Not My Fairytale

written by daikenkai and sakata - illustrated by Jana-Z95 and luciidcatnap

Stan's a fucking coward; he knows he is. It happens all the time, nearly every day: he sees kids getting picked on by people he considers teammates, barking at kids and beating them up for being different, too outside their social norm. Oddly enough, they tend to steer clear of the cliché nerds, but that doesn't stop them from bullying the kids they suspect are 'queer', like it's a quality they deem less than perfect and by simply existing challenges their masculinity. They always try to drag Stan to join in, but he seems to find some excuse to bow out. Not that it makes him better than the little circle of assholes he is ashamed to call his teammates. No, Stan knows he's just as bad as they are, because he does nothing. He doesn't even offer as much as a whisper of warning to their intended target, let alone to anyone with authority to step in on his behalf.

More often than not it's that one familiar face getting the brunt of their attention, one that he'd counted among his friends since elementary. Stan makes a point to avoid witnessing the attacks, but regardless if he's privy to the scuffle he always sees the aftermath following final bell because Red's always in the same spot, the one that had been claimed by him and his ilk since they started high school. Out back by the temp building, sheltered perfectly from the brisk wind so their lighters didn't flicker out, his pale skin shows every bruise, every landed blow, and yet he still never even bothers to let his bangs fall to cover his face.

Red isn't scared of them; he's a challenge to them. He still wears his thrift store button-down shirts, a bolo tie, his purple creepers, and the heavy makeup, and he lets them know he's not scared of them. Defiantly he offers up the hackneyed question 'is that all they've got' while pointing out he's felt worse pain than anything they can inflict. He pulls out his five-dollar SAT words that fall on deaf ears, and ultimately just stares ahead, unafraid. So why does Red let them do it, and why doesn't Stan try to stop them? Stan is just too scared to find out what would happen if he challenges them.

The part that really makes Stan sick is if this were someone else, like Kenny or Kyle, he would have stepped in. Nevermind the fact that Kyle has been smart enough to defend himself for a long time, a skill gained from a lifetime spent on the receiving end of Cartman's jibes and verbal attacks. And Kenny, while a prime suspect for queer activities given his infamous reputation, was scrappy as fuck and no one in their right mind would bother to screw with him even if he was found balls deep in another guy. They wouldn't need Stan to crusade for their well-being, but the point is that he would if this were the situation.

He can see Red now, even from this distance. Stan can tell by the curve of his stance that they worked his stomach something fierce, the way Red was semi-hunched, almost protecting his undoubtedly sore middle. And Stan wonders as he watches Red puff at his cigarette if it's hurting him to do even that, to suck in the nicotine. Or maybe the narcotic is helping to numb the ache.

Usually when in this position, Stan keeps walking, as if just taking stock that Red is still alive. As if he's absolved his guilt and shame by just visually ensuring that Red survived another attack. Sometimes Red is with the others in his little clique, but more often than not, after enduring a beat down he's alone, as though he shooed away his fellow Goths and wanted to just stew in his misery solo. Or maybe they just knew him best and opted to leave him alone.

But Stan's in a weird mood today it seems, and follows the sudden compulsion to approach Red across that gap between them, breaching every known protocol he'd set up mentally to maintain his distance. Partly because he had been ashamed of his Goth phase, and partly because the pressures of the situation he'd been forced into. It had been so long since they'd actually had a conversation beyond the universal head nod of acknowledgment that Stan doubted they were even friends anymore. Even if he got so much as a 'fuck you' from Red, at least Stan could reconcile with the knowledge that he at least tried — though it wouldn't exactly make up for the fact that he was a fucking coward and a shitty friend.

"Hey," Stan offers in the silent opening as he closes in. Lame as far as greetings go, but it's a neutral phrase to gauge Red's willingness to associate with him. Not that he'd blame Red if he was met with animosity, considering.

Red's reply is to take a long drag and roll his gaze toward Stan, right eye swollen and already showing signs of discoloration. "You come to rescue me?" As he exhales, Stan starts fumbling for words, an obvious blush surfacing. Red merely scoffs and adds, "Little too late for that, Galahad."

Red's words stab through him like a fucking knife, intensifying his guilt tenfold. "I'm sorry-"

"Can it. I didn't need your fucking saving, anyway. I've suffered worse and they're going to keep pulling this shit until it makes their infantile egos feel better about having small dicks." Even Stan has to chuckle lightly at that, considering that while it probably isn't true, the unnecessarily aggressive nature of the attacks does fulfill the athletic stereotype.

"Is there a reason you're here with the queer and not your little jock friends?" Red asks after a moment, taking yet another slow drag. Up close, Stan can definitely tell that Red's having issues breathing, a slight shudder in the way he's sucking in smoke.

"I don't think any of them are my friends," Stan points out, as if disassociation freed him from any responsibility of those nasty bruises. "But I mean it, dude. I am sorry. I know I'm probably just as bad as them, 'cause I've always been the pacifist, just sitting by and letting things happen," he shrugs as he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. He catches Red staring at him, and it takes him a moment to comprehend that his companion's gaze is actually honed in on his letter jacket. It only makes Stan blush harder, looking like a fucking hypocrite.

"For shame. And here I thought you were the one who wanted to make bullying kill itself," Red replies sardonically while his gaze drifts forward, finding a strange sense of vindication in getting Stan to flush out of indignity for being associated with the Neanderthals who did this to him.

"Yeah, and we saw how well that turned out," he mutters in reply, unbelieving that Red would bring up such ancient history. "Listen, my mom's a nurse and she makes me keep a first aid kit in my car. I can, like, clean you up."

Red finishes his cigarette and flicks it into the grass, watching the ember fizzle out to soggy black ash in the nearest patch of dirty snow. He pushes from the wall only to wince and hold his side, immediately hating that he not only was showing his physical frailty but that he could actually use the assistance. But still, his acerbic nature bubbles up defensively,"Who the fuck am I trying to impress?"

"Dude, it'll get infected and shit. At least let me put some ice on it," Stan pleads, as if this offer will purge his transgressions and make up for not just this violent incident, but all the others in which he never bothered to man up and make the effort to intervene. At the very least, they were on speaking terms, which was far more than what Stan had hoped for at this point. So while he had the opportunity, he was going to show Red he was worth more than just a lame greeting and feeble apology.

Red rolls his eyes because the attempt is painfully transparent. Unfortunately Red has always had this feeling about Stan, knowing full well there was more to this guilt and effort at making amends, and he's more than willing to see this thing through 'til the end. Either Stan was going to own up to being more than just a pacifist pussy or finally join in the fucking crowd and take a crack at his face like those other jocks. "Fine."

Together they trudge through the schoolyard, taking the shortest route from the temp building hideout to the sparsely populated parking lot. There are a few cars there, mostly from the students who linger for the extracurricular activities and whatever sport practice is in season. Red's used sedan is still parked at the far end of the lot, nondescript from the outside since blue is the least-likely-to-be-noticed color, which suits him just fine. It's the inside that makes it his own, the beige interior camouflaged by black seat covers that match the floor mats and steering wheel, everything decorated with either skulls or crosses. It had been joked before amongst his small circle that it felt like a dark coffin inside his car, to which he often would make sarcastic comments about how they were set if he crashed. Dark humor at its best.

But Stan was heading to his truck, Red dutifully following behind since the promise of sanitizing agents and an ice pack for his swollen eye seemed legit. He watches Stan unlock the passenger door before running around to the bed to dig into the storage box that was the trend with these larger sized trucks, all stamped chrome and shiny. Red wonders if this was either a Christmas or birthday present from loving parents to the superstar quarterback. Even the interior still smells new.

Red barely has time to relax against the seat when the driver's door opens and Stan slides in. His bag is tossed into the floorboard next to Red's snow-crusted creepers as he's more focused on digging around in the first aid kit, as promised. The first to come out is one of those instant cold packs, which he unwraps and shakes around vigorously before pressing the quickly cooling packet into Red's hand insistently. After a moment of blinking at the thing, Red quietly obeys the unspoken command, lifting it to his swollen eye.

His good eye swivels to watch Stan warily because then he starts in with alcohol wipes, like the kind that comes with orders of hot wings, all neatly packaged into convenient squares. And rather than offer those to Red, he takes it upon himself to clean up his face. Red recoils from the sting a little, wincing as Stan dabs dutifully at the side of his mouth and cheek, coming back with bits of dried blood and more makeup than Red would have liked to see removed. Still, after the initial discomfort, he settles down and allows Stan to work. At least he's not asking Red to take off his shirt. Stan's so focused that he almost doesn't register Red speaking. "When are you going to tell them?"

Stan secures a bandage over the rough scratch on his cheek and keeps his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary as the question finally registers, heart skipping a beat. "Tell them what?"

It takes effort, but even with the cold pack pressed to his face, Red still manages to roll his eyes dramatically. "Cut the crap, Marsh. You're just like me. That's why you don't stop them and you fucking know it." It's a risky gambit to state it so frankly, almost an accusation with how terse his tone is, and Stan could very easily move to deny it. Red almost needed him to just so he could lob Stan into the same category as the people who did this to him. At the same time, Red knew there was more to Stan's guilt and shame than simply not taking preventive action. He knew Stan was a stalwart friend with strong convictions about things. So why show remorse for someone like him getting wailed on now? It only made sense that Stan was more afraid of retaliation. Not from them, but from everyone who had placed him on a pedestal. "Are you ever going to admit it?"

For a moment, Stan says nothing, his arm dropping, shoulders tense at first then sagging with resignation. He wants to feel angry, indignant. He feels as if he has every right to deny these allegations - certainly he does every day when Cartman flings gay jokes his way, even if they're mostly harmless - but the jokes ripping into his sexuality still hit a little too close to the truth and Stan flinches behind the playful punches because he has to wonder if Cartman really knows. If any of his friends can tell.

Stan's so ready to hate Red for asking, but if he's honest with himself he knows it might be a relief to at least admit the truth to someone as observant as Red. He looks out the window, as if the not-so-scenic parking lot could offer comfort for what he was about to admit. "Not planning to tell anyone, if I can help it."

"Stan Marsh, The Fearless Leader, In the Closet and Staying There." Red scoffed, internally breathing out a sigh of relief that his gamble had been correct - though he kept his expression schooled and even rather than lord the fact that he had him pegged. "Yeah, that sounds admirable."

"I'm not like you, okay?" he snaps, turning back toward Red. "Well, not completely." Red just blinks at him and lowers the ice pack, his face pink where his makeup has come off. "You're like... this... You're strong and completely fearless and I'm...not. I don't understand how you do it. I don't think I could. I think that's why I choose to stay on the sidelines."

"Interesting choice of words to use there," Red smirks as he presses the ice pack back to his face. "I'm like this because I have to be. What choice do I have?"

"What do you mean, you have to be?"

"I mean I'm not going to pretend to be something I'm not. I don't go kissing guys for shock value and I'm not about to go kissing girls to fix shit. There's nothing to fix but everyone else's attitude, and honestly, I don't give a fuck about what they think," Red finishes, his one good eye staring straight at Stan, daring him to argue. "Neither should you."

And for a moment, it looks as if Stan might, as if he would open his fucking mouth and start spouting every cliché excuse as to why he can't approach his sexuality the way Red has. But after a moment's pause, Stan instead replies with, "I wish I didn't care what people think. It's just... I don't even... know if I'm..." He pauses as if speaking that one word would bring on the apocalypse or alert all of South Park, "gay, or whatever. It's fucking hard to explain, okay? And it's not easy for me. My whole life has been planned for me: play football, get a scholarship, play pro ball. I just... shit, I'm a fucking pussy, and you don't have to tell me that."

"You are a fucking pussy," Red agrees, tilting his head to lean against the glass. "Fucking Galahad shows up, pretending he's the better man. Passive or not, don't try to make believe we're friends if you can't even stand up for yourself. Fuck, your girlfriend has bigger balls than you do."

"We already fucking went over this and Jesus, can we not?! I fucking know, dude!" Stan huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing and trying to take calming breaths.

"Did she ever figure it out or have you got her fooled still?" Red asks, closing his good eye.

"Wendy? I don't— Fuck... I don't..." Stan opens and closes his mouth like a frightened guppy, his face going bright red at the accusation. That was one of his greatest fears, especially when they were getting hot and heavy, as his mind started to drift more towards masculine forms and less to soft feminine curves. It almost became this paranoia every time he was with her, just like with his friends. Was every reaction a tell? Did she already suspect but stuck it out until he reconciled his sexuality? Or was she completely oblivious still to the fact that her boyfriend had wet dreams about sucking cock? "I... Like fuck if I know!"

Red shakes his head before removing the gel pack and shoving it back at Stan, his every intent to just bail now that he had his say in the matter. "Look, what you do - or don't do for that matter - is your own fucking business. But I'm not in the habit of hanging around pussy jocks that refuse to see that the door to their closet is wide open."

