drawing patterns that left little trails of pleasure in their wake. Then, his underwear had disappeared and his cock was jutting proudly into the air.

Fidds’ attention wasn’t on that though as he grabbed one of at least ten pillows layered on the bed.

“Lift your hips a little for me, darlin’?” He said and Stan shakily obliged with a wince, allowing his partner to slide it under his back. Fiddleford nodded in satisfaction.

“There. That should be a mite more comfy,” he said, smiling softly up at him, but Stan couldn’t return the gesture, rolling his eyes instead.

“What’s next? You gonna braid my hair? I thought we were supposed to be fucking,” he joked with a harsher edge than he intended. Fiddleford chuckled, rubbing a hand on his knee.

“So impatient. ’Scuse me for making sure you don’t go and throw your back out, Lothario,” he quipped while reaching over for the lube and coating his hand generously. Stan’s heart beat faster in his chest.

“Just get to it,” he muttered. Fidds shot him a devilish smile.

“Eager, are ya?” There was a sultry teasing tone in his partner’s voice but all Stan could hear was a deep baritone from years ago, the scent of cigar smoke and mildew hanging thick in the air.

“Eager little cockslut, aren’t you?”

His fists tightened at the memory but he forced them to unfurl as Fiddleford nudged his legs apart, smoothing warm palms over his inner thighs. Then, there was the gentle brush of a finger prodding against his entrance. Stan fought down the sudden surge of panic, trying to go limp and not tense up. He knew it was only going to make things worse if he tensed up, it was going to hurt and then-.

“Relax, sugar,” Fidds murmured, pressing a kiss to his inner thigh and Stan did his best, feeling the tip of his finger slip in. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as a memory hit him full force: rough hands against his hips, wrists chafing from the rope that was tied around them, the taste of blood in his mouth as he bit his lip to keep from crying out while some man panted his rancid breath against his neck, slamming into him over and over and over—.

Stan hadn’t realized he’d made a sound until he felt Fiddleford’s hand retreat and looked down to find his smile had disappeared.

“You sure this is alright?” He murmured, placing a soft peck on Stan’s knee.

“Mmm hmm.”

Stan didn’t trust himself to speak at the moment. Still, Fidds hesitated.

“You know… we don’t hafta do nothin’ you don’t want to,” he said in that gentle tone Stan had only heard the two times his nightmares had woken Fidds up. Normally, it calmed him down, now it was just pissing him off.

“It’s fine, Fidds. I said it was okay, didn’t I!?” He snapped.

“Well, you’re not acting like it is. You’re stiff as a board.”

“No, you just wring your hands about every little twitch! I don’t see why you’re making this a whole thing. Geez, I said you could, so why don’t you just get on with it and-!”

“Stanley,” Fidds said suddenly, the sharpness of his tone cutting off his rambling and making him realize how hard he was shaking, “Take a breath.”

He did as he was asked, but the rush of oxygen didn’t feel like near enough and he took another quick breath after that. Fiddleford retreated to sit at the end of the bed, watching him in a way Stan didn’t like as he stared down at the richly patterned comforter, trying to trace the symbols with his eyes.

After a while, Fidds spoke again, his voice soft.

“You feelin’ better?”

Stan nodded once, glaring at nothing in particular. Fiddleford sighed, running a hand over his beard.

“I’m real sorry for pushing this. I can see now it was a mistake.”

“No,” Stan said, the word as sharp and sudden as a gunshot, “I… I want to do this. I can do this. It’ll be fine. Let’s—.”

“Stop,” Fiddleford said, placing his clean hand over the top of Stan’s own that was knotted in the sheets. He released his grip, fingers trembling and met his partner’s concerned gaze. There was something flickering in his eyes that Stan didn’t like, some slow understanding that made him want to burrow under the floorboards and disappear.

“I… I wanna ask you somethin’,” Fidds said softly, thumb rubbing slowly over the back of Stan’s hand, “And you only gotta give me a yes or a no.”

Stan felt a terrible sense of dread rising up in him, churning in his stomach. He knew what was coming. It was the same question he’d deftly avoided multiple times with Ford and Shermie until they’d stopped pressing and those memories had buried themselves again.

“Has anyone ever… hurt ya before? Intimately?” Fiddleford asked, almost whispering. There was a soft searching look in his eyes and Stan opened his mouth to deny it, but the word caught around a lump in his throat. Instead, he turned away, jaw clenching and unclenching as he tried to force back the moisture gathering in his eyes from all the dust in this old room. The look of suspicion on Fidds faced quickly morphed into horror, then pity.

“Aw… Stanley.”

Stan hated it. He hated how Fiddleford sounded more wounded now than he did when waking up in the middle of the night not knowing where he was, frightened and confused. Stan hated how hard his hands were shaking. He hated that these stupid memories had ruined this whole night. He hated it all.

“Cut that shit out, okay?!” He snarled despite his voice breaking, yanking his hand away from Fidds, “I’m fine! It was forever ago! I barely even remember any of it I was so high back then! It doesn’t matter!” The fury in his words did nothing to soften the pained look on Fiddleford’s face as he shuffled closer.

“I… want to hug you. Is that alright?” He murmured. Stan sputtered in exasperation.

“Fidds! Are you fucking-!?”

“Is that alright?” He insisted calmly, cutting him off.

Stan shook his head, rolling his eyes and ignoring the small bit of moisture that escaped at the action. He knew Fidds wouldn’t leave this alone until he felt like he’d done something to ‘comfort him’ or whatever the fuck. Stan might as well give in.

“Yeah, sure. Knock yourself out,” he muttered.

Fidds was on him in seconds, wrapping his arms tight around him and squeezing like he was frightened Stan might try to escape if he didn’t hold on. Stan didn’t hug him back because this was just stupid and embarrassing and ridiculous. He didn’t need to be coddled over his own rotten life choices. He’d done what he had to do, and now he just had to live with it. It didn’t even really bother him anymore except for times like this. He’d just have to push through and get over it like he had everything else.

Stan would have told all of that to Fidds if his throat didn’t feel so tight.

Instead, all he could manage was a mumbled “It’s fine.”

“No. It ain’t,” Fidds said sternly, “I’m real sorry that happened to you. You didn’t deserve that, ya hear?”

Fidds grip tightened as he rubbed his hand firmly over Stan’s side. Stan opened his mouth to tell him that, yeah, he actually did deserve it because he’d agreed to it and got paid well to boot, but the words stuck in his throat and he made a choked noise instead.

Fidds shuffled closer, maneuvering them until he was practically in Stan’s lap, carding his fingers through Stan’s hair while shushing him and murmuring mindless words of comfort. Stan buried his face in his shoulder to hide.

He’d made it a point never to cry in front of Fiddleford, minus the few tears he’d stealthily wiped away at the end of The Duchess Approves. Stan hated crying in front of anyone, except Ford, and Fiddleford had enough to worry about already without him adding anything else. But there was something about these stupid flashbacks that made his emotions get all screwy. Any other time he could have laughed it off or maybe even made a joke about the whole thing.

As it was, his chest had constricted so tight it was starting to ache and he was swallowing sobs to keep from turning into an even bigger blubbering mess. He tried to force away the worst of the memories assailing him and ground himself in the present, focusing on the metallic herbal scent clinging to Fiddleford and his lithe body anchored to Stan’s own.

When he finally managed to get ahold of himself. He drew in a shuddering breath and yanked himself out of Fidds grasp, rubbing at his eyes to get rid of as much of the evidence as possible.

“Sorry,” he grumbled, angry at himself.

“Ain’t no need to apologize. How’s about we take it easy for a while. Hmm?” Fiddleford offered, his voice tinged with nervousness. Stan didn’t volunteer anything other than a soft huff. That was apparently all the confirmation Fidds needed as he opened up the closet and pulled down the large, extra-soft red blanket they sometimes wrapped up in after sex. It had always been Stan’s favorite and now he had it all to himself as Fidds pulled it around him before putting on a shirt and pausing at the door.

