Synopsis: Officially retired from the U.S. Marine Corps, Stanley finds himself back in his small town, in the dingy diner where he spends his days loitering. Older and bitter, with his right foot occasionally giving him trouble, Stanley drives away all the waitresses with his crude attitude and responses, except for the only person who spits his attitude right back at him.
Warnings: Age-gap, thoughts of murder, killing, blood, obsession, mean thoughts, mentions of groping, mentions of voyeurism, implied dacryphilia, misogyny, choking. If I missed anything, let me know!
Eventual Tags: Yandere, dub-con, smut, corruption, innocence-kink, baby-trapping, breeding kink, rough sex, public sex, virginity-loss, and more to come!
The truth was that Stanley never had an ambition of his own. No true desires bound him to any one inanimate object or person, except for Xeno. But Xeno was reaching for the stars while Stanley had yet to open his eyes to them, or to anything around him. Even as he blindly followed Xeno, Stanley had known for a long time that it was only a matter of time before he could no longer keep up. A matter of time before he'd be left alone in their small hometown, searching for what to do with his life, while Xeno set off to chase the stars.
Do you know who's always there for young adults like Stanley, who wander aimlessly through life, searching for their contribution—their purpose—in the world? In a matter of a week, Stanley had his life packed into a duffel bag, squished between two strangers in a shuttle marked "U.S. Marine Corps."
In the U.S. Marine Corps, Stanley Snyder was damn good at what he did. Everything came to him instinctively—second nature, not something to be learned. Not when he had already been shooting railguns with Xeno before he could understand fractions.
While everyone around him struggled to assemble their weapon, Stanley had already armed and disarmed it for the tenth time. By the time they armed themselves, Stanley would have shot them all right in the head. And that's exactly what he did, well, at least with the cutouts standing off in the distance. Each shot was precise, aimed at the head, heart, and, if he was feeling like putting on a show, right in the family jewels. For a brief moment in his life, Stanley had found his place outside his hometown—away from Xeno.
Xeno was smart in his own world of chemistry and mathematical equations, but in this newfound environment, Stanley was smart in his own right. He didn't need to calculate the position of his sniper rifle's muzzle to kill the bastard in front of him in cold blood. It was instinct. He could feel it in the rush of blood through his veins. He could feel it in the malicious throb of his cock beneath the camo of his pants as his finger hovered over the trigger.
It wasn't a desire. At least he wouldn't call it that. The feeling was difficult to describe to Xeno over the phone, to fathom it in words, or at least to sugarcoat this feeling in a way that didn't make him sound insane. The sensation it would bring him was not one he actively sought, but it came with the job, and when it was brought to him in a silver platter, who was he to refuse it?
The feeling was like a drug. It sends his heart reeling, pounding, and surging with a sick twist of emotion. His eyes were often clouded by a daze of bloodlust that left them bloodshot and shaking. Breathing in this euphoric state was difficult. He was always panting and foaming at the mouth, even though he never felt more alive. This feeling… it was like being on the brink of cumming, and it didn't help that his cock always strained against his uniform. Like a hunter and a buck in their sights, Stanley found pleasure in killing.
This newfound insatiable appetite proved useful in his line of work. The souls of those he killed didn't torment him, but they tormented everyone around him. Night terrors and gruesome thoughts plagued them, while Stanley didn't even remember the name or face of the life he had taken the day before. This psychopathic ability to feel no remorse is what skyrockets him through the rankings. From a rookie, to private, to sergeant, to lieutenant, and what would've eventually been captain.
The Navy Corps had become him, so much so that he hadn't given any thought to life after his service. In a bitter truth, Stanley didn't plan on ever leaving the Navy. Not because he loved it so, not because it was the only place on Earth where he could shoot a man between the eyes without repercussions. It was because he always thought it would be where he would die. Dead in a ditch far from home, with his bloodied dog tags the only means of identification. But reality was rather cruel to him. Or maybe this was justice—karma for all the lives he's taken.
When Stanley left his small hometown, he was eighteen, with nothing to live or die for. Thirty years later, he's back, and nothing has changed, except that the navy sent him home broken, leaving everyone else to fix what they've damaged. Badly healed bullet wounds, stitches that never healed properly because Stanley refused to stay put, scars along his back, and a bad leg that draws more attention than he ever wants. He couldn't hide it even if he wanted to. Not when it causes a limp in his steps or random jolts of searing pain that have him wishing he had died instead.
Thirty years, and the world has changed too much for him to comprehend. He feels like the geezers he used to make fun of when he was younger. The type of men who would spend their days loitering in diners, flirting with the waitress who doesn't get paid enough to deal with their shit. Men who would drink to their hearts' content, poisoning their livers, and drunkenly lecture him and Xeno about the cruelty of society.
