the watchtower’s lighthouse | stan vogel
pairing: stan vogel x reader
warnings: smut, swearing
summary: months after a disasterous first date with stan vogel, your paths cross once more when you’re lost within the depths of kern canyon national park during a thunderstorm and stan happens to have inherited a shift patrolling from the watchtower.
a/n: back from the dead because of this man. hope y’all enjoy :)
THE SKY EMULATED STAN VOGEL'S morals, consisting of gray unpredictability. If he was within the familiar walls of his assigned cabin, located along the grounds of Kern Canyon National Park, it would be an indication he wouldn't have to do much patrolling. Campers usually stayed put if there was rainfall, sticking to their own site and not off doing God knows what to the land Stan takes pride in preserving. Cascading a thick husk of superiority and knowledge was his favorite thing about the job, which is why he was disappointed he was stuck maintaining the watchtower for tonight.
The surveillance for the watchtower was run by a tight knit schedule of volunteers and the occasional firefighter that needed a change of scenery for a couple days. Needless to say with all the strange occurrences and sightings, there have been less and less people willing to take on the task. And now the duty was bestowed upon the park ranger— at least for tonight. He swore to himself that at sunrise he would be out of there and back to being the persistent, vexing gum stuck to the bottom of everyone's shoe.
Stan now sat in a wobbly chair, feet propped up on the desk and his trusty binoculars in hand. His surroundings were darkening, quicker than they would at his cabin because of the parade of trees towering over the area. He could mostly only see shadows and the outlines of the forest. His paranoia kept him on the lookout, knowing all too well what kind of perilous entities the park harbored, dark secrets he was trusted in keeping.
It was why his body jolted and he nearly fell out of his seat at a sign of movement. His hands itched to drop the binoculars and reunite with the shotgun propped up in the corner. His burst of anxiety was halted, however, once the lenses revealed a person. A wandering, soaked person clearly becoming victim to the thunderstorm that had been periodically easing and worsening for the past two hours.
Stan stood, walking over to the window with his binoculars hanging from the strap around his neck. He easily pried it open and stuck out his head. The drizzle of rain didn't reach him because of the roof stretching out along the perimeter of the watchtower, but he still felt the dip in the temperature. He estimated that it had dropped at least fifteen degrees since the start of the storm, the disappearance of the sun only escalating the drafty change.
He was about to shout down at what is most certainly a woman who had strayed too far from her campsite but then she twisted around, finally noticing the light emitting from up above. Recognization crumbles both of their attentive expressions. She becomes more than a drenched, carmine tank top, huddled body, and ropes of wet hair. He transforms into the exact opposite of a saving grace when his beige uniform and ironically angelic face are perceived.
"Well, well, well. Look who it is. Stalking your ex, eh?" Stan called down to her. The pattern of swift and drawned out words, swirled into a provoking and often mocking Australian accent, reached her ears over the light patter of rainfall.
She sighed, dramatically enough for Stan to see the rise and fall of her diaphragm. She considered turning around and braving the unknown of the wilderness again. If it wasn't for her sore feet and her prediction that she would develop some sort of hyperthermia if she stayed out in the cold, then she would've already been on her way.
"We went out on one date. You don't count as an ex," she clarified, craning her neck up at him. His smirk from knowing she was in a miserable condition and that he was the only one that could do anything about it ignited the first sense of heat she had felt in awhile. Her fists clenched against her crossed arms. "And you're the one with the pervy binoculars. On the prowel for half-naked campers, are you?"
He scoffed, winding his head to the side for a moment. "Enough with the bullshit. Are you coming up or not?"
In any other situation, he probably would've dragged their reunion out, teased her for being so helpless and naive. But she was shivering and looked so small curling into herself; it was a sight that played his heartstrings like a mystical harp. Even after a date gone wrong and the resentment that followed, he couldn't bare to see her like this.
She, on the other hand, still clung to some hesitation. Cozying up in a small, confined space with Stan where there were no other people around to ground her into the realms of sanity wasn't a compelling option. The both of them simply didn't get along. The nightmare of their date was very vivid in her mind, too, and she didn't want tonight to be a repeat of that.
Almost like nature could sense her doubts, thunder crackled and reverberated around the forest. Lightning flashed, incandescent and forbiding. The rain intensified, hitting her bare skin with a harsh force. Muddy shoes stumble forward a few steps but still don't gravitate towards the ladder.
"Better move your ass, sweetheart! Unless you'd prefer to get struck by lightning? Not to mention all the dangerous things lurking around that you haven't the slightest idea about."