“I’ll be right back. You just stay put,” he said before leaving the room

For one irrational moment, Stan was certain Fidds wasn’t going to return, that he’d left him here because everyone always left eventually and why would this be any different? Stan had fucked this up. He’d fucked everything up. Because he was a fuck up and he should just put on his clothes and leave now to save Fidds the trouble of kicking him out.

Stan viciously shoved the thoughts away, trying to pull out of the memories that had dug their claws into him as he fought off more of those stupid tears clogging his throat and pricking in his eyes. He’d only just managed to get a tenuous grasp over his emotions when Fidds returned with— Stan choked out a laugh— the damn heating pad, and placed it underneath him. He didn’t try to argue this time, only offering a roll of his eyes as Fidds gave him a bottle of water and turned on the television.

“Is this alright?” Fidds asked, sitting close with his arm brushing feather light against Stan’s own.

“You can get closer. I’m not gonna bite,” he muttered, voice rough from tears. Thankfully, Fidds read between the lines and understood what Stan really didn’t want to admit: that he’d actually really like if Fidds could curl up with him like they normally did and just stay there and not leave.

Within seconds, his lover had settled against him. The warm weight of Fidds’ arm draped across his stomach and his head resting on his shoulder finally eased the tightness in Stan’s chest and he relaxed into Fidds’ hold as the tv played on. Stan wasn’t particularly interested in whatever was happening on screen, staring past it as he tried to think of a way to smooth all this over, to defuse the now tense situation he’d fucking caused.

Before he could, Fiddleford broke the silence.

“If you want to talk about anything, I’m glad to lend an ear,” he said quietly. Stan closed his eyes, running a hand over his hair.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Like I said. It was a long time ago. I knew what I was getting into. I….” Stan bit down on the next words that tried to escape. I needed the money. Fiddleford fell silent and Stan’s heart skipped a beat, worried he’d fucked up again somehow.

“I think I told ya ‘bout my sisters, yeah?” He asked and Stan blinked, surprised by the sharp change of subject.

“Uhhhh yeah. You mentioned ‘em one or twice,” he confirmed. Fiddleford nodded, staring ahead with a far away look.

“My oldest sister, June, she always did alright. She was a real tough customer. All of mama’s wisdom mixed with Paw’s short temper. She weren’t the type to suffer fools lightly and she let ya know it right quick. Mary Beth, though,” Fiddleford clicked his tongue. “She was always a dreamy one. A sensitive type. She’d fall in love with any fella who glanced her way. Used to drive me up the wall the way she’d giggle and moon over ‘em. But nowadays, I reckon she just wanted someone for herself, ya know? Someone to… make her feel a little less lonesome. ‘Course that eventually lead her to trouble.”

Stan settled in, the warm rolling drawl of Fiddleford’s words far more distracting and comforting than whatever was playing on the television. His lover got a hard look in his eye suddenly, jaw clenching.

“I remember one night she came stumbling in late, shivering all over like a wet dog; her eyes wide and wild. She wouldn’t say nothing to nobody for a long time, but after a couple a’ hours Mama and June finally managed to coax the story outta her.” Fidds’ hand tapped angrily against his thigh.

“Some boy in town who she’d taken to following around. He’d got her alone out behind the barn and… he did what he wanted. It weren’t as bad as it coulda been but… it was bad enough.” Stan could hear a low note of anger in his partner’s voice like the distant roll of thunder, his stomach churning unpleasantly.

“What… what happened?” He asked quietly, not sure if he really wanted to know. Fidds turned to lock his gaze with Stan’s, blue eyes cold and sharp as ice.

“I’ll tell you what happened: Me and Paw and Travis went out, found the sonuvabitch, and beat him within an inch of his life. Made it real clear he weren’t never to come near Mary Beth again, and, iffen he ever did or he told anyone ‘bout what he’d done, there wouldn’t be enough of him left to bury after the hogs got through with him,” Fidds voice had turned into a snarl at the end, his wiry frame shaking with remembered anger as Stan gaped at him in shock.

“That’s what I’d like to do right now to whatever shit-suckin’ lowlife thought he could lay hands on you like that,” Fidds fumed, eyes fixed on him seriously. Stan shook his head slowly.

“No. No, it wasn’t-. Fidds. It wasn’t like that,” he said, feeling his ears flush with embarrassment and a tiny pulse of affection he smothered deep, “You ain’t gotta defend my honor or whatever. It was just something that I had to do.”

“You had to do?” Fidds asked, skepticism clear on his face. Stan looked away, feeling stupid and small.

“Yeah.”

He was expecting him to press, to try and pry answers out of him like Ford had or ask careful questions like Shermie. Instead, Fiddleford reached out a hand, laying it softly over his own.

Then, suddenly, the words that had been stuck at the back of his throat for over a year, maybe longer than that, dislodged and he started rambling.

“It wasn’t like what happened to your sister. I was living on my own in Chicago and all the money I’d been making running scams and fixing races had run out. It was…,” Stan swallowed hard, trembling suddenly, “It had been about a week since I’d eaten and winter was coming on. I, uh… I really needed the money. So I figured, you know, I liked sex and it would be an easy paycheck as long as I didn’t get caught….”

As it often happened, Stan found that once he got started he couldn’t stop. All the sordid details, probably much more than Fiddleford ever wanted to know, began pouring out of him. Things he’d never told anyone. Things he’d thought he’d take with him to the grave.

“… And then he said he’d give me double if I let his buddy in on the action. He had a thing for long hair. Plus, with the extra money, I’d be able to rent a room for a couple days, so I said ‘sure’….”

The whole time Fiddleford didn’t make a sound. No noises of shock or anger or disgust. Not a peep about how it wasn’t his fault or to chastise him for his stupidity. Fidds just sat silently, thumb drifting gently over his forearm.

“I shoulda checked the money upfront. You think I would have learned my lesson the first time, but I was so high I could barely stand, let alone count cash. Rico got what he was owed eventually, he always did, but he docked my cut for making him chase ‘em down to collect….”

Stan hurried through the worst of it, hands shaking and voice cracking as he tried to make light of it all, tried to keep Fidds from judging him too harshly. He was still so silent. He hadn’t said anything and Stan knew he’d been talking for at least half an hour.

“… Was my ticket out, so I hopped a boat, got clean, and never looked back. I had enough at that point I could eat for a couple months once I hit land if I rationed it out. Enough that I could start up a new, er, business. And, uh, that… that was the end of it.” Stan’s voice tapered off, his mouth dry as sandpaper. He risked a glance over at Fiddleford, hoping to gauge in his expression if he needed to apologize or make a joke. Stan froze to the spot, staring at Fidd’s red-rimmed eyes and the unshed tears in them.

“H-Hey, are you okay!?” He asked, reaching out. Fiddleford caught his hand turning it palm up and placing a soft kiss in the center that sent pleasant tingles shooting though his arm into his chest.

“Never better,” Fidds said, even as his voice wavered. Stan wasn’t sure if he believed him, but he also wasn’t sure what he could do to fix this. He’d wrecked the entire evening and made Fiddleford fucking cry. Way to go, idiot. He opened his mouth to say something, what, he didn’t know, but Fidds beat him to it.

“Does Ford know about all of this?”

“No,” Stan said immediately, panic making his heart lurch in his chest as he tightened his grip on Fiddleford’s hand.

“I mean, he knows it happened, but I didn’t want to….”

He’s not sure how to finish that sentence, but Fidds nodded in understanding.

“So just me, then.”

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, swallowing hard and looking away, “Just you.”

They lapsed into silence, but there was a terrible fear squeezing at Stan’s ribs, a question trying to force its way out of him.

“You’re not gonna tell him, are you?”

