Chapter Text
The sound of the last guitar notes still echoed in Stanley Marsh’s ears. He could feel the tips of his fingers vibrating from the friction against the metal strings when the bar manager handed him the envelope with the night’s pay.
Two hundred dollars for four hours of playing soft rock classics in a shitty little bar in the middle of the city. It wasn’t a bad paycheck; he had performed for much less before, but it was… reasonable. Good, even.
Stan slung his guitar case over his back when, suddenly, someone threw an arm over his shoulders.
“Hey, Marsh! Nice show!”
Kenny was wearing that cliché waiter uniform and smelling like someone who hadn't taken a shower in three days. Stan couldn’t judge; he himself could barely remember the last time he’d washed his own hair. That was why he wore that stupid beanie, praying no one would notice how greasy it was.
Everyone noticed. No one said anything, of course.
“Hey, man,” Stan replied, his voice exhausted.
“The engineering crew is going out for a beer.” Kenny pointed behind them, where a pack of miserable, melancholy college students were gathering for a night out that would probably end in drugs or unprotected sex. Or both. “Wanna come? It seems like you need it.”
“Thanks, but I’m broke, Kenny.” Stan forced a half-smile, zipping up his jacket. “Plus, I need to study for that calculus seminar we're presenting on Monday.”
“Holy shit, I completely forgot about that…” Kenny sighed, letting go of the hug but keeping a hand on the smaller guy's shoulder. “But seriously, you sure? Wendy and the girls are going too.”
“Yeah, she’ll understand.” Stan patted his friend's shoulder. “See you Sunday, Kenny.”
Of course Stan wasn't going to study. He knew he’d been a failure of a student from the exact moment his Friday night commitments became much more interesting than his own future. His hand was already itching to grab his headphones and open the stream just so he could watch him on the way home, but he held back.
He needed to walk fast through the streets, toward the subway, under the biting cold of a Massachusetts winter. He needed to get inside somewhere warm so he wouldn't just give up and lie down right there on the pavement. He needed his apartment.
Buzz… Buzz…
Stan checked the notification on his watch. Wendy was calling.
He took a deep breath. Of course she was going to pick a fight because, once again, he wasn't showing up to hang out. It had been a while since they’d actually seen each other, mostly because, to be honest, being with her just wasn't fun anymore.
If he answered, she’d immediately start nagging about her absent boyfriend, about how lonely she felt, and how much he had changed.
If he didn't answer, she’d call all night and he wouldn't get a minute of peace. Unless he turned his phone off completely.
He decided that if she was going to fight him now, at least she’d spend the whole weekend ignoring him. He slid his finger across the watch, answering the call as he quickened his pace into the subway station.
“Hey, Wendy.”
“Stan? Where are you?” Her voice came through muffled by the background noise of chatter and loud music. She must already be at the bar with Kenny and the rest of the group. “Did you leave? You’re really not coming? We barely saw each other this week, you know. You’re either living at that bar or locked in your room studying…”
“I’m sorry, babe.” The word ‘babe’ felt almost like an insult coming from his lips. “I’m exhausted, you know how it is. Band practice wrecked me, and I’m already on the verge of failing fluid dynamics. I have to study for the seminar, or I’m fucked.”
Stan knew he was being a piece of shit boyfriend and that she didn't deserve it. Wendy was a nice girl—pretty, smart, trying her best to make things work. But lately, being with her felt more like a chore than a choice.
The sex was mediocre, the conversations were predictable, and she was… boring. Most of the time, at least, talking about relevant things like social justice, immigration, and political topics he just couldn't bring himself to care about.
“Right… okay,” she said, the disappointment clear in her voice. “But we’re still having lunch tomorrow, right? My parents want to see you.”
Fuck. He’d completely forgotten about that.
“Yeah, of course. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Kiss, love you.”
Stan hung up before she could drag the conversation out any further, and a wave of guilt hit him.
Lying to her, forgetting important commitments, ignoring his friends, and blowing hard-earned cash at a trashy bar just to feed an addiction.
He knew it was an addiction; maybe thinking of it that way made him feel a bit less worse than people who had vices and weren't self-aware about them. But an addiction was still an addiction. Stan felt like he’d turned into a disgusting pervert. Neglecting his studies, neglecting his relationship, neglecting his own life. All because of a red-haired boy whose real name he didn't even know.
It had all started three months ago when Stan was bored and alone, sinking into the abyss of a late-night weekend. Scrolling through endless internet content, he’d been caught off guard by a clip of a livestream. The username was Kyle_Bs2, or just… Kyle.
