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It had been a long day at the Mystery Shack. Families with children on spring break had scoffed at predictions of a late snow and trucked in from all over Oregon for quality family fun that had rapidly devolved into a parade of screaming toddlers and sullen teenagers that had gotten on your very last nerve. You were relieved as hell when Stan waved off the last stragglers with a cheery, “We put the fun in ‘no refunds!’” and slammed the door of the gift shop.
“Well, that was a nightmare,” he grumbled, flipping up his fake eyepatch. He let his suit jacket fall open, which you only briefly glanced at before busying yourself counting the cash in the register.
“Worth it only for the cash,” you said, holding up a double handful of crinkled bills. At least most of them had gotten some overpriced souvenirs.
Stan grinned that conman grin of his, grabbed some of the cash and tossed it in the air over your head. You both laughed. In the months you’d been working at the Shack, an odd friendship had grown between you and your boss. He was much older than you, but cracked jokes like a man who’d never grown out of his 20’s. He was entertaining, and if his jokes made you blush sometimes, well. It was all in good fun. Nothing untoward. You danced a little on the stool behind the register as the money floated down, rolling with it.
“Talk about money-making,” Stan leered, then laughed again and headed for the Employees Only door, leaving you to pick up the cash off the floor. With your head down, you were pretty sure you just imagined the pause before the door swung shut.
It took you a little longer to restock that night. The tourists had pretty much destroyed the displays, and you grumbled about that to yourself while you fixed them. By the time you had finished and were ready to lock away the day’s cash in the safe, that ridiculous late snow had well begun. You groaned. You were exhausted from the day and the last thing you wanted to do was slog through snow on your walk home. Maybe Stan could give you a ride.
“Hey!” you called as you pushed through the door to the home part of the Shack. Stan was already stripped down to his shirt and boxers, sprawled in his oversized armchair, drink in hand. “It’s snowing already. Can I get a ride home?” As you passed him on your way to his office, you saw that the TV was on and showing a marathon of old western movies.
“Yeah, sure,” he answered, in a tone that said he hadn’t really been listening.
You locked the cash away in the safe and returned to the living room. Stan was still in the chair and looked like he was glued to the TV. “You gonna make me walk home in all this?” you asked, gesturing out the window, where the snow was falling heavier and the wind blowing harder.
“Huh, what? Oh. Sorry, kid, got sucked into the movie, you know?” He hauled himself up out of the chair and looked outside. “Jeez, it’s really comin’ down.”
You took a second look. You’d been in Stan’s car with him driving, and even on a day when you could see for miles, he was pretty reckless.
“Maybe I’d better just wa-”
“Maybe you should just stay he-”
You cut each other off. Stan coughed and tried again. “There’s a spare mattress up in the attic. Drivin’ would be pretty dangerous, dontcha think?”
You swallowed. You really didn’t want to walk. And you’d stayed after hours plenty of times, playing cards, watching TV, but you’d always gone home after. Gone home and spent hours reimagining the time you’d spent and how it could have gone differently if you’d had more guts. You could feel the blush creeping up, but you sure as hell didn’t want to explain that.
“You driving is always pretty dangerous, Stan,” you deflected nicely.
He chuckled. “Seriously, toots. The last thing I need is to crash and kill my best cashier. You’re stayin’ here.”
“I’m your only cashier,” you corrected, ignoring the fact that you did much more than man the register.
“All the more reason,” Stan said, falling back into the chair. “Come on, kid, grab a drink and come watch the movie.”
With one last glance outside, you caved in. You fetched a drink for yourself, and one for Stan since you noticed his was almost gone. Returning to the living room, you settled on the arm of his chair and held the drink between his eyes and the TV.
“Oh, you’re a doll,” he said gratefully, downing the last of his previous drink and taking the new one.
The two of you watched as the hero of the movie rescued his girl and shot the bad guy, gave a speech about duty, and rode off into the sunset. By the time the credits rolled, a definite chill had set in. You shivered, and Stan noticed. He scooched to make a little room in the actual chair and patted it. Something warm dropped into the pit of your stomach as you settled into the space, and it had nothing to do with the actual warmth of his arm wrapping around your shoulder.