In those years he was gone, his little hometown wasn't so little anymore. Houses, stores, and restaurants he had never seen before left him lost in the very streets he had walked with Xeno. Everything was too modern for him. Too much of a hassle to bother learning. It had all changed, except for the diner in front of him. Its dirty red-and-white stripes stand out against the tacky, modernized chain restaurants it's crowded between. The dingy neon blue "OPEN" sign flickers every millisecond, and just acknowledging it makes Stanley feel a migraine creeping up.
Standing in the pothole-infested parking lot, leaning against his motorcycle, he can vividly remember the smell of the burnt ashes and the nicotine that lingers in the diner from years of smoking. Through the grimy windows, he can see the patrons' sleaziness. Greasy and sweaty, not to mention already smelling their foul breath and musky body odor from outside. He's already imagining the debauched conversations he'll find himself in the moment he walks through the entrance.
Taking one last hit from his cigarette, inhaling the carcinogens that have yet to catch up to him, he pushes himself off his bike. Smothering the cigarette under his right boot, hands in the pockets of his jacket, he walks slowly to the diner, hiding the limp in his left foot. Pushing through the diner's doors, he hears a bell ring above him.
Stanley was blunt, a skill you needed if you were friends with Xeno, who, if given the chance, would talk your ear off. But over the years, as his rank rose, he not only remained blunt but grew to be utterly, disgustingly honest. He spoke his mind, and it was hardly ever pretty.
Being as foully honest as he was, he hurt others. The truth had always been known to hurt, but the way Stanley presented it made it seem as if his hand was pulling at one's heart. Cupping the beating organ in his hand and squeezing it just to hear the cries that came with it. Truth after truth, he could see the pain gloss over his victim's eyes. Teary-eyed, lips trembling, the glint of life killed for the fun of it. The feeling that surges through his body when he hurts others is only second best to killing. It didn't stir him the way killing did, but it was more of an appetizer, a sort of tease for his soul. Like foie gras, killing wasn't an acceptable meal, so he had to settle for the appetizer.
There are many appetizers to choose from—different ways to hurt someone. Words or the action of it, his hands ache to curl around someone's neck, the tips of his calloused fingers digging into the skin and muscle until the skin turns blue. His cock twitches at the thought of hearing choked gasps and winded cries, throbs at the idea of tears running down one's pained and terrified face. What once was a reality is now but a sick fantasy. He's back in his hometown, not a warzone. The only thing within arm's reach is the hostess in front of him.
"Pigs in a blanket and makeup on a pig, what's next?"
Stanley doesn't let the poor hostess finish her greeting before he sets her bursting into tears. Not that he cared. What he truly cared about was watching the shock flash across her face. How her smile slowly crumbled from her whorish lips, into a trembling pout.
And her eyes! Oh, those wretched attention-seeking eyes look so much prettier filled with tears.
Big fat tears run down her face, and with a snotty nose, she keeps sniffling, reminding him of a snorting pig. Stanley had a knack for pointing out insecurities. A knack for hurting others. A hunger for tears, and the hostess wasn't enough. He doesn't care that he'll eventually be kicked out of the diner if he continues to feed his sick appetite. He'll go to a bar next, then another, until he's banned from every place in his home.
It's like a game to him. Speedrunning through the waitresses, each eliciting a different reaction, but it doesn't satisfy him. It doesn't leave the taste in his mouth that he craves. Tears are shed. Profanities shouted throughout the rather silent diner. It might not be exactly what he ordered, but it'll do for now.
You'd think that after the second waitress he sent crying, they'd kick him out, but it's amazing what money can do for a sleazy owner. From his seat, he can still hear the sniffles of the waitresses he left in tears behind the swinging door—the only barrier that hides his prying eyes from his feats.
How many waitresses does it take to get his order in?!
For a moment, he thought he was poisoned. Drugged. His heart palpitated. His lungs squeezed, and his sight blurred around him, all except for you. You walk into the diner, unaware of the hungry eyes watching you from afar. You're muttering angrily to yourself, your dirty Converse stomping on the ground, an oversized bag over your shoulder. Your clothes were nothing special. Baggy jeans with an even baggier shirt that swallowed you whole, leaving nothing to anyone's sick imagination.
Your pretty lips pout, for whatever reason Stanley doesn't know. What he does know is you're not like the rest of them, that much is clear. You're young. Older than when he left all those years ago, but nearly half his age now. Your plump, soft, youthful skin… he wonders what it's like under his coarse skin.
Would you tremble like a fawn, look him in the eyes as he wraps his hand around your throat?
Oh, and those angry eyes of yours! Oh, how pretty they would look shimmering in your tears of pain.