A femboy wearing a cropped hoodie and a skirt. On Twitch, he played games, chatted with the stream, read books, and danced. Sweet, intelligent, sarcastic, and sassy in just the right way. And every time he laughed… Fuck. His laugh was a sound that completely cleared the fog hovering over Stan’s life.
All of that, of course, using his bedroom as a backdrop: with vibrators, skirts, and bows arranged in milimetrically perfect chaos. If you weren't a degenerate pervert, which was the case for most of the idiots watching, you wouldn't notice he kept a literal tentacle dildo as a prop on his shelf.
And when Stanley got too curious and tracked down the redhead’s main profile, he fell hook, line, and sinker upon seeing the OnlyFans link.
For just sixty dollars a month, Stan could see everything. Photos, videos, audios, exclusive streams… everything. Everything. It was surreal how attractive Kyle’s versatility was.
Some days, he would just post about how tired and needy he was after a long afternoon of studying. Some nights, he’d pull down his panties from behind, leaning over his desk to show off that unique, freckled ass. And other nights, he’d show up with a ball gag in his mouth while using a wand vibrator.
Oh, great, Stan. You have a boner in the middle of the subway. Now everyone knows you’re a creepy pervert.
He shifted the guitar case in front of his body, praying no one in the train car was paying attention to the obvious bulge in his jeans. It was pathetic.
Trying to redirect his focus away from his own anatomy, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw a Twitter notification. The glowing icon on Kyle’s profile indicated a new post. The photo that opened showed the redhead with that enchanting little smirk, his face dusted with freckles, his cheeks flushed red… To Stan, he was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.
The caption read:
“Hey sweeties! Won’t be able to stream on Twitch tonight, final assignments have drained all my energy! >.< Cambridge is freezing and I just want to stay under the covers. Curse the day I got into Harvard XD… BUT… If you want to keep me company, I have the night open for private calls ‘u’ Just book a slot~ Love you guys!”
Stan froze in the middle of the subway platform, ignoring the crowd of people bumping past his shoulders.
Cambridge? Harvard?
He re-read the post. The boy went to Harvard and lived in Cambridge.
Stan looked around, almost searching for a head of red hair in the crowd. Kyle could literally be just across the Charles River, a few miles away. The guy he spent his nights watching under the bedsheets was breathing the same cold air he was.
Buying coffee at the same grocery store, maybe even walking across the same campus grounds at some point. The same subways and… my god, the fucking bar!
For two seconds, Stan’s chest swelled with a wild surge of hope. He thought he might actually run into him.
Immediately after, though, the icy reality check hit him.
Cambridge had what? Over a hundred thousand people? Harvard was a massive complex full of historic buildings and thousands of rich, smart students.
And let’s be real, even if he crossed paths with him on the street, what would he do? Kyle_Bs2 was an internet character. Stan didn't even know the redhead’s real name. And to Kyle, he was just Depressive_Sparky17, a faceless gray avatar throwing money at him like he was a personal investment bank.
He gripped his phone tightly, feeling the weight of the envelope with the two hundred dollars inside his jacket. If Kyle was in Cambridge right now and had the night free… Stan needed to talk to him.
Maybe they could just talk and actually hit it off! Plus, obviously, Stanley would have to pay, but hey, what did he have to lose?
Right there on OnlyFans, while walking back to his apartment, he booked the available slot.
It was the last one of the night: midnight to one am. Two hundred dollars for a one-hour call, with the option to extend at the end. Tonight's cash was already gone. Stan used his fingerprint to approve the payment, since he didn't know his card details to make an online purchase.
He just… needed it. It was either that or opening that page again, scrolling through videos and photos he’d already seen a million times, rewatched, and would definitely watch again. He had no clue how a call like this worked, but he was willing to do anything for Kyle.
When he finally reached his apartment, a dark, cramped, messy place, Stan left his guitar case leaning against the couch and opened the fridge for a shot of liquid courage. He poured a generous amount of vodka and knocked it back instantly.
He was so anxious opening the notebook in an incognito tab that he almost ignored the soft vibrations coming from his phone: buzz, buzz, buzz.
The crew was sending photos of the hangout in the group chat. Dammit. He kind of wished he’d gone with them, but staying in with Kyle just felt better. Safer and more comfortable, probably.
No Wendy demanding his presence, no deafening noise, no drinking until he embarrassed himself. Just him and his laptop.
Stan sat on the bed he hadn't made in days and settled the laptop on his lap. For safety, he covered the webcam with some random sock he found lying around, grabbed his ashtray and his lighter.