"And I'm not in the habit of listening to you fucking judge me. It's not easy for me, dude!" Stan protests, tossing the pack back and forth in his hands. "How do I come out of the fucking closet when I don't even know what the fuck is going on inside my head?" That's the problem: he doesn't know if he's gay, if he's straight, or what he is, really. He knows he's confused as fuck and he knows that he's had more than just a few passing fantasies about guys before. And that he's kissed a guy once. But that doesn't make him gay. Does it?

Red sighs, and Stan thinks Red's starting to feel sorry for him, that maybe he's been judged too harshly - although he had every right to be indignant considering Stan stood by idly and let him take a pounding.

Stan's fingers squish through the still cold gel, letting it create a nice distraction while he tries to think. About how he barely knows this guy and he's revealed more to him about himself than he has to Kyle. And that was saying something since Stan used to think that he and Kyle were tight enough to share such life-changing secrets. But the thing is that more than once Kyle had become the object of Stan's torrid dreams. It wasn't as if he thought for one second that Kyle would shun him for being maybe a little queer, but he still fretted on the idea that maybe Kyle might not feel the same anymore about being his friend if he knew some of the things Stan thought about doing to him. And it wasn't as if he even had a boner for Kyle beyond those passing fantasies, but Stan had seen enough shit about what gay men go through, how their friends can't cope or overcome the fear that maybe they're attracted to them. He never wanted Kyle to see him as a threat to his sexuality. Being with Wendy on top of that complicates matters beyond comprehension.

Red looks over at Stan, like he's studying him through the uneven fringe of bangs, as if he's a mere exhibit on display. Stan can feel his gaze and he peeks over out of the corner of his eye, watching the cogs turn in his mind. This is probably how Red knows: he's undoubtedly noticed the way Stan's gaze lingers a little too long when Kyle walks away, or the way Stan gets extremely uncomfortable when the word 'fag' is uttered around him, even as a joke. Maybe his friends see this too but either care not to comment or think Stan isn't aware of these habits. Perhaps only Red can notice these quirks because he's on the outside looking in, observing silently how the star quarterback tries so hard not to be obvious because he's fucking scared.

He expects Red to say something, to make a comment or suggestion, or even announce that he's going to abandon Stan to his lifetime of closeted torment. It would be a fitting punishment, considering his transgressions, but he's more than a little surprised when Red reaches over, fingers outstretched. It happens so quickly, shocking him to the point that he has no time to react while those fingers thread through Stan's short hair. For a moment, he sucks in a breath, scalp tingling because he doesn't quite know what is happening, everything feeling like it's going in slow motion yet he's even slower to respond. He notices the audible creak of upholstery, which sounds deafening and only serves to announce Red's intent despite his inability to really protest in time. Their lips meet all-too-soon in a chaste, lingering kiss: dry, close-lipped, but honest.

Stan's eyes are wide open the entire time and even so, it still takes him a second for his brain to grasp the fact that Red is kissing him. Another boy is leaning over him, in his fucking truck, kissing him, unashamed, in the school parking lot.

In the fucking school parking lot!

Stan lets Red kiss him for a lot longer than he thinks he should because in all honesty, he silently admits to liking it. The warmth and sensation, the scrape of chapped skin, the gusting of exhaled breath from Red's nose. There are a thousand tiny details that Stan is noticing, each one making his chest flutter and his stomach knot up. Hell, even the fact that they're doing this in public is enough to send an extra thrill through his body. And ultimately, or unfortunately, it's the reason he pulls back, gently shoving Red off him while he scoots as far away as the truck would allow toward the other door to cover his tracks. "Dude! Not here."

Red smirks and stays put, mostly because even that gentle shove hurt like a motherfucker since Stan was regrettably stronger than he looked, and he had the misfortune of pressing palms to where a sturdy shoe had found purchase not even an hour ago. Still, he'd listened to Stan wheedle and whine about how it wasn't easy for him to acknowledge his sexuality. Granted he wasn't listing excuses outside of what others expected him to be, but still Red thought it necessary to take some action to perhaps goad Stan into finally accepting that he was something the world didn't expect. And maybe embrace it. There is a mischievous glint in Red's good eye as he looks Stan over, noticing quite astutely that while he had been pushed away, Stan wasn't outright protesting the kiss. Just the location. "So somewhere else then?"

Flustered not only by the cool way Red responded to his objection, but by the almost impish way Red was propositioning him, Stan reaches in his backpack for his flask because his hands are shaking and he needs to relax. He puts it to his lips and downs a long swig of some old whiskey and pants as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Red's smirk fades as he stares at him during the almost frantic way Stan was gulping down the obviously potent alcohol, which he could smell from his side of the truck. He then sighs, groaning as he repositions himself in the seat to stare straight ahead. Clearly he just came on way too strong for Stan to handle in his confused mental state. But he wasn't going to apologize for the kiss. "Look, I can't really drive in this condition. So if you want, you can just take me home or whatever."

Stan flinches as he caps the flask, throat working around the sting. He'd been so caught up in the momentary shock that he'd forgotten there is indeed a very injured guy in his truck. And for a moment, he wonders if this is just a sneaky means for Red to seduce him, eyes narrowing suspiciously. But he takes in the way Red has tilted his head to gaze out the window, certainly not remorseful for kissing him, but rather willing to forget it if Stan cannot cope. He realizes in a way he probably offended Red by using liquor to deal with being kissed spontaneously like that, so in a long line of apparent apologies he was destined to make today, Stan turns the key in the ignition, cold air blasting hard enough to make gooseflesh prickle out as the vehicle takes its time warming up. Silently Stan tosses the forgotten gel pack back into the first aid kit, clicking the latches down and pitching it into the smaller back seat of the extended cab. Then he's twisting to pull and secure his seat belt, glancing over at Red with the intent not to move until he does the same. Red shifts to mirror Stan's silent insistence of vehicular safety, expression a little stoic and guarded, but otherwise remains unrepentant. Stan has to respect that this guy wanted to kiss him and has no shame for the action.

Stan waits until the truck is humming and there's warm air blowing through the vents chasing away that initial chill, then shifts into drive, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the street, beginning the short, but eerily quiet drive. Stan grips the steering wheel a little too tightly and Red manages to break the silence when he murmurs off directions to his house, but Stan's been there a few times before (during several of his embarrassing 'Raven' phases) and remembers the way. He doesn't correct Red, though, because at least one of them has the balls to say something, even if it's useless information. At least it eases away some of the tension.

When they pull into the driveway, Stan still hasn't uttered a word. He lets the engine idle as Red gathers his things, quiet curses spilling from Red as he reaches and twists to get out of the seat belt and bends to pick up his backpack, muscles stretching out against those fresh bruises. "Better help me up the stairs or my opinion of you will forever be tainted," he finally states, shooting Stan a hard look that challenges him to say no.

"I thought you didn't need saving?" Stan balks, cocking a brow. Still, he shuts off the truck and gets out to help him. Once Red's on his feet Stan hefts the other body against him, arm slung over his shoulders in much the same way he'd assist a fallen teammate off the field. But then Red slides an arm around his waist, under his jacket. Stan feels those cold fingers grip at him, through his shirt, and it makes his heart skip a beat because his first instinct is to accuse Red of being fresh - but then in doing so, he'd be no better than the homophobic assholes with which he played on the same team. Besides, the whole point in opening up to Red about his sexual confusion was about trusting the guy. Even were Red attracted to him, he wasn't the type to just swoop in and start seducing the pants off someone to make a point,despite the sudden kiss and the teasing proposition.

"I don't need saving," Red scoffs. "Just an excuse to get you in my room, douchebag. By the way, my room is the attic, so have fun getting my flabby ass up the stairs." Stan flinches, but not at the hefting part even though he still feels partially at fault. It's at the sudden realization that Red has probably been hauling his beat ass home alone every time and making that trek upstairs, sore bits and all. Unless he's just been playing up the invalid angle to twist the proverbial knife in deeper.

"Always a charmer, Red," Stan says, punctuating the statement with an eye roll. They pause at the front door long enough for Red to unlock it, sliding in at an angle so Stan doesn't have to relinquish his supportive grip. He notices that Red's actually walking pretty okay, and the pain seems to be stemming more from his torso. Maybe the guys had been a little merciful and avoided working over the lower half of Red's body - which of course puts into Stan's mind a sense of relief that nothing downstairs is damaged, and then he blushes at the realization that he just inadvertently thought of Red's junk.

The venture up the first flight of stairs proves difficult with two bodies side by side, but not unmanageable. Stan has to walk ahead and help Red up each step, hefting with his developed upper body strength so that Red has full support. Thank God the house was equipped with railings. Once they get to the foldout stepladder leading to the attic, he decides to just carry him since the steps are a lot less wide. He has to acquire Red's keys to undo the unexpected padlock that barricades the door leading up to the attic space, mostly precautionary since Red made no secret that his little sister is something of a greedy snot who liked to pry where she wasn't wanted. Then again, the last time Stan was over was years ago, and the sister in question was barely toddler-aged, and if hanging out among Kyle's family was any indication, toddlers were a naturally curious lot who thought everything belonged to them. If Red was still keeping his space under lock and key, then obviously his sister was still an invasive pest.

Once the barrier of the padlock is taken care of, it's passed over to Red, who hooks it into his belt out of habit. Then with Red braced in a piggyback hold, Stan pushes open the door and climbs the ladder, breathing a little laboriously because to be honest, Red isn't exactly skinny. It's not to say that he's particularly overweight either - there were plenty of guys in their grade who were way heftier, but the fact remained that Red was the type to habitually skip P.E. and lived on a diet of caffeine and cigarette ash. Even with clothes on, Stan could feel Red's body almost mold against his back, stomach and chest soft. Hell, even without the swelling, Red's face was already puffy and round. But for propriety's sake, Stan did his best to hide the effort he was making to drag him up the final steps and into his room safely. Though he wobbles a bit as he takes Red to the bed and gently lays him down, he manages to do so without Red bitching at him, so it's a victory in his book.

While standing, Stan's able to finally survey this space Red calls his own. He didn't know what he expected to find, but it's by far the most interesting room in which he'd ever been. As it is the attic, every wall is an angle, plastered over and painted purple. There's a skylight embedded on one side, towards the back of the house, a roller shade mounted over it to block the dimming sunlight of the early dusk. Since there isn't much support for light fixtures, tacked to every corner and cranny are strings of orange lights, the kind only sold around Halloween, which makes Stan chuckle. Still the orange glow against the purple paint is intriguing. Most of the furniture looks cheap, as if it's Ikea shit brought up in boxes and assembled within the room since obviously they wouldn't be able to lug full pieces through that small door. Instead of a closet, there's a wardrobe with its doors wide open, everything spilling out as if the poor thing threw up black clothes in disgust. The dresser has a small iPod speaker system, surrounded by half-burned candles with wax dripping over into the wood. Upon further inspection, Stan even spies a cheap bookshelf that's stacked with books covering everything from contemporary occult to Egyptian mythology with a few random tomes that carry names that even he recognizes like Edward Gorey and Poe.

Stan steps to Red's bedside table and fingers one of the pewter dragons sitting in some odd arrangement next to a cheesy plastic skull that has red bulbs in the eyes, letting him know that it was a cheap Halloween decoration, much like some of the odder pieces hung about Red's room. He lets out a low whistle. "I said it before and I'll say it again: you have, like, the coolest room ever."

"It's just my little sanctuary," Red remarks blandly, holding his side with one arm while he fishes in his jeans for his cigarettes and lighter, pushing aside the spidery curtains hanging from the bed posts before he sparks up to smoke. And though he seems rather nonchalant about Stan's reaction, he feels mildly proud to have passed inspection. It's one of the things he always appreciated about Stan, that while easily confused by his own emotions or needs, he was still honest when it came to things like this. Even if his Goth phase was in passing, the guy obviously had something of a boner for the macabre.

"Feels more like I died and ended up in Halloweentown," Stan jokes, turning around and sitting on Red's floor, leaning back against the bed with his head tilted to stare up at the line of rubber bats he hadn't noticed before. Red shifts and Stan ends up having to dodge the creepers being aimed at his head, chuckling to himself.

He's at the perfect angle now to view the skylight, finding a sense of comfort in the way the afternoon sun is beginning its slow descent towards dusk. It only adds to the odd ambiance of Red's room, and Stan's thankful for the brief silence.

"So," Red breaks the quiet, propped up awkwardly on one elbow while he takes a slow drag. "As I was trying to say before, I know I'm not... attractive in the conventional sense, but you know I make no big secret about being gay," he points out in a rather nonchalant way, as if he were remarking on the color of the sky — just another obvious fact. "And maybe I'm not what you want. Still, I'm willing to offer and you can try it. And if it turns out you don't like it then you can join your teammates in kicking my teeth in to feel better about yourself."

Stan feels his body tense up. So the vague insinuation earlier had been earnest. This certainly gives Stan pause because essentially Red is offering sex, or some derivative, which does seem an easy out for Stan's internal sexual identity crisis. Or is at least a far better alternative than breaking down and begging one of his closer friends to fuck him. Still, it's so sudden that Stan needs a moment to figure shit out. On the one hand, he's still officially with Wendy, but on the other it would put to rest all these inner demons he's been hauling around. Maybe if he just does a little bit of experimentation, these urges would cease and he can pretend there was nothing ever wrong. Or it could spell the end to his heteronormative lifestyle. Either way he looked at it, he was pretty much screwed, so might as well dive in with both feet.

