#Stanford is definitely standing out of frame

[the-real-couchrat]

Quick doodle because I couldn’t get this out of my head

He’s a provider, in case you couldn’t tell.

[resident-mercie]

Leon Kennedy Slow Burn Fic — Lips of an Angel. (1/?) (NSFW.)

Themes: High School Seniors!AU, slow-burn, pining, best friends to lovers. Eventual NSFW (penetrative sex, cream pie, semi-public sex), mentions of pregnancy and abortion.

Mercie’s note: yes this is self indulgent as fuck lol i don’t care

— With high school graduation fast approaching, Leon Kennedy gives his best friend, Annie, an offer that neither of them can really refuse.

“Well. Fuck me.”

Annie sits on the white tiles of her bathroom floor, a pregnancy test in either hand. And both of them are positive, because the world can’t let this poor girl catch a break. She’d been studying her ass off for Stanford, which was rapidly approaching in about two months time, and now…

“I’m knocked up. Great.”

It’s not like she was a naïve girl — I mean, if she wasn’t intelligent, she wouldn’t have gotten herself a place at Stanford. She knew what she was getting herself into that night, but… it was one of those instances where you assume it’s never gonna happen to you. Until it does.

Annie groans, standing up, placing the two tests on the counter, looking at herself from the side in the mirror. She was about four weeks along, so it wasn’t visible. The only people who know are herself, and her dog, mostly because the goofy labrador wouldn’t leave her stomach alone. But she knows that she has to tell the other half involved in this incident — after all, it takes two to tango.

She opens her phone, and her thumb hovers over the contact for her best friend, Leon.

They were an unlikely duo, for sure. Annie was the reserved one of the duo. Quiet, elegant, slightly aloof to those who don’t know her. Leon would always tease her, telling her she was like the moon, or a black cat, because of her elegance. And he wasn’t wrong, either. While Annie was never able to see her own beauty, she really was ethereal. Cascading red hair, porcelain skin, and these eyes that ascended beyond being just blue… they were so light in colour that they were piercingly so, but there was a hidden vulnerability to them if you took in her appearance for long enough. She was the definition of “slim thick”, a real knockout for sure. As her closest girl friends, Claire Redfield and Jill Valentine would always say— “how the FUCK are you single, Annie?”

It was something she’d just laugh off.

Leon Kennedy, her best friend, was the total opposite, however. He was the extrovert, the excitable golden retriever puppy, the sun. If the boy had a tail, it’d be wagging a mile a minute. He was popular amongst the senior cohort for being the star quarterback, yet he was as down to earth as he was the day he enrolled as a freshman. He was always smiling, always joking, but was always very respectful of everyone he interacted with. He didn’t care for arbitrary things like popularity or body counts— he was a respectable guy, and treated everyone with the respect they deserved, no matter the cliques they ran in. He was a dirty blonde, toned, slightly muscular, but slender in frame. His blue eyes were a lot deeper, and if you were Annie… they were a lot softer, but only for her. His guy friends, Chris Redfield and Carlos Oliveira, had no idea how he didn’t have a girlfriend, either.

Annie swallows back her pride, and dials Leon’s number, tapping her thumb against her other hand in beat to the dial tone.

“Moon-cat… it’s three in the damn morning… is it your cramps acting up again? Want me to sneak out and cuddle you?”

Annie chuckles softly into her cell, wishing it was just cramps.

“Something like that, yeah. It’s fine if you can’t sneak out, I don’t your mom ripping you a new one like last time…”

There’s a genuine, happy laugh from the other line.

“Don’t be silly. Gimme fifteen and I’ll shimmy up your dad’s wisteria climber like I did in junior year. Wait for me to knock on your window, m’kay? Love you!”

Annie chuckles softly as Leon hangs up, walking out of her en-suite bathroom, and into her bedroom again. Given the time of night, she’s still in her pyjamas, which are a cropped black tank top, wine red cycling shorts, and black fuzzy slippers. She waits by the window, smiling at the memory of junior year — her periods were particularly bad that year, and it made her a very crappy, very emotional mess. So, Leon would set it so that his phone would only make notifications from her audible on a night, and whenever she’d call in tears, there he’d be, shimmying his way up that damned climbing plant that trailed up to her window, with tampons and chocolate. And then, they’d lay there, spooning for hours, until dawn rose, and Leon would dash back to his house before his parents realised where he was in the next morning. He’d be exhausted, but it made him so happy knowing that she was being cared for, by him, and that she wasn’t alone at her worst.

The lines of their friendship had always been blurred, which is why Annie was now carrying his child.

It was about a month ago, and it was one of the last games of American Football of the season before state championships. Annie knew jackshit about sports outside of Formula One, but she always came with their little friend group, to cheer as loud as humanly possible for him. Their friend group was herself, Leon, Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira, and Chris and Claire Redfield.

She remembers the night so vividly…

Annie returns from the concession stand, with a cherry slushie. It’s staining her lips red, which makes the others giggle. She’s in her favourite outfit, that she always wears to the games— little black dress, long, black, heeled thigh high boots, and a black and baby pink racing-style jacket. She’s tied her long, red hair back, but she’s left her bangs loose at the front, so that they frame her face. Her lips have a little red tint to them — a mixture of the slushie, and her red lip tint, and her black eyeliner is done with near surgical precision. She takes her seat in between Jill and Claire, and she sees Leon doing some last stretches on the pitch, before the game. He sees Annie, and sticks his tongue out at her childishly — it was a pre-game tradition for them both. She sticks her tongue back out at him, and she immediately sees Leon crack up upon seeing her slushie-stained tongue.

He plays flawlessly, as always. But there’s something about him tonight that makes him seem prettier than usual — maybe it’s the way the floodlights are illuminating his face, maybe it’s the sheen of sweat covering his body, or maybe it’s that damned goofy smile he cracks at her with each touch-down he scores. The friend group are cheering and chanting his name, but Annie is the loudest. She always has been.

The game ends, and naturally, with Leon on the field, it’s a landslide victory, The friend group walk onto the pitch after the game, praising Leon on the win that he made happen. But he always hugs Annie first and tousles her hair, before he reacts to any of the praise.

Chris is grinning.

“Well, folks. Whose turn is it to treat Leon to his celebratory milkshake this time?

Leon chuckles, but waves his hand.

“You guys go on without me. I need to do some cooldown stretches before I go anywhere. I won’t be able to walk in the morning if I don’t.”

“Damn, Leon! That sounds like what I feel like after I’ve gone out hooking up for the night in my car. But it’s way more fun for me, because I get the chicks, and you all you get is to throw a pigskin around.” Chris laughs. “We’ll see you at the diner, yeah? Don’t be late or the free milkshake offer will expire.

Leon just rolls his eyes playfully.

“Yeah, yeah. See you guys in a little while.”

The others head to the diner, but Annie hangs back, smiling at Leon. They look back, expecting her to come with, but Carlos just shakes his head and laughs.

“Leave those two to it. They’re looking at each other with those damned eyes they give each other again. ‘Just best friends”, my ass.”

The others laugh, partially in amusement, partially in agreement, and they head to leave the pitch,

Annie walks up to him, wrapping her arms around him slowly.

“You were incredible out there, really. That thing you did where you threw the ball on the ground? Incredible. Sent everyone fucking bananas.”

Leon laughs softly, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Ever considered the whole sports commentary thing after graduation next month instead of Stanford? You really do have a way with words that makes American Football sound riveting.” He rolls his eyes playfully, nudging her. “C’mon, let’s go sit on the bleachers for a while. I just wanna relax for a bit, because you know the moment we step foot in that damned diner, Chris and Carlos are gonna be ribbing each other over something stupid.”

Annie laughs softly, and Leon takes her hand, and they sit in the very top corner of the bleachers. Everyone has gone now, and the stars are out, illuminating the two souls, whose connection goes beyond just the platonic— but they’re currently none the wiser.

She rests her head on Leon’s shoulder instinctively, as they look up at the stars together. They see one shoot by, and Annie gasps happily.

“Shooting star! You gotta make a wish, Leon.”

Leon laughs softly, breaking his gaze from the stars, to look at Annie’s face.

“C’mon, you seriously don’t believe in all that, right?”

Annie pouts, nudging him playfully.

“I still made a wish,” she grumbles softly.

Leon puts of an act of mock defeat, holding his heart dramatically, as if he’s just been wounded.

“And you didn’t tell me? C’mon, An—ni—iiie! Tell me!” He laughs, shaking her by the shoulders, which makes Annie giggle.

“I can’t tell you. You’ll take the piss out of me.”

“I’m your best friend,” Leon chuckles. “Taking the piss out of you is basically my full-time occupation.”

