A/N - So begins my collection of one shots! Some of them smut, some of them romance, some angst. Little bit of everything, methinks. The main pairings will be Creek, Stenny, Kyman, little Crenny, but I'm open for requests.
I'm really stoked for the undertaking. My goal is to upload one or two a week, and just see what happens from there.
I hope you guys enjoyed this one, its one of my personal favorite pairings. Stenny, ftw!
Dedicated to my friend AG, with love.
"Oooh, fuck. Kenny—"
God, I wish she'd shut up. This isn't the fucking Grammy's, and her name isn't Mariah last I checked. It isn't that she isn't hot—her legs are a 10, to be sure, but I guess I'm just not that interested in how depraved her vagina's been up until the moment she met me. That moment being an hour ago, when she had the privilege of giving my sneaker a flat tire at the gas station in North Park. Two well-placed compliments and a wink later, I've got her spread eagle against my leather with her skirt up to her ribs.
She's kind of pretty, I suppose. Big brown eyes and long red hair—dyed red hair. Ladies, don't think us guys can't tell the difference. A true ginger with a nice face and a hot body to boot is too a rare find. It's like the first edition base set shadowless Charizard card of the dating world. Not to mention, unlike most ginger's, she's got a great ass. Tight. Round. Looks good in a skirt. And out of it, as a matter of fact.
"Unng—God, Kenny—"
Yep. It was her ass that got her into my backseat, and it's her mouth that's gonna win her a one way ticket out my back door. Hello, Asphalt Avenue. Jesus Christ.
"Shhh."
Maybe that's a dick move. I figure it's nicer than smothering her mouth with my jacket, though, which was my next move. Here's the thing with Sex and I. I love sex. I love fucking girls, I love touching their tits. I love grabbing their asses. But I really don't want to hear how good I am at it while I'm doing it. I don't know. Something about having your sexual prowess panted into your ear by every girl on the block and their mother really makes you feel—well. Like a dirty slut.
"Mmm. Kenny, yeah. That feels sooo good."
"Fuck. Please, just don't make so much noise—"
"Kenny!"
"Just shut up and take it!"
Not my best moment—I can't say I didn't mean it, but I could've said it with a bit more…what is that word Kyle's always drilling into my ear? Tact. That's the one. Anyway. She seemed more than appalled at what I'd said and the next thing I knew she was slamming my car door, walking down the highway with her heels in her hand. Whoopsie. Of course, I'm still hard as a rock and hornier than a unicorn, so I get out to follow her. Another unintelligent move–I do have to admit, though, that I didn't expect her to punch me in the face. One Night Stand Rule of Thumb # 1: Don't chase pissed off faux-gingers down abandoned highways. Especially not ones who wear rings. It was definitely a moment for Captain Hindsight, and sitting in the consult room of the E.R. an hour later I couldn't help but wish his brother Foresight had paid me a visit before the bitch had completely wrecked my eyebrow.
"Fifteen stitches."
The sound of that familiar voice nearly had me jumping out of my skin. I swear to God, I nearly climbed the fucking wall.
"Stan?"
Sure enough, Stan Marsh is looming in the hospital doorway, looking for the better part like a complete and total babe. Yes, I have the hots for Stan Marsh. Yes, I occasionally masturbate to his Facebook profile picture. Yes, I have wet dreams about him pounding my asshole. So sue me.
Sexual appeal aside, Stan is just a really decent dude. The kind of guy who'd carry your drunk ass home on his back in the snow. And then wipe the vomit off your chin. Not that he's done that for me before….more than once. Anyway, the point is, as petty as it might sound, and even though any North Park jackass would confirm to you that I'm nothing but well-educated white trash, I sort of kind of care about what Stan thinks of me.
Ridiculous, right? But unfortunately very true.
So when I see Stan looming there, looking a million kinds of unimpressed and a billion kinds of sexy, I sort of shrink down into my chair and turn red like a tomato. Very classy.
"Hey Stanny," I say, in the hope that maybe if I behave like a total and complete badass he won't look so pissed off.
"I was asleep."