Undeniable complacency was weaved into his taunt. However, it did get her moving. If she would've bothered to look up or if there wasn't such vast distance between them from their differing heights, she might've seen the concern nestled into glimmering, cobalt eyes.
Suffering through a climb where her wobbly legs and white knuckles were put the use, she eventually made it to top. Stan already had the latch swung open, bent down in the center of the room and waiting for her with an outstretched arm. Reluctantly, she took his offered hand and allowed him to pull her inside the watchtower.
"Crickey, you're freezing," he murmured. There was a softness to his features and the low timber of his voice. He'd even began rubbing over her fingers with his own, attempting to summon some warmth back into him, before he realized what he was doing and backed away.
"That's what happens when you get lost and separated from your friends and then get caught up in a storm," she summed up, monotonous.
"Your friends are idiots," Stan muttered.
She was about to deter the insults back his way until she suddenly felt a subtle weight on her shoulders. The scent combination of spearmint gum and lingering campfire smoke was sensed with a mere sniffle, and soon her hands were reaching up to pull on the sage green trim of his coat.
"You don't even know them," she settled for saying.
"They let you get lost, didn't they?" Stan's eyes found her wide ones, squinting slightly in familiar anger, but she could tell—this time at least—it wasn't directed towards her. "Yeah, bunch of mates, they are."
It was her turn to break the intimacy blossoming between them. She disconnects their stare that was inevitably going to convey all the unspoken feelings that still flourished inside of her to spare a glance over his shoulder. The furnace filled with a burning stack of dry wood lures her away from Stan, and she kneels down in front of it.
His hands go to his belt, elbows bent outward like he was posing as a chicken. He was unsettled by how consumed he was by his emotions. He wanted to give her space but then he finds himself reaching for her. He wanted to remain civil but the distaste in her tone and her infuriating, unreasonable glare casted towards him causes him to delve into his own hostile urges. The confusion of what to do and how to deal with her presence was boardering on insufferable.
But facing her, watching her beneath the firelight, the strain of his internal compass ebbed. He was no longer directionless or purposeless. The orange glare enducing a riveting shine to her hair and her tranquil countenance she upheld gazing into the flames had him feeling certain in just about every single thing that made the universe, the universe.
"You're staring," she whispers, a tremble in her reply she blames on recovering from the weather.
"And you won't even look over at me for a second." His observation coaxes her into peering at him, finding that he enclosed the distance between them by a few steps. A playful smile twitches across his lips. "What? Don't like a man in uniform?"
"I wouldn't be bragging about your outfit, Stan. You're a glorified Boy Scout," she remarks, rising from her position on her knees. Her thumb and pointer finger pinch the small, golden slate pinned to his shirt. "Even have badges and everything,"
"Get your grubby little hands away from my name tag. You're gonna smudge it," he grumbles, smacking her hand away; she lets out a humorless, short-lived laugh at his overreaction.
"Still an uptight asshole, I see."
"Still a mouthy brat, then?"
His retort makes her face harden. "Being honest doesn't make me a mouthy brat."
"Just inconsiderate?"
"You're preaching to me about being inconsiderate? You live off of ridiculing people. On our date, you insulted and humiliated our waiter because he didn't know the exact species of deer mounted to the wall."
"I was just taking a moment to educate him!"
"You called him a fumbling idiot who didn't know the basic fundamentals of biology!"
"Oh, like you were any better! Shoving your tits into the bartender's face to get free drinks!" He throws his hands up, easily overtaken by frustration and unresolved jealously.
"I know how much you make, Stan. You should be thanking me for that," she says slowly, deliberately, bringing up the one thing she knows will push him over the edge. He takes the bait, but she doesn't expect what he throws back at her.
"You're right. Thank you, sweetheart, for acting like such a slut on our first date that all anyone had to do for dessert was crouch down between your open legs."
Her mouth dropped at his statement. His exasperation dissolves to shock at processing his own harsh comment. He isn't able to focus on it for long, though, because she properly acts by allowing her palm to connect to his cheek.
Head snapped to the side, he can begin to taste a droplet of blood on his tongue, emitting from where his incisor pinched his bottom lip. He licks over the minor wound thoughtfully, heaving out a breath of false amusement. When he looks at her again, his face is dark and full of cruel intentions of revenge.
Stan surges forward and doesn't stop until her body crashes against the wall like she was just a bag of dismantled bones. His coat falls from her shoulders and slumps against the hardwood floor during the journey. His towering height and weight pin her in place, leaving her at the mercy of splayed hands and the relentless motions of his mouth against hers.