He knows nothing about you, but instinctively, he knows everything there is to you. The way you carry yourself is awkward, just like a fawn. Unsure about the world around you, ready to drop to your knees, and onto your stomach when anything startles you.
Is that why you're hiding your body from me, sweetheart? You think that makes it easier to hide from me?
The other waitresses whisk you away before you have a chance to see him. They grab you by the arm, pulling you with an eagerness that makes you trip over your own feet, which he can't help but laugh sadistically at. He sees your ears perk at his laughter. You lift your head ever so slightly, turning around, and just as you're about to meet his eyes, you're pushed behind that damned swinging door.
He hears it. Hushed whispers he knows are all about him—the man of the hour. The eyes of the pig with makeup he insulted flicker toward him through the little window on the swinging door, still weeping, and Stanley laughs mockingly. His lips curl cruelly, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. The commotion in the kitchen dies, piquing his interest. He leans back in his seat, arms stretched along the red leather, and his legs part open like a whore. You walk out, and it looks like you're walking straight towards his booth. You're not doing anything out of the ordinary, but you do have a cute scowl on your face, and the sight of it has his cock throbbing.
"Hey, girlie," he whistles at you. Your steps falter for just a moment, almost as if you're contemplating stopping, and you ultimately don't. He whistles again, and this time you roll your eyes at him.
In that split second, you gave him more than he could dream of. In that moment, the millisecond your eyes rolled back, you painted him a picture of how your eyes would look once he got his hands around that cherubic neck of yours—deprive someone long enough of oxygen, and their eyes will roll back.
"I'm ready to place an order."
You walk closer and closer to him, and just as he thinks you're stopping at his booth, you walk right past him, muttering an unapologetic "off the clock."
Doubt begins to swim in his mind. A perfect fawn would've dropped to its knees before him, eager to please him to secure its safety, but you didn't. You barely acknowledged him, giving him nothing but a bit of unabashed attitude to accompany the growing boner in his camo cargos.
Is this really how it's going to go?
Sitting at a diner, waiting for his order to be taken, when all the waitresses are all but afraid of him. Stewing in his own doing, he had nearly missed you walking by him, but this time, you're different.
The wretched clothing you came in with is gone, replaced by the ugly uniform of your job. In Stanley's eye, it wasn't all so bad. With those baggy, ripped jeans gone, he can see the skin of your legs—soft and velvety, and so easy to bruise.
The skirt isn't as form-fitting as he wished it were. It hides your curves, leaving Stanley's mind free to imagine what your body really is like. Not to mention, the skirt is a little too long for his taste. The thin striped fabric ends just above your knees. It's longer compared to your whorish coworkers, who are one bend away from flashing the place.
The blouse hangs around your form, not as much as your own shirt does, and all the buttons are fastened.
A pity…
His eyes are traveling along your back as you walk away from him once more. The diner fills with a squeak from the hinges of the swinging door as you head back into the kitchen, where the hushed whispers pick up and die again as you walk out.
Finally!
You walk toward him with a skeptical look in your eyes, and his chest swells with pride.
Such a careful gal, aren't you? You really are my fawn!
You walk closer and closer, and how could he not just swallow you up? Like an eagle's eyes, he notices everything about you, every inch of your appearance, whether each choice was intentional or not. Like the cute pout on your lips, which just stirs the little big fellow in his cargos.
Your pretty lips aren't drenched in that ugly, bright red color that seems to be infecting the lips of all the other waitresses—no! Your docile lips shine just lightly under the fluorescent lights of the diner. No sticky gloss on your lips. Just the wet shine of your tongue licking your lips, which shows just a faint red—but the red is all natural! Red like the blood on his hands. He can see faint bite marks on your lips where you tugged the skin with your teeth, pooling the pretty flush of red.
"Hello there, I'll be your waitress this evening." Your voice isn't chipper or lewd like the others he sent crying. It's monotonous. Bored. Cute in a way that he can't wait to break. "What can I get started for you?"
"Why the long face, sweetheart?" he teases, his voice rasping with each word. He leans back, letting his muscles press against his black compression shirt. It's cute watching as your tired eyes try to be discreet while you take him all in.
Fuck, never seen a real man before, sweetheart?
"You'd be cuter if you tried smiling."
"Give me something to smile about, old geezer." You spit at him. Not physically, but in a hypothetical sense that he wasn't expecting it. Words you'd never hear from a fawn! You lured him into a false sense of security. You're no longer pouting at him, but sneering at him, and he doesn't know which is cuter.
"Is that how you talk to a customer?" he growls at you. He sits up straighter in his seat, his left leg dragging.