Annie glares playfully, and Leon notices a slight hint of blush creep across her cheeks.

“F-fine. My wish is… that I’m not gonna graduate as a virgin. I’m one of the only people, to my knowledge, who is still a virgin in the senior cohort. There’s six weeks till graduation, and I’d feel like a total loser if I graduated as a virgin.”

Leon laughs aloud into the stars, but then his expression softens when he realises that Annie really means it.

“Annie… it’s just a dumb teen rite of passage. You don’t gotta do it if you don’t wanna.”

“I know, I know. But after graduation, I have two months, before I end up at Stanford. And I guess… I want my first time to be special, rather than with a college frat boy who sees me as just another notch on his bedpost, you know?’

Leon’s face softens, and he takes his hand in hers, and their gazes both return back to the stars.

“You know I’m still a virgin too, right, Annie?” Leon chuckles softly.

“Bullshit. There’s no way you haven’t lost yours.”

“I’m being serious.”

They both go quiet again, Leon running his calloused thumb over the soft skin of her hand. The stars are flashing, twinkling, and Leon places a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

“Are you really serious about losing your virginity before graduation, Annie? Is this something you really want?”

Annie nods, sighing softly as she keeps her gaze on the stars.

“In that case… let me pitch what might be the most bizarre offer in the history of our friendship, ever,” Leon chuckles, still rubbing her thumb over her dainty little hand. “If you’re dead set on wanting to have your first time, then… let it be with me, your best friend. Let’s give each other our virginities, right here, right now.”

“Wait, for real?”

“Only if you wanna, of course. The bleachers are empty, so… why not?”

Leon stands up, sliding off his varsity jacket. He lays it out on the bleacher table, smiling.

“It’s not the most ideal, I know. But I think having our first times under the stars would be way prettier than doing it in the back of that damn car you never clean,” he teases “so… what do you say?”

Annie stands up now, wrapping herself around Leon, looking up at him with those intensely blue eyes.

“Thank you, Leon. There’s… no one else I’d want to do this with.”

He smiles, and his lips graze against hers softly, his hand coming up to wrap itself against her cascading, red mane. There’s a tenderness, and a hidden longing oozing from the both of them, Annie craning her neck slightly to meet his mouth. Her own hands snake up the back of his neck, and she seems to pull him in closer, desperate for time to just freeze, and for the two of them to be stuck in this moment forever. Annie’s tongue softly meets his lower lip, a sensation that makes Leon shudder in arousal.

“Annie, f-fucking hell…” Leon groans, immediately feeling all the blood rush between his thighs. He’s kissing back with longing, pining, and Annie is moaning softly against his lips.

His free hand travels lower, caressing her ass softly, worshipping her curves with his hand.

“You’re beautiful, Annie,” Leon breathes, pulling away from her softly with a smile. “To do this for you, it’s… well, let’s just say I’m feeling like I’m a damn lucky guy.”

Annie giggles softly, as she presses her forehead to his, her breath hot and sweet. “You’re pretty too, Leon. Pretty damn silly.”

Leon laughs softly, grazing his lips against hers, groaning at the touch. He’s already pitching a tent, and Annie feels herself throbbing from such a simple, yet intimate touch. He scoops her up into those athletic arms of his, and lays her on the varsity jacket he’d laid out on the bleacher bench earlier. He smiles softly at her, as he climbs on top of the bench, over her, caressing her face with his calloused fingertips.

“I-I’m already hard, Annie, I-I won’t lie. I might not last very long…” Leon gives her that signature lopsided smile, and Annie just giggles softly.

“I don’t care about that, Leon. Having you do this for me… well, I can’t thank you enough.”

Leon presses his lips to hers, pining for her touch, and they moan against the other’s lips, as they graze their tongues against one another in such an intimate state.

“Th-the pleasure’s all mine, Annie…”

Leon’s hands snake up her dress, and he looks for Annie to give him the go ahead to slide down her panties, and she nods. They’re black silk, which makes Leon smile softly, and he turns to Annie.

“Good choice in panties.” He chuckles, bringing them down around her ankles.

“Only the best for me.” Annie rolls her eyes playfully, which makes Leon laugh softly, looking at his best friend with an admiration and affection that’s bubbling over the boundaries of platonic.

Leon’s fingers find their way between her thighs, and to her pussy. His thumb finds her clit with ease, and he massages the little bud, while his index and middle fingers trace softly around the outside of her wetness. Annie lets out a happy little purr, arching her back at the touch. The sound she lets out simultaneously makes Leon so happy to see his best friend having a good time, but also makes him even more horny, if that’s even possible. He can’t help but kiss her thighs softly and messily, and Annie lets out a sound that’s half giggle, half moan.

“I’ve always told you this…,” he murmurs from in between her thighs, “but you’ve always had the prettiest voice. You know that, right?”

The sweet smell of her pussy is making him whimper, and he can’t help but lap softly at it, which makes Annie whimper in turn. This is Annie’s experience, he thought to himself, and he just wants to worship every bit of her body, like it deserves. Annie reaches her hand down to stroke his hair as he laps softly at her, her eyelashes fluttering at the sensation. Her happy little moans are like cocaine to him, and he can’t help but smile and whimper with each contented noise she makes.

He gets up from his position now, and leans over the top of her again, running his fingers over her fading self-harm scars from sophomore year, smiling at her with such an intense admiration for her body. Annie can feel the heat rising inside her, and she lets out a little breathy “I’m ready, Leon.”, smiling at him softly. Leon bites his lip a little, sliding down the trousers of his football uniform, his belt making a slight clinking sound. He shakes them from his ankles clumsily, which makes Annie giggle, and him smile. As he pulls down his boxers, Leon notices he’s already been dribbling pre-cum, just from the feel of her lips and the taste of her wetness alone.

Annie giggles softly, as she watches him toss his boxers aside with the trousers of his football uniform.

“Man, I must taste good for you to react like that.”

Leon chuckles, as he climbs back on top of her.

“You were always somehow even prettier when you were more self-confident, Annie.”

He takes one of Annie’s little hands in his larger ones, their fingers interlocking, while the other holds her waist.

“If it feels like too much, promise me you’ll say something. This is your experience, moon-cat.”

“I promise, sun-puppy.”

Leon slides into her, and for a split second, their visions blur, at the sheer sensation of their bodies becoming one. If there was an ultimate nirvana, it was this. Two best friends, who didn’t even realise that in a matter of months, their feelings would stretch beyond the platonic entirely. They both moan at the same time, and then smile at each other, laughing breathlessly. Annie’s hand tightens its grip around Leon’s, as his thrusts start softly and gently in intensity. He’s so needy, so hard, that Annie is almost certain that she can feel him throughout her whole body. She smiles at him, smiling breathlessly, mouth slightly agape, as if to say, ‘keep going’. As they share one another under the stars, all that Leon is thinking about is Annie. And all Annie is thinking about is Leon. She’s quivering pleasurably underneath him, as she wraps her legs around Leon’s toned back, which makes Leon smile softly, kissing the corner of her mouth. Annie uses her free hand to play with his hair, smiling breathlessly at him. It was if they were high, or drunk, on one another. The other’s touch, the other’s pheromones, the other’s presence. It’s as if they can both feel a molten heat rising in their cores, as Leon keeps his gentle pace, but it’s clear they’re both ready for their releases.

“Leon…”

Leon takes his free hand, caressing her cheek.

“Annie.”

She’s tightening and convulsing around him, as if her body is trying to pull him in closer, deeper. It’s so heavenly that they’re both losing their damn minds — their senses totally clouded by the presence of the other. Leon moans her name softly, groaning as he kisses the corner of her mouth, his cock twitching, flooding her needy pussy with his hot cum. Annie’s eyes roll back. and she pulls Leon closer with her free hand and her legs, and she tightens around him as she reaches her own climax. She’s left a very sweet flood of arousal at the base of his softening cock, as the both of them lay there, spent, panting, but grinning. Annie wasn’t on birth control, and Leon didn’t have a condom to hand, but the feeling of the sex— no, the love-making between them, had completely clouded their judgment. As Leon pulled out, the two of them started laughing breathlessly, and he kissed her forehead tenderly…

As Annie is reminiscing from that night a month ago, she hears a gentle tap at the window. It’s Leon, her “sun-puppy”, having shimmied up the wisteria plant with his iconic lopsided grin, waiting to be let in.

“Hey, moon-cat! I brought chocolate. What’s up, anyway?”

Annie gulps softly as he very clumsily rolls through her window, and takes a deep breath.

This is gonna be one helluva conversation.