Stan hated how small and frightened he sounded, like that stupid kid he’d been fifty years ago, terrified his Pa might find out he’d been picking the tourists’ pockets again.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” Fidds replied, voice deep and soft. Stan pulled in a full breath, letting it out in relief.

“Okay. I just don’t want him to worry, you know? It’s not an issue, like I said. It happened a long time ago and he already beats himself up so much over everything else…. It’s not like he can do anything about it, so it’s better if-.”

“You don’t have to go justifying it to me,” Fiddleford said, hand wrapping further around his forearm, “Every man’s entitled to his secrets.”

His partner hesitated a moment longer, mouth working, before he finally said

“Thank you. For trusting me with that. I know that probably weren’t easy,” His voice was so sincere Stan had to work to keep from tearing up again as Fiddleford kept running his hand over his arm.

“You’re welcome,” Stan muttered, not sure what else to say.

After that, Fidds turned on High Society Heist and Stan spent the next two hours pointing out some of the better moments, or when a particularly funny joke was coming. When it was over, another movie came on that he watched idly; then Fiddleford was jostling him awake and guiding him to lie in a better position for his back. He went willingly as his lover switched off the tv and curled up against Stan’s chest.

The next morning, Stan rose early to make breakfast and he and Fidds drank coffee out on the balcony while watching the sunrise over the mountains.

Neither of them spoke about what happened the night before.

 

/_\ /_\ /_\

 

Stan was the one who eventually brought it up again.

It felt inevitable in some way that he would. It was like that story Ford had told him when they were younger about a girl opening up a box full of awful shit: you couldn’t just cram it all back in once it was set free. Like all the other memories Stan had been forced to reckon with on the Stan O’ War, he couldn’t just shove this down and never think about it again. At least, not until he dealt with it.

It was especially hard not to think about when Fiddleford was underneath him, legs wrapped around his back like an octopus and moaning his name while Stan pushed deep into his lover. In those moments, Stan couldn’t help but recognize the trust Fiddleford was placing in him to be careful, to not injure him.

Not that he’d ever do that.

Stan would sooner stick his cock in a blender than use it to hurt Fidds. He loved him. And he could tell from the adoring look in Fidds’ eyes when Stan was moving inside him that Fidds loved him just as much. The knowledge felt as sure and solid as the bond he’d repaired with Ford. Unwavering and unbreakable.

It made Stan want to give that love and trust right back to Fidds. Maybe just to prove to himself that he could. He didn’t like the thought of some stupid memory from decades ago being the thing that could stop him from loving Fiddleford the way the other man clearly deserved. He had promised him everything and he meant it.

The was why Stan currently found himself on the doorstep of McGucket Mansion in the middle of the day, using the key Fidds had gifted him to let himself in and wander through the entrance hall. He was four hours early, so Fiddleford wasn’t waiting for him in the sitting area like he usually did. It wasn’t very difficult to find him though, Stan simply followed the sound of hammering, drilling, and other assorted mechanical noises.

He leaned in the doorway of Fidds’ workshop, a smile tugging at his mouth as he watched his partner poke at the inside of some large machine while Tate sat nearby paging through the latest issue of Lake and Stream. He waited for several minutes, enjoying the sight of Fidds working before his partner turned to collect a tool and did a double take, grinning at Stan in a way that showed all his teeth.

“Hey there, Sugar! I weren’t expecting you ’til later,” he called setting down the wire stripper and wiping his hands off. Stan stepped carefully into the surprisingly clean workspace and got a head nod from Tate before Fidds reached up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“Yeah. The twins went with Wendy and her friends into town for the day, so I thought I’d drop by. Hope that’s okay,” he chuckled, but he could hear the nervous edge to it as Fidds waved the words away.

“You can drop by anytime. You know that,” he chided. Tate closed his magazine with a sigh.

“And it means I don’t gotta oversee rebuilding this seeder,” he said. Fiddleford frowned at his son good-naturedly.

“I done told ya you don’t need to worry ‘bout me none! I can get along just fine in here by myself,” he said with a huff. Tate might not be the easiest man to read, but Stan liked to think he could tell by the slight thinning of his mouth he thought that was bullshit. It seemed he should have been more worried about his own poker face as Fidds smile dimmed a bit, his eyes sharpening on his face.

“Everything alright?”

“Yep. Uh-huh,” Stan said with a nod, stomach churning nervously, “I just-. Could I talk to you for a minute?”

“Course.”

Fiddleford was immediately at his heels, following him out of the room as Stan lead them down the hallway before opening a door and gesturing Fidds into the large room overlooking the gardens and the pool. The entire back wall was made of glass and the light streaming in across the landscape made Stan feel a bit less claustrophobic.

“So. What’s this about?”

He could tell from the way Fidds’ hands were tapping against his thighs that he was worried, so Stan pushed down his own nerves and forced himself to speak before he could back out.

“I want you to fuck me,” he said quickly.

Fidds choked on nothing, face flushing brightly as he gaped at him. Stan would have laughed at his expression if not for the butterflies tap dancing in his chest.

“Wha-!? Stan. Do you-. Now!? I’m not-!”

“It doesn’t have to be now,” he interrupted hurriedly, “But next time… I thought we could try again. Switch things up. With you, uh, you know….” He gestured helplessly and Fidds seemed to recover enough of his composure to level him with a look he normally gave to particularly difficult engineering problems.

“I see. Where’s this coming from all of a sudden?” Fidds pressed, shifting his weight to his other foot. Stan stared down at the polished marble floors.

“It’s not all of a sudden. I’ve… been thinking about it for a while. Since that night. If you still want to, I could-.”

“Stanley. We don’t hafta do this. You know that, dontcha?” Fidds said, stepping forward and tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder. His thumb rubbed back and forth slowly and Stan felt some of the tension leave him at the touch. He still scowled, glaring down at his fuzzy reflection in the floors.

“I know, but I want to,” he insisted.

“I’m not so sure ya do,” Fidds said in the same soft voice he might use with a startled deer.

“Don’t think you’re disappointing me or nothing. I don’t ever want you to feel like-. Like I want you to-.” he paused, then heaved a weary sigh, “I done wish I’d never brought it up in the first place. Listen, I love what we got together. You don’t need to go pushing yourself just cause you think its something I want. I want you to be comforta-bibble when we’re together. That’s all.”

Stan heard the slight slip in his words and immediately felt bad at how anxious he’d made his partner. He finally looked up, locking eyes with Fidds and reached to place his hand over the one his lover had resting on his shoulder.

“Fidds, I know that,” Stan huffed, trying not to let the annoyance he felt leak into his voice for fear Fiddleford would think he was upset with him, “Really. And that’s why I want to do this.”

Stan fought the urge to look away from the weight of those blue eyes that seemed to stare too deeply into his own, right past all his defenses.

“This whole thing is just so… so stupid. I mean, I should be able to do this. I did it plenty of times with people I didn’t even care about! And I… I love you. And I trust you, and I know that you wouldn’t-. That you would never-.” Stan bit down on his words and glanced out the window, trying to steady his breathing while Fiddleford, like always, waited quietly for him to continue, that thumb still rubbing back and forth, back and forth.

He took one last slow breath before meeting Fidds’ eyes again, his blue gaze soft and patient. Stan bit at the inside of his cheek to focus on something other than the dust in here making his eyes water.

“I just want to have this with you. To do this for you. For me. For us. I don’t want to think about the shit that happened anymore. I only want it to be… to be us,” he muttered, unsure if he was making any sense.

Fiddleford watched him for another long moment, and Stan couldn’t for the life of him tell what was going on in his partner’s head. Then, Fidds gave a slight nod, the hand on his shoulder sliding up to press softly against Stan’s cheek.

“I understand,” he murmured and Stan felt a knot loosen in his chest as he breathed out slowly.