"Only to perverts like you." His eyes follow you as you glance at his crotch. Most men would be embarrassed to pop a boner, but not Stanley. He has no sense of morals. He's shameless. In the way only someone with a big cock can be. "Shocked you can even get it up still. Did you pop a Viagra before you got here, or what?"
Firecracker
You're a firecracker. With a bit of fire, you're explosive. Sparking everything around you in all of your glory, like the Fourth of July.
My lil' Firecracker
Bright, loud, and colorful. So full of life and spite, you're radiating it. Every sound from your pretty lips is lighting up his heart and mind with red, white, and blue.
He's stunned. Speechless. He fucking hates it. Hates that he loves it.
Oh, my lil firecracker. Your flame will eventually go out, and the pretty color of your sparks will cease.
"Tell me what you want. I've got other tables to get to." You're tapping your feet impatiently at him.
The nerve!
His eyes flicker just briefly at your feet, the ones that sound like fireworks to his soul. The dirty converse shoes you were wearing when you came in were still there. Dirt and grime cover its soles.
"Y'all got liquor here?"
"The bar is down the road."
"Burger and a Coke."
"That all?" your words slur together, as if you don't have the time for this poor veteran who has served for his country.
"Not unless I can order something off the menu," he smirks at you, flaunting his dirty mouth as he holds his cigarette between his teeth. His foot touches yours, and he pretends it's accidental, but you both know it's not. Not when the tip of his combat boots rubs along the exposed skin of your ankle. He caresses it with his bad leg, which makes his touch even more pathetic. He has limited control of his leg, which is obvious in how stiffly it glides along your ankle.
Stanley's touch doesn't last for long, not when his leg spasms and the pain shoots up his lower back. He's been stabbed and shot at, but the pain that he feels in his leg doesn't compare. A deep hiss leaves his lips as the cigarette slips between them. It falls right into his lap, and the lit end is put out by none other than his crotch. His hands clutch the edge of the table desperately as the pain throbs.
His eyes are squeezed shut as pain courses through his body. He can hear your feet walking away, and like the firecracker you are, you don't leave without making a show. "Fucking old man."
Stanley doesn't make your shift any easier. You're his firecracker, but he keeps it fair, as fair as he can make it. Having his own waitress running around reminds him of back in the day, when he was training his own recruits. Barking orders in their faces. Spitting on them whenever he felt like it. Kicking them when they were already down. All of it was acceptable, but he can't do that to you. So he does the next best thing.
"You forgot the ketchup." Stanley tugs at your wrist, stopping you from leaving as quickly as you got there.
There's no escaping me, firecracker.
"You didn't ask for ketchup," you retort to him, pulling your hand free from his mean touch.
"Who the fuck doesn't eat their fries with ketchup?" he pushes his plate back towards you.
You can only trick him once before he's quick to learn. He knows you're not the fawn he thought you were. You're not going to lie down and take his words, nor are you going to give him those pretty tears of yours so easily.
He's feeding fire to your small fuse, ready for the sparks. He can see it on your face. You're ready to pop. His cock twitches in anticipation, but it doesn't come. A look of obedience flashes across your face, not because of him, but because of what's behind him. Your pretty mouth, ready to whistle, purses. You bite your tongue, silently grabbing his plate of food, then muttering an insincere apology and running back to the kitchen. Through the reflection in the napkin holder, he can see the owner of the place standing not too far behind him, and it all makes sense.
You come back running out not a second later, and of course, you're a brat.
"You think you're smart, don't you, sweetheart?" he's amused by your little act of defiance. You handed him his plate again, this time with a ridiculous amount of ketchup on the side—more than the soggy fries on his plate.
"Anything else, sir?" You ignore his comment, pretending to be the perfect waitress.
You're ready on your feet, swaying on the tips of your shoes, heel to toe, waiting for Stanley to dismiss you, but he doesn't. He taps the glass cup on his side with his finger, silently and arrogantly. You snatch the cup from his side and ask once more, "Anything else?"
"There's a lot more I want, but unfortunately, it's not on the menu." His eyes flick from your peeved face down to the exposed skin at your collar. His tongue wets his lower lip as he rests his gaze between your thighs. With your manager right behind him, you force a tight-lipped smile before storming off. Seeing your cute expressions stirs Stanley up, and it only urges him to fire you up even more.
With his picky requests and finicky palate, you're the only waitress in the diner who's running back and forth like a chicken with its head cut off.
"I said light ice."
…
"No onions."
…
"Meat ain't cooked right."
…
"It's got your hair on it, doll."
His cock grows harder and harder, straining against his pants, as your frustration becomes visible on your face and body. Your cheeks flush with an irritable red, your mouth pouts and trembles, and your tired, sore legs drag with every step across the dirty tile floor. You're on the brink of tears—perfect!