The timer on the screen finally hit zero, and the ringing sound echoed through the room. He clicked the green button rapidly, desperate.
There he was. The room with dildos in the background, perfect lighting, the hoodie showing just the right amount of skin, and the skirt leaving nothing to the imagination on those pale thighs as the redhead adjusted himself in his chair.
“Hello? Kyle?” Stan’s voice came out as a dragged whisper, completely drained, laced with the sound of his first exhale of cigarette smoke.
The redhead pulled his legs up, reaching toward the webcam to adjust the angle. His lips curved up into a smirk that was just so… so cute. So sweet.
“Depressive_Sparky17…” He sang the username in a voice so smooth it made Stan’s heart skip a beat. “Hi! Thank you so much for wanting to voice chat with me, sweetie~”
Stan couldn't remember the last time someone had called him that. Not even his fucking girlfriend. That ‘sweetue’ sent his blood rushing exactly where it shouldn't go.
“Hi.”
“Don't you want to turn on your camera, Sparky?”
No fucking way. Stan didn't want anyone seeing the dump he called an apartment, with clothes scattered everywhere, empty beer cans and… Jesus, was that a pizza box?
If Kyle saw the desperate look on his face, his world would end.
“N-No! I mean… my camera’s broken.” Great job, Stan. Stuttering on the very first sentence. Congrats. “And… you wouldn't want to see me anyway. I’m… pretty average.”
Kyle gave a soft giggle, fixing his fluffy hair.
“Oh, I highly doubt that, Sparky. But alright, the customer is always right.” He bit his lower lip, looking at the screen with an intense gaze, and Stan could only think about how much he wanted this boy to suck his dick just so he could look up at him like that a little longer. “So tell me… what do you look like? I want to be able to picture who I’m talking to.”
Sure, Kyle. I’m a washed-up musician who lives off Irish coffee and beer, I haven’t slept properly in two or three years, I used to be a high school quarterback but now I’m getting scrawny.
Obviously, Stan wasn't going to say any of that garbage. He needed to sound like a middle interesting guy, not a college freak on the edge of a breakdown.
“Uh… me? Well… I’m tall. Like, pretty tall,” he started. It wasn't entirely a lie; he considered himself tall, at least. “I have broad shoulders… I play football for the college team. And… I’m blonde. Yeah. A really bright blonde.”
FOR FUCK'S SAKE, STAN! Why did you say that?! A jacked, blonde athlete?! He only became blonde because he bleached his hair when he started college, but right now his head looked more like a botched gradient from black to blonde.
Holy shit. If Kyle found out you were just a skinny nerd, he’d laugh his ass off.
Kyle kept his bottom lip caught between his teeth, then smiled wider, making Stan completely dizzy. At least he bought that...
“A tall, jacked athlete? Hmm, how tempting~” he teased. “And what does such a busy player want from me today, Sparky?”
There’s your opening, Stan! Talk to him, ask about Cambridge, what major he’s taking, but nothing too invasive because you don't want to look like a creepy stalker…
“Can you… Can you smoke a cigarette, Kyle?” Stan blurted out the phrase before he could stop himself. Smoking? Seriously, Marsh? You paid two hundred dollars just to watch the guy take a drag?! Desperate to fix it, he stammered, “I… uh… I’m smoking right now. I’ll pay! I-I swear I’ll pay…”
“Ah!! No need, I was actually craving a smoke anyway! Just let me open my window real quick!”
Stan let out his breath, almost collapsing with relief. He watched the redhead get up and walk to the back of the room, smoothing down his skirt with his hands as he walked. He felt like he was about to pass out. Seeing Kyle’s silhouette move like that left his mouth hanging open, completely hypnotized.
The boy pushed open the glass window, staring into the freezing night for a few seconds before settling back into his chair. Kyle pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds—the exact same kind as Stan’s—lit it, and held the cigarette between his teeth, blowing the gray smoke toward the camera.
Stan took a drag right along with him. The redhead’s hand was so beautiful and delicate, his nails painted red holding the filter while he looked into the camera… fuck, it was the most erotic, sensual thing Stan had ever witnessed.
“Sorry about the wait, Sparky… I like the view from here,” the cam boy explained, glancing back slightly at the window.
“Yeah… I… I like the view too…” Stan answered automatically, staring at his thighs on the screen. What view, you perverted bastard?