“If this is something you really want, then….” Fidds’ mouth tugged up in a smile, eyes scrunching slightly, “Well, I think I’d give ya just about anything you asked for.”

Stan leaned forward slightly and Fidds took the hint, meeting him for a brief kiss. Stan fidgeted as he pulled away, burying his hands in his pockets.

“Okay. So. How do you wanna…?” He said, trailing off. Fidds paused for a moment before glancing down at his watch and back up to Stan.

“How ‘bout tonight? Is that too soon?”

Stan felt his heart kick nervously in his chest.

“No. No, I can do tonight,” he said as Fidds nodded.

“Okay. Give me some time to get a few things together and, uh.” Fidds hamboned his hands against his thighs. “Tonight. ‘Round seven?”

“Seven,” Stan confirmed, forcing down his nerves.

Fidds smiled that sweet slow smile that felt like watching the sun coming out and he reached up to kiss Stan again, pulling him in by the nape of his neck. He went willingly, this kiss much slower and deeper as it turned his nerves into a giddy thrum of pleasure. Fidds pulled away first, cradling his face in his hands with an adoring expression that had Stan fighting down a blush.

“I love you,” he murmured. Stan backed out of his hold, looking toward the door.

“Yeah, yeah. I love you, too.” He huffed, losing the fight as his cheeks heated. Fiddleford chuckled low in his throat.

And that was that.

Tonight. Seven o’clock.

Ready or not.

 

/_\ /_\ /_\

 

Stan scrubbed himself within an inch of his life.

He always tried to clean up for their rendezvous, but tonight he was extra thorough. Partly from knowing what was planned and partly to give himself something to keep busy so he wouldn’t think about it. He went the extra mile, shaving his stubble and smacking on some cologne and aftershave, running a comb through his hair, and brushing his teeth twice until there was nothing left to do but wait.

Stan had never really been good at that.

He walked out of the bathroom to find the twins sprawled on the couch with Bill watching some colorful movie that Mabel was excitedly explaining to her captive audience.

“I’m going out for the night. I’ll be back later. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” He called out his usual goodbye. Ford glanced up briefly from his research spread out on the table to wave, but stopped, blinking at him in surprise.

“Grunkle Stan! Your hair is so pretty! And you smell so clean!” Mabel gasped, running over to scent him like a bloodhound.

“I’m always clean! Whaddaya mean?” He scoffed, though he enjoyed the tight hug his niece gave him.

“Can you do this all the time?” She asked, reaching up to smack her hands gently against his freshly shaven face. He rolled his eyes at the question, retreating toward the door to pull on his coat.

“Give Fiddleford my regards,” Ford said with a soft smile.

“Tell Fiddlesticks I said to dive in a patch of poison ivy!” Bill called, waving a hand.

“Sure, and not happening,” Stan snapped. Bill sighed dramatically.

“Oh! This is the best part! Quick! Go back!” Mabel shouted, jumping on the couch between Bill and Dipper. His nephew gave him a long suffering look.

“Grunkle Stan, can I come with you?”

Stan barked out a laugh, opening the door and stepping out.

“Not tonight, kid.”

The brief conversation he had with his family had set his nerves at ease, but the drive over quickly built them back up as he drummed his fingers against the wheel and tried to pay attention to the music pouring from the speakers.

It was crazy for him to be this wound up.

It was Fiddleford, for Moses sake. Fiddleford, who always cried at the end of Iron Magnolias and Where the Red Ivy Grows. Fiddleford, who slipped little improvements here and there into nearly every mechanical device Stan used. Fiddleford, who had probably never raised a hand in anger toward an innocent in his whole life. There was no reason for him to be worried.

Yet he still was.

Stan knew Fidds must have been waiting at the door. It was the only explanation for how he opened it before The doorbell had even finished chiming. He blinked at his lover who was staring up at him with wide eyes.

“Hey.” Stan held up a hand in greeting.

“Hey. You look good. Real handsome,” Fidds said, eyes roving over his face and down to the button up and jeans Stan had spent too long picking out.

“Thanks. So do you,” he said, leaning in to kiss him in greeting. Fiddleford gestured toward the kitchen.

“You want something to eat? Tate cooked earlier ‘fore he left.”

Stan felt like he might throw up if he tried to eat anything, so he shook his head.

“Nah. Not hungry.”

Fidds nodded along, tapping his hand softly against his thigh. It was a welcome sight. At least Stan wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

“Alright. You, uh, want to head up then?”

Stan swallowed hard.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

Fiddleford shuffled his feet, then reached out for Stan’s hand. He didn’t need Fidds’ guidance anymore, not like he did that first night, but he still wrapped his palm around his lover’s, reveling in the warmth.

His grip was not as tight as the last time they’d done this, nor their steps as frenzied, but Stan still felt that familiar swoop in his stomach as Fiddleford opened the door and allowed Stan into the bedroom, shutting it neatly behind them.

Stan stopped in his tracks, taking in the dozen or so candles flickering in the space, the thick luxurious bedding and pillows scattered over the mattress and a chilled bottle of wine with two glasses setting on a table nearby. He couldn’t stop the surprised laugh that forced its way out of his throat.

“Too much?” Fidds asked with a small, self-depreciating smile.

“All that’s missing is the flower petals,” Stan joked tenderly, offering him an answering smile. Though the gesture was a little cheesy, it was something about the sincerity and care behind it that made it endearing instead of patronizing. Not for the first time, Stan couldn’t suppress a smile at the thought of how fucking cute Fidds was.

The ice now broken, his lover took three careful steps forward, closing the distance between them. Even after the dozens of times they’d had sex, Stan still felt his heart skip a beat at Fidds’ proximity, at the soft way his eyes raked over him. Fidds raised a hand and set it gently against his shoulder, drifting forward to press against Stan and curl his face into the side of his neck.

Stan was caught off guard by the tenderness of the gesture, but his arms came up automatically to encircle Fidds’ waist, nuzzling his jaw into the top of his head. He wasn’t sure when having him close like this had begun to feel so natural, so right. Whatever remaining tension Stan was holding onto disappeared as Fidds slow breaths matched his own and puffed over his shoulder.

“I love you,” he said softly, the words making Stan’s stomach jolt as he tightened his grip on his partner, “And if you wanna call this quits at any time tonight, that’s fine with me. I ain’t gonna be upset. I will be upset if you keep going when you don’t wanna ‘cause you think that’s what I want. Alright?”

Fidds looked up, staring at him seriously and Stan swallowed hard, his heart squeezing with affection at the words.

“Yeah. Okay,” he muttered hoarsely. Fiddleford’s eyes searched his face for a moment longer before he was apparently satisfied with what he saw. Then, he leaned in and slotted their lips together for a kiss. It wasn’t demanding or heated like it normally was when they entwined. This was much softer and deeper, more relaxed.

The slow pace of it made Stan nervous and he pushed for control, licking into Fidds’ mouth in a way he knew would drive him wild. His lover gasped against his lips before that hand resting on his shoulder migrated up to tighten in his hair and tug the smallest amount.

The suddenness of it surprised Stan and Fidds took advantage of the moment to slide his tongue against Stan’s own, stilling him and forcing him back into the pace he’d set. The reprimand was clear: Fidds was calling the shots right now and he wasn’t going to tolerate Stan trying to muscle in.

The thought sent heat traveling down Stan’s spine and he fell back into rhythm, focusing his efforts on the leisurely slide of their lips, their mingled breaths, and the way Fidds carded his fingers ever so gently through his hair, as if rewarding Stan for his compliance. He made a pleased noise in the back of his throat and tightened his grip on Fidds’ waist to keep him close. His lover didn’t seem to have any ideas about leaving as he deepened the kiss, though still keeping that infuriatingly slow pace.

