AN: Welcome, all! If you're new to my writing, then you get to see what happens when I don't get enough sleep. If you're here from Run, then there's not much to be said.
To those who like this: Check out Run. CraigxStan and all that jazz.
I would suggest reading that first, but who cares? This' vague smut. I can't have too much plot.
Anyway, yes. Rated M. insane!Stan. This was going to be Chapter Ten of Run, but I was all 'HELLZ NAW.'

Enjoy~

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"Stan." It's a Monday; I shouldn't have to deal with a splitting headache and my friend's attempt to reignite our friendship. "Stan."

"What."

"Fuck man, what's up? You're not talking to me. Something's up, isn't it?"

"No." My temper flares, my hands feel numb. "No, nothing is up."

"Did I do something? I did something, didn't I? Is that what's wrong?" He's pushing me, asking asking asking. God, I don't know. I don't know. You don't know anything. I do, I know some things- What about Craig. Why don't you know about him? Huh? Huh? "Is that what it is, Stan?"

"I don't know!" Something snaps. Things are blurred, shouts are slurred. Kyle's face, his fucking face is watching me silently and fuck I-

"Come on, Stan." This voice is calm; quiet. Soothing.

I want it.

"Come on Stan, let's go." I follow silently behind, gripping tightly to the cold hand that's guiding me out of the room: clutching at it for dear life. "Come on Stan." We leave behind the heat and anger and frustration of the other room, into cold. Damp. Cold.

"Come on, Stan," he whispers in my ear, gently pushing me against the wall. Cold, cold wall. His cold cold hands are on either side of my face, trying to get me to look at him. I won't, just shift them around and avoid his calm pleas. "Come on, Stan."

I finally do, flicking my gaze to his eyes. They're cold, comforting. His hands. His eyes. Him. His lips, as they press to mine.

This is okay. This is cold.

Hands underneath my shirt, shucking it off and tossing it away. The air bites, nips. Cold. Ice hands against my chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall. Calm. Cool.

Spearmint breath in my ear, not heavy panting want. No, this is professional. Clinical. Hands in my hair, cold pressure on my scalp. Ice-cold lips, ice-cold touch. Ice-cold heart of one that never needs.

He doesn't need me.

I need him.

I need this feeling, the cold. This subtle suggestion, not pushy nagging. I need his teeth against my neck, biting. This frozen tongue against the shell of my ear. This him. Him.

Cold against me, touching and pulling and this. Him. How I want - need - this. Slow, rhythm movement, his hand on me and my fingers curling into his jacket. I might scream, this cold seeping into every minuscule crack of my being and congealing, icing me to a statue of stone.

My mouth finds the bicep of the arm pushing against the wall, biting down fiercely as snow white erupts, pushing at the limits of what I know. He doesn't respond, he doesn't feel.

It's over. I want to cling to him, to whisper silly things I don't know I'm saying into his ear. I want to feel his laugh, his approving me.

But I won't.

His features of stone, his expressionless face as he wipes his hand on a handkerchief. He doesn't want to feel any warmth, he's saying without speaking. He doesn't want my inane emotions.

He turns and walks away, not even a glance back as I crumple to the ground.

My King of Frost.