"Dude, I wouldn't fucking join the rest of that mob to kick any part of you in. If I don't like it, then that's just saving me an identity crisis to go through. If I do like it, well..." He pauses, the wheels in his head starting to turn. "So what exactly is 'it'?"

"Whatever you want it to be."

Stan opens his mouth wide and closes it after a long moment, puffing his cheeks out as he lets out a sigh. "Um," is all he manages to say, and he looks down at his feet, stretched out in front of him.

Stan's bumbling to avoid the issue prompts a snort from Red, his tongue rolling around in his mouth to find he no longer tastes blood. He decides then to make this easy on him. "Let's start simple. You wanna spend the night?"

"Um... I don't know? It's, like, 5 o'clock, what do you plan on doing?"

Red rolls his eyes at how Stan's question makes it sound like they're about to play a movie and share a tub of popcorn. Here he thought he'd been subtle, what with the direct offer to put Stan's sexual preferences to the test. "Take a painkiller, smoke a bud, and try to figure out if you're as queer as I know you are, smartass."

Well he couldn't possibly be any more blunt than that. Stan stands up and laughs nervously, skirting around the obvious elephant in the room. Much easier to hone in on the first of Red's short list. After all, Red's still pretty banged up, and maybe with some drugs they may not even get to the 'it' that Red was offering. He leans over the bed and examines the other teen for any obvious discomfort. "Do you, like, need anything?"

"Yeah, go get a glass of water," Red says, snubbing out his cigarette in the makeshift ashtray on his bedside table — a horribly disfigured bowl he made for art class in elementary. It was too ugly for even his family to fawn over, but it worked just fine for catching his spent cigarettes just to avoid the harping from his dad in scorching the carpet again. He pushes to his feet and winces, hands clutching at his side. "Ugh, fuck. Maybe some muscle rub shit. Just hit the bathroom," he adds with a nod to the door in the floor. Then Red crouches down with no small amount of discomfort in front of a loose ventilation grill. With practiced ease, his dull nails pry the edge free and give the grate a slight spin to open up the shaft. He's not the type to leave his shit out in the open, but Red likes his stash to be kept nice and neat in a little black box, shaped like a coffin no less.

Stan watches him for a moment before venturing off downstairs to the bathroom. He fills a Dixie cup with some water from the tap as he browses the generic contents of the medicine cabinet, grabbing a bottle of ibuprofen when he goes for the muscle cream. Red probably needs and probably has something stronger than that, but Stan likes taking care of people so maybe Red will appreciate the sentiment.

When he gets back upstairs Red is hunched over, cross-legged, with an ornate clear glass pipe in his lap. He's busy packing it and pulling bits out of a grinder, so focused on his work that he doesn't even notice Stan come in. He sets the ibuprofen down and holds the water in his hand, staring down into the white depths while he leans against a taller partition of the angular room. Not that he expected a fanfare or a fawning outpouring of gratitude for just bringing a lousy cup of water, but it might have been nice to be thanked all the same. "I really am sorry, dude," he says, still staring into the paper cup.

Red cocks a brow as he glances up through greasy bangs, a little perplexed by Stan's sudden melancholy switch. "You still on that? You didn't tell them I was gay; I did," Red points out, before returning his focus on packing the weed tight in the tiny bowl. "They cornered me and asked point blank if I was a fag, and I wasn't going to hide it." He sets the pipe down after inspecting it for fallen pieces and reaches for an orange prescription bottle he has hidden in his coffin box, the label cleanly ripped off. "Even before then, it wasn't like it was some big secret." He holds out his hand for the water after tapping out a pill, tilting his head back as he swallows it down hard. "Fuck, it was your pal I was caught snogging in eighth grade."

"Who, Kenny?" Stan smirks, laugh coming out as more of a snort. "Kenny's kissed everyone."

"Even you?"

Stan pauses, feeling more than a little snared by such a simple question. Granted his comment was an over-exaggeration, it was still common knowledge that Kenny McCormick had managed to kiss most everyone in their grade. The fucker made a point to brag about which ones he had yet to taste, as it were - which gave Stan pause as to how Kenny, who reveled in the fact that he was promiscuous and undiscerning to the gender of his partners, seemed rather untouchable while Red came under constant attack for being just as unashamed of what he was. Maybe because Red was more defiant and Kenny was just...Kenny. "Yeah."

"Didn't seem to do much for you, though."

Stan shrugs, because, well, not necessarily; that kiss was kinda what got the wheels turning. Kenny was high and Stan was drunk, but even if they were sober Stan knows it would have happened anyway. Kenny had a way about him that got the panties charmed off of 90% of the girls and left just as many guys undoubtedly questioning their sexuality, Stan among them. Kyle had been doing homework that night, Cartman said he didn't want to hang out with 'fags' and Stan just really wanted to fucking play video games, so he called Kenny over and they spent their evening in the Marshes' basement, laughing at everything while ridiculously intoxicated.

Stan remembers how Kenny had stretched out lazily on the couch, his legs draped over Stan's lap. His reddened eyes were still impish, like a cat about to pounce on that flickering laser pointer even though it remained out of its reach. And then came the nonchalant question, "You ever kissed a boy?"

Stan had blinked at him and snorted, falling into a horrible case of the giggle fits, which was a marked improvement over his usual morose demeanor when he'd been drinking. Then again, looking back, he probably also had a contact high. "Dude, no, that's totally gay."

Kenny merely shrugged Stan's 'no homo' defense, most likely because he was used to similar deterrence. "Everyone's a little gay. So do you want to?"

Stan had just pressed the bottle of vodka to his lips only to find that Kenny had already started to lean over without waiting for a response, taking the bottle from him so he could set it safely on the ground. His long legs had straddled Stan, effectively trapping him in place as their lips met in a mingled taste of alcohol and ash. Stan had been effectively shocked and could only sit there on the couch, albeit cornered against the armrest, trying to settle his thoughts. His brain was quite fuzzy but it was hard to tell if it was from the alcohol or from Kenny. The blonde had pulled off him and with a rather pleased grin that Stan could recall quite vividly despite his inebriated state, grabbed his hands to pin him against the armrest. Without words or much protest from his end, Stan was easily coaxed into kissing again and before he knew it, they were making out on the worn couch in the basement, their game long-since forgotten.

Stan hears a throat being cleared, which snaps him from the memory. He stealthily presses a hand to his crotch, feeling himself sporting a semi, and at least has the decency to flush because he knows Red is staring at him. "Um. I wouldn't say that, necessarily," he chokes out, grabbing at the collar of his shirt. "How did he, um, kiss you? Kenny, I mean." As if he needs to be reminded who they're talking about.

"Deep. Wet," Red explains, reaching up to tug his bolo tie loose. "Like he knew how to kiss a person. Kinda sealed my preferences in stone. I wanted to be kissed like that again... By him, by other guys." He lifts his arm and tries, with difficulty, to get the accessory off. "I'd asked him to kiss me."

"Here," Stan starts, pushing off the wall to get over to Red. He sits on his haunches at the edge of the bed and leans over the injured boy, helping him so he doesn't have to move his arm too much. "Lemme help, dude. It's the least I can do." He's trying so very hard to distract himself of the fact that his dick is hardening in his pants, not just at his own experience with Kenny, but at imagining Kenny doing the same to Red. Not that anything happened after that last kiss. They just sort of let off with an unspoken agreement that no one would have to know. Kenny left not too long after, not wanting to overstay his welcome (in more ways than one) and Stan had been left to wank off in the shower as he needed to rinse off the stink of weed and vodka before his mom pitched a fit.

But Red's story is much different, something the entire school knows. Stan hadn't been part of the crowd that came across the pair mid-makeout, but it didn't take long for the rumors to spread. Kenny naturally embraced everything, basking in the glory of the gossip. Stan swears the guy only started to fuck dudes just for the shock value and sensationalism, if it weren't for the fact that he'd seen how Kenny got around some of his regular male lays, just as sweet with them as he was with the ladies yet still managed to retain every ounce of masculine dignity. Even though Red never once bothered himself with rebuking those same rumors, Stan always thought Kenny had been trying to allow the goth to save face as they were about to leave middle school and embark on the four year torture that would become high school. But listening to Red now, and knowing what he knew about his erstwhile friend, it made sense that Red would just step back and let what happened happen. Because he didn't care what people thought, whether he was gay or suicidal or whatever the rumor mill would churn up. He just was what he was.

"Yeah, he's a good kisser." So of course Stan keeps running with the topic at hand, because that seems like the smartest thing to do. Red's still trying to mess with his bolo tie, and he curses every time he lifts his arm. "Dude, I can— Hold on." Stan unbuttons Red's shirt enough to get the tie off and gapes at some of the damage that peeks through the open v of the half-undone top. "Holy shit..."

"Yeah," Red scoffs, unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way. "They got me pretty good this time."

"Fuck. No kidding," Stan winces as he traces his fingers over the marks lining Red's soft stomach, a litany of colors standing out bright against the porcelain skin. It isn't pretty and Stan looks from his stomach to Red and back again, shaking his head all the while. "I... Fuck, dude. I'm really fucking sorry. Do you need any...?" He points to the muscle cream and when Red nods, he maneuvers around Red so he can get behind him with plenty of space between their bodies, because space seems like a really good idea at this point considering the unplanned intimacy of the moment and the fact Stan is finding himself on the hornier side of thinking. Stan sits back on his knees and props Red on his side, injuries within arm's reach. He gently assists in pulling Red's arm free of his shirt and leans up to grab for the muscle cream, squeezing some onto his fingers. The menthol scent is strong, instantly cool to the touch. He knits his brows in concentration as he starts to rub it into Red's skin gently, making sure to watch the other boy's face for any signs of discomfort.

"You don't... have to," Red protests feebly in an attempt to hold onto his self-respect even though it's already too late, but he doesn't out of the way either. Stan rolls his eyes and works it into his skin more methodically, remembering how it felt to massage the ointment into his sore muscles after a hard practice. Though Red's torso lacks any real muscular definition, rather doughy in comparison to his own, as if he hadn't yet shed his baby fat, the chub is mostly centered on his pectorals and middle, possibly from too much sugar in his coffee and the convenient string of absences from P.E. It's also a contributing factor to how easily Red would bruise after these attacks, and makes Stan set his jaw at how many times before this has happened. How many times Red has had to patch himself up solo.

"I told you, my mom's a nurse; I know how to do this shit." He doesn't leave any room for discussion and presses the pads of his fingers against Red more firmly to properly work out any kinks in his muscles he can feel just under the pliant skin.

Red lays there passively, eyes half-closed, eliciting little gasps when Stan presses too hard or gets too close to a forming bruise. "So how...?" he starts, words starting to slur together in a rather dreamy sort of way, showing that the painkiller he'd taken was starting to settle in. "How did.. Kenny kiss you?"

Stan tenses up and stops momentarily, the question leaving him a little disarmed. It would be so easy to just own up and share not only the incident but how it left him feeling. Hell, how the memory still affected him now, because then he wouldn't have to keep shifting to hide the stirring in his jeans. But even if Red's offer was still in effect, Stan wasn't quite ready to share such intimate details. "Um... It was wet," he says, fingers resuming their lazy work over Red's skin. "But it was nice. It was different from kissing a girl. Like Wendy's lips are always so soft and she wants me to take control but Kenny was just... like you said, he knew what he was doing."

The room gets eerily silent, but it's not uncomfortable. There's a tension in the air that Stan can't quite place and he's just trying to stay focused on dulling Red's pain, at least for a little while. He knows it won't go away forever, but he's trying to do the right thing. When the silence gets to be too much, Red lifts up and sits against the wall, reaching for the long-since discarded pipe and lighter. He doesn't say a word as he puts it to his mouth and sparks the lighter with a hiss of the flint, closing his eyes as he languidly breathes in the smoke and exhales. He feels at peace right now, and he knows Stan can see it, like he came to terms years ago with who and what he is. He isn't fey or even roguishly pretty the way Kenny is - he's just a pock-marked teen who wears too much makeup and doesn't take care of himself, but the fact that he's pudgy in the middle or glorifies death with a heavy cynicism doesn't change the fact that he's very much attracted to other males.

"So," Stan finally says, staring right at Red. "How did you...?"

Red raises an eyebrow but he's quick to catch on and rolls his eyes, adding a snort for full effect at how ridiculous Stan must sound to him. "Peg you for liking cock? Please. You ever heard of gaydar?" Stan makes a face at the cliché answer, which only prompts Red to chuckle. "Oh come on, dude. I've seen the way you and Kenny exchange glances, like you're sharing this big secret. And don't think for one second I haven't noticed you check my pimply ass out from time to time. It's okay, I don't blame you." He snorts and laughs, holding the pipe up to take another hit, but Stan snatches it from him.

