Work Text:
The flickering digital clock balanced precariously on top of a stack of outdated physics textbooks reads 3am when Stan finally looks up from his notes with a jaw-cracking yawn.
"Fuckin… really?" he mutters to himself, rubbing at his tired eyes with the meat of his palm. He'd meant to get up hours ago, stretch his legs and maybe make the trek up the stairs to refill his coffee and take a shit. He could feel the gradually increasing pressure settling low between his hips, not yet urgent but certainly distracting.
He wiggles a bit in his seat, letting out a soft moan as the movement shifts the mass inside him and he feels the barest urge to push. He clenches instead, taking a shaky breath and letting it out slowly.
He's a grown-ass man with things to do. He could hold it for a little while longer.
Deciding against a fresh cup of coffee, Stan bends back over his desk, pencil scratching out rough equations in a battered notebook. For a while he forgets about the signals his body is sending him, concentration better spent on the infuriating math problem that is his brother's stupid portal.
The clock reads 4am when he looks up again, mouth dry from lack of coffee, belly bloated and cramping with need. With a grunt, Stan leans forward, figuring it couldn't hurt to let out a little gas, take the pressure off until he could climb upstairs to the waiting porcelain throne.
Farting, as it turns out, is a mistake.
He feels a deceptive burst of air hiss from his asshole, then the sudden, unmistakable pressure of his traitorous sphincter widening to accommodate that first fat log of shit.
Stan feels a momentary spike of embarrassed panic… then his gut cramps again and he thinks: fuck it. I'm alone, I can do what I fucking want.
Not like anyone knows the code to get down the stairs or how to get through the busted portal. Nobody's gonna see him. He leans farther forward on the desk, pillowing his head against his arms and lets go.
The combination of pressure against his belly and submission to the inevitable tips Stan over the edge. He groans from deep in his chest as he feels his load slip easily from his asshole, a firm log that smears past his cheeks to coil heavy in his boxers. His muscles clench and faintly sting with exertion but he can tell he's not done. Not by a long shot.
With a grunt, Stan bows his back a little, pushing the way his body is begging for him to push. Air erupts from between his cheeks, loud in the cavernous workspace. He almost sobs with relief as his swollen belly begins to deflate, the bloated low-level miserable feeling he'd been doggedly suffering through all evening near-vanishing with extended flatulence.
Hot on the heels of trapped air, another round of shit evacuates his bowels. He can feel the hard knots of it stretching his hole in a way that any other time might be painful, but currently makes his eyes roll back with ecstatic relief.
He pushes again, faintly hopeful that his body will expel just one more log, but his asshole clenches around empty air. The sensation still makes him groan and he feels his cock twitch against his belly.
Reaching down and taking his cock in hand, he's not surprised to find the front of his boxers damp and dripping into a puddle between his feet. The fabric wrapped around his length is body-warm and he gives himself a lazy tug.
The moan that escapes his mouth is not unexpected, but it is louder than he intended and he startles backward. He rocks back into the mess of his boxers, still-hot shit squishing against his clenching asshole and up behind his heavy balls.
Hand still wrapped around his dick, Stan sees stars as he comes, thick ropes adding to the soggy, messy ruin of his boxers.
He sprawls in his chair for a long moment, letting his mind and body reacquaint themselves. He'd need to clean up, once the endorphins wore off he knew he'd be more than a little disgusted with himself… but for now he felt like he deserved to relax.
Mind quiet, body empty. World just a tiny bit less complicated.