By the time Stan is lapping at the whipped cream he's smeared onto Kyle's hole, Kyle can't deny that something magical has happened. He's worked some spell on Stan, and he doesn't even care; this is too good for guilt to enter into it. Stan keeps pushing more whipped cream into Kyle with his fingers before leaning down to lick and suck it out of him, and Kyle might come just like this, not even touching his dick. It feels so incredibly good, after making himself sore on the zucchini yesterday, to have Stan's sugary tongue soothing over the raw spots. He's very glad he cleaned himself especially thoroughly this morning in the shower, in the process getting all the baby oil out. This is the kind of deep tongue fucking and hungry hole-sucking he never could have enjoyed if he wasn't certain of his cleanliness.
"You have to fuck me now," Kyle says when he can't take it anymore, delirious with pleasure and determined to come on Stan's cock, not before. He reaches for Stan, who hesitates only briefly before kissing Kyle. Never in his life did Kyle expect to allow someone to kiss his mouth after eating his ass, but fuck it, this is Stan, and he tastes like whipped cream and red wine.
Kyle can't help but laugh when Stan rubs whipped cream all over his dick, but he keeps it quiet and Stan doesn't seem to notice. He falls onto Kyle again, huffing his breath against Kyle's mouth as his dick prods uncertainly at Kyle's sticky, tingling hole.
"Use your hand," Kyle says. Stan keeps bumping his cock against Kyle's ass like he thinks it's just going to slide in magically. "To guide it in, I mean," he says when Stan blinks at him.
"Oh, umm. You're ready?"
"Stan! Yes! Oh, god, I'm so ready--"
They kiss for a while, and Kyle realizes Stan is probably nervous, but if he doesn't go in soon he's going to need to apply a fresh layer of whipped cream. Kyle reaches down between them, grabs Stan's cock and lines him up properly. They both groan when he shoves in, and Kyle hisses as it drags over his soreness from last night, his head falling back.
"That's okay?" Stan says, panting.
"Yeahh, don't stop. Stann, ah, god."
Kyle tries to force himself to stop reveling in the delightful deviancy of this moment enough to appreciate that something emotionally monumental is occurring, but it's all happening too fast and he can only enjoy the pure physicality of it for now. They're in their tree house, fucking with whipped cream and kissing with breathless desperation -- despite the fact that Stan ate Kyle's ass, not to mention the zucchini that was in his ass last night. It's bizarrely appropriate, the only kind of first time they ever could have had together: an exceptional and ridiculous one.
"Should I go slow?" Stan asks, his eyes darkening in a way that tells Kyle he doesn't want to.
"No," Kyle says. "But – be careful. If the whipped cream starts to dry, put more on."
"Kyle, oh, god, Kyle—" Stan kisses his cheeks, moaning. "I'm not doing this right, for you. I wanted to do it better."
"Stan." Kyle squeezes hard around Stan's dick, groaning and trying to make himself comprehend how important this is, the fullness inside him that is Stan. "You're doing fine, okay? This is perfect, it's – our special place, our tree house."
"Jesus," Stan says, and for a second he looks like he'll cry. Kyle kisses him so that he won't, and Stan snaps his hips, moaning into Kyle's mouth. Much too soon, after some frantic thrusting that makes Kyle growl and clench around him, Stan comes and slumps down onto him, whimpering. "I'm sorry," he says, murmuring this against Kyle's neck, his chest expanding and contracting between Kyle's tightly wrapped legs. "Sorry, sorry."
"Shh, it's okay. I wasn't up for a long one, anyway."
"You're still hard, though."
"Ah, that's true, but—"
"I'm gonna suck your dick," Stan says, sniffling as he lifts his face to Kyle's. He kisses the tip of Kyle's nose and closes his eyes. "I could get better at this," he says. "If you helped."
"We've got three weeks," Kyle says, and he smiles when Stan nods and kisses him deeply, his hand sliding down to grip Kyle's dick. It doesn't take much: a few clumsy strokes and Kyle is coming, his ass spasming crazily around Stan's softening cock.
"Sorry," Stan says again, kissing Kyle's face as he shudders beneath him.
"For -- what?"
"I didn't suck your dick, I just said I would."
"Well, that's fine, it's just fine, c'mere." They kiss for a long time, drowsily, until Kyle worries that he'll fall asleep like this, naked in the tree house with Stan still inside him. Then he worries how they'll get down in the state they're in.
It happens in stages. They murmur to each other for a while, drunk and sleepy, and help each other dress. They leave the remains of the picnic up in the tree house, with the exception of the three remaining slices of zucchini bread, which might have attracted raccoons. Kyle climbs down first, then waits at the bottom with his arms outstretched in case Stan falls, but he makes it without even stumbling. They go into the house and Kyle thinks of showering: he's got whipped cream in his ass, Stan's come leaking out of him, and he reeks of sex sweat. He decides he'll just rest a little in Stan's bed first, and moans in gratitude when Stan helps him back out of his clothes. He's falling into a deep sleep by the time Stan climbs under the sheets with him, naked and clingy.