"Gimme that," he mumbles, fumbling with the lighter as he tries to spark the green. He holds his hands at an angle and finally gets the thing to light, taking in way too long a hit. He can't hold it for long and coughs as he lets it out.

Red laughs at Stan's efforts to get high and reclaims his pipe with a flourish. "I betcha your girlfriend knows..." He looks down the bridge of his nose and takes in twice as big a hit as the first, letting the smoke settle in his throat before he feels it start to burn. "Do you fuck her?"

"Yes, I fuck her," Stan says with a proper dramatic eye roll, almost pouting that their conversation was taking on a rather crude turn and he wasn't even suitably high yet.

"The sex any good?" Red asks as he hands the pipe back to Stan, watching the smoke hover around his head in a haze. "I mean, like, you make her come and shit?"

"Dude!" Stan shoots back, expression a little appalled that Red would just go for the low blow like that and actually question his fucking skills. He takes a hit in an effort to dodge the question, still feigning annoyance. "Not like it's any of your business, but yeah."

Red nods slowly, digesting the information, as well as Stan's reactions. Either the guy had his doubts about his talent in bed or the lady doth protest too much in retaining his heteronormality. "I bet she blows you all the time too... You do oral on her?"

"I— Why the fresh hell are you suddenly so interested? Aren't pussies supposed to, like, make you want to puke and shit?" Stan sputters, nearly choking on his smoke again.

Red merely rolls his eyes in response, feeling the room spin a little with the gesture. Well, it's the best he can do with one eye swollen and puffy, and he knows that it's going to be his last eye roll for the day if the painkiller was going to leave him this woozy before he even gets a proper high cooking. "First off, I'm not asking you to describe in explicit detail the taste and color of her labia. Second, I'm merely fucking curious what all you've done and whether or not you liked it."

Stan shrugs, flushing as he fiddles with the pipe out of nervousness. "Like, I dunno. She's blown me. I haven't gone down on her because she's really fucking weird about it. She doesn't like it and she doesn't even want me to. I've offered plenty of times..." And it's not to say that Stan isn't curious what she'd taste like considering how many graphic descriptions Kenny has gone through to glorify the beauty and taste of a fine pussy. Then again, maybe Wendy doubts his oral skills because he's friends with Kenny and is afraid he's been taking notes on some of the more questionable things his friend has been rumored to do.

"Do you wanna, though...?" Red asks, voice quiet over the lingering smoke, his gaze fixated on Stan. "Not out of obligation or anything like that, just... you know..."

This gives Stan pause because he'd just been pondering this same thing. Curiosity doesn't necessarily equate a desire. Kenny intrigued him with all his bragging, but if Wendy had approached him first rather than him making all the offers, would he have readily gone down on her? Or had he only been offering because of how many times she went down on him? "I... Not... really?" Stan finally caves to the pressure, weed effectively dulling his senses enough to make him want to share. "I..." He laughs, suddenly struck with a rather hilarious thought. "If she had a dick, though, I'd suck it."

Shit.

Red is quiet as he takes another hit. He's definitely feeling good now, more direct than ever. The fact that Stan had just had one hell of a Freudian slip was not lost on him one iota. "Would it be cheating... if I sucked yours?"

"I—" Stan thinks about it as he reaches for the pipe again and takes a hit, holding it in as long as he possibly can. Is it cheating? Stan's not the one doing anything... And this is all supposed to be an experiment to see what Stan likes anyway, so... "No? You... You should. If you want to, you know, like... for science." He chuckles as he shifts and holds his hand over his crotch, all but forgetting the slow and steady arousal that has been building ever since he dredged up the memory of his rather torrid kiss with Kenny.

"What if I... sucked your ass?" Red adds, feeling a little cheekier. Now that he has Stan basically blurting out whatever happens to pop into his head, he's willing to push the limits and see what exactly Stan might be up for doing. And he's finding he's kind of getting off on making Stan squirm as the cogs are obviously turning in that noggin of his. It's both empowering and endearing.

"I — um... Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves." Stan's trying so damn hard to act like he's not affected by Red, but holy shit is he flushing hard - and so is his dick. And even though it's Red who's partially undressed, Stan feels as if he's the one stripped bare and rather vulnerable. And it's rather thrilling to say the least.

There's a brief moment of silence, where the earlier tension builds to something nearly unbearable, and a slow, leisurely smile spreads like a growing shadow across Red's face. "What if I fucked you?" He lowers his voice to a whisper, as if this whole thing is some conspiracy and the walls could tattle on them.

"Do you want to fuck me?" The response is instant, just as hushed, and the pregnant pause that follows is just as insufferable as the last.

Red starts to laugh, the sound genuine, almost giddy. It's not the usual derisive snort he usually tosses at others who amuse him in their mundane choices, as predictable as media-fed fads. No, this is true mirth pulled from the fact that Stan Marsh, Mr. All-American Quarterback with a girlfriend and a fairly normal life feels insecure enough to ask if Red actually wants to fuck him. "Who wouldn't?" Red finally returns, breathing through his nose because he can't get any oxygen in his lungs otherwise. Stan just stares and laughs nervously, the statement getting him more excited than it probably should.

Red takes this as a challenge and quirks a brow at Stan. He must feel Stan's excitement — either that or he loves fucking with people; could be either — because he leans over and brushes a kiss to the corner of Stan's mouth. It's not terribly definitive or aggressive, but just enough to prove to Stan that he finds him attractive and that maybe, for as much shit as he gives him and the popularity perks his jock status earns him, Stan's struggling just as hard as he is just to make it through life. And there's nothing wrong with coming to grips with the parts that make you feel wrong. The fact that Stan feels like this is part of what Red finds attractive anyway — knowing that they are very similar in their cynic views and in doubting their self-worth. They just greatly differ in how they slog through all the bullshit and turmoil.

Stan's brain is a little fuzzy but he can't help but feel that the weed added to the situation because suddenly he's very, very aroused and not a damn thing has happened. Other than recalling a few interesting memories and having a semi-frank talk about bedroom shenanigans with Wendy. Only, wait, something is happening. Granted, Stan feels a bit slow on the uptake, but when he becomes aware of Red giving him the okay with that chaste kiss, he turns his head just enough so that they're kissing fully on the lips, moving experimentally to lean over him and add pressure.

Red stills a moment but doesn't move away and Stan seems to get even braver, going so boldly as to straddle his hips and reach down to cautiously cradle the swollen side of Red's face, trying his best efforts to mimic the way he remembered Kenny kissing him.

Red is struggling with breathing correctly and his heart is hammering against his chest; Stan can feel it. He moans before tilting his head back, breaking the kiss to pant. This was much better, more welcome than the surprise kiss in his truck earlier. Though it also managed to open a whole new can of worms.

Stan leans back and bites his lip, looking away with his head down as he mumbles an apology. Was that too forceful? Stan can't help himself. He may be slightly stoned, but he finds that he really does want this. Moreso than he probably wants to admit. Red's always been nice to him over the years, at least in the way that he's less unpleasant to Stan's circle of friends and makes a point to let Stan just wallow in his own mental misery without enforcing the rule of darker dress code anymore. So despite their conflicting class statuses, that has to mean something, right?

"Don't," Red assures him before reaching up and dragging a hand into Stan's hair. He runs his fingers through it for a moment, almost like he's petting him, then gets a firm grip on the short black strands and pulls Stan back down to instigate a kiss of his own without any forewarning.

Stan lets Red take the lead and puts both his hands on either side of Red's head, trying to keep his hips as far away as possible because he's getting very hard. Unlike the previous kiss with which he was ambushed, this time he welcomes the fierce press of lips that follow the insistent tug on his hair. And in a freakishly mild way that doesn't alarm Stan the way it ought, he thinks maybe he likes having someone else be in control. Not in a way that subjugates or humiliates him, but like the way Kenny trapped him on the couch with his body. The way Red is doing it is hitting that perfect balance as well, giving him a tiny thrill that only heightens the moment.

Red uses his tongue to part the seam of Stan's lips and licks his way inside when he feels Stan suck in a breath to moan. The sound might have been small, almost indiscernible, but it vibrates through Red's mouth, and he presses his hips up against Stan's body. Stan gasps, grinding down to do the same on pure instinct. True his entire thought process is still three seconds behind from the marijuana, but he eventually comprehends that he did that to Red, that Red is hard as a stone in his pants because of him. The realization makes him shudder and he pulls back, breathing hard as he rests their foreheads together. There's a dizzying sense of warmth now, their bodies awkwardly aligned with this throbbing that can be felt as neither one wanted to really move. Every breath ghosts across the other's face and they can feel there's looming intimacy building, as if they're sharing a confined space much smaller than the cab of Stan's truck, regardless of the fact that they are in a rather spacious bed at the moment.

"What do you want to do?" comes the loaded question as Red drags his fingers through Stan's hair, his breath hot as it lingers against his cheek. Stan doesn't respond and just pants against Red's skin, trying desperately not to focus on how fucking hard his cock is. "Tell me..." Red tightens his grip on Stan's hair and tilts his head, kissing along Stan's jaw with a sense of urgency.

"Can't think," Stan replies through a laugh, the sound trailing off into a moan at the feel of lips against his skin.

"Then show me," Red growls, shifting his body so that he arched fully from the bed, body bucking under Stan's weight, making the other boy curse.

"Fuck," Stan breathes, heart speeding up when he feels the brush of Red's cock against his, definitely losing control of the situation. "I... fuck."

Red laughs again, the amusement the same even though it was now this breathless sound. "I could be down with that," Red smirks before relaxing back against the bed, dragging Stan down with him by his hair.

"Jesus," Stan mutters as he falls atop Red. He's more than a little high and his brain is not processing things in proper timing, nor are his limbs working properly, and all rational thoughts flew out the window when he felt a hard cock pressed against his. He's warm all over and feels sweltering in his clothes.

"No...not Jesus. Just me," Red whispers before drawing Stan into another deep kiss, moaning as soon as their lips make contact. Red has more experience getting high than Stan so he has more control over his body, but he's thankful that gravity is doing most of the work for him so that all he can feel is the warmth of another body on top of his.

Stan doesn't protest when he gets kissed again and his hands go to his chest, just resting there while they kiss lazily. Red still has his fingers in Stan's hair and the harder he grips, the louder their combined moans get. Stan feels like he's sweating and he pulls away, earning a pout from Red — one that gives him a rather sadistic sense of accomplishment. He's sitting on top of him though hunched over to shrug his shirt off. Unfortunately his glee is short-lived as he finds his limbs aren't cooperating well enough, and he's oddly caught in the sleeves, so Red reaches up to help peel it away and tosses his shirt to the floor with an artless flourish. He sits up on his elbows to get a good look at Stan and the open expression of admiration is plainly there to make Stan feel giddy all over again, and shy as well. Most of his strength is in his arms but his whole body is well formed from years of not only football, but all sorts of sports. He's not much of a sprinter, but he does what he can pinch hitting for baseball in the spring and sometimes filling in for hockey in the winter. But football will be his meal ticket and at what he works hardest. Stan's skin is the right shade of olive from all those shirtless days on the practice field in the summer and his foray into manhood is rightfully marked with a sparse patch of chest hair that matches the happy trail that leads from his navel in a neat line to his pants, making Red's mouth goes dry as he openly gapes while Stan flushes bright red.

"Um... Okay. This is officially the most naked I've been with a dude."

"Bullshit," Red argues as he reaches up and draws his hand over one of Stan's pecs, feeling the firm, warm muscle just under the skin. It's not as if he'll get another opportunity to feel up a body this ripped. He's Goth, not dead — he has desires just like any other gay guy. "Or do you avoid showering with your teammates 'cause you might enjoy getting towel-slapped a little too much?"

There was totally a joke in there, but Stan rolls his eyes so hard that he actually gives Red a run for his money - and himself a possible headache later. "Like that even fucking counts, jackass."

"Then I take it you've never had faggy pillow fights with your besties while in your underwear before either?" Red adds mockingly as he circles a fingernail over Stan's nipple slowly, watching it harden under the attention.

Stan's breath hitches and he's momentarily stunned. "You know what I fucking mean."

"Maybe," Red hums before leaning in and wrapping his mouth over that teased nipple, the tip of his tongue flicking over it until it fully pebbles. He bites down gently and Stan gasps, finding it a lot more difficult to breathe now. Red tugs the flesh between his teeth a moment, stretching the flesh ever so slightly before releasing it and looking up at Stan, something different lighting up the amber depth of his unswollen eye. "I've never either..."

The admission is shocking to say the least. "You've never...?"

"Nope," Red sighs, gaze flitting about, trying to hide behind his hair so Stan can't see how embarrassed he is. Not that there is anything to be embarrassed about, necessarily, but he can't help but feel self-conscious, and maybe later he'll blame the drugs for giving him this moment of vulnerability.

"Well that makes two of us. Well, in...this department." Stan laughs and sits back on his haunches again, a big smirk on his face. Now he feels like he's got the upper hand, especially after all that merciless teasing Red had put him though regarding his sexual proclivity and past experience with Wendy. "You sure talk like you have."