[vixnovacoda]

How The Pine Trees Fall || Chapter 2

Ford Pines x OC (Post-finale)

Word count: 4k

[CH1]

[AO3 version here]

Transcript of recorded statement 1.36: > The town of Gravity Falls is small, but the inhabitants it claimed as denizens were not. They are larger than life. Each and every one of them. > Trying to butter me up, already, sweetheart? > [CHUCKLE] Maybe I am...   For the record, that was the voice of one— > Stan, Stanford Pines! Mr. Mystery and proprietor of the infamous Mystery Shack, home to all life's greatest mysteries and spooks and stuff!

———

There was that face again. The one with the stubble and that jaw. That inhuman jaw. Burnt like a brand across her mind. It had been decades since she last thought about him, and now, now, he was stuck in her head. Never did she intend to see or dare dream of it again.

    Like a bunch of rocks had been thrown into a blender, that was how Lorelai’s brain felt upon waking up from her fugue state. She groaned and rubbed her head as the cold light of night nibbled along her skin, which was a full tone darker than she remembered. Had she truly been out for an entire afternoon? Fully prepared to blame the bizarre fantasy of falling into a hole and being saved by a familiar face she never expected to see again on a night of drinking or the result of being awake for twenty-four hours. That was, until her usual walls were instead wooden with triangular windows, and her bed a sofa instead. The pain that shot from her ankle as she went to stand further solidified the truth that the other day had really occurred. 

    With a yelp, she flopped back down. She couldn’t believe any of it had happened; the stepping on the butterfly, the scattered giant holes in the ground, the hole she fell in, and then Stan. Frankly, it was very strange – which she should have seen coming, as was the nature of Gravity Falls to be strange, after all. “Good, you’re awake.” There was that voice from the hole again, though it sounded a lot less swallowed-a-bunch-of-gravel-like and… just smooth, smoother than the scribbling he made on some paper anyway. Not at all how she remembered Stan sounding. It was easier on the ears and almost made her want to fall asleep – if not for the circumstance of being in a room she didn’t recognise. In fact, there were these minor differences she could just barely make out as she noticed him sitting in the corner of the room by a desk; the definition in his chin, the lack of five o’clock shadow, the glasses frame being rounder, the still waiting to grey out hair, and the trench coat - since when was he a trench coat guy? – it was as if he had stopped ageing and got an entire personality shift, and why was he coming over, and getting closer, and why was her heart pounding, and why was he shining a penlight into her eyes? “Tell me, does your head hurt at all?” prodded ‘Stan’.

    “Jesus, Stan! Take a girl to dinner first before you shove something in her face,” exclaimed Lorelai, lurching back against the sofa as she shielded her eyes. “And I’d feel a whole lot better if I could see.”

    “Stan?” He squinted, confused.

    “Wait, I mean, it’s almost hard to tell, but you’re really not Stanford?” she queried.

    That stumped him. Stumped him harder than she expected.

    He stepped back, scratched his head with the end of the pen and mumbled something about a ‘memory gun’, whatever that was. “I… Well, yes. I am. But I don’t know you. Do you know me?”

    She blinked and her stomach sunk. “You really don’t know me, huh.”

    “Should I?” He pulled his face back into a weird expression.

    Under the dim overhead light, she squinted as more things came to the light, such as what others may not notice at first; a curious sixth finger. Curious for a man she knew to have only five. It seemed the Stanford she had known was most definitely not the man before her now and, yet, they seemed so similar upon a glance. Two men with distinct similarities and slight differences and both seem to reside within Gravity Falls, too many coincidences to call it anything other than the obvious or maybe Lorelai just hit her head too hard on the fall and this was all some part of her imagination. But coincidences were unlikely to be anything other than connected in a place like Gravity Falls. But she couldn’t honestly be right. That would mean…

    “Geez, Ford, buy the lady some dinner first before you interrogate her,” came another man from the doorway on their side. Lorelai didn’t see him at first, but it was that gruff voice, that deep, bottomless-pit-ness she’d recognise anywhere.

    “Stanley, what an absurd insinuation,” bit back the other with a huff. 

    The second shrugged in response and made an undiscerning noise, which led to an endless back and forth between the two doubles as they used unsharpened words that Lorelai chose to tune out. She rubbed her head at the commotion. It was a lot to take in – and a sight for single child Lorelai to behold; watching them bicker, and push, and tease, but never in a way where they actually meant the things they said. Harmless, really. Ford was more blunt and defensive. Stanley was the sarcastic, joking one. Which was to be expected of the gold chain, white shirt, and denim-wearing man she knew as Stan.

    He had aged. Nonetheless, it was still him and not some double figment of her imagination or lookalike. It was him . And her earlier hunch was right. “Twins. You are twins,” blurted out Lorelai with a frown etched into her forehead, and her old southern drawl poking through. 

    At the drop of a hat they stopped. Sense switching in as they remembered why they were bickering in the first place. Stan turned to face Lorelai first, pivoting half-way on the ball of his foot like some awkward buffoon and looked her way. “Hey ya, toots,” broke Stan, the man who hadn’t changed a bit. Not truly. For she could swear she saw all those harsh features soften the second their eyes met. Suddenly, it felt real.

    She swallowed, her heart dropping.

    Twenty years.

    It wasn’t enough.

    “So, you two are… acquainted?” interjected Ford, gesturing between them.

    “… You can say that, yes,” answered Lorelai, plain and on the verge of pulling herself back together.

    “Yeah,” echoed Stan in a similar vein as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Urm… Where are my manners? Lorelai. My brother, the real Stanford Pines. He’s the one whose hole you fell in. Ford. Lorelai Summers. She’s—”

    “Farhaven. It’s Lorelai Farhaven now. I married… Was. I was married,” corrected Lorelai.

    He stared.

    She stared back. Unblinking, the pair of them.

    It took a while for it all to register in Stan’s mind. Though, the moment it did, Lorelai noted the whites of his eyes burn pink ever so slightly and gave her a look that said, really? And she looked back like she meant it because she had moved on (had she?). It was the final nail in the coffin. Unexpected, yet, bound to happen. He wasn’t really sure how to react.

    None of them did.

    Neither spoke – and Ford, respectfully, dared not intrude on what was a personal moment. For those next few moments there was nothing. Nothing except for the slow funeral march of her heart dragging along the awkward silence in its wake – ‘from the cold depths of her chest,’ imaginary Stan would add. That’s what she could once imagine him saying. To him, it might have been cruel, but he had left her unforgettable scars along the groves in her heart. That was cruel. They were both cruel to each other in the end.

    In an effort to lessen the addition of any more hurt, Lorelai broke first, opting to look elsewhere, anywhere that wasn’t him, which included Stanford who stuck out like an odd daydream with his idle stance of hiding beneath a maroon book as he kept to the sidelines. But no matter how hard she tried, she kept looking at him. The window, then Ford. The wooden architecture that suggested she was in a cabin of sorts, then Ford. The door she’d never seen, yet recognised the similar shapes from the others in the building, then Ford again. They were in the Mystery Shack, they were in a house so full of memories, and she couldn’t stop looking at him. Him. Him, him, him , Stan. Every which way she looked there was him. Even in this very room where she had never been before, there was him more than once. It wasn’t until she took a deep breath and actually closed her eyes that her thoughts returned to an ounce of normalcy as the reason why she was out here in the first place rose to the surface.

    She found it instantly on the sofa not far from her, like it had been calling, screaming to her this whole time. Moonlight shone along the broken fractures and cracks of the plastic that once held the machine and cassette tape together in its rectangular shape. The tape’s guts spewn forth from the compartment as the magnetic tape ran long spirals which pooled into a pitch black mess. A couple buttons destroyed, ‘record’ being stuck in place. Her tape recorder. Supposedly broken by her act of heroism.

    Hours of research, gone. Ruined.

    “This isn’t about some kid I don’t know about, right? Cause I’m not paying child support,” spoke up Stanley with that regular old mask back on again, playing serious this time.

    “Stanley,” chastised Ford, breaking his writing streak to glare lasers at his brother.

    “What? I’m not. They’d be a full blown adult now.” He threw up his arms.

    “No,” answered Lorelai, interrupting their second round of bickering before it could even start. “No, I came here for research purposes.” She cradled and bundled the broken tape recorder within her lap, careful not to disturb it further lest it be irreversible. “Though, I wish I could say it was to collect some money you owe for a few books.”

    “Ha, I, I don’t know what you mean.”

    “Library. Library books, you fool. I’m the new librarian.”

    Stan hummed in amazement. “Ah. You always were the smart one with your tapes and stuff.”