"That was so not how I imagined it," Stan says, his lips tickling over the tiny hairs on the rim of Kyle's ear.
"It was good, though," Kyle says. He's never felt so ready to dissolve into the relief of a good sleep, his ass burning from the combination of zucchini and cock, Stan holding him, the air conditioning blasting. "So good, Stan, really, so good." He's mumbling, and he slides his hand onto Stan's ass under the sheets. It's very firm. Kyle will take more time to appreciate the touchable details of Stan's body later. For now, he's got to sleep.
He wakes at dawn, his head aching terribly and his mouth dry, ass sore. Worse, the cheeks are glued together with a horrifying combination of semen and sugar, and he smells like a candied whore house mattress. The memories of exactly how things played out in the tree house come back slow and hazy, a painful fever dream that some wanton imaginary Kyle enjoyed while he, the real Kyle, will have to deal with the fallout. Stan is asleep beside him, turned onto his stomach, his arm pushed up under his pillow and covering half his face. All of the doubt and insecurity that Kyle has managed to put off for the past two days comes at him full force, a tidal wave of anxiety that makes the piercing pain in his head worse. He wants to move, to run away, to hide somewhere, but he's so drained that he can only lie there feeling like shit. Stan got drunk, wanted a piece of ass, and Kyle pressed his into Stan's face without hesitation. He's never, ever thought he'd be capable of such careless idiocy, even after the zucchini incident.
"Fuck," Stan says when he wakes up. An indeterminable amount of time has passed, and Kyle has remained perfectly still. He's beginning to feel nauseous in addition to the horrible headache. Stan rolls onto his side, facing Kyle, and moans. "I'm so hungover, Jesus," he says, his voice all scratchy. "You?"
"Um. Yeah. Do you have any water?" Kyle is incapable of even craning his neck to search the bed stand.
"Yeah," Stan says, and he reaches for a plastic bottle that's half empty. He watches Kyle gulp from it and touches his hair, which is a matted mess. "I texted your mom," he says.
"You -- what?"
"You passed out last night, and I figured she'd worry. I didn't want to wake you, so. I just sent her a text saying you were gonna crash here."
"Oh." Kyle sits up, annoyed by this, though it's also thoughtful and cute. "Did she -- did you tell her I was drinking?"
"Nah, but I guess I implied it?"
Kyle harrumphs and drinks more water. Stan doesn't seem horrified by what happened, which is what Kyle spent the past hour dreading. He allows this knowledge to trickle in, slowly, past the pain that is otherwise occupying his mind. Everything aches: his neck, shoulders, jaw, head, and his ass is an unclean, overused wasteland.
"You okay?" Stan asks, again. He's touching Kyle's back now, peering up at him.
"I really need a shower," Kyle says. He glances down at Stan and smiles apologetically. "We were totally out of control," he says, giving Stan an out.
"I hurt you?"
"No, just." Kyle is actually far more sore from his zucchini adventure, though the addition of actual sex during the healing process was equally unwise. "Just, um. Well, Stan, we fucked. You fucked me, so. That's a thing that happened."
"Are you -- dude, are you mad at me? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have -- when you were drinking, that was wrong of me, you just didn't seem that out of it--"
"I wasn't! But I'm the gay one, and you're not. So I'm left holding the bag, right?"
"Holding?" Stan sits up beside him, his arm sliding around Kyle's waist. "What bag?"
"It's an expression."
"Yeah, but what do you mean? Dude, you are so pissed off, I can tell. Do you want to hit me or something?"
"Stan! Why would I want to hit you? What's even happening?" Kyle feels like he might weep, but he's too tired to do anything but drink water and wince.
"Here," Stan says, and he puts two fingers on Kyle's chin, turning Kyle's face toward his. "This -- here."
It's different from last night's kisses, more timid, and neither of them have very good breath at the moment. But it's lucid, sweet, and reassuring. Kyle peeks at Stan afterward, his fingers pushing in to the plastic ridges of the nearly empty water bottle, making popping sounds to fill the silence.
"I feel like I blew it," Stan says, and he moans, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "I know I came too fast. Usually I have the opposite problem. But I could learn, I could get better, if you wanted to, um. Be together like that, again."
"Of course I do. Stan, god! It's not the physical part I'm worried about. Honestly, that went great. It's the other stuff. I, ah. I'm very attached to you. In a way you might find irritating, if we continue this."
"Kyle!" Stan laughs and hugs him, and Kyle takes the opportunity to cling, wrapping his arms tight around Stan's chest. "Have I ever complained about being attached to you in the past -- what is it? Twenty years?"
"But we live in different states, and, just. What is going on?"
"I don't know! Something good, though. Something really good."