Red shrugs. "Not like I have gay men lining up to be in my harem. I just watch a lot of porn and jerk off." Crude, but true. He did only hang out with a very select few, and none of them were exactly willing bed partners for a variety of reasons. Not that sex ran high on Red's list of priorities, because it was just one of those things that he accepted wouldn't happen until he was essentially free of high school and able to shake off the dust of South Park as he went in search of someplace that he would be welcomed instead of met with ridicule. Truthfully, he hadn't even expected Stan to go this far, but it was a wonder how inhibitions lowered when mind-altering drugs were involved.

"You still know more about it than I do, so it's okay. There's nothing wrong with... you know."

Red makes a face, probably at the vague allusion to virginity, but then he grabs at a pudgy roll that inches over his waistband, poking at its softness before just letting it go. He sighs because he isn't all that overweight, just unfit. Because P.E. is the bane of his existence, because he eats greasy fast food that gives him acne, because he'd rather wallow around with his music and poetry being all tragic than go outside like most of the other kids his age. It's all superficial shit, something he and Henrietta long ago agreed on when they binged on cookie dough ice cream while watching the fuck-awful fifth Nightmare on Elm Street film. It was the part where Freddy was force-feeding the model her own guts, neither one of them put off because they were fucking high as shit. But after the scene they just shared a knowing glance that they weren't going to bother to change their bodies. So what if he had a pasty gut and her tits were already sagging. Not all Goth teenagers had to be pretty emo boys in skinny jeans or tattooed Suicide Girls. They were what they were.

But as he compares himself to Stan, Red feels his face flush red and he's glad he has a fringe of bangs to hide behind. "Must be nice to be wanted."

Stan had watched Red's expression change, feeling a little deflated because he thought for certain the other was changing his mind about this. And he wouldn't blame him because who'd want your first time to be with a sexually confused headcase? But then his whole comment came out of left field. Stan looks down and he can see how pink Red's cheeks are, looking pretty similar in color to Stan's — maybe a little more splotchy from bits of makeup rubbing off. He can see the hard edges of Red's façade peeling back, revealing that as much Stan had fretted over the world figuring out that he may like boys, Red was also just wanting to be wanted. And knowing this truth was mighty powerful indeed. Stan feels humbled rather than empowered to see this side of Red. "You are."

"Yeah right," he breathes, voice soft as ever as he reaches for Stan's neck and pulls him down, kissing at the skin of his throat so he can hide his face. It may be the drugs or just Stan, but something is starting to break through the cracks in his dark veneer, and he doesn't want Stan to see how bad he's failing at being self-assured.

"No, like, seriously... I'm not joking," Stan protests, swallowing hard. Here they are, admitting things about themselves, and as much as Red had teased and goaded the truth from him, he didn't seem willing to accept a fucking compliment. In admitting that he wanted Red, in spite of the physical flaws that might put off more appearance-oriented people, he thought he was giving Red the best fucking compliment he knew. Sighing heavily, Stan buries his face into Red's hair and smells a mixture of patchouli soap, smoke, the lingering taint of menthol from the muscle cream, and underneath all that his sweat. And it's an intriguing blend that makes his cock give a twitch. The smell of the locker room following a practice or game, even if it was loaded with guys and the eventual perfume of various body washes and deodorant, made Stan want to puke because beneath it was the stench of twenty filthy bodies and sweat-soaked uniforms. But this, even if it isn't clean, smells more natural, the way a male is meant to smell. Or maybe Stan just really likes this combination. "I wouldn't be bothering with getting naked if I wasn't serious."

"It's only cause you're high," Red points out before biting and sucking at Stan's skin, not enough to leave a mark — it wouldn't do for Stan to go sporting a hickey that wasn't from his girlfriend.

"No it's not," Stan protests, moaning at the bite, the slight jolt of pain only enhancing the ache that the high was giving him.

If it were any other person, Red would have agreed because they wouldn't have noticed him but Stan had, a long time ago. "You knew I was gay. It's why your teammates bully me, do this to me like every other week. If you were really having some sort of crisis, you could have come to me any time. If you really wanted me." He can accept Stan wanting him now because he had offered and it's a convenient out. And he was going to get blown - possibly laid - without needing to spare his feelings.

"But you also know why I didn't," he counters firmly. "I was a coward. I was fucking scared," Stan says, his lips pressed to Red's unwashed hair. "I still am."

"I know how you feel," Red mumbles, face still hidden against his neck.

"What do you mean?"

Red is quick to shake his head and drags his tongue from the athlete's neck to his ear, leaving behind a wet trail. "I wanna do so many things to you..."

It wasn't the answer Stan had been expecting, and his body goes impossibly tense at just what Red says instead. "Fuck," Stan stutters, tripping over just that one word so hard that he practically topples off the bed. "Like... Like what?"

Red pulls off Stan's neck, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "I wanna suck your cock," Red mumbles, his voice still quiet, but firm, "then I wanna rim your ass 'til you're hard again and fuck you."

Stan swallows at all those naughty, filthy things and nods, his cock pressing so hard against his pants that it's painful. "Fuck." It seems to be the only thing he can say right now and he keeps repeating it, feeling his mind just get stuck on that one curse while the rest of his body shifts into autopilot. He's been in this sort of situation before with Wendy, when their kissing turns into something heavier and they part so that their hands can explore and undress with a sort of methodical practice. They've fooled around enough that they know where the other likes to be touched first, which article of clothing needs to be shed. Even if it sounds boring to think about the routine, Stan is still hard. He wouldn't be with Wendy if she didn't turn him on to some degree, if he didn't like her little noises when he touched her just right, or the way her fingers would slip perfectly into his boxers to play with him. But this was a whole new territory with Red, because they certainly didn't have a routine and Stan had no clue if he would like this other than the fact that he was perfectly hard and had no issues straddling the other with his jeans tented out. Leaning back enough, Stan opts to unfasten his pants and get the fly down enough to free his cock of strain. It's a relief that's short-lived, however, as Red instantly grabs Stan's neck and drags him close while he continues with his list as if he'd never paused.

"I want to feel your mouth suck me before I fuck you. I want my cock to be the first one... in your mouth." They're both so riddled with lust that it's all breathy moans and whines and all Stan can do is nod and let Red kiss and suck at his neck.

Stan shifts his body so he can grope his way along Red's abdomen, finding the waistband of his jeans and unzipping him. He can feel the heat tenting the front of the garment as he works the teeth open, and rather than be repulsed, it only makes his mouth go dry. He hears Red's breath hitch and feels his hands in his hair and doesn't want to fucking move in that moment, but he has to if anything is going to happen. Stan flops onto his back and lifts his hips so he can get his pants down past his hips and he clumsily kicks them onto the floor, looking over at Red with a desire he wasn't aware he harbored. If there had been any questioning of his sexuality before, it was certainly blatant now.

They both lay there, the cold satin sheets warming up to their overheated bodies, breathing loud and labored, not moving at all for what seemed like three hours — but for two people high out of their minds, it's probably closer to three minutes. Stan is nearly naked save for his plain cotton boxers, which do nothing to hide the obvious hard-on. Red's pants are undone and he still has the worn button down hanging on one arm, but he's the first to move. He slides over Stan's body, looking a little scared as he finally cups his hand over the bulge of Stan's cock, the first one he's touched aside from his own.

- luciidcatnap -

Breathing unevenly, he slips his hand underneath the elastic waistband to find the length of him, stroking Stan slowly. "How does your girlfriend blow you?"

The question is frank and unexpected, but even if Stan could find a way to respond that wasn't abject shock, it would be moot because there is a hand on his cock that's not his own. And like all teenage boys, thoughts are prone to scramble when hormones take the helm. Even so, he tries to think, tries his damnedest to remember exactly how Wendy performed fellatio, never mind that his mind is drawing a frustrating blank in the wake of those surprisingly warm fingers curling over the girth of his cock.

"I.. fuck, I don't know? How one normally sucks a dick?" he finally manages to grind out, voice as tense as his body, carrying in it a tone of urgent pleading. Unsurprising considering he spent the better part of the last hour slowly growing more aroused listening to Red's lurid listing of sexual acts he wanted to try. Still, how in the hell is he supposed to answer that? When Wendy had her mouth on his dick, Stan wasn't thinking about the logistics of it because it was a hot, wet mouth over his cock.

"I dunno..." Red murmurs, head coming to rest against Stan's stomach so he could watch what his hand is doing. Granted it's just the outline of shapes moving under faded cotton, and he can very well feel the shape and heat of Stan's dick, but it's what he can't see that's the most alluring. From his vantage point, he has a very good view of the head of Stan's cock peeking past the waistband, as if it's a preview for when those shorts are finally tossed off.

"I mean, does she lick you?" he started, trying to encourage Stan in sharing details. Oh, he'd seen his fair share of cock being sucked in porn, so he had the general idea of how to do it. But he was curious if Stan liked what his girlfriend did to him, or if he wanted something different. Red is willing to be flexible in this matter. "Or can she deepthroat? Has she used her tits to get you off? Does she swallow or let you come all over her?"

The questions are coming too fast for Stan to process, only able to watch Red's hand working him so tight and practiced, his mouth hanging open just to breathe. It's taking every ounce of self-control not to fuck his hips against Red's hand, a faint tremor working through his body from the effort. At least where Red is concerned, he's much more open about the sex, being so candid about the questions rather than sit shyly the way Wendy did at first. The thing with his girlfriend was that they'd been together for so long, albeit non-inclusively, so when they finally hit their teens there was suddenly this expectancy in going all the way. They both had hormones they couldn't control, made obvious in the moments they were alone. And even though Stan's arousal was always obvious, he knew his girlfriend well enough that he picked up on the way she trembled against him and how her breath caught if he touched her just right. Most people might have written him off as a stupid jock, but Stan was more than sensitive enough to figure shit out. Especially when it was shit that he wanted as well. Gradually their making out evolved, finding it harder to rein it in. By the time they were freshmen, he'd finally gotten to go under her shirt. Shortly after that, Wendy began to straddle his lap and grind herself in a demure, shy sort of manner, as if she needed to get used to the idea that her boyfriend had a cock and maybe he wanted to stick it in her. Stan had little choice in the manner, opting to let her set the pace because he'd grown up with two very strong female influences and knew he needed to respect Wendy's boundaries rather than pressure her. Nevermind that his hormones screamed at him otherwise, especially when she'd let off on their experimenting and leave him positively ready to explode.

In the end, the anticipation either ruined their first time or enhanced it — Stan didn't quite remember. What he did know was that he'd come too quick for either of their liking, leaving her a little dissatisfied. But Wendy didn't complain. In fact, she blamed herself for letting them get carried away so quickly and promptly blew him as an apology. After that, the sex got better. Not perfect, because while she got him aroused quickly enough, sometimes he'd think of Kenny or Kyle when he came, and sometimes he couldn't get her off at all. It was good to know that sex wasn't the basis of their relationship, especially now with Red's hand jammed down his boxers like he was fishing for the prize from a cereal box.

"She.. Shit. Um. She licks it, and likes to look up at me while she's got her tongue all over me cause she knows it drives me crazy. She, um, f-fondles my balls and, like, this feels so embarrassing to say out loud," Stan laughs, hips still jerking against Red's hand. But he can visualize it, slowly able to gather his thoughts the more he lingers on how it had been done. "She swallows, because she claims it's too much work to try and spit." And the more Stan speaks about it, the more aroused he feels himself getting. His face is burning, and he's embarrassed as fuck talking about it, but the floodgates are open and he can't seem to stop himself from sharing the details of his sexual exploits.

Red shifts his head, attention diverting from watching Stan's cock play peek-a-boo, the wavering sound in his voice far more attractive in the moment. Because aside from the obvious physical proof in hand, he knows Stan is getting off on this, on not just what they were doing but on talking about it. And in a way, Red is too. "So, what...do you want me to do...?" Red asks, fingers moving from base to tip, thumb sliding around the slit. "I mean, do you want me to do the same thing she does? Or, like, want me to try something different?"

The question gives Stan pause because he's only had one person's mouth on his dick. So while he only knew what Wendy did felt good, it wasn't as if he hadn't fantasized about other things. Not just what she could do but what someone like Kenny might do if given a shot. Or even Kyle, who would definitely be shyer about sucking cock. But now he had Red who was certainly going to go down on him, offering him a chance to live out some of those fantasies, and he was coming up with nothing.

"No. I want you to do whatever... feels natural. Just, fuck. Do something!" Stan looks down with a sheepish smile and whines at the way Red's teasing his cock, starting to feel a little desperate. He's staring at Red's mouth, wondering how it'll feel on him and what he'll do. The lips are thinner than Wendy's, though not as rough and chapped as Kenny's. "Please, dude."

The sound of Stan's voice hits Red's body like a thrilling rush, feeling empowered by the fact that only his hand could make someone already this needy. Taking the obvious invitation, Red stops his stroking, but instead of removing his hand altogether, he pushes down the waistband of Stan's underwear with his wrist so that his cock springs free, tucking the elastic just underneath the swell of his balls so the complete length is exposed. It's not entirely full, but Red's got more than enough of an eyeful to make his mouth run dry. Not that Stan's particularly endowed, but there's a certain girth to it, thicker than Red's. The color's different, a bit more robust around the head, but no less as slick when swollen. He lifts his head off of Stan's stomach and inches closer, hand clasping about the length again before his tongue slides over the head, gathering up his first real taste of another man's cock.