"Too bland." Plate in hand, you walk back to the kitchen defeated.
Oh my cute firecracker, about to pop, aren't we?"
The hinges on the swinging door squeak loudly, and Stanley sits up on his seat, ready for his meal.
What excuse should I go with this time?
You place the plate directly in front of him, but you're not alone. A man older than Stanley stands beside you. If Santa were a cook, this man would be him. He's wearing an apron, dirty with grease and other stains he doesn't want to know about. He's got wrinkles all over his kind face that's temporarily replaced by a stern look.
"Heard you got a problem with my food?"
Fawn or firecracker? What exactly are you, my sweet girl?
Stanley's lips twitch in silent anger, body seething as you hide behind the cook. Tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, lips tugging to the side, Stanley gives in.
You won this round.
"Looks perfect," he says through gritted teeth.
"Glad to hear," the cook says with mock kindness. Stanley watches in silent rage as the cook pats that charming head of yours, and it's as if you betrayed him. Blushing at the affectionate touch, you bless the cook with your precious, genuine smile. "Enjoy."
Did you not like the game we were playing?
It doesn't matter how long Stanley stays at the diner; the cook never leaves. It's ten minutes till close, and all the other waitresses and cooks have left. With a keen sense only years in the army can give, Stanley knows that every time you step out of the kitchen and back to his booth, the old cook watches carefully through the little window. He can feel the old man's gaze on you, shielding you from Stanley. There's so much he wishes he could do, but limited by the witness that refuses to go away.
It's a minute till close, and Stanley happily listens to the impatient tapping of your foot as he bites into the soggy fry. You're leaning against the barstool facing his booth, arms crossed over your chest, and you're staring daggers right at him.
"You do know we close in a minute, right?"
"You're trying to rush me?"
"I have places to be."
"Oh? Like where?" Stanley muses. A smirk tugs at his lips as he pushes the nearly empty plate in front of him. You instantly pounce on the chance. You lean over his table, reaching for the plate he deliberately places out of reach.
"That's none of your business," you grit.
It's adorable seeing you struggle. You're on the tip of your toes, reaching for it. Your chest presses against the table, and your cute ass sways. The material rides up just enough that Stanley could easily take a peek, maybe even a cop a feel. His greedy, perverse hand inches slowly away from his lap towards your thigh. His hand is steady, fingers in the midst of your skin, and then he hears it.
"Hey!" It's not your voice, but the cook in the back. It's deep and filled with a fake warmth. "If you see the poor girl struggling, give her a hand."
How could you do this to me, firecracker?
Begrudgingly, Stanley pushes the plate closer to you, and you're quick to snatch it from him. Carelessly, you throw the check at him as you rush to take his plate to the back.
Defeated, Stanley places the cash on the table. He waits a moment, hoping you'll come out the back, but after five minutes, you never do. It breaks his heart. He thought he'd see that pouty face of yours once more. Send him off into the night with something to ease the ache in his balls.
The gravel of the parking lot crunches loudly under his boots. He doesn't walk far from the diner, not when his foot is starting to act up again. He can feel the random spasms of pain spreading through his leg, and in an instant, he's on his knees in agony, clutching the gravel between his fingers, nails raking up the dirt beneath.
"Hey!" your voice calls out behind him. Amid his pain and the joy of hearing your voice, he doesn't note your tone. He turns his head eagerly towards you, only to be met with loose change.
"No tip?!" You're shaking in anger, and Stanley's in a dilemma. Pain surges through his body, and he can't get up to put out the sparks flying out of you.
Red.
Your anger is clear in the way you're yelling at him. Your voice is deafening in the silent night. Your arms fly into the sky as you continue to spark. He's heaving on the ground, forced to stay silent by his own body. Blood pooling at his lips where the coins had hit him.
White
The throbbing in his dick is gone. The tension he had been saving pulses out of the angry tip. He can feel his cum trapped between his briefs and pants.
Blue
The neon sign that had irritated him earlier turns off behind you.
"Keep the change, old man. You clearly need it more than I do."
Firecracker.
Firecracker.
Firecracker.
Oh, my lil' firecracker, wait till I get my hands on you…
A/n: Soooooo, how are we feeling? A bit of a slow burn, am I right?!
Sadly, no smut this chapter! This chapter was more of a buildup for the main course...I guess you could say it's a bit of an entrée! We'll get to see more of the tension between the two in the next chapter! Also some smut scenes!
As always, let me know your thoughts! I love it when yall engage with poor ol' me!