To Stan’s surprise, he slowly began to get lost in it, his world narrowing down to the slow sensual dance of their mouths against one another and Fidds’ hand in his hair, enough that he was caught off guard by Fiddleford nudging him backwards and gently applying pressure to his shoulders until Stan sat on the edge of the bed. His stomach jolted at the contact, nerves returning, but Fiddleford didn’t follow him down, only stooped to pull off Stan’s shoes and his own.

“Scoot back for me darlin’,” he said, making a shooing gesture that was out of place enough Stan huffed a laugh before complying. Fidds eyed where he’d come to rest in a small nest of pillows and gave a quick nod of approval.

“That’s better. Comfy?” He asked. Stan scoffed because how could he not be with all the bedding he was practically sinking into? But Fiddleford didn’t move until Stan swallowed hard and gave a quick nod.

“Yeah.”

“Good. We’re gonna be here a while.”

Then Fiddleford was crawling across the bed toward him. Stan felt himself tense, breath catching because he knew this part. He knew exactly what was coming next. But instead of Fidds hurriedly undressing him, he just leaned down and slotted their mouths right back together.

Stan made a muffled noise of confusion, but Fidds didn’t answer except to trail a hand up and knead at the back of his neck and shoulders. Stan felt his eyes flutter as he made a soft sound of pleasure and leaned further into the kiss. Fiddleford’s warm weight pressing him down into the bed was a welcome feeling, and he reached up to encircle his arms around Fidds strong back. His lover hummed happily and shifted closer until they were pressed flush together, the slight friction from the contact slowly getting Stan hard.

He sighed into Fidds’ mouth, trembling slightly as his cock rubbed against the inside of his lover’s thigh. Then Fidds pulled away, nipping and sucking against Stan’s jaw while his hands drifted lower.

“You shaved,” he rumbled against his throat, the buttons on Stan’s shirt popping open under the engineer’s quick fingers. He swallowed hard, fighting for control of his breath

“Uh huh.”

“Hopefully just your face,” Fidds purred, tracing a finger down his jaw before his head ducked lower. His partner’s other hand explored the hair on his chest, grabbing and scratching at it with a satisfied hum that went straight to Stan’s dick. Fiddleford sat back to observe him and Stan reached out a tentative hand, searching Fidds’ face.

“Can I…?” He asked, sitting up and ghosting his fingertips over Fidds’ shirt.

“Course, sugar,” he murmured with a tender, trusting smile. Stan’s stomach did a flip at that look, then he reached forward and pulled the t-shirt over his lover’s head carefully.

Stan knew Fiddleford’s body was a sore spot for him. He remembered how, the first few times they’d had sex, his lover had shied away from baring himself completely to Stan’s gaze; how worried Fidds had been about him seeing the years of hard living reflected on his form and reacting with disgust. It had taken hours of touching, kissing, and praise before Stan was able to successfully convince Fiddleford he didn’t find him ugly or undesirable. Quite the opposite, actually.

Stan’s eyes drifted down to the muscle of Fidds’ chest, the light dusting of hair there much thinner than Stan’s own, and the welcome bit of fat padding his sides and middle. This body was a far cry from the scrawny, almost emaciated form he’d had just over a year ago. Fidds looked healthy, whole, and fit. It made Stan’s mouth water.

“Moses, you’re so fucking beautiful,” Stan groaned softly and he watched Fidds blush, eyes averting sharply at the unexpected praise despite the smile curling at his lips. It stoked the fire in Stan’s gut and he surged forward, connecting their mouths in a kiss before groping at Fiddleford’s chest. His lover gasped into his mouth, shuddering as Stan rubbed his calloused palm over a pebbled nipple the way he knew Fidds liked. Stan bit his lover’s lip at the sound, tugging to try and pull more noises from him.

Then, there was a hand on his chest shoving him insistently backward. Stan fell onto the mattress and would have gotten right back up if there wasn’t a palm still pressing hard over his heart thumping away in his chest. Above him, Fiddleford panted quietly, cheeks flushed and eyes dilated.

“Now, now,” he said, the words trembling on the way out, “You can look, but you cain’t touch. Not yet.”

His lover gave him a wry smile. Stan scowled, pushing against that hand: ready to argue.

“I’m not-.”

Done, was what Stan wanted to say, but Fidds picked that exact moment to reach out and start palming his half hard cock through his pants. Stan’s protests fizzled away with a punched out sound as unexpected pleasure coiled in his stomach and zipped outward. He bucked up against that hand, catching Fidds smug expression through half-lidded eyes.

“Shhh. You gonna lay back and be good for me?” Each of the words dripped from Fidds mouth like honey and Stan shuddered at the sound, head thrown back against the pillows.

“Fucking-,  fine. Just don’t stop,” he hissed out, trying for threatening and missing it by a mile as he shivered. Fidds hummed in satisfaction before his hand disappeared. Stan only had a second to mourn the loss before his lover was tugging off Stan’s belt and pulling at his pants. He lifted his hips eagerly, allowing them to slide down his legs and be discarded somewhere on the floor. He saw Fidds’ eyes come to rest on where his cock was now straining against his underwear and saw his lips part slightly.

For a moment, Stan was hoping Fiddleford might reach under the fabric and start stroking him, or better yet, use his mouth. Instead, he let out a shaky exhale and flicked his gaze back up to lock with Stan’s own, his eyes bright and hungry.

“I love how excited you get from me touching you,” Fidds breathed, leaning forward to press three slow, open mouthed kisses down the center of Stan’s chest. Stan bit back a moan at the feeling of those warm lips against his skin, “It’s awful flattering.”

“You’re-,” he bit off his words with a sharp huff of breath as Fidds thumbed over one of his nipples, “Mmm, such a… fucking… tease.”

The end of his sentence pitched up slightly as Fidds breath ghosted over his erection before he moved to mouth at his inner thigh. A sharp tug of arousal sunk low in Stan’s stomach. Fidds grinned against his flesh, glancing up at him as he sucked at the sensitive skin.

“You love it,” Fidds purred back, fingertips trailing over his sides and leaving fire in their wake. Stan’s cock twitched in his briefs. God, help him, he did. He really did.

“No, I don’t,” he muttered mutinously. Fiddleford got that mischievous look on his face, raising an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” He said thoughtfully, making Stan gasp as he ran a finger up the underside of his dick before rubbing gently near the head. Stan squirmed at the sudden burst of pleasure, a whine forcing its way out. Fidds’ smile spread into a knowing grin.

“Them pretty little sounds you’re making say otherwise,” he hummed, reaching up to slowly slide Stan’s briefs off and toss them away. His cock jutted proudly into the air, already flushed red. Fiddleford’s gaze settled on it, eyes darkening in a way that had Stan fighting not to reach down and touch himself.

“I reckon I ain’t never gonna get tired of being wanted by you,” he said appreciatively, voice dropping down into an octave that had Stan shivering. He was hoping Fidds would reach out and touch him, instead he leaned past to grab something off the nightstand. Stan felt his heart drop into his stomach watching Fiddleford squeeze a generous amount of lube into his hand. Because, at some point during all the kissing and touching, Stan had forgotten just where the night was headed. Forgotten until now, at least.

Something must have shown on his face because Fiddleford sobered slightly, something unbearably tender creeping into his eyes.

“Relax,” he hummed, bringing his other hand up to smooth over Stan’s jaw and nudge his face until their eyes locked. Fidds leaned in, pressing his lips featherlight against Stan’s own.

“You’re always so good to me,” he breathed into the quiet between them, “Let me be good to you.”

Fidds kissed him again, slowly and deeply, caressing Stan’s tongue with his own. It only lasted a second before Stan pulled away with a sharp gasp, pleasure spreading through him like wildfire as something slick and tight suddenly enveloped his dick, moving up and down in a wonderful slide that twisted over the head just right. Fiddleford peppered slow kisses at the corner of his mouth and cheek as Stan dropped his head forward to rest against the side of Fidds.