    She whipped her head up at him. “And buttering me up don’t work no more, hun ,” hissed Lorelai, an ancient venom bleeding atop her tongue meant to hurt him, and she watched as he shrunk in on himself like some turtle hiding in its shell. “I’m not going to gloss over all this so easily, not when it cost me so much of my work and years of you lying to me.” To which she eased her attention towards the man caught in their crossfire and clearly wanted no part in their feud. “Look, far be it for me to know why I never knew about you… Ford, personally, I do not care. This whole name, identity, whatever that was is a private matter for later on. However, can someone please explain what you’re doing digging massive holes in the middle of nowhere for people to just fall into?” she asked, still ever so irritated.

    “I, well,” started Ford, looking over at Stan as if for help.

    “She’s a born native, Ford, you can trust her,” chimed Stan out of a sort of reluctance.

    “Can I?”

    “I did. Do. I still do.”

    Ford sighed, also reluctant, putting away his book and adjusting his glasses. “Well, coincidentally, I was conducting a bit of my own research as well, searching for something as a matter of fact.”

    Well, she’d be damned. Could it have been the same thing she was looking for?

    Lorelai leant forward along the edge of the sofa as she peered over the rim of her triangular framed glasses and muttered beneath her breath while Ford began to delve into a lecture-worthy explanation of all that happened. “Fascinating…”

———

Transcript of recorded statement 1.40:

> Fascinating . . . Out of all the creatures in Gravity Falls, these little ones have been the most elusive of all, and yet we have happened to a gathering of them that won’t seem to leave us alone. What another strange anomaly. > I’d say what’s strange is the fact they’re all staring at us. They’re not poisonous or nothin’, right Lore? > Naturally a pattern such as theirs on their coat would be a warning to wannabe predators, mostly indicative of venomous animal species. > Wait, what?! > Shh... You’ll frighten them off, Stan. Here. [PLASTIC RUSTLING] > Why am I holding bread? > Testing a theory.  > You really are a strange one, toots. > I know, comes with the territory of dating a native Gravity Falls dweller, hun. Now, shush. [LONG PAUSE] > It’s as I predicted. They appear to be hungry. > ... I think one of them just licked their lips. That wasn’t just me, was it? > Note, despite the average diet of their non-cryptid relatives, it seems the plaidypus has a fondness for that of wheat, specifically, bread— > [HUSHED] Lore. > It makes one wonder how far they might go on an empty stomach for that which is their favourite? > Lore! [SILENCE. SOON FOLLOWED BY THE SNAPPING OF BILLS AND THE SURPRISED YELLING OF A MAN THAT CARRIES INTO THE DISTANCE AND LAUGHTER, BEFORE THE LAUGHTER SLOWLY HALTS] > Well, hi there lil’ fella, get separated did ya? [A SHORT SOFT SQUEAK] > You’re just like me then. [GROANS]. Heavier though. Softer too. I’d be damned, those lumberjacks were right. [CONCERNED SNIFFLES] > Don’t worry, I won’t harvest you like those heartless folk. Us strange ones gotta stick together. > [DISTANT] Lorelai, a little help! > They’re harmless, Stan! Just give them the bread! > [DISTANT] What? But you said they were venomous! Ah!— [SPLASHING OF SHALLOW WATER] > Hmm...  A coat, I think. A coat for a group of plaidypi.

———

Gravity Falls was freezing. 

    No one told her how much more frigid the world had grown when night killed day hours ago. Lorelai shivered, burying herself into the smokey scent of her jacket as she cursed with each step that sent pain through her nerves (she couldn’t believe that she was actually missing being back in the Mystery Shack, stupid sprained ankle). Ford, however, did explain the purpose of the holes she had fallen victim to. In that he spotted some sort of creature while following a plaidypus one morning before falling victim to a labyrinth of winding trees at every twist and turn – turned out there was some strange event surrounding that part of the woods where it would send you around in circles at every bend, no matter which direction you went and time was fleeting. That the holes were a measure to capture what might have been the cause of such an anomaly. That he and his great niece and nephew, Mabel and Dipper, were out that morning to see if anything sprung one of the traps.

    The whole thing was, admittedly, strange. There were a million things waiting to burst from the seams of her mouth to just say, and ask, and discuss, and she would have stayed, dining upon his morsels of knowledge that she had gaps of, had she not been so burdened by overstaying her welcome at her ex’s abode after his proposal to drive her home. When she had left, she wanted to tell Ford that he was right, but her proof was poor and was nothing in comparison to how he may have genuinely stumbled upon the very thing she’d been searching for all this time. Him, some random scientific genius. All Lorelai had was a gut feeling.

    Then there it was again.

    Tug.

    She stopped dead in her tracks. Five feet from the Mystery Shack and that sensation returned as if it had been waiting like some loyal pup all this time for her to return to the wilderness, and it called. Almost imperceptible. A tug… tug… tug. A tug at her head, moonlight blinding her vision on the horizon. A tug at the feet. A tug at the hands. At her body. Desperate and pleading. A tug that was a whisper in the wind for her to follow. It sounded so familiar, So much like her own echo.

    Suddenly the cold wasn’t a bother any longer. Nothing was. Lorelai entertained the idea of rushing back inside and confessing to Ford. For a moment. Truth was, she couldn’t. Deep down, some part of herself wanted this discovery to be hers . She just had to move—

    “Ground control to Lore? You alright?” came Stan’s voice all garbled and scratching at the edges of her mind, slowly pulling her back to reality. She blinked. The world changed. It was actively changing before her eyes, the outdoors existing separated from her, rolling past in a haze from the window of a car, Stan’s car. Lorelai knew instantly from the first squeak of the passenger’s seat that she was inside his car, leather seats and all. While everything else changed, this had not. “I…” she wasn’t too sure what really happened, but she shook it off. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she told him. A yawn escaped her throat. She didn’t realise how tired she’d been this whole time. Probably just shock. Yeah, shock, or adrenaline.

    Stanley tapped the tip of his finger idly on the over-worn steering wheel. “So, married, huh?” attempted Stanley with what she assumed was the best opener he could come up with.

    “Yeah.” But she refused to play nice and forget.

    “Was it… uh, was it a good one?”

    Lorelai occupied herself with the side-view mirror, her reflection harsh and languid. “It was a marriage,” she replied, monotone.

    He chuckled. “Ha. Don’t I know it. Was married for a short while myself.”

    Thump . Went the car over a bump in the road.

    “When did you?—”

    “Why did you do it?” she demanded, her head hung and her words sharp.

    “Huh? What, get married? I could ask the same for you. Didn’t think you’d move on so easily.”

    “No. Why’d you lie to me for years?” She glowered at him from the mirror.

    Thumb . Another bump.

    He stalled as he refused to meet her intense, white-hot gaze. “Ah, that.”

    “Yes. That .” The plastic of the tape recorder dented under her increasing grip.

    “Well,” he started, running a hand through his hair and sighing deeply, “it wasn’t my intention. I wanted to tell you about everything. You gotta believe me.”

    “Then tell me now. Explain everything, right here, right now.”

    “I. I can’t.”

    “Why not?”

    “Because it’s complicated.”

    Red beaded droplets ran from her fingertips. By the time she noticed the stinging ache of the cuts, a few drops had already taken to staining a patch on the denim of her jeans. Lorelai bit back the pain as she withdrew plastic from flesh, releasing her tight grip on the tape recorder – in her hands it was small, something someone could properly grip entirely with one hand like a heart, her heart that now poured out blood from an old wound. But she brought it upon herself; shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have gripped the broken case so hard; she should have known better than to expect any other answer. It was always complicated .

    How foolish of her.

    Stan – Stanley – Pines was a liar through and through. If it’s trust he wanted, then he wasn’t getting it. Lorelai would not give him an inch, even if it cost her life. After all, had he learnt nothing from the last time? The pain, the suffering, all back within an instant like a bonfire eating away at rotten coffin wood where the smoke made white eyes red. Excuses after excuses. She had hoped the fire would eventually burn down to the truth after two decades of being lit, but all she got was the searing of her own skin. Enough was enough.

    Grimacing and mustering every fibre of her being, Lorelai commanded, “stop the car.”

    “But—”

    “I said, stop.the.car.”

    Stan tried to refute her, but the look she gave him was enough to cause him to gulp, put his foot on the brake and turn his skin inside out. Lorelai didn’t care about where they were, or how far she’d have to walk, nor the amount of pain she would be in. Sitting in that car with Stanley Pines was a far worse pain than any sprained ankle. Stepping out, boot against concrete, back turned and out of the car, Lorelai shut the door with a slam as she went to walk off in whatever direction would get her as far away as possible from Stan within the streets of Gravity Falls.

    But it wouldn’t be enough. More stubborn than a mule and going after her, Stan shouted out to her, “Lorelai, wait!”

    “What? What is it this time?” She stopped, her face still red from the neck up.