At first impression, the taste is bitter, almost as if he's tasting a bland dish flavored with too much salt. But it doesn't burn his tongue the way excess sodium would. Stan gasps in reaction, hips subtly twitching under his hand. Red licks again, rolling the flavor in his mouth, letting it rest because this was his first time. He wants to grow used to this, wants to desire it. He isn't repulsed by the flavor, but it's so utterly different than anything else he'd ever put into his mouth.

In the moment of Red's pausing and silent contemplation, Stan looks down at him through thick lashes and breathes out heavily, his chest heaving hard as he struggles with the involuntary motion. Red pulls back a little, offering a slight smile up at Stan. Then he shifts his position, moving between the othe's legs in an effort to perhaps make this comfortable for them both, to do like what Wendy did. Honestly, Red wants to watch Stan's reactions too, not just hear him. Just seeing the flush on his cheeks even in the wake of that tentative first taste makes Red feel bolder. Gently, he holds Stan's cock and lets his eyes lift before dragging tongue and lips over the head again.

Stan looks down at Red and a tiny whimper escapes his throat as he watches those lips part and a pink tongue glide over his cockhead. Part of him knows Red's doing this on purpose, because he's trying to copy how he described what Wendy always did. Stan doesn't know what it is about it, the act itself, but he fucking loves being able to watch his partners blow him. Maybe it's because with his legs spread he feels vulnerable and open, everything laid out in plain view, or perhaps it's the power trip: seeing in their eyes that this person wants him - even if he can only do so for a few seconds without going cross-eyed and groaning. Then again, he's high. Could be both. Or either.

Red flattens his tongue before lowering his head, drawing a couple inches deeper into his mouth. He can feel Stan throbbing, really taste his skin under that bitter flavor. He didn't know what to expect when giving head, but this is certainly unlike what he anticipated. Stan moans and wriggles underneath him, bucking his hips up, prompting Red to smack Stan's hip in an effort to get him to stop, scowling around his cock before he pulls off. "Seriously, you choke me and I'm tossing your naked ass outside."

Stan laughs and nods, swallowing hard while he tries to control his panting. "Sorry. Can't.. help it."

"Don't fucking give me a lame-ass apology. I'm fucking serious," Red shoots back, feeling his face heat up. He's slightly embarrassed, and with good reason considering this is his first time. Part of him wants to make this good for Stan, or maybe just prove that he's capable of offering more than acerbic comebacks and morose commentary on the state of society. Red gives Stan a firm pinch to the hollow of his hipbone to make his point before he dips his head and nurses his lips gently over the head, making obscene sucking noises.

This time he gets a better reaction, feeling Stan shudder before watching his head flop back against the pillows, fingers gripping at the sheets. Red opts to test his boundaries a little, inching his mouth down further along Stan's shaft carefully until he feels his gag reflex start to kick in. Quickly he pulls off, swallowing and clearing his throat, cheeks inflamed. So he already figured he couldn't fit all of Stan in his mouth, but now he definitely knows his limits. Red rubs fingers first over his lips and then jaw, trying to calm his nerves. "How.. is it for you?" he asks.

"Obviously it feels good if I'm trying to fuck your mouth," comes Stan's response, his face angling away for the moment as he feels his face flush. He hadn't expected Red to ask something so innocent, something he only heard Wendy say during their first time. The fact that Red is more of a virgin than him in this is still surreal because Red always conducted himself with this level of confidence that it seemed absurd he hadn't done it yet. Yet here they are, with Stan's dick out and Red making sure he's doing everything okay in a tone of voice that makes Stan's heart speed up and skin burn.

"Yeah, okay," Red murmurs back as he rubs a finger up and down against the ridge of Stan's cockhead, remembering the feel of how that caught against his tastebuds. He knows his hands are shaking, chest hurting with the want for being able to breathe right. He has enough drugs in his system to give him a level head yet this is the most nervous he'd ever felt in his life. "I'm going to try something...so don't you dare thrust."

"Oh fuck," Stan says, slowly turning his head to look at him. He doesn't like the sound of that. Well, he likes the fact that Red is doing these things and insinuating something different is about to happen, but it's making his cock twitch, which isn't a very good thing in the long run. "Dude, I'm gonna blow my load before we even do anything." His voice is a touch whiny, but then again he's never been that great about teasing and this is way more than what Wendy put him through on a semi-weekly basis. He knows his body is telling him that he won't last much longer, especially with the way Red is touching and talking.

Red rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm not exactly some kind of sexual god, okay? If you come, you come. Good. Whatever. I'm still hard and kinda plan to fuck you either way." He comes off a bit more irritated than intended, but his fingers still curl around Stan's cock and tilt it up a little so he can draw it into his mouth again before Stan can complain or talk back. Once he reaches that limit before his gag reflex can kick in, he starts bobbing his head, head dipping up and down, his uneven fringe of bangs tickling Stan's abdomen as he moves.

As long as Stan doesn't thrust, Red can keep going like this. He holds the base and continues bobbing his head. Every so often he'll suck, cheeks hollowing out. And of course he uses his tongue, keeping the flesh wet between his lips so there's not so much friction. Stan is moaning, his hips moving ever so slightly to make Red take more of him into his mouth. Once he feels Stan breach his limits, Red gives pause to pinch again at the hollow of Stan's hip, eyes flicking upwards to shoot him a warning look.

Stan shifts, draping one leg and then the other over Red's shoulders, which open him up a little more, and leaves his hips with little to no real room to push.

- Jana-Z95 -

He can still wriggle and his thighs clamp tensely about Red's face, but there's definitely no chance he can break Red's one rule about no thrusting. Red smiles around Stan's cock before his head moves faster, dipping and sucking noisily, those sounds obscene and very much to Stan's liking. As he moves, Red finds the weight of Stan's legs over his shoulders enjoyable, like he's trapped, and he loves the taste and smell of him, that musk drowning his senses. He just wishes he could touch himself. Or if Stan would touch him, that would be even better. But in this position neither of them could and honestly it's about Stan — making him feel good and helping him figure out what he wants.

Stan's vision goes black and gold behind his closed eyelids and he groans, gripping Red's hair a little tighter. "Guh - gonna come!"

Red cups his tongue along the underside of Stan's cock, pulling back slowly. His heart hammers away in his chest because he doesn't know what to expect when someone comes in one's mouth — what it tastes like, feels like, let alone what he's supposed to do. Usually in porn, the guy in his position pulls off and takes it in the face, but he doesn't want that. He wants Stan to come in his mouth, wants to feel and taste it. Just from personal experience, he knows how hard a body can ejaculate, and he's breathing hard through his nose as he looks up in that moment of pure anticipation.

Stan's legs are strong. That's the first thing Red realizes when he comes, those thighs clamping around his head, startling him with just how tight and tense. Thank God for the pill he took or else he would have pulled off out of sheer pain for the way those muscular limbs are pressing against the bruised side of his face. Red's free hand grips at a thigh once the first spurt of semen hits his mouth, and then his throat opens to protest the tightness of Stan's legs as the second hits. Suddenly Red is sputtering and coughing, Stan's cock falling from his mouth as he takes the rest on his face, though thankfully he could feel it cling just around his mouth and cheek. Still, Red's face is bright pink as he chokes, hating that he panicked from the clench of Stan's legs.

Stan looks up when he hears Red coughing, chest working to breathe harshly and using his elbows to support his trembling body so he can look at the guy between his legs. "Oh fuck. Shit. I'm sorry, dude. Fuck."

Red rubs at his mouth, coming away with a sticky smear along his knuckles. He pushes Stan's legs off so he can sit up, blinking away the sting of tears. "It...it's fine," he assures him, voice a croak as it's still sore from that spastic coughing fit.

Stan feels red creeping onto his cheeks and he groans, letting his body have its way as he slumps back against the satin-clad pillows. This was the first time he'd ever seen a face coated in his cum, something that he thought was only for show in porn. There's something so wholly erotic and perhaps a bit possessive to the image of white oozing from another's lips and chin — although he does feel rightly embarrassed too for making the poor guy choke on his cum, even if it was involuntary on his end.

Red breathes shakily, staring down at the creamy smear on his hand, rolling the bitter taste in his mouth. He'd just sucked Stan Marsh. Not just that, but made him come hard too. He couldn't help but wonder if this was this how Stan always reacted when he got a blowjob, or if this meant he was exceptional in the art of giving head.

"I don't usually come like that. Fuck, I'm sorry, dude," Stan grouses, answering Red's unasked question while trying to hide his face.

Red idly rubs the sticky substance between his fingers, feeling it grow tackier as it dries. He breathes out shakily, his face flushing, before scooting to the edge of the bed and using his clean hand to tug open a drawer. There's a container of baby wipes he always keeps handy, mainly because it was a bitch to get cum out of satin sheets, and it was a conversation he never wanted to have with his dad again. So he learned years ago the handiness of keeping something with which to clean off. And for some odd reason, because he also prefers the scent, Red uses a wipe to clean off his hand before making a swipe at his face. But it's mostly smudged with makeup when he goes to check and he bites off a curse with a scowl. "Shit."

Even with the weed still in his system and body still reeling from an incredible orgasm, Stan can tell Red is attempting to clean up. Rather than sit back and enjoy the show, Stan opts to slide closer to him, seized with a momentary sense of tenderness. "Here." He takes the wipe from him and pushes Red's bangs to the side so Stan can clean his face up, flipping the wipe over to get all the remnants of not just his cum, but the thick foundation off.

Red sucks in a breath at the press of fingers through the quickly warming wipe. He hadn't had anyone clean off his makeup except Henrietta, who had the dubious honor of watching him puke and sob like a little bitch the first time he got plastered. She had patiently waited till he was done with his fit before ruining one of her mother's towels to clean off his runny eyeliner and then reapply it. Neither of them ever spoke of the incident again and Red was more careful with how much alcohol he drank since then. It wasn't as if Red was really tying to hide his acne scarring, but there was an attempt to cover the worst of the blemishes with concealer and he always lined his eyes heavily. And as Stan is wiping it all away, along with the cum, Red's heart starts to pound because so very few people see him with a clean face and it just feels so strange, like he's being stripped of his armor. Doesn't help the feeling that he's already nearly naked.

"I don't think I've ever seen you without your face painted," Stan says with a laugh, tossing the dirty wipe into the trashcan, though he really doesn't care if it landed or not since his gaze is pretty intent on drinking in the rare sight of Red sans makeup. Not that Stan thought Red a particularly handsome sort, but there was this sort of soft prettiness when he lined his eyes with kohl and masked the severity of the acne scarring. Stan sort of appreciated from afar how Red was flawed, and how the imperfections made him real. But with all that cleaned off, the scars were more obvious and the color of his eyes didn't pop out. He looks as normal as a morose teenager with badly dyed hair can appear, maybe a little more vulnerable given the odd circumstances that brought them here. Stan kind of likes thinking of Red as a guy who is no different from him or anyone else.

But Red's mouth is tight, his breathing shallow. If he didn't have drugs in his system he wouldn't have let that happen, he knows. He doesn't like that Stan can see everything now, that he's blatantly appraising him and is probably judging him based on that fucking scale of conventional beauty like everyone else.

"You can...go...if you'd rather y'know.. not.. with me..."Red mumbles after a moment, hating that squirmy feeling that Stan's open gazing is giving him. "You don't have to feel obligated to return the favor if you don't want the weirdo goth kid you used to hang out with seven years ago."

Stan stares at Red long and hard before he leans into his personal space, shoving him down onto the bed. He crawls on top of Red and tilts down to kiss him hard, first just an intense press of lips, then his tongue slides out to push through the seam of his lips. Red's resistant, his mouth tight to prohibit Stan from penetrating. But then Stan slips inside, forcing the kiss to happen despite Red's stubbornness. Red's hand reaches up, fingers digging into the nape of Stan's neck, a shiver working through his body. Red squeezes his eyes tight. He had started to go flaccid during his pouting, and he didn't know if Stan was being earnest or really just felt obligated. Stan kisses him even harder once Red opens his mouth and when Stan moans, Red's free hand slides over Stan's chest, feeling those moans vibrate all through his body.

Stan's hands are pressed against Red's chest and he flicks his thumbs at his nipples, smiling against his lips when he feels them pebble to hardness beneath his hands. He breaks the kiss to pant and trails his hand down Red's stomach, sliding slowly inside of Red's underwear, fingers brushing through coarse pubic hair en route past the elastic band, blindly groping for his sex. Imagine his surprise and mild disappointment once he finds that his cock had wilted, the skin soft and velvety. Stan realizes he fucking wants it hard again, because he wants to not just touch it, but feel it swell in his grip. He attaches his lips to Red's neck and sucks at the skin there while he strokes Red's cock back to life, all but forgetting that this would be his first time to hold a cock that isn't his own.