“Oh, shit. Oh, Moses,” he breathed, biting down on a moan. Fidds chuckled, breath puffing over the shell of his ear. No doubt he was loving how easily Stan seemed to turn to putty in his hands.

“That feel good?”

“Amazing,” Stan groaned, his hips canting up slightly to meet Fidds hand that seemed in no hurry to speed up its movements despite the fire burning in Stan’s stomach that demanded more, faster.

Fidds nibbled at the shell of his ear, making him shiver before tracing two kisses down his jaw and pulling away entirely. Stan missed his weight, the feel of his beard tickling his chest as he panted and glanced down at Fidds with hazy eyes.

That adoring look was still on his face, though it was mixed with the hungry expression Fidds sometimes wore when he would beg Stan to fuck him. Fidds gave a quick kiss to each of his thighs in turn, the click of the lube’s cap loud in the quiet of the room as he poured more over his hand.

“I’m gonna start now. Just relax for me, darlin’,” he purred, one hand rubbing over the inside of his thigh while the fingertips of the other began to rub slowly back and forth at the tight furl of his entrance. Then, the tip of one digit wiggled inside.

Despite himself, Stan tensed slightly and pinned his eyes to the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip as he tried to shove down the flash of panic that shot through his chest and made his breath catch in his throat.

Fuck. He needed to relax. It was only going to make everything worse if he couldn’t. He knew what would happen if he didn’t all too well. He knew what they do would.

“Stan.”

He really didn’t want this to hurt. He didn’t want to deal with what would come after. The soreness, the exhaustion. They would take what they wanted regardless, so he had to—.

“Stan, look at me.”

A hand tightened on his thigh as Stan blinked out of whatever memory he was rapidly sinking into. Fidds voice was soft, but there was a firmness to it that demanded Stan’s attention. He noticed idly the fingertip that had barely pressed inside him was now still, though it remained.

Reluctantly, he glanced down, meeting Fidds’ deep blue gaze that stared steadily back.

“There we go. You’re alright, sweetness. I’m right here,” he muttered, kissing softly against his thigh. Stan’s breath shuddered out of him, the relief quickly replaced by embarrassment.

“Sorry. I didn’t-. Sorry. Just… just keep going. I’m fine,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady while his stupid heart kept hammering against his chest.

“I know you’re fine. We’re fine,” Fidds replied evenly, delivering a quick nip to his thigh that made Stan tremble. He had assumed Fidds would keep pressing inward, instead he leaned forward and licked up the underside of his cock. Stan gasped, hand tightening suddenly in the sheets as Fidds reached the tip and gave it a quick kiss before wrapping his lips around it.

“Holy shit. Fucking-! Hah!” Stan squirmed and panted, thighs falling open farther to allow Fidds more access. His lover hummed around the tip, the vibrations making Stan arch off the bed. Fidds picked that moment to wiggle his finger in a bit farther, up to the first knuckle least. Stan tensed again, torn between panic and pleasure as he whimpered.

“I gotcha, sweet thing. You’re doing so good for me,” Fidds hummed, reaching up another hand to stroke Stan’s cock. He tried to relax into the feeling while that finger rubbed side to side against his inner walls.

“Fidds,” he huffed, turning to stare down at his partner who was gazing steadily back at him.

“That’s right. Keep your eyes on me,” he growled, then his head ducked down between his legs.

At first, Stan wasn’t quite sure what Fidds was doing, then he felt the first swipe of a tongue teasing over his balls, trailing lower to trace around his fluttering hole.

“Oh, Moses, you-. Are you-? Fidds, holy-. Fidds!” Stan moaned at the feeling of that wet limber appendage worming its way in beside Fidds’ finger. Stan brought his heels back, trying to gain some leverage against the bedding, to spread himself wider, as Fidds tongue darted in and began to circle around sinuously, lips mouthing and sucking at his entrance.

“Fuck. Oh fuck! Fidds,” Stan whimpered, reaching down to grab onto Fidds hair. He’d never felt anything like this before, something warm and wet and so soft stroking against him. It spent him spiraling higher, precome leaking from his flushed dick as Fiddleford ate him out.

The wet noises coming from below were absolutely obscene and Stan couldn’t get enough as he moved a hand off of a pillow to grip at Fidds head, heels digging into the mattress. Fiddleford hummed against him, flicking his tongue in and out in a way that had Stan gasping.

With a final kiss pressed against his entrance, Fidds pulled back with a wide satisfied smile, his finger easily sliding in up to the hilt.

“You feelin’ good?” He drawled, beard scratching against Stan’s thighs in a way that made him shiver while Fiddleford mouthed at his balls.

“Yeah… yeah,” Stan huffed, moving the hand in Fidds’ hair down to run his thumb over the man’s lips. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?” His partner didn’t answer, only chuckled and nipped at the end of Stan’s thumb as that finger began to rub inside him.

It had been a few decades since Stan had anything in his ass, and most of the time the Johns he’d bedded hadn’t exactly bothered with prep work, so the feeling of Fiddleford’s long thin finger prodding and pressing inside him was strange and uncomfortable, but at least different enough from his other experiences that the panic didn’t return immediately. Though Stan couldn’t ward away the dread forever, the thought of the nights he’d spent doing this alone to try and ease the way creeping slowly back in.

He tensed at the memory and Fiddleford pressed a soft kiss to the skin right above his entrance, the other hand playing with his balls in a way that had Stan moaning and trembling.

“One second, sugar. Doing such a good job. Almost got it,” he purred. Stan was about to ask what he was talking about when Fidds finger crooked inside him and pleasure sizzled along every nerve ending. There was no way in hell Stan could have bitten back the sharp, pleasured noise that was forced out of him, so he didn’t even try, arching slightly with it.

“There you go, darlin’. So patient with me. Gonna make you feel real good,” Fidds cooed and Stan choked out a sound halfway between a moan and a gasp as Fiddleford toyed with his prostate.

Stan had almost forgotten about the gland, to be honest.

He’d found it plenty of times for Fidds and his other partners, but rarely had he ever gotten his wrist twisted just right to find it on himself. Occasionally, he had a john who angled his thrusts to graze it on every few passes, but Stan never had someone start rubbing against it with as much singleminded determination and accuracy as Fidds was doing now.

“God, fuck! Fidds-,” the rest of his words were lost in a trembling moan as he ground down against his lover’s hand and panted. It felt as though the wiry engineer was pumping liquid pleasure into his veins. It was good. Better than Stan would have imagined as he writhed and gasped on those fingers.

“That’s it, sugar. Let me hear ya,” Fidds groaned, openmouthed nips and kisses were pressed feverishly to his pelvis and thighs in tandem with each stroke of his partner’s fingers, and Stan honest to god thought he was going to lose his mind. He whimpered and bucked as another digit slid in easily alongside the first, pressing up into that same spot that drove more sounds out of him with each gentle press.

“Jesus, I wish you could see yourself like this,” Fidds murmured, his fingers dancing away from that spot as they stretched him further open. Stan was glad for the break even as his body hummed with the lingering traces of that mind-numbing pleasure while his lover thrust in and out slowly, “Just sucking me right on in, opening up so easily for me. I bet I could getcha to cum from just this right here, couldn’t I?”

Fidds question was punctuated by another quick press of fingers against his prostate and Stan jolted with a whine, more precum drooling from his cock. Fiddleford had that adoring look back on his face as he deepened his strokes.

“Yeah, I bet I could. You’re doing so good for me, being so sweet. So vocal. I love hearing how good I make you feel.”

“You gotta…. You gotta stop talking, or-.” Stan panted, his voice high and reedy as he covered his eyes while the coil in his stomach tightened even more at his lover’s words. His hand was caught immediately and pulled away from his face as he found Fidds’ hooded blue gaze resting on him.