    “I. The tape recorder.” For the first time in a long time, his voice softened against the still and dreaded, chill air. Softer than she could imagine it going. “I broke it once before, let me try again. I owe that much to you,” he implored.

    “It’s a bit hard to trust you when all you’ve ever done is break things, Stan,” she argued, a frown upon her lips.

    “Well, I’m trying to change that.”

    “I don’t believe you.”

    “For crying out loud, it’s been twenty years. People change, haven’t you?��

    Lorelai fell silent. He had a point. By god, he had a stupid point.

    She turned on her heel before reluctantly crossing the distance wedged between them. “One chance. That’s all I’m giving you, Stanley Pines,” she told him and handed over the recorder, and he just smiled like some proud idiot, teeth and all. 

    “I like my odds,” said he, as if he had tricked her all over again into giving him her heart. But, she wasn’t the same woman he had fooled years prior, and he wasn’t the man she once knew. Then again, he never was. Doesn’t mean she’d forgive him for the past.

    She gave him a few days.

———

Transcript of recorded statement 2.36:

> Toots, do we have to do this? > You’re the one who wanted to stay with the times, hun! [CLOTHES BEING THROWN HIT THE FLOOR] > Christ almighty, you barely have anything salvageable in here...    Aha! This will work great. Here, put this on. > I’m not sure about this one, Lore. > Look, I know Mr Mystery is attached to the whole Mystery Question Mark symbol, hun, but a plain black suit will look amazing. Trust the vision. [A SIGH, FOLLOWED SHORTLY BY THE RUSTLING OF CLOTHES BEING REMOVED AND PUT ON] > Can’t believe you’ve been keeping this one from me this whole time, Stan. > Honestly, I kind of forgot about it. Probably because it’s the only one that’s not mine. > Suits you well though. > Really? I feel strange...   Was my fathers, think he meant for it to be some sort of wedding attire or something. > You’re just missing a few pieces, that’s all. Let me. [FOOTSTEPS ECHO AWAY FROM THE TAPE RECORDER AND MORE RUSTLING] > Lore? > Hm, yes? > Do you— Have you ever thought if marriage suited you? > Have you? [SILENCE] > Anyways, there, done! One eyepatch, the fez and a Kentucky bow tie, courtesy of my father, Jake Summers. > You sure I should have this, won't he miss it? > He won't even notice.   Besides, now it’s a lil’ bit of both of us. [SILENCE] > Hey, big guy, talk to me. Whatcha you feelin’? > A bit awkward, I guess. > It always fits eventually, Stan. Don’t force it. > Yeah. Say, be a doll and grab something from that drawer over there for me, will you? > Sure thing. [FOOTSTEPS APPROACH. A DRAWER OPENS. OBJECTS CLANK AS PAPER RUSTLES] > Wait, wait, wait— > ... What the hell, Stanford. What in the actual hell? > I can explain, just— > Stay awa— [A CRASH. TAPE RECORDER HITS THE FLOOR. STATIC] Statement ends. Transcript over.

[pe0pleall3rgy]

the family leaves little reminders around the shack in case stan has little lapses in his memory, like the portal room (probably turned ford's lab and his bedroom is where the wax figures used to be they just put furniture in there [he never sleeps there he just sleeps on the couch in the basement]) has a sticky note on the desk reading "Stanley, If you're about to work on the portal and find that it isn't there, don't panic! I am safe and sound, if it's nighttime you may find me in my study (the above floor), the very room you're standing in, or my bedroom, what was previously your wax museum. Otherwise, do call me and I'll come running! As of writing this, my contact name is "spare parts" in your cellular phone. -Your favorite anomaly, Stanford" (and he'd put a little doodle or something of a little six-fingered thumbs up) (he'd definitely call it a cellular phone do you know how much i can pull from pearl for this fucker)

and mabel has a family photo taped to the fridge (which i wanna think is really chaotic, stan wendy and mabel are making the dumbest faces possible, soos is the only one genuinely trying but he's doing a duck face which doesnt really work for ANY photos let alone family photos, ford isn't even facing the camera and dipper is actively tripping over his shoelace halfway on-frame because he was the one who set up the camera and had to run back to get in the picture) with a note saying good morning to him and that they all love him just to make sure he knows that (DAMN most of that was just about the photo mb)

soos has an adult adoption certificate framed in the gift shop (come on he definitely adopted him shut the fuck up im a sucker for found family)

dipper diligently copies every new picture and scrapbook page as mabel makes them and keeps a thick binder of them updated (its on stan's nightstand, with detailed notes on everything that's happened to them when mabel misses some parts)

i doubt it ever fully prevents stan from freaking out if he suddenly finds himself in a place he doesn't remember, but i like to think he feels very fond about looking through that scrapbook, memory-lapse or not (and maybe he goes around and looks through all those notes when he's feeling a little down because it makes him think about how much his family cares about him.. but he'll never tell)

-gf anon

AH. THEY CARE SO MUCH…. I’M NOT WELL…

I love the detail that they took the most chaotic photo imaginable and instead of doing a retake they were like “that’s fridge material right there” Pines family I love you.

Also Dipper and Mabel working together to make scrapbooks. Nobody talk to me.

[writethelifeyouwant]

Dive Bar, Ch 8/?

Pairing: Dean x Sam (eventually, he he he) | Sam x OMC (Chase) brief 

Rating: 18+

Prompt/Summary: After a one night stand with a random college chick turns into a threesome that also featured his little brother, Dean- well, frankly, he panics. What’s even worse than gay panicking? Gay incest panicking. Luckily, Sam winds up being a little more cool about the whole thing than Dean ever would have imagined.

WC: 3,631

Tags: Awful flirting (but I’m not sorry), gay panic, angst, Dean having graphic naughty thoughts, male masturbation, blow job, rimming, anal sex, cock ring (? kinda) 

Warnings: thoughts about to brother/brother incest

Beta:  @negans-lucille-tblr, actual angel 😇

Divider: @firefly-graphics ❤️

Sam looked up at the sound of slow clapping, expecting it to be Dean returning with their refills just in time to see Sam pot the last ball. But he couldn’t see Dean, and it took him a moment to identify the clapper as the guy with dark blonde hair strolling towards him with a look of contemplation on his slim face.

“That was pretty impressive,” the guy nodded at the pool table, and Sam straightened up a little, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uh, thanks,” Sam shrugged, the game he’d felt so proud of - and wanted to rub in Dean’s face a moment ago - now making him feel self conscious. He hadn’t meant to draw any kind of attention to himself. That was normally Dean’s forte.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“My um, my brother taught me.” Sam clutched the pool cue between his hands, eyes darting around and landing on Dean at the bar. His breath eased a little once he knew where he was. The new guy’s eyes followed Sam’s and found him watching Dean at the bar.

“That guy’s your brother?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded cautiously.

“Well, that is a relief,” he laughed fully, openly.

Sam was taken aback. “Why?”

“Because if he was your boyfriend I was probably gonna get beat up for hitting on you.” He smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling, but still a little shy.

Sam blinked, dumbfounded. He didn’t know why he hadn’t been expecting it. He’d had a suspicion that this place was an LGBT haunt based on the number of same-sex couples he’d noticed dotted around, but that hadn’t led him to the conclusion that he’d maybe have an opportunity he hadn’t had since Dean had picked him up from Stanford. Sam glanced nervously back to Dean at the bar, watching him knock back a shot of something, not paying attention to his little brother. But why did Sam even care if Dean saw him talking to this guy? He breathed out sharply when he realised that he didn’t have to hide this from Dean - he’d come out to him last month. He didn’t have to be worried about what Dean thought if he saw him talking to - what was this guy’s name?

“I’m Sam,” Sam offered his hand, and the man took it, shaking it firmly. Sam noticed how smooth the guy’s hands were.

“Chase,” he smiled wider still, like he couldn’t believe Sam was actually having a conversation with him.

“So are you, uh, here with anyone?” Sam wasn’t used to making small talk anymore. The only people he talked to were Dean or law enforcement - or witnesses to supernatural phenomena.

“A few friends,” Chase nodded behind him, but not with enough direction for Sam to actually tell which table of people he might have been talking about.

“Do you, um,” Sam let out a sharp, amused exhale, not really believing he was actually doing this. “D’ya want to have a drink?”

Chase smiled brightly. “Yeah, I’d love that,” he nodded, and the pair started towards the bar. “Then maybe you’ll be so kind as to show me just how you play that game over there?”

Sam grinned, this guy was pulling out a classic, but it was a good one.

“You want me to teach you how to play pool?” he smirked and moved closer behind Chase, bracing his hands on the bar on either side of him, and ducked down to speak against his ear. “I should warn you, I’m a pretty hands on teacher.” Sam felt Chase grin, even though he couldn’t see his face.