“You like it, huh? So cute~” Kyle took the cigarette from his mouth, tapping it lightly against a skull-shaped ashtray. “You’re so quiet, Sparky… usually the guys who call me join the chat with their pants already down, demanding me to do… well, naughtier things than light a cigarette. What do you really want, hm? Don't want me to take anything off?”
Stan inhaled so sharply that he choked on his own cigarette smoke, breaking into a dry coughing fit while scrambling to find his lighter, which had dropped to the floor.
“N-No! You don't have to take anything off!” he stammered desperately, his voice shaking over the mic. “I just… I-I like hearing you talk. And watching you smoke. You’re already… y-you’re so beautiful, but with that light hitting your face… Wow…”
‘Wow’, Stan? Seriously? He wanted to punch himself. He sounded like a thirteen-year-old virgin with way too much pent-up horniness who had no clue what he was doing. Not that his reality was much different, but he could at least pretend to be something more than a loser.
Then… Kyle smiled again.
“You’re so sweet, you know that?” He took another drag from his cigarette.
He thinks I’m sweet. Stan let out a sigh of relief and found himself smiling, watching how pretty the redhead looked crossing his legs, that tiny skirt leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Kyle always said on social media that he liked shy guys, so maybe… Stan really was his ‘type.’
“But our call has a timer, Sparky… sure you don't want to enjoy your favorite ‘view’?”
Stan’s hands were sweating cold against his messy bedsheets. He didn't want to see him strip right now; I mean, he did, obviously, his dick was still rock hard inside his jeans, but how was he going to stand out to his ‘crush’ if he just asked him to take off his shirt?
If he told Kyle to show his chest, his ass, or his dick, he’d be no different from all the other porn-addicted losers.
He took a breath, taking another drag of his cigarette to try and sound steady.
“I have a question,” he interrupted, his voice wavering just a bit. “You… you talk to a lot of people, right? Like… do you like someone? In real life?”
Congratulations, Stan. What kind of psycho asks about real feelings to a cam boy in the middle of a private call that cost two hundred dollars? He cursed himself mentally in that exact millisecond, wanting to bang his head against the wall. He was crossing every boundary of common sense, acting like a desperate, lonely freak, and at the same time, begging to know.
He needed to know if his heart belonged to someone.
Kyle blew the smoke through his nose this time, and holy fuck, it was hot. He looked genuinely confused for a second.
“What do you mean, sweetpea?”
“Y-You… you make videos with a guy,” Stan whispered, adjusting the sock covering his webcam out of pure nerves of being caught. “I see it on your OnlyFans, I… I-I subscribe too, and… you have some videos with a black guy. Is he like… your boyfriend? Because he makes videos with other girls too, so, like, uh, I wondered about that… B-But you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to!”
Shut up, Stan. Shut the fuck up. Do you even hear yourself?
“He’s not my boyfriend, silly~” Kyle laughed, and Stan swore he heard harps playing in his dark bedroom. A massive wave of relief washed over him so hard he almost fell back onto the bed. “Tolkien is a model, and he does adult videos too. It’s just because a lot of people like to watch interracial couples…”
Tolkien. That was the guy's name.
Of course it wasn't serious, fuck. Kyle recorded content with other people because there were tons of jerking-off virgins who loved seeing a femboy share a scene. Stan included. Fuck, it was hot as hell.
Now he was intoxicated with a shot of courage and dopamine… If Kyle recorded with other guys for money… and if he liked shy guys… and if Stan had just pretended to be a total catch, blonde, built, and a football player…
The silence in the room stretched out for so long that Kyle blinked on the screen, testing his mic.
“Sparky? Hello?”
“U-Uh, does that mean… like… if you, by chance, suddenly, completely out of nowhere… met a… another guy… white. Well-endowed… t-to shoot with you… w-would you shoot with him…?”
The exact second the last word left his mouth, Stan’s brain finally processed the absolute disaster of what he’d just done.
NO, NO, NO! HOLY SHIT, WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!
Did he just offer to film a porn video with Kyle? He, the loser hiding behind a sock on his camera, had just described himself as a "well-endowed white guy" and proposed an OnlyFans collab?
Panic tripped him up so violently that his hands started shaking uncontrollably. Stan’s eyes widened in the dark, cold sweat dripping down his forehead as he watched Kyle’s reaction on screen. He was going to have a stroke.
“A white, well-endowed guy?” Kyle repeated, biting his lip again, so much so that his mouth was even redder and slightly swollen, exhaling smoke. “Hm… that sounds like a very tempting offer, Sparky. Do you know someone with that profile to recommend me?”