Tags: @lavend3r-anon, @riarian (I believe you wanted to be tagged? If I misunderstood, lmk!)
kinktober day 2!
cws: face riding/sitting, hair pulling, interrupted sex, sorry guys I couldn't help myself... and neither could Xeno apparently. let me know if I missed anything!
1.1k words | ao3 link | kinktober masterlist
Stanley thought he was in heaven.
I mean, what other way could he describe the feeling of your pussy suffocating him?
You’d been so mad at him earlier—something about messin’ with those damn brats. Truthfully, he didn’t care. In fact, he’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant you would continue grinding on his face so nicely.
The way you moved above him, every shift of your hips, each soft, breathy gasp, filled him with an immense sense of pride.
It was hard to concentrate on anything other than the way his tongue moved against you, slow and deliberate, then greedy and insistent, tracing and teasing. The way he would lick and suck at your clit as if it were his last meal.
He was starved—desperate for every inch of you you’d give him. And he was going to drink you in full.
Your hands threaded through his hair before you even realized it, tugging instinctively, nails raking slightly through the strands. The sound he let out—a low, guttural groan—shook through his chest and reverberated straight through you, making your knees tremble and hips ache for more.
Stanley’s hands gripped at your thighs, gently guiding and rocking you back and forth to match the pace he’d set. Sinful, needy moans echoed around Stanley’s head as he lapped at your clit, hungry yet precise, relentless in his attention. Your thighs clenched tightly around his head as you gasped, fingers digging harshly into his hair as you rode his mouth, utterly powerless to the way he had you consumed.
It was easy to lose yourself in the sensation—the ragged gasps, the heat pressing deep into your chest, the intoxicating taste and scent of yourself coating his lips and tongue. Even his own hips moved subtly, pressing upward in time with his mouth, as if every push, every flick, would grant him some fleeting relief from the need he couldn't hide.
“F-fuck... Stan—!” you whimpered, hips stuttering, chest heaving as your breaths came in short, uneven pants.
You didn't expect him to respond—not with his face buried so completely-but he did, and the sound of his low, muffled voice made your knees tremble. His words were thick, wet, vibrating against your most sensitive part, eyes rolling back, mouth parting in a silent moan as he pulled you closer.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He groaned, voice muffled but unmistakable.
“F-feels good—just like that… please Stan,” you cried out, mind scattered.
Stanley had always been good at following orders. It wasn't just a habit—it was part of the job. But it was impossible not to be grateful that the skill didn't vanish the second he stepped into the bedroom. He knew exactly how to read a target, how to find the right angle, the right pressure, the right rhythm at the exact right moment. And right now, every ounce of that precision, every trained reflex and instinct, was focused entirely on you—on how to work you open, on how to pull every broken moan, every shiver, every flicker of surrender from your body.
You were teetering on the edge, nerves aflame, body trembling as you whimpered, “Stanley... please... let me—mmph!” Hips stuttering, chest heaving, mind melting into the sensations.
Ah, seems like you’d forgotten you were the one who was supposed to be calling the shots, not that he’s complaining, he’d gladly take over for you.
Though suddenly, his phone rang. Sharp, insistent, cutting through the haze of pleasure. Your pulse jumped.
“Ignore it,” Stanley murmured, voice low, gruff, keeping his face buried between your thighs, “Focus on me.”
But the phone kept ringing, the caller ID flashing insistently.
“Ngh—b-but its—X-Xeno!” you stammered,
“Tell him to fuck off,” he grumbled, completely unbothered, fingers pressing you harder against him.
“What if it’s important?” you all but whined, voice trembling.
Stanley hummed against you, a low, amused vibration. “Fine,” he growled, “answer it. But I’m not stopping.” His words pressed into you like a challenge, and your knees shook.
Hands shaking, you snatched the phone and put it on speaker. “H-hello,” you whispered, voice barely holding together, every syllable trembling around the moans threatening to escape.
Xeno's voice came through immediately, calm and unflinching. “Why do you sound like that?” Then, not a second later, “Where's Stanley?”
Stanley hummed low and darkly against your body, lips pressing wetly into your core. “Tell him I'm busy,” he murmured, indifferent to your desperate attempt at composure. Every movement of his tongue, every press of his hands, left you shaking, breathless, completely at his mercy.
Just as you were about to answer for him, Stanley gave a particularly mean suck, and you couldn't hide the whine that slipped out.
At that point, you didn't even care if Xeno heard.
“H-he's... a little—preoccupied!” you admitted, voice faltering.
Xeno, calm and precise as always, began to speak, ready to relay the information both you and Stanley needed. But barely five words in, Stanley groaned, frustration and desire twisting together.
With a swift, practiced motion, he lifted you and slid you down so you were straddling his chest instead of his face, pressing you firmly against him. He ripped the phone from your grasp, growling, “Fuck Xe… you really don’t know when to quit, huh?”