“I think I’m counting on it. I might need a lot of hand holding,” Chase laughed at his own joke, probably realising how lame it was, but Sam thought it was cute.

While Chase ordered drinks, Sam glanced over his shoulder across the bar and caught Dean looking right at them. Sam blushed under his brother’s intense gaze, a little embarrassed that Dean had been watching him come onto this guy so strongly. But how was that different to any time Sam had to watch Dean flirt his way through every available pair of boobs in these joints? He decided it wasn’t; he didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. Sam gave Chase a once over from behind, eyes lingering on his ass. Yeah, definitely not ashamed of this, Sam resolved. He flicked his eyes back up to meet Dean’s again and gave him a bold wink.

Dean’s face was blank, but his gaze wavered between shock and dread. He’d never seen Sam flirt so blatantly with anyone before. He’d never seen Sam flirt with a guy before either, but he guessed he should have expected that to happen eventually. It hadn’t really hit him before now what Sam being bi really meant. It wasn’t just that he was happy to have a threesome that involved two guys instead of two girls, it meant that sometimes he would want to sleep with guys, just because.

The pride Dean usually felt when Sam successfully picked up a chick wasn’t making an appearance right now, though. This was different. Dean reluctantly realised that the difference here was jealousy. He looked at the guy Sam was pressed up against and took in the spiky hair, the henley pulled across decently toned muscles, the black leather cord he wore as a necklace. He was about Dean’s height judging where he stood against Sam. Angry voices inside him shouted at Dean to break it up, stop Sammy from doing this, protect him, though from what, the voices didn’t care to elaborate. Hopeful voices inside tried to soothe his anger. Telling him that maybe Sam wasn’t with him now, but the guy he was with looked just a little like Dean… maybe… and what if that meant that Sam was drawn to him for that reason?

Dean shut down that internal dialogue with a grimace, and ordered another shot. He wasn’t gonna stay here and watch Sam hit on some guy without getting drunk.

Sam and Chase were two drinks in and back by the pool table, and Sam was having more fun than he could remember having in a long time. Watching Chase bend over the table, ass pressing tight against his jeans, and knowing that he was doing it so Sam could look… it was exhilarating. Even the vague prickling on the back of his neck every time Dean looked over at them gravely didn’t spoil Sam’s mood. He knew his brother was just being an overprotective ass.

Chase shot him a coy smile over his shoulder, still bent over trying to corral all the balls into their frame. Sam grinned back freely, eyes glinting with want that he knew Chase could see.

“You gonna show me how to hold this stick?”

“I’m gonna show you so much more than that,” Sam promised. He pressed against him and threaded his arms through the smaller man’s, slotting their hips and their hands together. “You want to hold it firmly, but not too tight. Just give it a little squeeze.”

Chase burst out laughing, shaking Sam off his body. Sam stood back, confused and a little offended at the reaction. Chase’s eyes glinted under the fluorescent light hanging above them.

“I’m sorry man,” he stifled another laugh and tried again. “Sorry, I just, I couldn’t not think about the innuendo there.” Sam smirked and moved back to Chase, bending him back over and leaning into him heavily.

“That was sorta the point man,” Sam breathed in his ear. “Now, put your hands back on that long piece of wood and do as you’re told.”

Sam realised then that he had been repressing this part of himself for far too long. Or at least his dick thought so, because it was paying quite a bit more attention than it usually did in public.

He was never shy about wanting to be the one in control in the bedroom, but with girls, he never really knew how they would take it. He always worried about hurting them if he was being too rough. With guys it felt a little different, he felt a little freer, like he didn’t have to be scared of throwing them around as much. And he’d had enough to drink that his filter wasn’t inclined to hold him back anymore. The shiver that had run through Chase at Sam’s words only solidified Sam’s resolve to take this guy home and absolutely wreck him.

Dean thought he was gonna be sick. Most people would think that was down to the amount of alcohol he’d just downed in such a short span of time - switching to tequila had either been a very good or a very bad decision on Dean’s part - but in actuality, he was still on the good side of drunk. The thing churning his stomach and pulling him apart from the inside was what he was watching his baby brother do to that twink pressed against the pool table across the bar.

Jesus, they were in public and Sam was practically dry humping the dude. At least respectable people would go to a club and hide behind dancing as an excuse. But there was his brother, his little kid brother, practically fucking some stranger right in the middle of the room. What the fuck does he think he’s doing?

Dean had never seen Sam so blatantly sexual before. Well no - that was a lie - he had seen him that way once, when he’d been pounding into Dany so hard he shook the bed, and looked right at Dean when he’d broken down inside her, staring right into his eyes as he came undone. But the way Sam was looking at him had Dean believing that, maybe, Sam wasn't thinking about Dany at all.

Dean wanted to pretend that he was only offended by the sight before him because it was indecent - not cool, bro - but if the guy below Sam had been him, he wouldn’t have given two fucks how decent they looked, so long as Sam showed everyone watching that it was them who belonged together. That Sam belonged to him, inside him. His.

Chase was a horrible pool player. But that might have more to do with the fact that Sam was grinding a semi against his ass every time he helped him line up a shot. Poor guy had to be at least a little distracted. After two games of utter domination from Sam, he took pity on his playmate and graciously bought him a drink to mellow the loss.

Locking eyes over the wet edged shot glasses, Sam tipped his back and swallowed, long and deep. Sam watched as Chase’s eyes traced his throat and down into the v-neck of the t-shirt he’d revealed when he unbuttoned his flannel during the second game. His eyes settled there for a moment, and Sam wondered how long he would linger there before he caught himself. His breathing quickened slightly - bringing his chest up and down with it, and Chase continued to stare. The attention only aroused Sam more. But it was over when Chase blinked harshly, and brought his eyes back to Sam’s, looking a little startled.

“What?” he said stupidly, fingers slipping on his glass, still full and hanging in front of his lips.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Sam enunciated, a knowing smirk back on his lips.

“Yeah,” Chase nodded and downed his own drink, licking his lips to catch the drop of alcohol that had spilled over. Sam’s eyes locked on his tongue and followed it back inside Chase’s mouth. Their lips met briefly, Sam pulling back almost immediately to check he hadn’t misjudged things - to check he was actually about to follow through on going home with this guy.

Chase’s face was hot, colour staining his already sun-kissed skin, eyes wide like he was staring into the sun. Sam jerked his chin towards the door, brows raised, and Chase nodded and leant in close so Sam could hear him better. “I’m just gonna grab my things, meet you outside?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded and squeezed Chase’s arm in reassurance. “I’m just going to let my brother know where I’m headed.” Sam jerked his head to where he had clocked Dean hunched in a booth nursing a hefty glass of whiskey.

“Hey,” Sam slid into the seat across from Dean, slapping a rhythm against the table as he sat down.

“Someone’s chipper,” Dean grunted sourly, taking a swig of his drink.

“Someone’s bummed out.”

Sam’s sass tugged at the corner’s of Dean’s lips. but he didn’t let it get an actual smile out of him.

“Sorry the girls here weren’t exactly ‘your scene’,” Sam did look a little apologetic, but he couldn’t wipe the smug excitement off his stupid face.

“Yeah, well,” Dean grunted again, and knocked back more of the burning liquid, “about time you got laid, was beginning to think you’d accidentally pulled it off from jerking too much.”

“Ew, dude, gross,” Sam grimaced. “How would you know how much I jerk off, anyways?”

“We live in each other’s asses, Sam,” Dean excused, not caring to mention the fact that he knows Sam’s jerked off in the shower every night since he’d picked him up from Stanford, and he’s spent the last month joining in from the other side of the door. Choking down the jealousy and shame that came with it, Dean pushed Sam out of the booth with his foot. “Now go on and fuck your little boy toy, he’s over there waiting for you.”

Sure enough, when Sam checked over his shoulder, he saw Chase waiting anxiously by the door.

“You gonna be alright, man? You got a motel key?”

“Fuck off,” Dean grumbled, and watched sullenly as Sam made his way through the crowds of people to the door, slipping out behind his company for the evening. Dean knocked back the rest of his glass and stood, stretching the stiffness out of his joints. He didn’t want to stay here, but he didn’t have anywhere else to go besides the motel room. Remembering they had passed a convenience store on their walk here, Dean figured drinking alone was less embarrassing if he was actually alone while he was doing it, and made up his mind.

-

Arriving back at their room with a bottle of Jack he’d already cracked into, Dean crashed onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. What the hell was he doing? Sitting in the dark, drinking himself to sleep because his baby brother went home with someone else. Pathetic. Pining over Sam had become Dean’s new favourite pastime without him even realising it, and most certainly without his permission.