Maybe not. I sink down even lower in my chair, dropping the attitude almost instantly.
"I'm sorry."
He shrugs. Shrugs. I mean, what kind of guy gets a call from the hospital at 3 am to pick up his drunk, concussed friend, walks in, and shrugs? No big deal. Stan Marsh, that's who. My eyes follow him all the way to the chair beside me, where he plops down and rubs his eyes like he hopes he's only dreaming. Sorry, Stanny. I'm a dream come true. Subtext: does not disinclude nightmares, night terrors, fever dreams, or sleep anxiety.
Stan looks at me after a moment, all bright blue eyes and full lips and God, if I wasn't such a spineless dildo I'd be all over that. If I wasn't such a spineless dildo I'd kiss him right on the mouth, and then I'd confess to him that I've had a boner for him since we were twelve years old, and since I'm not a spineless dildo in this scenario he'd be like "Oh Kenny I wanna fuck you, too" and then we'd boff in my backseat and he could moan as loud as he wanted and I wouldn't say a goddamn word about it. Swear. To. God.
"You better stop looking at me like that, Stan. I cannot be held accountable for my actions in light of such temptation," I say finally, wriggling my eyebrows. Good. Deflect from the truth by telling the truth. Works everytime.
Stan raises an eyebrow and snorts. And shit if his snorts aren't a little cute. And shit, if his eyebrows aren't kind of sexy. I frown, looking at the floor for a moment. Stan Marsh could drop a giant brown turd on my lap and I'd still be impressed. True story.
"You smell like a winery," Stan says, drawing my eyes back up to his. He's kind of half-smiling and his eyebrows are sort of up and down like he's amused, and I get kind of stoked because maybe Stan doesn't hate me for dragging him out of bed. Maybe Stan Marsh really loves me, even if only as a friend. Hey, I'll take what I can get.
"I had a few drinks," I reply, smirking, "Only like three beers. Or like. Seven beers. No big deal amount of beers, is the point."
Stan smiles. Smiles. Smiles. Smiles…I could watch this guy smile all day every day and never ever get bored. He's got these teeth—I swear he's probably got liquid gold running through his veins where blood usually is in normal people. Stan isn't normal, though, not to me. Stan is the exception to the rule. To my rule.
Don't fall in love.
Sitting in the booth at Denny's at 3 am has become a regular occurrence for me lately. For Stan too, it seems, since I've been to the hospital at least four times this month for various and (typically) vulgar reasons. It's kind of cozy in its own right, and even though my heads pounding and reeling at the same time from the stitches and the pain killers, I'm still coherent enough to notice that they're playing "When a man loves a woman" over the loud speakers, and I have to smirk. Because when a man loves a woman he probably doesn't jack it to the thought of fucking his dude friend in bed at night.
I glance up after a moment, catching Stan's eye.
"What's so funny?" he asks, his own lips turned up at the corners. I blush, fully aware that any explanation would leave me up shit creek, no paddle what-so-ever.
"Just thinking," I say, and Stan nods in a very Stanish sort of way, and I wink in a meish sort of way and everything is as it should be. Parameters, and all that shit.
But then something happens, and it's different. It's not the sort of thing we ever do, but not something I haven't always wanted. Stan stands up, slips around the edge of the table, and deposits himself beside me, his hand resting on the length of my arm. I glance at him, and I must look pretty confused because Stan smiles encouragingly and then rests—rests! his head on my shoulder.
"What are you thinking about?" he mumbles, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear. Fuck if I don't come in my pants right then and there. My hand is shaking as I reach for my coffee, and I slop it onto my jeans trying to get the rim of the cup to my lips.
"You, I guess," I say, and it's a little too honest for me. This is a bad sign. That girl must've done a real number on my head, because my caution and reason is scrambled like an egg. I look up at Stan, waiting to see how he'll react. Maybe he'll punch my other eyebrow and I'll break even.
Stan seems to be considering me a moment, and then he smiles. Smiles.
"I'm glad you're okay, Ken."
Stan Marsh is the exception to my rule.
And maybe, just maybe, I think—I'm the exception to his.