Kyle still feels disoriented, but he basks in Stan's aftercare despite his confusion, accepting Advil for his headache and drinking orange juice when Stan brings a tall glass of it upstairs. When he's feeling slightly more human he heads for the shower across the hall, and he's glad when Stan follows.
"Do you mind?" Stan asks, peeking behind the curtain as Kyle adjusts the water temperature.
"Come here," Kyle says, and he puts his hand out. Stan takes it and steps in behind him, smiling. He puts his hands on Kyle's hips, pulling him closer, and Kyle presses his finger into Stan's left nipple, beginning to get hard as the water warms up against his back. Stan kisses the top of his head and Kyle sighs, wanting to ask him a thousand more questions to clarify exactly how this is going to play out, though he knows Stan have the answers himself. "When are your parents getting back?" he asks instead.
"Later today. It's still early, we've got time."
"Time for what?" Kyle asks. He smiles and turns his face away when Stan leans in to kiss him. "I need to rest for a while," Kyle says, embarrassed.
"Oh, yeah, I didn't mean to, um. Do you need, like. Help, cleaning?"
Kyle doesn't; he's something of an expert in cleaning his own ass. But he likes the idea of Stan examining the tender state of things back there, especially if there's soap and hot water involved. He rests his elbows on the shower wall and arches his back, peeking at Stan when he hesitates.
"You can," Kyle says, softly. Stan is doing that amazed stare thing again. Kyle has no idea where this is coming from, except perhaps from the alchemy of the zucchini bread, but he's still unable to feel any guilt for having done accidental sex magic. It's not like there's someone out there who could love Stan more than him, anyway.
Kyle rests his forehead against the tile and closes his eyes while Stan cleans him gently, Kyle quickly becoming so relaxed that Stan's soapy fingers slide in easily. It's the opposite of Kyle's old fantasy of preparing himself for virgin Stan, and it's insanely good, this reversal. When Kyle hisses at the sting of the soap Stan whispers apologies into his ear, and Kyle shakes his head.
"It doesn't hurt," he says, though it does, a little. He finally understands what he likes about this contradiction, here with the only person he would trust to clean his ass, despite Stan's inexperience: with Stan, immense comfort follows the hint of danger so quickly that it's like the two are connected, inseparably enjoyable. Stan kisses Kyle's neck and slides his hand down to squeeze his dick, which has gotten hard throughout this process.
"Is that clean enough?" he asks.
"Um. Your shower head detaches, right?"
It does: Kyle comes in in his own hand while Stan uses him on it. He sinks down to his knees when he's done, legs shaking.
"Are you alright?" Stan asks, and Kyle answers this by taking Stan's dick into his mouth. It tastes even better now, clean and thickening further on Kyle's tongue, Stan's hands moving through his curls with loving appreciation as he works.
Afterward, they sleep for hours, the sun rising fully and the day warming to a boiling heat outside, and they're only moved to get dressed when they hear the garage door opening. Kyle is groggy when they make pleasantries with Sharon and Randy down in the kitchen. He knows he should probably go home, already feeling too clingy, but Stan wants to play video games, and they end up burning away another three hours doing so, splitting the last of the zucchini bread at one point.
Kyle plans to go home for dinner, but before he does he follows Stan out to the backyard to watch him tend the garden. The heat is lessening somewhat, the sun beginning to sink. It's the right time of day for watering vegetables, apparently. Kyle drags one of Sharon's sun loungers over to watch Stan spray his produce with the hose. The water looks like liquid gold when it catches the light at certain angles, and Stan seems so grown up, caring for his plants, the stubble on his cheeks already returning. Despite this, he keeps glancing over at Kyle and smiling in a way that's very boyish, reminding Kyle of that day when he watched Stan mow the lawn from the tree house, how they'd waved to each other at intervals.
"Want to take some more zucchini home?" Stan asks when Kyle finally says he's got to go, having promised to join Stan tomorrow at Stark's Pond for fishing. "I've got so many."
"Yeah, you do," Kyle says, wistfully, as if Stan is being metaphorical. He is, at least from Kyle's perspective. Stan is overflowing with a bounty of goodness that Kyle wants inside him any way he can have it. He kisses Stan on the lips, wondering if Stan's parents are watching from the kitchen. "But I'm good for now, thanks."
"See you tomorrow," Stan says, holding on to Kyle's hand as he pulls away. "Rest up."
Kyle walks home feeling buzzed, though he's had nothing to drink tonight and doesn't want to get anywhere near wine for a while. He allows himself to daydream about working someplace close to wherever Stan will get his MS in Horticulture, and the little house they could rent, something with a yard big enough for a garden. Maybe at that point, in this theoretically secure future where Stan sleeps with him every night, Kyle could suggest they bring some produce into the bedroom. He has a feeling Stan would be open to it: not just the vegetable kink but the whole thing, an entire sprawling future together, and by the time he reaches his house an overgrown garden of hopes and plans has spilled over the neatly measured walls he once tried to put up around his love for Stan.