“Only if you stop hiding. I want you to watch. I want you to enjoy yourself. You deserve this. You deserve to be treated good… and kind… and gentle.” Fiddleford’s voice had dropped down into something much more tender, pressing kisses to his chest with each adjective. Stan’s eyes widened, another finger prodding at his entrance before he could recover enough to speak.

“You think you can take one more for me, sugar?”

“Fuck, yes, take it! Take it, you whore!”

The voice echoed in his ears without permission and Stan shoved it forcefully away.

“Y-yeah. I think so,” he replied breathily, watching a slow smile spread on Fidd’s face. The panic flared to life in his chest against his will and Stan darted a hand down to grab Fiddleford’s wrist. He could see the surprise on his partner’s face and immediately felt stupid and small.

“Just, uh. Just be, um….”

Stan couldn’t finish the mumbled sentence, avoiding his partner’s eye.

“Always, sweetness,” Fiddleford said voice carrying a fierce undercurrent. The fingers inside him crooked again to brush against his prostate and Fidds used the other hand to ease his thighs open further, though that didn’t take much coaxing.

Stan writhed as another digit wiggled its way in, the slight burn of the stretch mostly smothered by the pleasure. Fidds moaned softly.

“Perfect, Stanley. Taking me so well. You feel so good, so soft. Lord, I’d love to keep you here all night just like this. All needy and pliant. Would you like that, darlin’?” Fiddleford groaned, thrusting slowly in and out as Stan acclimated to the new finger until the vague discomfort disappeared.

“Fidds, fuck. You’re driving me crazy,” he huffed shakily, already feeling close to tipping over the edge and fervently fighting against it. His partner shot him a playful look, eyeing his neglected cock that was becoming a dark shade of purple.

“Mmm. Poor thing. You wanna cum, dontcha?” Fidds purred in that sweet southern drawl of his that was somehow doing it for Stan. Everything about Fidds was doing it for him right now.

“No,” Stan panted, surprising them both, “Not yet. Want…want your cock. Now. Want you inside me.”

Fiddleford made a choked off sound, face turning a bright shade of red as the fingers inside him stuttered. Stan whimpered in displeasure.

“Jesus, Stan.”

“Please,” he honest-to-god whined, but he couldn’t feel embarrassed about it now watching the way Fidds’ eyes darkened with want, “I need you to fuck me. Please, Fidds, I want to feel you, want… want to be closer. God. I want-.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want, asking like that. Begging so pretty for me,” He moaned, sitting back to shimmy out of his pants. Stan mourned the loss of those fingers in his ass, but it was forgotten as soon as he caught of glimpse of the dark spot on Fidds briefs before they disappeared too and his dick sprang into the air.

The sight of his partner nearly as hard as he was and leaking precum dug hooks into Stan’s stomach and yanked, his pleasure spiking higher at how much he had affected his lover.

Fidds crawled back on the bed, squeezing another generous helping of lube onto his hand before slicking himself up. Stan watched anxiously, not sure if the butterflies in his stomach were because he was horny or nervous. Probably both.

Stan had done this dozens of times for Fidds. He knew how it felt to slide into that tight wonderful heat, but watching it happen from this angle, being on this end of things, was much more intimidating. He felt trapped, boxed in, and some part of him was screaming to run.

Fidds leaned over him, lining himself up as the tip of his cock bumped against his entrance. Stan remembered the last time he’d done it like this, some man he’d met ten minutes prior ramming in without ceremony, and succumbed briefly to panic. His breath hitched sharply and he grabbed onto Fidds’ bicep tight enough that his partner looked up in alarm.

“Wait! Just… wait.”

Stan didn’t know what he was waiting for, if anything, and wanted to take the words back as soon as they were said, embarrassment warring with the anxiety curled tight in his chest. As usual, Fidds was able to cut to the heart of the issue easily, his expression melting into something unbearably soft.

“Do you want to stop?”

The words were gentle, said without a trace of frustration or anger. Stan knew, if he said ‘yes’, Fidds would call this whole thing off right now, no questions asked. There would be no complaining, no pointed looks or snide comments, because Fiddleford cared. Because he was wonderful and kind and Stan loved him so much it hurt.

“No,” he managed.

“You sure?” Fidds asked, brow furrowed in the middle. Stan gave in to the urge to kiss it before resting his forehead against his lover’s

“I’m sure. I… I trust you.”

Stan watched something feverish kindle in Fidd’s gaze and he made a soft noise in his throat, eyes drifting shut.

“Okay, then we’ll take it slow. Slow as molasses,” he said, voice trembling. Stan was a bit surprised by the change, by how affected Fidds seemed, but didn’t have time to dwell on it before he felt something larger than those fingers pressing at his entrance. He did his best to relax, watching the concentration on Fidds’ face. Stan found himself stifling a smile for a moment, then gasped as he felt the tip pressing past his rim.

“There you go, darlin’. That’s it. Let me in,” Fidds purred, reaching down to stroke lazily at Stan’s cock. He jolted at the unexpected contact, then relaxed into his lover’s hold with a groan, more of him pressing slowly inside.

Stan was unprepared for how full he suddenly felt, for the way the hot length of his partner rubbed enticingly against his walls as Fidds thrusted in a little at a time, expression pinched with pleasure. The sight affected Stan.

“Fidds,” he groaned, scrambling to try and get closer.

“Stanley, Jesus,” he puffed back, prying his eyes open to look down at him, “You’re perfect. Doing so well. You-. Ngh. Gonna make love to you properly. ”

Fidds shifted sinking a little deeper and Stan heard himself whine at the stretch, head falling forward to balance on his lover’s shoulder.

“Almost there, sugar,” Fidds panted, “ almost-.”

Stan moaned along with his partner as he felt Fidds bottom out, his entire length buried deep and rubbing against his insides pleasantly. It hadn’t hurt. It had been a bit uncomfortable, but not the sharp agony Stan remembered. He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, feeling as though he could collapse back into the mattress as the adrenaline from before faded.

Fidds tried a few swallow thrusts, wiggling around until he leaned back slightly and nudged up against that place inside that pulled another moan from Stan and made his cock throb.

“How’s that feel?” Fiddleford asked, but Stan was too overwhelmed for anything more than a soft hum of pleasure. “Come on, sweetness. Use your words”

The hand around his cock left to caress his pecs and Stan shuddered in a breath.

“It’s-. Shit. You feel amazing. It’s so much. I want you to-. I-.”

Fiddleford moaned aloud, and Stan felt his dick twitch inside him.

“Can I-. Please can I move, Stan?”

The idea of more of that fullness, more of that friction stoked Stan’s desire and his stomach swooped at the words.

“Fuck yes. Move. Move, move, move. I need more. I need to feel you,” he hissed out. Fiddleford tumbled forward, pulling out a few inches and sliding back into place. The slick glide made them both groan and Stan reached up, digging his hands into his lover’s shoulders for stability.

The next thrust was harder, jerkier.

“That’s right. You just hang onto me darlin’. I gotcha,” Fiddleford growled low in his ear as he pulled back and thrust in again. Stan had no hope of muffling the noises he was making: sighs, gasps, moans, and whimpers filling the air as Fiddleford began a slow and steady rhythm.

Stan had always been a talker during sex. It was rare he lapsed into silence unless his mouth was occupied on his partner, but tonight he found himself unable to form a simple sentence as Fiddleford keep up a running commentary of filth that made the feel of his cock rubbing against Stan’s inner walls all the better.

“God, Stanley, you’re doing so good for me, sugar. So warm and tight. I wanna, hah, stay buried in you forever… feeling you squeezing around me… listening to those beautiful sounds you’re making. I wouldn’t-, won’t ever hurt ya. Only… only want to make you feel good. Only wanna… stay like this, mmm, with you.”

His thrusts had picked up speed, slapping a bit harder against Stan’s ass, but he didn’t give a shit, bearing down to meet each one as Fidds cock found his prostate with devastating accuracy. Some emotion trembled and curled tight in Stan’s chest and he clawed at his lover, swallowing hard.