Red breathes out unsteadily, head rolling to the side as he feels the suction and pressure of Stan's mouth, realizing Stan's palm and fingers are textured roughly. Considering the athletic lifestyle this guy has, it's unsurprising. His hips start to writhe the more he's stroked, body responding favorably and against his will with that rough friction. "Why...are you...?"

"Because I fucking want you, Red. Jesus," Stan says firmly, his words sounding more harsh than he'd meant, but he's finding himself mildly frustrated at how quickly Red turned himself off just from having his makeup cleaned off. The guy's already bruised and discolored from the beat down he suffered through, and yet Stan got it up for him with minimal effort. Wipe away some eyeliner and all of a sudden it's like he's the fucking Elephant Man. Of course Stan has an attractive girlfriend, and yes, he's popular at school, which makes them polar opposites. But Stan isn't at all shallow as to turn tail and flee for his life just because Red no longer has fucking makeup to hide behind. And the more he thinks about this turn of events, the more he feels pissed off and cheated because this isn't the Red he knows. So he kisses all over Red's neck and jaw, fingers still working up and down the shaft, albeit a little clumsily.

Red's breath escapes in a shudder, his eyes squeezing tighter. "You do?"

"God. Yes, you moron! Let's see. I told you I never come that hard, and I happen to like my hand on your cock. And your mouth on my cock. Jesus, Red. What more proof do you want?"

"I don't know, okay?" Red returns, voice wavering as he's met with the full brunt of Stan's ire. He lays an arm over his eyes, still writhing under Stan's stroking hand. "I just know I'm not what people want..." And this has always been hard for Red, because he doesn't usually care what people think of him but it feels different now that he's all but naked and Stan can see what's been underneath the attitude and nonchalance. Part of him needs Stan to see this - and maybe it's because Stan had been so unsure before about his sexuality, which in turn sparked Red's innate desire to just be wanted.

People want what he's not. They want pretty, skinny, hipster gay boys with multiple piercings and colored streaks in their hair. They want the fucking emo scenesters in tight, colored jeans who can flirt and be fey. They don't want the opinionated, mouthy goth kid who shoots the proverbial middle finger to societal norms and gets messed up by half the varsity team every week. It's a human weakness that he's loathe to admit to having, and certainly the drugs in his system are making the breakdown of these emotional barricades all the easier.

"Well I'm sitting here saying I want it, Red," Stan says, a little more bold with his hand now. He has him gripped tight tilts his head as he strokes him, watching as the opening in the front of Red's underwear splits open, allowing brief peeks of the dick he's stroking between his fingers. His mouth feels dry because despite Red having an emotional issue, his hormones are already wanting to have a full on inspection.

Red gasps, hips lifting as Stan strokes him, head spinning in quite the delicious way as the THC made the coursing pleasure all the more intense. Not to mention it was quite the nice distraction from his self-pitying session. "E-even if I look like this?" he asks, indicating the whole package: the flab and acne, the scars, and even the ugly bruises that show up oh-so-well on his pasty skin.

"If you really think I care about that, then I'll just leave," Stan snaps, hand stopping altogether before he removes it from Red's boxers.

Red starts chewing at his lower lip, biting back the urge to whimper at the loss of that wonderfully textured hand and finding his mouth awash with the fresh taste of blood as he accidentally reopens his split lip. Then he reaches up, his arm feeling a little floppy from the drugs, to push his bangs out of his face, regarding Stan with a discerning gaze (even if one side of his face was still pretty swollen and angry-looking). "I never really thought you were the type."

Stan starts shaking his head and laughing because if he doesn't he thinks he'll scream. "I don't care about what you look like. But you know what? I find you sexy. This. The fact that you just. Do not give a shit what people think about you, that makes you confident. It makes you sexy." Stan punctuates this by leaning up and kissing him.

"I... don't feel confident right now," Red confessed, voice mumbling against Stan's mouth. So many times he'd masturbated and wondered what it would feel like to have another guy touch him, to kiss all the places like he'd seen the men in pornos kiss. And here he is, shrinking away because Stan is doing those very things and suddenly he just feels like nothing.

Red gives his head a little shake before he reaches up and grips at Stan's bicep, and he knows he's trembling as he instigates a kiss that's all tongue. "Just...never let anyone this close. It's... I didn't know it'd be this scary," he confesses between kisses.

The fact that Red is trembling makes Stan's chest ache, but he kisses him back, deeply and strongly. "It's always a little scary, but it doesn't have to be." He's sitting on Red's thighs, and, deciding to act boldly before Red shuts down again, slides his fingers underneath the waistband of Red's boxers and pull them off his hips and down his legs so they're both left completely naked. But rather than take his eyeful of that cock he'd been handling, he keeps his gaze on Red's face, because he can see how defenseless the usually caustic teen is, and it feels like the intimacy is far more important than just getting off — because whatever happens after today means nothing if right now isn't handled with care.

"I guess... I'm the pussy..." Red whispers, thighs a little tense under Stan's weight, his blush far more pronounced without the layers of makeup.

Stan shakes his head. "If you would have seen how nervous I was the first time," he trails off with a laugh, still shaking his head. But he doesn't elaborate because Red's already seen firsthand just how quick he can be when teased just right, and embarrassing himself with the details of his sexual gaffes isn't going to win Red over from this emotional hiccup. Instead, he smooths his hands over Red's thighs and kisses along his neck. "If you don't wanna do this, we don't have to. We can, like, talk... or whatever."

"No...I do..." Red insists. "I've...wanted to for a while..." Red slides his arms over Stan's shoulders and back so he can hug him, slowly starting to relax. "I mean, not you specifically, but like...I've been wanting to just... have this... And, like, I still want you to feel comfortable about who you are," he finished, reminding Stan the whole reason for this sordid escapade.

Stan keeps kissing all along Red's neck, sucking and biting at the skin, finding a fresh desire welling up inside, one that wants to leave marks behind that aren't inspired by bigotry. All these ugly bruises, and Stan wants Red to remember more than just the pain from today. "This feels.. like, natural. Like I'm not forcing it." It's pretty fucking scary to realize these things, to accept that he's looking at the abused skin of someone he thought of as an erstwhile friend and wanting to leave hickies behind so that he felt better later on. The fact that Red is a male has little bearing other than Stan likes the way his cock had felt in his hand, growing harder because Red obviously wanted him. It was the same sort of arousal he got by touching Wendy and feeling her body respond and grow wet, because she wanted him too.

Even as he hears Red moaning in response, he's already moving down to Red's chest. He stares at his nipples, so pink against the stark difference of his porcelain skin. He flicks his finger against one and takes it into his mouth, sucking hard around the nub. It's nothing like a breast, but Red's body has a certain pliancy to it that makes the pudgy bits draw into the suction with a gloriously obscene noise.

Red reacts visibly, body arching upwards. Stan doesn't bother trying to say anything else. He likes the effect he's having on Red, so he goes to work sucking and lathing over the nipple with the flat of his tongue.

"So...what would you like me to...do to you?" Red asks, struggling to find his voice when his vision is already blurring over. It doesn't matter anymore that he'd already listed several naughty things earlier, because he promptly forgot them in the wake of intense sensations. Plus Red knows he'd lack any real confidence to try anything. Perhaps next time he would. If there was a next time. It's already dusk, leaving just the Halloween lights to illuminate his room. But with Stan angling over his chest, Red doesn't have anything to look at other than the canopy of his bed and the cheesy rubber bats with their limp, lifeless wings.

Red waits for an answer, chewing nervously on his lower lip. He understands Stan won't immediately answer because he has his mouth more than a little bit preoccupied. Granted, Red already had done something and now it was Stan's turn to pleasure him, but the uncertainty he'd struggled with earlier manages to linger because ultimately this is about Stan and he never wants to lose focus on that. He tangles fingers of one hand into Stan's hair, giving a gentle tug to pry Stan off and get his attention. "If...you don't tell me...I won't know what you want."

"You already sucked me off..." Stan answers after pulling off with a wet noise, his breathing still ragged and loud. There's a thickness to his voice, as if the THC is finally slowing down his body. Red sucks in a hard breath at the way his flesh is released, heart sliding right up into his throat. "Do you not like what I'm doing...?" Stan continues, looking down at Red's chest, watching the soft expanse heave with the force of Red's shallow breathing. The nipple he'd been worshiping is wet and rosy, the tip hard and seeming to beckon him to continue his task of abusing the sensitive flesh.

Red breathes out a light laugh before gripping at Stan's hair, shuddering visibly. He can feel the weight of that gaze, knowing exactly what Stan is staring at. And it's a nice feeling that is settling in his chest, of being so desirable that the guy who has his fair share of tits would fucking drool over his chest. "Take a good, long look downstairs...and then ask me again." If Stan wasn't so lust-addled, it should be more than obvious how all this attention had Red more than aroused, making Stan's insecurity moot.

Of course the utter frankness of Red's answer leaves Stan laughing, but he still takes a good, long look like Red told him to and is more than pleased at how stiff Red's cock is laying against his abdomen. Up until this moment, Stan harbored some vague fears about this point of no return, because it would be hard to simply turn around and leave at the first glimpse of an erect cock only to find the sight wasn't the least bit arousing. But it's just a penis, not much different than his own; albeit not as thick, and with a bit more of a pronounced curve. It dawns on Stan that he's the first person to really get to view this particular cock, the thought enough to have his body give a jolt of pure pleasure. It's the same sense of possessiveness he had earlier in wanting to mark over Red's pale skin. Part of him wants no one else to see what he's seeing. Stan swallows hard and lets his eyes lift up, finding Red's gaze so there can be no misunderstanding of what he wants. "I wanna know... what your cock tastes like."

All the blood immediately rushes to Red's ears at the statement, and for a moment he swears he can't hear anything but the pulse of his heart and a shuddering breath that escapes his lips. And then he nods a little numbly, the moment all too surreal. It doesn't matter that he had asked for this not even a half hour ago; now that Stan had expressed this desire aloud, it hits Red hard.

For the longest time, they simply stare at one another, saying nothing, the passing of breath the only real noise. Then Stan breaks the deafening silence with a light chuckle, face splitting into a toothy grin. "You know you're red all over right now... That's why you're Red Goth," Stan giggles as he leans up to kiss Red chastely on the lips several times, turning his head and using just the barest pressure against the other's lips, enough to leave him moaning. Then he's kissing down Red's cheeks, his neck, and then his collarbone, the teasing, playful kisses transforming into a sucking at the skin as the momentary hilarity passes, his high mellowing back out into that hungry sort of lust again.

Fortunately Red doesn't get the chance to really respond to the bad pun, initially overwrought with straight out embarrassment at having his nickname mocked. Then those peppered kisses wear down his defenses so that by the time the lips linger he's breathing harshly once more, gooseflesh rising onto his arms and the hair standing on end along his neck. Part of him very nearly spills his real name, breaking the unspoken cardinal rule among Goths to never go by their real name. Like the slaves of old they were rejecting what they were given and trying to carve out their own identity. In the beginning, Red had come up with what he thought was a truly wicked name, but for some reason the color he used on his hair stuck more. Only his parents and teachers called him by name, usually because he was in trouble. Thankfully he bites his tongue before it's too late, the only sound escaping his breathy answer of a moan.

Unaware of Red's near verbal gaffe, Stan continues to kiss down Red's chest and stomach, heading in a direct path toward his groin. He stops only when he gets to the dark thatch of curls, taking in a shaky breath because all he can smell is his sex, and it's thick and intoxicating. Red's body is twitching, the muscles under the skin tightening under the brush of lips. Stan breathes out shakily and stares unabashedly from this short distance, Red's cock slick with precum, and he swallows hard. After blinking away the initial awe, he shakes his head and reaches for it, holding it gently at the base as he opens his mouth and timidly darts his tongue out to lick at him.

Red never meant to cry out, seeing as there was a great chance that his dad had returned home at some point this afternoon, and thus alerting him to the sexual misadventures happening on the third floor. But the touch of tongue is unlike anything experienced, far exceeding the feel of his own hand. It's just a wash of hot breath and a wet texture dabbing at the skin, but the sensation catches him off guard. And he clamps a hand over his mouth despite the damage already having been done, positively pink from embarrassment.

Blue eyes flick upward at the sharp sound and the jerk of Red's body, a satisfied little smirk spreading. With his confidence bolstered, Stan wants to find out what other noises Red can make even with a bitter taste on his tongue. Curiously, he gently laps at the head of Red's cock, closing his eyes and sliding his lips all the way over his shaft, trying to mimic Red from earlier. Red tightens his fingers over his mouth, muffling the sounds that want to come. Against his will, his body starts to squirm and writhe, trying to refrain from thrusting up because he'd already given Stan a hard time about fucking his mouth and didn't want to be a hypocrite despite the instinctual urge to plunge upwards.

Stan holds tight to Red's cock at the base, very loosely moving his fist there, and takes him in deeper, inch by slow inch. Red lets loose a string of angry curses in immediate response. Not that he's particularly angry at having his dick blown, but his voice is incredibly tense, going up an octave as he feels that heat sheathe over him slowly, the rough texture of Stan's fingers and palm offering a contrast with shallow pumps.