“I don’t care about what you and your wife have going on,” Xeno said evenly through the speaker. “This is important. Though knowing the both of you, that probably means nothing. Keep going for all I care.” It was clinical, precise—and entirely unbothered by what was happening on the other end.
Stanley chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating through your body from his chest all the same. “You’re only saying that ’cause y’know you want her too,”
Your cheeks flushed as you jabbed him lightly in the chest. “Stan…”
“What? He knows it’s the truth,” Stanley replied with a grin, eyes glinting mischievously.
Xeno didn’t respond immediately. You could hear him clear his throat through the receiver. “That’s beside the point.”
“Anyway, I need you both to—” Xeno began, but he didn't get much further.
Stanley groaned, clearly done with whatever little game the call had been, and muttered, "Yeah, yeah, yeah... got it. Call ya back later," slamming the phone down without another word.
Before you could even catch your breath, his hands were on your thighs, yanking you back up over his face. “Sit back down,” he commanded, tongue flicking to lick a slow, deliberate stripe against your clit.
“I haven’t had my fill yet.”
an: omg wdym I can write for characters other than Senku???? ok jokes aside, I had a lot of fun working on this and I hope it turned out well! my first drst post was a stanley drabble so this brings me back.... @lo1itado11 oh the memories 🥹
post!reveal forger family and it's just loid just forgetting anya is adopted and vice versa. leaned too much into the backstory and totally forgets she's not his biological kid. (still his kid though)
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loid: anya, not too much sweets. we have a history of diabetes in our family.
anya: okay papa *puts down the cookies*
yor: ?????????
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becky: wow anya! you really got burned after our day at the park
anya: i know it's stupid. papa burns really easily too and i forgot to use the sunscreen he gave me.
damian, after his confession to anya and acceptance in the forger family: wait a minute-
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loid, after anya gets a letter from eden academy: i certainly didn't expect this kind of trouble in my life when your mother and i brought you home from the hospital!!!
anya, in her full teenage angst mode: well maybe you shoulda left me there!!!!!!
loid: maybe we should have!
franky, getting uncomfortable: didn't you get her from an orphanage-
character who you meet for the first time in a game at 3am and one suddenly ragebaits the other making the two of you bicker and provoke eachother so you leave the game without ever exchanging contacts with him and now he's always online on the same game— same hour, that the both of you met last time and lowkey hoping fate would bring you both back to eachother but ofc he's not gonna admit that because he definitely thinks youre annoying. (he fell inlove)
—karma, bakugo, shigaraki, tsukishima, kuroo, kenma, atsumu, your f/o :)
• karma, quite frankly, didn’t care about you. he didn’t care about anyone, at first.
it was clear to you from the start that his focus wasn’t grades or his future, it was to kill your teacher, koro-sensei.
like everyone else, he could’ve been doing it for the money, but you noted that he was a tad too passionate about the violence. so willing to cause harm to him, to grip at every nerve and weakness he could wring out.
you realized this was deeper than just money. it was an act of revenge, in his way. him jumping off a cliff proved his ambition to you.
• you kept to yourself. not as an act of hiding, but you didn’t see how someone like him could fit into your bubble.
you liked it private, quiet and the air filled with a strange nostalgia. karma was everything but. a whirlwind of foul play, if you will. he was skilled, you could admit, but what you wanted to know was not why, but from where he learned such.
• he’s the type of guy to approach with a goal in mind. one who always knew what he wanted and how to get it. a couple days after he joined, he made his way over to your desk, a handsome grin on his face. “hey, nagisa told me you also write notes about koro-sensei. mind me having a look?”
your eyes glanced him up and down. polished shoes, blazer smooth, not a wrinkle to be found. fine skin, mercury eyes. if only, you thought, he didn’t have such a personality.
blankly, you stated, “shiota and i have the exact same notes. check in with him.” then, you were gone.
he raised a brow, hands in his pocket. shiota, huh? not nagisa. shiota.
HOW IT CONTINUED: i'll be comin' for you anyway
• despite you keeping an obvious and clear distance from him, he was like a leech at your side.
he kept nagging you about your notes until you finally handed them to him out of frustration. since then on, you became his prime target for annoyance.
you had hoped he’d leave you alone after you showed him your notes, a new perspective from nagisa’s. more resourceful, he had to admit. he couldn’t let you leave him, not if you were such a good source of information.
• he’d try to fulfill little things and tasks for you, in order to get more from you. an eye for an eye. that didn’t work on you. you gave him what you had in that moment, no more.
“come on,” he slouched confidently, upper body tilted down slightly while standing at the side of your desk. “i’m sure you’ve gotten some new updates on that weakness and skills roster of yours, no?”
