Work Text:
“Fffffuck, Fidds, you’re--you’re so warm,” Stanley slurs, a weak whine bubbling in his throat. He thrusts forward absentmindedly, his tummy rubbing against Fiddleford’s t-cock. He leans down, their bodies bent at an awkward angle, Fidd’s legs sprawled across Stanley’s body and his large hands circling Fidd’s jaunty hips. He mutters an incomprehensible slew of praises, pleas and whimpers. Fiddleford just huffs a little, toes curling against Stanley’s heated flesh. He must’ve come fresh from the bar; he reeks of cheap whiskey, sweat and sex. His breath fans right against Fidd’s knee, resting his ruddy cheek against Fiddleford’s lithe leg, feeling so dizzy and dazed.
Stanley groans again, rutting his hips weakly. He’s uncoordinated and sloppy, clearly drunkenness and desperation slowing his movements and adding a sluggishness to his thrusts. He’s humping Fidds more than he is fucking him. Stanley’s stomach keeps rubbing against his cock, providing much needed stimulation that the lazy thrust of hips denies him.
The shoddy wooden bed frame squeaks and cries from underneath them, slamming against the wall. Fidds knows he’ll be hearing complaints later since well past midnight, but that’s a problem for later.
Warm, calloused fingers press into Fidd’s freckled waist, leaving red marks in their wake. Stanley’s head swims pleasantly with the alcohol, a glow of tepidness completely overriding his senses. His vision blurs at the edges, sensations amplified tenfold. Fiddleford is so tight and hot, clenching around him like a vice. It feels so fucking good, too good, even. Noises slip from his mouth, curling in his throat, echoing throughout the all-too thin college walls.
He’s so full of the cheapest whiskey the bar would sell, so, so full. His bladder aches--every movement and inhale seems to put the smallest amount of pressure on him and even that makes him feel like he’ll burst any moment. He should go piss in the small shared bathroom Fidd’s dorm has, but he just can’t will himself to pull out, not when Fidd’s cunt tightens around him so pleasantly. He doesn’t want this to end--doesn’t want to leave Fiddleford when he’s so pretty spread out like this.
Love swells in his chest whenever he looks at the man, adoration strangling his lungs tightly. He can’t deny his feelings and he's pretty damn sure it isn’t just the alcohol providing these saccharine thoughts.
Fiddleford makes a frustrated noise underneath him, hands scrabbling in the sheets. He’s not the happiest about this arrangement, azure eyes trailing off to the assortment of (unfinished) notes scattered on the desk where he was studying. Was, before Stanley stumbled in, begging for him in such a pathetic manner that it unfortunately worked on Fiddleford. He can’t help the arousal buzzing about seeing Stanley so desperate for him, his tipsy mind only focused on one thing--him. It was flattering enough that Fidd gave in, stripping and splaying out on his creaky bed.
Despite the initial appeal, Stanley is not hitting the spots that make him shudder, the ones that have him biting his lip so hard it bleeds. He should’ve known, honestly, the man had been so rushed to get his dick wet that he hadn’t even undressed properly--jeans pooling at his shins and shirt halfheartedly pushed atop the swell of his stomach.
Fidd huffs unhappily--he’ll take action if Stanley is so focused only on his own pleasure. He runs his hand down his flushed face, swiping the sweat accumulating on his brow. He braces himself as he pushes his hips back to meet Stanley, his hard t-cock dragging against Stan’s pudge again and the cockhead inside him rubbing right against his g-spot finally.
“F-Fidds, oh, o-ohhh,” Stanley babbles off, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes with the blinding pressure against his bladder. He hadn’t expected a thrust back, especially at this angle. He can barely contain himself, suddenly fully aware that he’ll piss himself if the pressure keeps up. “Wait--”
Fiddleford doesn’t wait, not exactly. Their hips press flush together, Stan fully sheathed inside of Fidds. A slim pair of hips barge back, ramming Stan’s cock further inside of him, hitting all the right angles and areas. Fiddleford’s soft moan pales in comparison to the strangled howl that befalls Stanley.
Drool slips down the corner of his mouth, his wide chest heaves and a vicious shudder wracks through his body. The heat drives him insane, nerves set alight and the entire world buzzes around him. Fidds is just too warm and tight around him that once a few drops escape, the floodgates scrape open. He’s utterly unable to stop himself, incapable as he empties his bladder inside Fiddleford.
Fidd’s crooked teeth bite down on the tender skin of his lip once he feels his inside’s get painted and then a shrewd sense of shock and rampant arousal strikes him hard. Stanley didn’t just orgasm--he’s pissing himself. Fiddleford tries to wrangle himself up but Stan’s hands grab him so damn tight.
“Ssssshit--s-sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry--” Stanley’s voice trembles as he rambles tearfully, the wetness beading at his lashes finally falling on hot cheeks. The sheer relief has a broken sob leaving his mouth. Once he starts, he can’t stop, piss filling Fiddleford to the brim in mere seconds, then trickling down his cunt and lithe tummy and finally onto the dark green bed sheets below.
Fiddleford knows he should be so much more ticked off than he is right now, but the heated fluid filling him and cascading down his body in pale yellow streams has him too turned on for his own good. His cunt clenches, the piss inside him sloshing as Stanley just continues to fill him.
“Hhhnm, you--you bastard,” he hisses but there’s no real venom behind his words. Above him, Stanley continues to nonsensically drivel. He continues to hump against Fidd wildly, the liquid making friction practically nonexistent. The wrinkled sheets underneath them slowly darken and the stale smell of urine wafts in the air.
It should ruin the mood, Fiddleford should hit Stanley over the head in frustration, kick him out for pissing all over his sheets--hell, pissing inside him. But the fervored rutting, the sweltering heat and continued stimulation against his g-spot and t-cock have him burying his face in his hand as he cums. His cunt spasms around Stan’s cock, milking the few remaining drops of piss. He’s in straight bliss for a few long moments, thighs trembling and tightening around Stan.
Once his orgasm washes away, disgust slowly fills him. Stanley is flaccid inside him, panting like a dog and the piss coating the inside of his thighs, cunt and stomach rapidly cool, leaving a sticky sensation that has his nose scrunching. His sheets are utterly ruined and he knows it will be forever until he’ll be able to get his sheets in the shitty, seemingly always occupied washing machines for his dorm floor.
“S-sorry, Fidds, hahh,” Stanley smiles drunkenly, a crooked smile on his face. He’s bashful, clearly a bit apologetic but not too sorry. He pulls out and a few stray drops of urine fall from his cockhead onto Fidd’s thigh.
Fiddleford’s eye twitches as he sits up and the stream on his stomach trickles further down. He grabs Stanley’s collar of his shirt, shaking him back and forth a bit, no doubt making him dizzier than he already is. “You dolt. You’re never fucking me drunk again,” Fidds huffs loudly.
“Hhhah, okay, okay, just--just stop shaking me. I might hurl.” Fiddleford rolls his eyes at that, letting go of Stanley and watching the man fall backwards in the soiled bed.
Fidds just pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing he’ll have to change the sheets and set up a few candles for the night.