Oh, fuck. Now he probably thinks I’m a racist piece of shit who doesn't want to see him with a black dude… Stan went into a total panic.
“W-Well… I… I mean, I know a guy. He’s… he’s a huge fan of your work. And he’d be… really good to you. Like, he’d treat you super well in the video, he wouldn't be… rough, you know?”
This friend of mine has become an addict and is desperately in love with you and your content, dude. It doesn't even look like he masturbates like crazy to those BDSM videos…
“A gentleman? That’s really hot, isn't it, Sparky~?” Kyle leaned closer to the camera, focusing on his flushed face. The makeup, probably. He was so beautiful; the red lashes, the pink mouth, everything was just… fuck, it was perfect. “I love generous men who know how to please me. If this ‘guy’ has what it takes… who knows, hm? But for that, one day you’ll have to show me what you’ve got down there under that turned-off camera.”
“B-But it’s just… this guy, he… h-he’s really shy. He doesn't feel like he’s… good enough… for you.”
And how could he be? Kyle had a perfect body, the thick ass, thick thighs, a pin-up waist, shaved clean in all the right places, a cute patch of red hair on his crotch, right at the ‘highway to heaven’. Stan had lost count of how much time he’d spent just admiring every single detail of him. The freckles, my GOD, it was a sin how hot he was.
Suddenly, Stan felt extremely self-conscious.
Of course the redhead was perfect; he worked in this industry and probably spent money on fifty different products to keep that clean look. His hands began to tremble.
I have so many pimples on my face I look like a teenager going through puberty, my body looks like dough, and I stink because I don't have any clean clothes!!
“You must know by now that I love shy boys, Sparky~” Kyle sang out again. “Which video of mine did you like best, sweetie? I’m sure you love the jer—“
Jerk off instructions. Yes, Kyle, fuck. Stan had watched the Jerk Off Instructions Pt. 2 video so many times he could recite it word for word—that bossy, burning gaze, telling him exactly what he needed to do to come alone…
In the middle of his mental breakdown, Stan’s ashtray slipped and hit the floor, spilling ash along with the rest of the cigarette butts straight into his pile of dirty clothes.
“K-Kyle! I-I’ll talk to this friend of mine! Thanks! Bye!”
Click.
Stan slammed the laptop shut with the sock still trapped inside, threw it to the side, and pulled the covers up to his chin. His face was so, so hot he thought it might melt, his heart on the edge of tachycardia.
Fuck, Stan. Fuck.
He had cut him off. He had hung up on the most perfect boy in the universe because he’d had a nervous collapse the second he mentioned the JOI video.
Stan looked at his watch. 12:15 AM.
12:15 AM.
“No… no, no, no…” he muttered, pulling hard at his bleached-fading hair, a wave of pure despair crashing over him. “I paid two hundred dollars for an hour… and I stayed for fifteen minutes. My god, I am pathetic.”
FIFTEEN FUCKING MINUTES.
He had spent FOUR hours standing up, his fingers bleeding on guitar strings in a garbage bar, singing to a bunch of drunk retards just to get that cash.
Two hundred dollars that were supposed to go toward his car’s oil change, or the lunch with Wendy’s parents, or helping out with rent. And he’d blown it all on fifteen minutes of stuttering, lies about being a buff blonde quarterback, and a panic attack worthy of a virgin.
Stan stared at the spilled embers on the floor and bedsheets, feeling an overwhelming urge to cry out of pure frustration.
A disgusting pervert, a failure who ignored his own girlfriend, his college friends, and his own hygiene just to live on crumbs of attention from a cam boy who called him “Sparky” and probably pictured him looking like Brad Pitt.
Sparky. Like a dog. A disgusting dog that only thinks with his dick.
His phone buzzed again—buzz, buzz, buzz—and Stan wondered if the device had even stopped vibrating at any point tonight.
By now, Wendy was probably drinking and had likely already kissed two or three of his friends, or some random strangers.
She always did that, so he’d kind of just learned to let it slide; it wasn't like he wasn't cheating on her too, in a way, by giving all his money to some random redhead.
Kenny was probably wasted and going to sleep in a truck bed again, because that was just the kind of thing that happened when he got high. And everyone would be laughing at how that guy seemed immortal.
Fuck.
And the worst part of all was that Stan wasn't going to be a part of it. And as soon as his next paycheck hit, he’d do the exact same thing.
Because now that he’d tasted how wonderful it felt to actually talk to him, those fifteen minutes of having his total, undivided attention, hearing him call him ‘Sweetie’… it had been the most real thing he’d felt in months.