“and why should i tell you anything, akabane?” you asked, direct and unforgiving. “there is no benefit for me. we both know you’d go on and act out the assassination attempt yourself.”
you stood up, bag over your shoulder, prepared to leave before his words stopped you. “so that’s what you want. inclusion.” you hesitated, stopping in your tracks near the door.
• his interest wasn’t koro-sensei anymore, not fully. he had wrung out something from you instead. you were much more fascinating.
he began to piece it together. you sat in the front, but kept to yourself. you would eat alone, not rejecting any offers of sharing with anyone, but not receiving any either.
if he had to guess, you haven’t been in e-class much long either, and you were still adjusting. “if you wanted to be with someone, you could’ve just asked.”
your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, head turning to him. “from now on, you’ll be spending your breaks with me. and i’ll be your first friend.”
that’s worse.
HOW THE STORY UNFOLDS: slowly learnin’ that life is okay
• he stayed true to his one-sided promise. he stayed close to you, spending his breaks at your side, walking you home, sharing his milk with you.
you would never admit it, but he was starting to feel less like a leech and more like an actual companion, a shoulder to lean on.
and the class noticed. how karma’s eyes always seemed to land on you, not a day passing where they could remember you being apart.
during the kyoto class trip, after the kidnapping, he went to you first, unhesitant with his touch to untie you from the shackles of fear.
• others wouldn’t notice, but he always did. you hated him for it.
how he was the first to notice how affected you actually were with the entire situation. your hand would twitch in anxiety when a classmate spoke to you, how uneasy you were still around koro-sensei, but still, you swallowed your fear and put on a brave face. something karma did effortlessly.
he didn’t say it, he didn’t ask about it, but he stayed. for you to have something familiar to hang onto, he spent to rest of the night at your side, having bought you a vanilla milk and a strawberry milk for himself.
• but karma was still karma. he’d get on your nerves, show physical affection, all to rile you up and see you snap just a bit.
brushing your hair behind your ear, a kiss on your cheek, lacing his fingers with yours, you name it. usually, he would never see himself like this, but he liked doing it with you.
• he likes trying everything new with you. sometimes, he leans towards familiarity, to work with what he knows, but if you’re willing to get out of your shell, he wasn’t far behind.
and he wouldn’t enjoy it any other way. his actions kept away other guys, kept you close to him, while also giving you freedom to get closer with the rest of your peers.
• he didn’t notice it at first, but his possessiveness over you is what made him realize he likes you a little more than he should.
the topic of love interests was brought up while he was walking you home, and he couldn’t imagine holding anyone else’s hand. and he couldn’t handle the thought of another guy being close to you.
he was the one that helped you out of your shell, the one that became your first friend, the one that knew you best. and in your eyes, no one could replace him.
• much to his dissatisfaction, you confessed first. he originally wanted to do it first, just to see you turn red in the face, but this also sufficed.
light red dusted your face from the cold, umbrella in hand as you stood at his front door, drenched slightly. you huffed for a couple moments. “i know this is random, and i didn’t even give this much thought, but if i don’t tell you now, i’ll never get this type of adrenaline rush of recklessness again.”
you inhaled deeply, hands gripping the umbrella before you spouted out your words. “i like you. maybe even love you, but how would i know. i’ve never been in love, i don’t think. but what i feel for you, i just—”
he shushed you gently, hands finding your face as he pulled you towards him. “take a breath,” he sighed, not in exhaustion, but something akin to relief. “i think you’re really trying to make me look bad here. the guy usually confesses, you know.”
and you laughed. weight off your shoulders, relaxing despite the cold building in your body, sniffing. “let’s get you inside, yeah?”
HOW IT ENDS: i'll be gone in a day or two
you weren’t surprised when not much changed. you still acted how you usually did. which told you that maybe even before you got together, you acted like lovers.
• but karma was dedicated. not just as your boyfriend, but as your tutor.
he helped you study after school, a hand rubbing your back as he explained, bringing comfort with him. and no matter the results or how you were feeling, he had flowers for you every week.
always different ones, different hues, different scents.
• it took the class a while, but when they found out, they weren’t surprised either. koro-sensei had even predicted the date of your confession. he was off by one day.
and when he died, you were each others source of comfort, becoming accustomed to sharing a bed and waking up next to each other. you healed and strived in the presence of one another.
he taught you both many lessons to all possible situations, and you brought those with you into your adulthood.
• you didn’t change much overtime. he still teased, and you kept him on his toes.
monthly dates were arranged, always making time for one another, forgiving one another only minutes after a fight. you couldn’t exist without one another. that was both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness.