Stan's becoming bolder the more Red cries out and curses, finding his filthy mouth to be one of the most arousing things he's ever fucking heard. He takes Red further into his mouth, just about as far as he can go without choking, and he bobs his head in time with his hand, wanting to hear more of Red losing his shit. He didn't have to wait long as Red's fingers clench at Stan's hair, trembling with the effort to not yank and pull. His voice is growing more shrill, chest heaving and the swell of his belly actually hollowing out as he breathes all the harder. From the corners of his eyes, tears begin to gather, glistening on the edges of his lashes.

Nudging his head against Red's hand, Stan subtly lets him know that it's okay to yank and pull, that he kind of wants him to. Stan has no clue what he's getting into when he gives Red permission, but once the gesture is made, Red wrenches at the dark strands. It isn't even a light tug either; he's clutching with both hands, pulling fistfuls of hair as a new litany of curses escape, almost like a tense mantra.

Stan is forced to release Red's cock from his grasp to press his palms down at Red's hips so he doesn't buck up and choke him. But he still groans around the thick length and the salty flavor that is so unlike Wendy's pussy and moves his head faster until he finds his nose is practically buried in the curly pubes. It dawns on Stan that he practically has all of Red in his mouth, the realization making him groan before he pulls off abruptly as his gag reflex belatedly kicks in. He never did enjoy that feeling of his throat seizing up because he'd spent enough of his childhood puking randomly. But still Stan coughs, keeping Red's hips down in place firmly.

Red already feels on edge when Stan pulls off. But he hears the coughing and understands all too well what the other had tried without needing explanation. And part of him thinks perhaps Stan has had enough of swallowing his dick and they should try something else for now. He shudders as he yanks a bit more forcefully on his hair, getting his attention. "C'mere and fucking kiss me."

The coughing keeps coming, but Stan complies, practically toppling over Red as he eagerly covers his body with his own. And since he had the invitation already, Stan kisses him once the fit subsides, letting Red see what he tasted like on Stan's tongue as he pushes the wet muscle inside deeply with a low moan. Needless to say, Red is quite bowled over by the press of Stan's tongue sharing that bitter taste with him, way different than what Stan tasted like. Initially it repulses him, but once he realizes that Stan had just been sucking on his dick and is now trying to do the same to his tongue, well then that makes it erotic rather than disgusting. And Red moans right back, tongue spearing in to give Stan a little challenge.

"Hope...you don't plan to leave me hanging..." Red rasps out once they're forced to part in a desperate bid for oxygen, his eyes hooded and pupils blown wide. He's never felt this hard before, and the fact Stan is doing this is just making it worse. "I'm not...going to last much longer," he adds in warning, blunt nails trying to find purchase in Stan's skin as his hips lift up, damp cock trapped between their bodies.

Stan switches their positions without any prompting, rolling them over so suddenly that both their heads are spinning. Now Stan is on his back, his fingers still working over Red at the base of his cock, but slow. He props his legs up a bit awkwardly in an effort to leave himself open, Red nestled nicely between his thighs. Red is trembling as he braces his arms to either side of Stan's head. He can feel his hair slide over his forehead a moment before bangs curtain his gaze, easily masking the bruised side of his face. His body undulates slowly, driven by the slow pace of Stan's hand. "You...don't mind...?" he pants out even as he lowers his hips, settling between Stan's legs as if they were about to fuck. They aren't going to, and the intimacy of their position hits Red square in the chest, making him moan at the way their bodies meet and fit together.

Stan shakes his head and answers with a breathy "No." He stops moving his hand and lets Red take the lead now, wrapping his legs around Red's waist to keep him close.

Red shifts within the confines of Stan's legs, finding that his cock is pressing into that space between Stan's dick and the hollow of his hip, balls rubbing along the underside of his shaft. And he looks up as best as he's able, breathing harshly. "It...feels like...we're fucking..." is his only remark as he gives a slow, experimental thrust, the friction of bare skin hot and amazing.

Stan is left to pant and hold on to Red, his arms draped over his shoulders, one hand playing with Red's hair while they rut against each other. Stan's finding it hard to do more than just swallow and pant, cock already back at attention. Red's trying his best to keep his eyes open, but is having trouble when his cock is already leaking profusely, the edge of orgasm making his vision blur.

Red whimpers helplessly in his throat as he ducks his head, fingers gripping at the sheets in a white-knuckled grasp. His face is soon lost, buried against Stan's neck. And he lets out a harsh, whining sound, gasping as his hips dig in hard, pelvic bones grinding. Between their tightly-pressed bodies, he comes, seed flooding across their stomachs and oozing down their sides. And for a moment it feels almost anti-climatic despite the delicious throbbing against Stan's body, because Red had hoped to be inside Stan. But then he feels Stan's limbs wrap tighter around him, cradling his spent body without shame for the mess smeared between them. Red realizes he's gasping for breath, not from the tight grip, but because he had just come, and his body is positively throbbing from his release, a sort of warmth blossoming in his chest at wonder of sharing this with another person.

"You...feel hot. I like it," Stan remarks quietly, keeping his eyes closed as he slides a hand between their bodies, gliding over the mess Red made and gripping himself loosely.

Red pants against his skin, shivering and not yet ready to move, even as he felt Stan's hand start to work between them. "What are you...?"

"I'm hard again... I need to get off," Stan replied, his face flushing as though embarrassed to be aroused again so quickly or even that he's forced to jerk off solo. His eyes close while his hand turns into a fist and he jerks himself erratically, smearing some of Red's cum around to help, almost as a lubricant.

"Flip me over..." Red whispers, sucking briefly on Stan's neck with a low chuckle.

Stan whines at having to let go just when he was working up a swift release, but he nods all the same, shifting so that Red's once more on his back. He immediately lets go of his cock in favor of rubbing against Red's naked body, groaning. Already spent, Red relaxes and enjoys the view, unable to help but wonder if this was what Stan's girlfriend saw when they fucked, or if Stan made these same faces and thrust just as hard. Oddly, Red doesn't feel the least bit jealous of her because if this was the case then he is joining a very select few who get to see Stan Marsh like this, aroused and eager. That's a nice feeling.

Stan's hips get to work with a feverish pace and he pants into Red's neck. As they are both already covered in Red's semen, the damp texture of skin is slightly tacky, giving them both a sensation of pure friction while he rubs his cock against bare, warm skin. Red slides his arms over Stan's body, moaning weakly at feeling the way Stan's muscles tense under his skin. With his pace, it doesn't take him long to come that time, the hot seed spilling out of him fast as he bucks his hips and rubs his body against Red's, only adding to the mess.

Red chuckles, not just from the hot wash of semen spreading over belly and hip, but also at the way Stan is trembling, obviously unused to finding orgasm in such an animalistic manner. His fingers slide back up into dark, damp hair, head tilting so Stan could kiss him. It feels only right to be kissed after all that. "Did you like that?"

Stan's voice is little more than a whimper, but he nods, shakily leaning up to kiss Red, his hands still on either side of his body to hold himself upright. Uncaring of that muscular build that he knows would be more or less dead weight, Red drags Stan down. There is something in trying to breathe and finding his chest restricted by the weight of the other, and it makes his heart pound because this had happened. He can still feel Stan pulsating against his hip, the length of him twitching, and part of him feels pretty fucking proud that he got Stan Marsh off twice in one afternoon. Not only did it cement that this guy was into dudes, but it's something of a much-needed ego boost to know that someone thought he was attractive enough. Even with the THC and painkiller, he would definitely remember this come morning. Red knows he'd take that happy thought to his grave even as he lazily kisses at Stan's mouth. With moans still trickling from him, Stan manages to kiss back equally as lazy, loving that he and Red are bonding over the answers they both sought out to get, more than comfortable in his lingering purple haze.

"Are you...going to be okay?"

Red's soft question makes Stan laugh, the sound light and maybe a bit uneasy, but he nods despite not looking quite as confident as he feels. "Yeah... I think so... But you might have just made things worse." It's saying something that he's smiling at Red, feeling a lot lighter than he had when he first approached the Goth that afternoon, gut heavy with guilt. But Stan's still very conflicted inside. Because tomorrow he has to face Wendy and that is a scary prospect to admit that not only is he attracted to guys after all, but he also cheated on her.

Red opens his mouth, then closes it without saying a word. Part of him wants to be selfish and say fuck to whatever Wendy would think of this whole affair, but it isn't fair because even though he hadn't set out to make Stan cheat on her, he didn't force Stan's mouth on his dick either. So instead of spouting cynical bullshit, he cuddles Stan's head closer, hugging him in an uncharacteristically tender gesture. It would ultimately be Stan's choice as to what happens next regarding his existing relationship, and either path is going to be rough to handle. Maybe they might have cleared away some sexual confusion, but coming out never made things easier for Red. Stan is going to have it a lot worse.

Unaware of Red's thoughts or the fact that Red had stifled his own words, Stan continues talking, "Like, I really like Wendy, but I dunno... I think she already knows. And maybe she's been protecting me or something. I mean, I've been thinking about it before and when I do, it makes me feel guilty."

Running his fingers up and down Stan's back, Red doesn't reply right away, pondering the schematics of the sort of relationship Stan and Wendy had had for years. In a weird way, those two just worked and despite Stan's personal turmoil, he already knew she'd be supportive of her boyfriend's proclivities. "I think you're right that she already knows. 'Cause that might've been my fault."

"What do you mean?"

"Last year, when I was first being attacked, she wanted to help me. Start up some gay club, or alliance or something. Some sort of support network to help people like me. I told her to ask you," Red explains, voice a little quiet. Wendy had approached him with a justifiably pure intent, but in a burst of prideful malice, Red had blurted out something that was intended to hurt her because he wasn't going to be someone's cause. In retrospect he feels a little guilty because he may have outed Stan by doing so.

"Oh god, you didn't," Stan laughs as a fresh wave of mortification washes over his body, shivering at the prospect that Wendy might have suspected only because Red had been his usual, spiteful self. In retaliation, Stan finds an unblemished patch of skin and bites down extra hard. Red's body jerks and he let out a shrill cry, fingernails digging into Stan's back. Momentarily satisfied, Stan relinquishes his hold with a light frown. "Yeah, then it very well may be your fault," Stan says, licking at the marks he'd made, pink and angry-looking, definitely obsessing over leaving his mark on this pale body.

"Not...going to apologize," Red retorts breathlessly. "You're the one who's keeping yourself closeted."

"What if I'm not ready?" Stan queries from where he's attached himself on Red's neck.

Red only grunts this time, biting into his lower lip again in an effort to stifle further noises. "You'd do better than me in the spotlight anyway, a crusader so people like me, you know...on the fringes...don't get hurt anymore," he finishes, voice a little quieter.

When Stan pulls off of Red's neck, his expression is one of open shock, mouth hanging open a little. And he nods slowly, mulling over Red's suggestion, the solution so obvious that he actually feels a little stupid for not realizing it first. "Hey... hey, yeah. I mean if I start this club or whatever, that doesn't necessarily mean I have to, like, out myself if I don't want to... I mean, it'd be about being an ally and helping each other. Cause fuck knows I don't want to see you get hurt anymore."

Red flushes at that, his chest tightening almost painfully at the admission. "Don't do me any favors," he starts, voice a little tense. Naturally he wants the bullying to stop, but he doesn't need a personal knight in shining armor charging in just to save him. Even if the thought that Stan is doing this just for him makes his heart hammer wildly, he doesn't want Stan to do this just for him. No one ever did anything just for him before.

"Well, I don't want anyone to get hurt anymore. But especially you," Stan amends, his voice still quiet despite the lingering excitement that makes his eyes light up.

There's a long moment of silence where Red wants to ask why, wants to hear Stan list off all the reasons he's the one Stan doesn't want hurt anymore, but he's scared of the answer. He set out today to open Stan's proverbial closet and somehow ended up with too much of himself invested because this was the first time anyone wormed so far past all his abrasive defenses to find the chubby guy underneath who just wanted to be wanted. He has to admit that part of him still wants to shove Stan away, wants room to breathe and hide behind that mask again, to act as if this meant nothing, but he doesn't push Stan at all.

Coming out would give Stan, and surely Wendy, a peace of mind, but it wouldn't make life easier. Red had been out for years and he still wasn't living life easy. High school life is fucking hard, but a person just needs to know that they'll have someone there to get them through it when they think they can't go on anymore. That's what Stan gained through all this: a confidant, albeit one who managed to give him a massive stiffy. He's glad he has that, and he realizes he already had one in Wendy too, since if she already knew about him, she loved him enough to keep his secret.

"You want to stay... for, like, dinner and shit?" Red stammers out, voice subdued, gaze wandering away.

Stan doesn't realize he's been spacing out, lost in his thoughts and the realization that whatever happens tomorrow wouldn't leave him forced to go at it alone. He gives his head a little shake to knock himself out of his mental trance and smiles as he runs a hand through his sweaty, sex-mussed hair. "Yeah. Dinner sounds awesome, dude."

The End

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