“Sorry, the heat’s not so good in this old house,” he said. You squeaked something and he seemed to take it as “oh it’s fine,” since he settled back in the chair as the next movie came on.
You, on the other hand, were thrumming with tension. You were squeezed to his side like, well, like a date. This was creeping up on something you imagined fairly regularly.
It wasn’t like you had a crush on Stan. It was just that you sometimes liked to imagine what it would feel like if he kissed you. Or what his hands would feel like sliding down your arms. Or what it would be like if the Shack got attacked by a mob of the undead and he saved you and pinned you against a wall and oh crap. Okay so maybe you did have a crush on him. The fantasy was edging into reality, though, and your muscles were locked tighter than Stan’s grip on cash.
His attention was fully riveted on the movie, though. You took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to ease into it without being obvious. You could smell his cologne. Trying to make it seem like you were just getting comfy, you shifted and let the last of the tension go, and there. You were sitting snuggled up to your boss like it was no big deal. Because it wasn’t a big deal. It was cold, and now you were comfortable, that’s all.
You tried to concentrate on the movie, though you honestly couldn’t tell the difference from the last one. When you finished your drink, you set it aside and boldly laid your head on Stan’s shoulder. It really had been a long day, and this was nice.
Your eyes sprang open a little while later. The credits were rolling. Stan’s arm was still around your shoulders, but it looked like he’d fallen asleep too. His eyes were closed, his hand slack around his empty glass. Again, something warm dropped into your stomach and you swallowed hard. You should probably get up and head for the attic. You tried, but you seemed to be pinned. Guess you were stuck. Well, if you were stuck, there was no harm in a little self-indulgence here. You laid your head back down, snaked an arm across his chest, and sighed, letting your mind run wild.
The Mystery Shack had been attacked by a horrifying demon, but Stan had bravely defeated it in an epic hand-to-hand tussle. His clothes were torn, showing the surprising muscle beneath, and he was exhausted. He had fallen into your arms, relieved that you were safe, and you clung to him, glad he was alive. He kissed you-
You came back to reality, embarrassed. You had forgotten where you were and dragged your hand back across Stan’s chest, about to slip a hand down your pants. A glance up told you that Stan was still out, thank goodness. A glance down, though, was more interesting.
Stan was hard. You could clearly see his cock outlined in his boxers. You sucked in a breath and held it, imagination out of control. Was that because of you? Was he just having a dream? Was it just something that happened when guys were asleep? Should you ignore it? You should ignore it. How could you ignore it? It was right. There.
A person with more guts than you would have reached out, wrapped their fingers around it, woken him up with their lips around it. You did not have said guts. You were staring, though. You’d spent enough time imagining what being fucked by Stan Pines would be like, and here was all this new information for accuracy. As you watched, his cock twitched inside his boxers. Maybe you had a little guts.
You slipped a hand down your pants, gently brushing a finger over your clit. You were sure you could get yourself off silently. You slid your fingers down and back, around in circles, feeling thrillingly dirty doing this right next to Stan without him knowing. The smell of his cologne spurred you on, and your eyes slid closed as you got lost pretending your fingers were his.
You were getting close. God, you wanted to grab his hand and shove it down between your legs. Your hips twitched back and forth, you couldn’t help it. In your mind, they were Stan’s fingers slipping, flicking, circling your clit, almost slipping inside you but never quite, leaving you breathing hard and desperate for release.
“Having fun, sweetheart?” a voice rumbled.
You jerked your hand up and froze. Fuck.
Stan was most definitely awake, staring down at you with a lecherous grin on his face. He’d been watching you. “Don’t stop on my account.”
“I was- I was just-”
“You were just about to come, looked like to me,” Stan said casually. He looked you up and down and palmed his still-hard cock. “Hot way to wake up,” he groaned.
You blushed furiously and tugged your arm free. “I was just going to bed,” you said, standing up.
Stan grabbed your arm and jerked you back down to the chair. “But you weren’t done yet, toots. Can’t have you goin’ off all frustrated like that.” He shifted in the chair until he had you caged with his body. His gaze pinned you in place better, though. Heated and hungry. “What were you thinkin’ about?”
You swallowed past the embarrassed lump in your throat. “Y-you,” you managed to whisper. No point in lying.