“Fidds… I need-.”

“I’m right here, sugar. I got you. You wanna cum?”

That would be pretty great, but there was something else Stan wanted right now more than anything: more than pleasure, more than air.

Stan gasped, searching his partner’s gaze desperately.

“No. Kiss me. please Fidds, I-.”

Fiddleford made a noise that Stan had never heard before, somewhere between a groan and a snarl, before surging forward to claim his mouth. The feel of Fidds lips moving against his own made that tightness in chest unfurl and Stan was horrified to find that he was suddenly, inexplicably crying. Fiddleford didn’t seem upset by this at all, pulling back to brush the tears from his face and pepper his cheeks with kisses in between his hurried ramblings.

“Aw darlin’. Can’t believe you’re mine. Fuck. Just perfect. So strong and, hah, kind. So gorgeous. Thank you. Thank you for, ngh, giving me this. Hmph. For t-trusting me. You’re perfect. Christ, I love you so much, Stanley. I love you I love you.”

Stan felt more tears escape, pleasure spiraling higher and higher at Fiddleford’s words until he thought me might explode on the spot.

“Fidds! You’re-, fuck! I love you, too. I love you, please-.”

He could feel his orgasm closing in on him like a predator hunting him down, dragging him rapidly up to the edge. He panted, his hurried breathes mingling with his lover’s as Fidds pressed kisses against his tears.

“I’m right here. I got you. I’m never gonna let you go,” Fiddleford purred, reaching down to wrap a hand around his dick and stroke it in time with his thrusts, “Go on darlin’. I know you’re close. Come on. Let go.”

It only took three pulls and one final strike against his prostate before Stan was crying out Fidds name and coming harder than he ever had in his life. This orgasm was different than any other he’d had, it felt like every inch of him was tingling with pleasure, like his whole body had been drenched in bone-deep contentment. It was better than any high, better than any sex he’d experienced, and he was pretty sure he was babbling all this aloud stream-of-consciousness style as Fiddleford’s thrusts became jerky and disjointed and he moaned with pleasure.

“Hah, Stanley. I’m gonna-. I have to-.”

He tried to pull away, but Stan locked his legs around him as tightly as he could manage, drawing him in.

“No, inside. Cum inside,” he panted and Fiddleford obeyed, following Stan over the edge with a shout as warmth flooded his insides. Stan pulled Fidds as close as he could, feeling him tremble as their ragged breathes mingled in the air. Stan allowed himself a moment to just drift happily on the high of endorphins, feeling Fiddleford’s dick softening inside him as he closed his eyes and held the wiry engineer.

Not for the first time, he wondered how on Earth he could possibly have gotten so lucky. How fate had decided to offer him not only his brother and the rest of his family back, but also someone as patient, as smart, as funny, and as kind as Fiddleford.

His partner finally pulled out, rolling off of him in a daze. Stan glanced over, staring in wonder at the blissed out expression on Fidds face from his side profile, wanting to lean over and kiss it despite how exhausted he felt. After a few moments, Fidds glanced over at him, his expression melting into something soft and also a little bit unsure.

“Was that alright?” He asked sheepishly, still panting and Stan couldn’t stifle the surge of fondness that rose up and wrapped around his heart, “I know I got a little enthusiastic-cal toward the end-.”

Stan derailed whatever else Fidds was going to say by making the monumental effort to lean over and kiss him. It was worth it feeling Fidds open for him, licking languidly into his mouth before Stan pulled away.

“I love you.”

The words just burst out of him. He couldn’t help it. His mind was a record playing an endless loop of the phrase. It was all he could think, all he could feel.

“I love you, too.” Fidds voice was soft when he said it. Like the words were something secret and special meant just for Stan.

Fiddleford lingered a bit longer before pushing himself out of bed with a groan.

“Where you goin’?” Stan muttered, still a bit out of it and wanting his partner’s warmth back.

“Getting something to clean us up,” he called, stepping into the bathroom. Even though Stan was always the first to suggest a post-sex shower, he didn’t quite feel up to it at the moment. His limbs felt like they were filled with lead and his head was blissfully empty of anything other than how comfortable he was at the moment and how much he didn’t want to move, maybe ever again.

The only thing that was missing was Fiddleford, who came back a moment later with a damp cloth. Stan lifted up an arm to reach for it, but Fidds gently pushed his hand aside.

“I got it, sugar. You look worn slap out,” he said, a grin in his voice. Stan wanted to say something witty in return, but instead he could only grunt in response. Fiddleford chuckled softly and Stan shivered in pleasure at the warm, slow drag of the cloth against him and in him.

Stan wasn’t sure how long it took until Fiddleford was satisfied, but, eventually, his partner started prodding him into a sitting position, handing him water to drink that he chugged swiftly.

“You feeling okay? You need anything else?” Fiddleford asked, looking pretty weary himself. Stan paused for a moment, something gooey and lovey-dovey hanging in the back of his throat that felt embarrassing to say. Then he figured, what the hell, and said it anyway.

“Just you.”

He was glad he did as Fiddleford smiled and looked away, but quickly crawled into his waiting arms. Stan, feeling a lot more touchy than usual, wrapped around him as much as he could, pulling him close and nuzzling his face against the top of his head before pressing a quick kiss there. Fidds hummed happily, arms and legs twining around him tightly like honeysuckle, only his partner was twice as sweet.

Stan huffed at the sappiness of his own thoughts, but couldn’t stifle the fondness and contentment that had settled into his chest.

“Thanks,” he muttered, holding on tightly to his lover, “Thanks for… for all of it.”

Stan knew he wasn’t great with words. Not when he wasn’t spinning a story. Not when he needed them to mean something, but Fiddleford seemed to have a talent for hearing what Stan couldn’t quite say.

“You don’t need to thank me. It’s the least you deserve. Honest. I’m just…,” Fiddleford made a soft sound of surprise, “Well, I suppose I’m just honored you’d let me have you like that. Knowing everything that happened.”

“‘Course I would,” Stan said like it was obvious. Because it was. Fidds turned to blink up at him and Stan traced a thumb over his jaw. “I love you. It, uh, might sound a little corny, but… there’s no one else I wanna do this with. I mean it. I want you to have everything. Every part of me. You deserve that. You’re… you’re it for me, Fidds.”

He turned away, too embarrassed to look his partner in the eye after that little confession.

“And, who knows? Maybe we might, uh, do this again sometime soon? If that’s okay with you?”

He glanced over, trying to read the answer off Fidds’ face and fought down a blush at the goofy looking smile he found there. His partner leaned up to kiss him, slowly, contentedly, before pulling away.

“It’d be more than okay, darlin’. It’d a de-light and a privilege,” he said, pecking him on the lips again and again with an eagerness that made Stan chuckle, “Wherever and whenever. You pick the time and place, sugar, and I’ll be there.”

“And you say I’m insatiable,” Stan grumbled fondly.

Fiddleford kissed him again, deeper this time before making a noise of disappointment and pulling back to stare at him with wide eyes.

“Oh! The wine! I plumb forgot about it!” He said, staring in dismay at the wine on the table behind Stan that had now warmed to room temperature, completely untouched.

Stan peered at it thoughtfully for a moment before looking back down at Fiddleford.

“This is probably a good time to mention I don’t like wine.”

His lover blinked at him then burst out laughing, tucking his head into Stan’s neck. He chuckled at the feeling of Fidd’s beard rubbing against his collarbone and privately thought that he could listen to that laugh for the rest of his life, and maybe he would, if he was really, really lucky.

Stan smiled, that warm feeling he could now recognize as love stirring in his chest.

He thought he might be. He had been so far.

Notes:

Hope you all enjoyed this smutshot! Feel free to leave comments and kudos, I enjoy every single one.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of A Human Condition Verse