Dropping his hand over the side of his bed and groping for his duffle, Dean managed to dig his hand into the side pocket hiding the bracelets that he’d pushed out of sight nearly two months ago. Curling his fingers around the smooth-worn wooden beads, he dragged them out, clutching them hard until he felt his nails cutting into his palm.

More Jack; these relics in his hand from a time when he used to be a good big brother, one Sam could actually admire and love, and Dean decided he was done. If he was gonna add this to the list of everything else that was fucked up in his life, then he was gonna goddamn lean into it. He knew Sam had noticed that he wasn’t wearing them anymore, and the thought that Sam might think Dean was mad at him, or didn’t love him with literally everything he had was unacceptable now.

He dropped the beads on the comforter and the bottle on the nightstand, and rose to pull off his jeans. If Sam was getting off tonight there was no reason he shouldn't. But at the thought of Sam, Dean couldn’t stop himself thinking about the guy he’d gone home with, who he’d had bent over the pool table in front of the whole damn bar. It was too easy to picture what Sam was doing to him now. Dean settled back against the lumpy pillows and squeezed himself over his boxers, letting himself sink into the images flashing through his mind.

Sam pressing that bastard up against the door. Sam threading his fingers through the short, dark blonde hair and pulling - the very thought draws a gasp from Dean, wishing it was him Sam was doing those things to, pressing those kisses to, scraping his teeth against and leaving marks on.

Inside Chase’s apartment, Sam didn’t waste any time. He had him pressed against the door with his wrists pinned over his head in a heartbeat. His kiss started teasing and light. He nipped at Chase’s lips, and the tip of his tongue that had tried in vain to connect to Sam’s. He dragged his teeth across the five o’clock shadow that dusted Chase’s jaw and down, locking on the hollow up his throat and pulling a heavy sign from his partner.

Sam kissed his way back to Chase’s lips and devoured him this time. Their tongues slid together but there was no fight for dominance, no illusion as to how this night was going. Sam was in charge, and that was just where they both wanted him.

Lurching backwards, Sam pulled Chase along with him, and they stumbled blindly around the entryway and managed to fall through the door to the bedroom - Chase’s doing. Sam’s jacket and shoes were discarded on the floor, Chase’s henley tossed onto the scattered laundry piled at the bottom of his bed. The sight made Sam smirk, one more confirmation that he went home with a guy tonight.

Sam sat on the bed and dragged Chase on top of him, grabbing his neck and forcing their mouths back together. At a loud groan from Chase, Sam opened his eyes and stared into the blue-grass eyes he remembered admiring in the bar, but in this dim light they looked darker, greener, and suddenly, Sam wasn’t looking at Chase anymore.

Dean tried to picture something, anything, other than Sam but he couldn’t. He saw Sam rolling himself on top of that guy and dragging himself down - would they be on the couch, or a bed? - down to the fly on his irritatingly well-fitted jeans and popping the button open with a grin. He saw him pulling the denim down and off, saw him mouthing hungrily over the cotton-covered bulge he found himself faced with, tonguing along the head and leaving a dark stain behind.

Dean groaned and pulled himself free from his boxers, needing it faster, tighter, meaner.

Sam swallowed Chase down eagerly. He didn’t even have the patience to pull his boxers all the way off, and he twisted the fabric in his hands, pulled it tight. It had been so long since he’d had a cock in his mouth he nearly gagged himself in his excitement to suck down every last inch. Chase whimpered above him, lost in the heat of Sam’s throat. Sam could tell he was trying so hard not to lose it already, so he eased up a little. He didn’t want to see Chase cum until he had his cock inside him.

Granting Chase a brief moment of reprieve, Sam slid further down until his tongue was thrusting in and out of his ass. Chase tried to squirm away but Sam held him down, bracing his arm across the slim hips to keep his prey in place. Chase managed to fish the lube and a condom out of his nightstand and throw them vaguely in Sam’s direction without Sam needing to stop his tongue’s assault. Sam knew he was rushing, but by the time he pushed inside of Chase’s not-prepped-enough hole neither of them cared.

Dean could feel it, hovering out of reach. He wanted it so badly but he couldn’t get there, and the frustration was starting to outweigh the desperation. The volume of alcohol couldn’t have been helping things either, but logic wasn’t what Dean was interested in right now. He needed something else, something more. Grasping in his mind for the images of Sam to come back, Dean’s fingers clawed against the bedspread, tugging on his cock relentlessly. Then his fingers nudged something - Sam’s bracelets.

Without thinking too hard, Dean clutched them in his fist, bringing both hands to wrap around himself and pressing the small, cool beads against his heated flesh. He still wanted more, needed something to cut through this haze of want and really make him feel. He wrapped the worn strings around the base of his dick, cinching tightly, and squeezing a whimper of pain through his lips. But that pain was just the spark he needed.

The urgency he’d been chasing before came rushing back, and visions of Sam above him, touching him, choking him, calling him a desperate, pathetic little cockslut, beat against the inside of his eyelids, and he was cumming harder than he could ever remember. He felt a white heat burning through every artery, vein, capillary in his goddamn body, and it brought him to an edge he never knew existed. It was agonising, and perfect.

Sam fucked his hips into Chase’s faster and faster. Their teeth met more often than their tongues as they kissed frantically, both reaching the ends of their tethers. Chase grabbed himself and pulled, beating himself faster and faster until he spilled into the sweat pooling between their bodies, groaning Sam’s name. Sam thrust harder and harder and froze, crammed so deep inside he barely fit, and then he was cumming; spilling his seed into Chase, and spilling Dean’s name from his lips.

*

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[mystic-writings]

eyeliner | sam winchester

PAIRING — sam winchester x fem!reader

REQUEST — anon - Hi! So I saw that your requests are open so we all know Sam Winchester definitely had an emo faze I’m Stanford so what if the reader and him where just being a really cute emo couple and they helped eachother with their eyeliner and make up and clothes and it’s just overall two emos having a good time ?:)

SUMMARY — you help sam with his eyeliner before a party, but you decide to stay in instead

WARNINGS — none

WORD COUNT — 1,372

NOTE — to the anon who requested this, thank you for introducing me to the idea of emo!sam. i now need as much of it as i can get my hands on

masterlist | navigation

The day you met Sam was one of the best days of your life. Of course, how you met wasn’t exactly ideal, but it was still one of the best things that happened to you.

He was the same age as you, although a little older, and starting his second semester of college. You were minding your business, headphones on with the music a little too loud, walking the campus streets back to your dorm from the convenience store where you just bought a few days worth of Monster. Partly for the energy, partly for the taste.

It was cold; a flurry of snow dusting the roads and melting in your hair. You kept your face down to keep the snow from falling in your eyes and protect it as much as you could from the cold, when you smacked into his chest and almost slipped. He managed to catch you, as cliche as it was. He invited you to get a coffee the next day and the rest, as they say, was history.

It didn’t take you long to drag Sam into your world. Within months of dating you he went from plain coloured t-shirts to band tees and dark hoodies, abandoning his worker boots for converse sneakers, even asking you to darken his hair with dye.

Dancing around the kitchen to CDs you made while making a cheap dinner, going to endless amounts of parties with your friends, dying your hair obscene colours. Once he went around campus for a few weeks with all of his hair black, save for the hair that framed his face, which had been dyed blue. Despite all of it, though, Sam was still focused on his studies, something you admire deeply.

It was magical, dating Sam. You could see pieces of his old self shine through in his personality, things like his kindness and good heart, things you don’t think he could be himself without. His passion for school was still there, too. All in all, he was still himself, the same polite, funny guy that you bumped into on that icy street, just with new style and new interests.

You could say the same for yourself as well. The only thing about you that changed was how you looked and what you listened to. Maybe a few elements of yourself changed, like being able to stand up for yourself (something you couldn’t do when you were in highschool) and knowing when to pick your battles.

But enough of that. Because today, you and Sam were headed to the first party of the new year; a party that a friend of a friend was hosting. You were excited, to say the least. Sam, however, was a little nervous today and couldn’t get his eyeliner right. You were straightening out your fishnets when you looked over and saw him wiping off the makeup, causing you to stand and walk over to him, plucking the eyeliner from his grasp.

“What are you doing?”

“You need a little help, Sammy. Just let me do it.” You shrugged. He closed his eyes and you attempted to do his eyeliner at the angle you were working with, but since he was sitting down, you couldn’t get it right. So, you did what anyone else would do. You sat on his lap.

He opened his eyes when he felt the weight on his legs, but when he saw that it was just you, he closed his eyes again and put his hands on your waist to steady you as you brushed back his hair with one hand, the eyeliner pencil in the other, carefully dragging it along the edge of his eyelid, making sure it was noticeable but not too bold, just the way he liked it. Getting under his eye proved more difficult, as he continuously fluttered his eyes closed, to the point where you had to keep them open with your fingers, careful not to poke him.