The awakening, leftover flavor of gum he must've chewed eariler just sinks in when he bites down hard on her lip. A whimper, the first sound she makes besides the ejection of a surprised gasp, is forced out her from the harsh gesture. A metallic taste replaces the one prior, one eager swipe of his tongue rolling past her parted lips.
The instinct to shoot her hands up and enmesh them in the soft, chestnut strands of his cropped hair is interrupted by an action of his own. He eases the intensity of the kiss, allowing her to breathe through languid, desperate puckers she reciprocates, but his fingers hook around both her bra and tank top straps, yanking them down her arms. She lifts herself out of them only to have him grasp the collar of her shirt and pull it down, her bra in tow, until they were just bundled material around her midriff.
Calloused hands fondled her breasts while his mouth diverts to her neck, sucking and nipping until her skin resembled the colorful patches of a quilt. She throws her head back against the wall, leaning into his touch and letting out the most delicate moans that had all of his blood gushing to the apex of his legs; she felt proof of it when he rutted himself against her.
Her forearms are squeezed between their bodies so she can reach the buttons of his shirt, manicured fingers working hastily and with not as much care she knew Stan would've liked, but he seemed to be too preoccupied by kissing her all over. Soon her hands were tugging up the white t-shirt he always wore underneath his uniform, and he helped her out by shifting it over his head and discarding it to the growing pile of clothes.
His chest was warm and inviting compared to hers. Her skin felt like cool marble underneath his fingertips, keeping her nipples pebbled and sweat from the heated exchange at bay. It was quite a contrast as their bodies continued to press together, her hands sliding along the expanse of his taut back while he concentrated on undoing her shorts.
"All mine," he mumbled against her jaw; it was certainly hard to disagree with him and all his handsy clutches and kisses that left her craving more.
"All yours," she confirmed softly.
The words barely left her mouth before she felt the heart-jolting sensation that was his hand sliding past her unzipped shorts and underwear. His fingers ran up and down down her folds, taking his time, ever the explorer. He often grazed her clit, encouraging her hips to arch into him for more direct contact, but he was careful to only give her a slight, fleeting amount.
"Stan." His name parted from her in a low whine—somewhat shamefully because she never thought she'd be in this circumstance, begging a hardass park ranger with a major superiority complex for a release.
"So wet for me. Awful naughty of you to get this soaked from one arguement with me, don't you think?"
She nuzzled her face into the side of his, nose brushing along his chiseled cheekbone. "Please."
"Aw, look at you. So sweet. You'd never think that you live to slander me."
"I have no idea what you're talking about. I am nothing but nice to you."
"Oh?" He inserts his middle finger into her, curling it precisely, while the heel of his hand grinds against her clit with every deliberate pump.
"Yes," she gasps.
Shallow pants gradually rack through her torso, and the ache of his throbbing cock becomes unbearable at the sight of her defenseless against his advances. He adds another finger, the grip and warmth of her slick walls causing him to shudder in anticipation.
"Such a little liar," he groans out after a particularly provocative contraction around his digits, one that rids him of whatever patience he had left.
He abruptly removes his hand from her shorts, something that makes her closed eyes flicker open. Her mouth immediately morphs into a pout and she squeezes his biceps in protest.
She isn't left waiting for long, hands on her hips guiding her away from the wall until the underside of her knees hit the edge of a cot. His mouth parts from hers once more, a sweet dragging of overlapped lips exchanged during the slow steps, so he can pull back the blanket. She looks over her shoulder at the neatly presented cot, which Stan must've brought with him along with his own fitted bedspread. She was now appreciative that he always came prepared.
Without having to be told, she crawled underneath the covers after ridding herself of the remainder of her clothing. Stan did the same once she was settled, becoming the final layer that draped over her body. The blanket and the crisp white of a top sheet stopped at the dimples of his back, and she was trapped in warmth, intensified by the glorious weight of his bare body on hers. Arms on either side of her head latch the cage as he leans down for another kiss.
"Don't mistake me keeping you warm as forgiveness. I'm still very mad at you. You drive me crazy," he sighs against her jaw, his eyelashes fluttering against the apple of her cheek.
"Don't mistake me moaning for you as an apology. You don't deserve one." Her strokes at the nape of his neck never faltered. Her thighs spread, legs winding around his, desperate for him to do something with his cock that laid twitching and swollen on her navel. "Well, you might if you fuck me hard enough."
"Shut up already."