“Me,” he said, reaching down with one hand to undo your zip. You felt giddy. There was no way this was actually happening, but that was definitely not your own hand slipping into your underwear. You nodded even as you hissed in a breath and held it. His fingers explored, undoubtedly feeling how wet you were. They felt thicker and warmer than your own, and a little rough, but fuck, good. One slipped just barely inside you and circled, making you let out the shaky breath you’d been holding. Stan’s face split into a wide grin and he leaned forward to take your mouth with his.
You let out a muffled sound as his tongue plunged between your lips, tasting your own. He groaned, a starved sound, and tangled the hand that wasn’t already busy in your hair. He didn’t pull, but held your head in place while he kissed you hard, practically fucking your mouth with his tongue. He kept up touching you almost gently, and by the time you felt his lips pull away, you were already rolling your hips along with his hand.
“Look at you,” he said hungrily, pulling back to admire his handiwork.
You were panting and must have looked pretty wrecked. Stan grabbed your hips and jerked them to the edge of the seat, then pulled your pants and underwear off in one motion. He touched you again, watching his own fingers spread you and flicker over your clit, making your legs jerk. His grin returned as he slipped one finger inside and leaned in closer. His body brushed over yours with each heaving breath you took as he slowly worked the finger out and back in. It was so not enough.
“So what was I doing in this fantasy of yours, doll?” he asked, pressing a tiny bit closer.
You didn’t think you could manage to form words. “This,” was all you could do.
Stan hummed thoughtfully. “Is that all?” he asked. “You wanna know what I was doing in mine?”
Oh god, in his? Yes, you want to know.
“This,” he said, and slid to his knees on the floor with surprising grace for a man his age. You cried out as he lowered his head between your legs and ran his tongue up where his fingers had just been. He held your knees up, keeping your legs spread as he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, flicking his tongue over the sensitive little spot. Your arms flailed wildly as you tried to find something to hold onto. You settled on one hand in his hair and the other digging nails into the arm of the chair. Stan was laving his tongue over everything down there, and you couldn’t keep quiet if you’d wanted to. Your hips were rocking again, and Stan rode them like a champion, pressing and licking at the pace you set. God, it was too much. You were getting closer with every slide of his lips. When he started flickering his tongue over your clit with every thrust, stars exploded behind your eyes. You cried out again as your legs tensed and your hips rolled, unabashedly riding Stan’s face through the aftershocks. As soon as your legs relaxed, he pulled back, and his grin was red and wet.
You closed your eyes, suddenly embarrassed again. That was a mistake. You didn’t see him reach for something, though you did hear packaging being torn. You didn’t see him drop the grin and lunge for you.
Your eyes sprang open and locked onto his as he thrust his cock inside you. He pulled out slowly, his eyes dark, and thrust in again, jolting you in the chair. Your mouth fell open and a strangled moan came out as he did it again, and again, and again. It felt thick and hot inside you, and every thrust sent a thrum through the rest of your body. “F-fucking hell, Stan,” you stammered, speech made difficult by the way he slammed into you. His gaze had dropped and he was now watching himself fuck you. His hands wandered all over your body, like he was trying to feel every inch of your skin. A line of sweat appeared on his brow as he picked up the pace and dropped a hand between your legs to touch you, and you howled.
“That’s it,” Stan encouraged you. “Come on, let me hear it.”
So you let him hear it. You let out wordless cries every time he pounded in, beyond coherence, and they only spurred him on. You clung to his shoulders and matched him thrust for animal thrust.
“Yes, yes, fuck, yes,” you heard him, over and over, until words were lost to him too. His grunts became moans to match your own. “Oh fuck,” he said, and braced himself, his hips jerking faster. “Oh fuck oh fuck.”
It was too much. You could feel every thrust of his cock in your entire body and the profanity on his lips sent you over. You screamed his name and arched, your nails digging into his back as you came again, vision whiting out and hearing blocked by the rush. When you came back to, Stan was yelling your name and profanity as he came.
Stan collapsed, dragging you to the floor with him. You were pretty sure you couldn’t stand if you tried anyway. He was chuckling.
“What?” you demanded.
“Now I don’t feel so bad about dropping things and watching you pick them up.”