Long fingers brick over her parted mouth in time with the repositioning of his hips, muffling the cries of consumption that came from him sinking inside of her. Eyes roll to the back of her head, almost completely sated by just the feeling of being filled. The head of his shaft glided against her most sensitive spot like a brush of shoulders, and her thighs tightening around his waist was her turning around, ready to chase shattering gratification.
Although slow, his thrusts into her were brutal. They held onto to each other like you would to ropes of a ruinous bridge connecting two cliffs, like they would be faced with a plummeting death if they were to let go. And yet, they were fighting along the wobbly planks, the semicircles of hip bones clashing together like medieval swords. It was all extremes, but neither of them would have it any other way.
He was making the most beautiful sounds above her. Through his ruthless motions, were breathy moans and whines of her name, the occasional praise intertwined into his enticing responses. Eventually, he allowed his hand to stop sealing her lips, sliding it down to clutch the flesh of her thigh with the promise of bruises. Her soft pleas and moans of euphoria joined his to create a symphony worthy of a ballet orchestra.
Strings of saliva conntected rouge lips to the marked skin of his neck, where she continued to suckle and playfully nip. The roll of their bodies picked up speed, both becoming impatient by the delicious ache they kept provoking, daring one another to spasm out of control. They craved for their muscles to become a tightrope and for the most intimate parts of them to pulsate from the finality of release.
"You've never looked prettier than you do right now. Your cunt squeezing me so tight, your mouth only able to form breathless whispers... completely wrecked. I love it."
"Please," she cannot help but beg, flickering eyes undecided on whether to shut her continue their hazy, half-lidded stare into his own.
"You want to come?" The inward pull of his eyebrows and the slight curl of his parted mouth way as well have been a mocking pout. "I know you do. I shouldn't even let you, though. You've been intolerable. I should just come all over your writhing body and leave you here without any satisfaction. Even if you were to finish yourself off, it wouldn't be enough. It would only feel subpar, and you know that, don't you?" His breath fans her face like the furnace had moments ago, and she can only whimper in reply. "Only I can sate you, sweetheart."
Her hands, whose nails had already inflicted damage to the freckled canvas of his back, sweep over his shoulders to cup his jaw. Her thumb strokes his jawline while the other ventures down the column of his throat, feeling the bob of his adam's apple with every constristing swallow he took. She could tell he was close, too, and decided to nod her head gently in agreement to his words, to wave her white flag.
Her surrender is reassured by fingertips dragging down her torso to her enlarged clit, granting bone-vanishing swipes that causes stuttered gasps and limbs going slack. It only takes a few seconds of coaxing rubbing for her release to erupt, the molten lava bursting from the pit of her stomach to electrify just about every nerve in her body. Her encompassing walls clutch around him so tightly that it summons a delirious climax from him.
His strenuous pace wavers, his hold on the cot becoming prudent, as if it was a buoy keeping him afloat through the thrashing waves of pleasure. White, sticky ribbons coat the inside of her thighs, and it's only when his heartbeat ebbs from his eardrums that he cracks his eyes open and collaspes into the small remaining space between her and the wall.
Stan speaks after catching his breath, remaining pants interwoven into his declaration. "This should've happened sooner."
"It would've if you weren't such a prick," she noted, sparing him a quick glance.
"Okay, maybe... I wasn't on my best behavior. But I was nervous. I liked you a lot. I wanted to impress you."
"And you thought bragging about how you're a know-it-all when it comes to plants and wildlife and the park's terrain was going to the trick?"She questioned, snorting at his logic. His nose twitch, an indicator of embarrassment, and she grabs his arm and tucks herself into his side. "You're such a dork."
He smiled at the gesture before she continued, "I'm sorry that I flirted with the bartender. I didn't mean to make you feel like you were second best or anything. Honest to God, I just wanted free stuff."
"Well, the cream puffs you got out of it were actually delicious," Stan admitted, tilting his head in her direction.
She smiled back at him. "I know, right?"
Stan may not be a prime example of a good guy but he had always took glory in being good at his job. That's what kept him going, that's what fueled him all these years. Now, he was considering what life entailed outside of that. Outside of the stressful responsibilities and government conspiracies and the never-ending studious tendencies. She came to him for refuge tonight, but, the truth is, he had been relying on her for a long time. To fascinate him, to stand up to him, to guide him back to where he belonged.
He felt like he was finally pursuing something that was more important than his duties here, than anything else he's ever experienced. He was an off-bound ship, cruising blind into the dead of the night, and she was a lighthouse, promising purpose and salvation from every bad thing that ever tried to sink him.
// idk who to tag but i think @sojournmichael @fckinsupreme & @instinctsxbaby might be interested (you’re all so talented)!