Of course, he complained a little bit, but kept quiet for the majority of the time. When you got to his right eye, he let out a giggle as you smudge the eyeliner upward. Confused, you asked, “What’s so funny?”

“It tickles a little, that’s all.” He admitted.

You smiled at the man in front of you and recapped the eyeliner pencil, making sure he looked good before kissing his forehead. You went to stand up, but the hands on your hips anchored you on his lap. He moved his hands to wrap your arms around your torso, pulling you flush against his body.

“Do we have to go to the party? Can we just stay here tonight?”

His voice was muffled in your clothing and you wrapped your arms around his neck, closing your eyes and scratching the scalp at the back of his head, comforting him. “Yeah we can, if that’s what you want. I can order pizza and we can see what’s on TV.”

“That sounds nice.” You could already hear the relaxation in his voice as he let go of you, allowing you to reach for the cordless phone and call the local pizza joint to order what you usually did.

As soon as you put the phone down, you stripped the fishnet stockings from your legs and changed into one of Sam’s band tees and a pair of old gym shorts instead of your layered shirts and skirt, dropping onto the bed and pulling Sam’s blue comforter over your legs.

He changed into his own pyjamas, a pair of old jogging pants and a plain grey shirt. He slid into the bed next to you and grabbed the TV remote, flicking through the channels to see what was on while you curled up against his side. He wrapped his free arm around you and you both stayed that way until deciding to watch The Mask, since it was airing in a few minutes.

Until the pizza came, you stayed in that position. Sam went to the door to pay for the pizza and you went to the kitchen for drinks, meeting back at the bed. You both stayed glued to the other’s side, the warmth from each other's bodies and the fresh pizza box creating a nice, warm bed for you to sleep in. Of course, that wouldn’t be for a while, but the thought was nice.

The movie was funny, and you found yourself watching Liar, Liar after The Mask, which led you to assume that the station was having some sort of Jim Carrey marathon-- not that you were complaining.

As the night progressed, the phone began to ring. You groaned, but got up to answer it regardless. “Hello?”

“Where are you, Y/n?” It was your friend, no doubt wondering where you and your boyfriend were.

“Ugh, I forgot to call you.” You rolled your eyes at yourself. “Sorry. We’re not coming. Sam wasn’t exactly feeling the party scene tonight, so we decided to chill and watch movies.”

“Oh, okay.” Said your friend. “Yeah, it’s no problem. I was just wondering where you were. I’ll see you on monday for our psych class, kay?”

“Yeah, yeah, see you then, loser.” You smiled.

“Catch you later, birdbrain.” You chuckled at your friend’s response before hanging up and shuffling back to the bed.

Sam said nothing about the call, knowing exactly who it was, and instead invited you into his arms to cling to him like a koala bear. His scent was more than comforting as you wrapped your arms around his torso and laid on his chest, focused on the movie. You felt Sam shift above you as your eyelids grow heavy, hearing him mutter, “Your roots are showing again, you’re gonna have to dye your hair again soon.”

Sleepily, you muttered, “Okay, I’ll do it tomorrow. Want me to dye yours again?”

“Sure, why not? But for now,” He dropped a kiss on the top of your head. “You should get some sleep.”

You didn’t fight the suggestion, but welcomed it, finally closing your eyes and taking a breath as Sam’s heartbeat steadily beneath his ribcage, luring you into a sound, peaceful sleep, curled up on the bed with the man you loved.

Forever taglist: @simonsbluee @probably-peeves @sarcasticallywitty15

Sam Winchester taglist: @theweasleyslut @mazerunnerrose @johnmurphyisqueer @thanossexual​

taglist form is in my navigation!

[maine-writes]

Vonvon's Time Vacation

Somewhere, far from the crystal shores of Beach City, there is a winding road that twisted through a great, snow-covered forest. On that road was an aging Dondai, and another, nicer car, making their way through the glimmering flurries.

"So if you were stuck on a desert island with me, Connie, Onion, Jenny, Buck, and Sour Cream, what one item would you bring?" Vovon inquired with yet another hypothetical. They've been asking these sort of questions for the last few hours to pass the time.

"Hey, what about us?" Sadie laughed from the driver's seat.

"Oh, and Sadie and Lars."

"I was stuck on a desert island with them once." Steven added. "I'll go with a phone."

"That would've been great then." Sadie said. Vonvon would've brought a conch shell.

They had been looking forward to this trip. Just them, Steven, Connie, Onion, Sadie, Lars, and the cool kids. After the whole "nearly dying on Homeworld", everyone on Beach City thought Steven could really use a vacation.

Luckily, former Mayor Dewey knew of a place. A picturesque hotel in the middle of the woods, in the heart of neighboring Keystone.

Now, everyone was imagining a quaint bed-and-breakfast type of establishment. But when they crested the hill, they saw it; the massive, three-storey, Stanford Hotel.

Shaped like a gigantic horseshoe, with two buildings spread out like outstreatched arms, meeting the main hall in the center. The exterior walls were marble white, with great crystal glass windows.

"Did you know the Stanford Hotel was opened in 1911 by George Brown Stanford?" Connie said, reading from a handy little historical pamphlet. "It was built for the wealthy, it was the first fully electric hotel in the state, and structured for maximum natural airflow."

The two cars circled into the driveway, passing a grand foutain in the center. Atop the fountain was a statuette of a thin, beautiful woman.

"Hey, doesn't she kinda look like Pearl?" Vonvon pointed out. Everyone noted the statue's nose, which definitely looked like Pearl's.

"This place is so bougie." Jenny exclaimed, leaving Buck and Sour Cream to handle their luggage.

"I think you mean old." Lars muttered. To think, he could've been in space, exploring another old Gem colony, but he was on Earth, on vaacation.

"I'm getting serious The Shining vibes from this place." Vonvon said, swearing that the groundskeeper that was busy shovelling snow was Jack Nicholson.

"Seriously, doesn't anyone else see this?"

If they thought the exterior was beautiful, then the interior of the main hall was exceedingly extravagant.

The domed lobby, which was open to the second and third floors, had a circular "pool" floored with beautiful marble tiles, columns of marble and mahogany seemed to sprout out like trees in the snow, the main desk was made of granite, inlaid with gold and the same deep brown mahogany. Outside of the circle of marble, the floor was covered in impeccably maintained burgundy carpeting. On either side of the main desk was the Grand Staircase, which granted access to the next two floors.

Standing behind the desk was an inexplicably familiar stranger, a tall woman with dark skin and a head of dark, blocky hair that was barely contained in a bun. The top half of her face was hidden by a pair of large sunglasses.

"Welcome to the Stanford Hotel, least haunted hotel in Keystone."

"That's a weird line to open with." Vonvon said, noting that nobody seemed to mind it or the front desk agent's choice of occular fashion.

"Steven Universe and company." Said the recently traumatized child. He was hiding it pretty well. Compartmentalizing trauma does wonders, and there are absolutely no downsides or risks of it suddenly haunting your every waking moment.

After being given their room keys, which had recently been upgraded to a standard cardkey system, the party made their way down the "West Wing", where all the rooms were.

Everyone had paired up for the two bed rooms. Jenny and Sadie, Onion and Sour Cream, Connie and Vonvon, and Buck bunked with Lars and Steven. Vonvon was simply asked who they would feel comfortable sharing a room with.

"Or maybe Steven and Connie could make Stevonnie and then we'd all be even." Sadie said.

"Nah, I'm cool with sleeping on the floor." Buck insisted with his usual laid-back attitude. "Always carry a sleeping bag in the trunk, in case I feel like camping on my car, under the stars."

"Or you could snuggle with Lars." Jenny laughed.

"I'm down, Lars?"

"It sure was nice for the front desk lady to get bellhop to get our bags." Sadie said as she unlocked the door to her and Jenny's room. "Remind me to write a review. What was her name again?"

"I think it was Estelle." Jenny said.

Each room seemed was of the highest standard, with beautiful, flawless, white walls, beds draped in the most luxurious silk and cotton, and a view of the majestic scenery. They were furnished with handcarved chairs, tables, nightstands, and drawers. Each had a unique framed painting of the landscape, a flatscreen TV, and a telephone with a hotel facility directory.

Whilst they admired their luxurious quarters, they all heard a loud crash in the hallway and a squabbling argument.

Out in the hall were two bellhops, who were also strangely familiar.

The taller one had short, asymmetrical hair, a rather trendy style, the other was much shorter in height, with wild hair and a pair of large, circular glasses.

"I told you to slow down you clod!" Yelled the shorter one.

"It's not my fault you have short legs, you know."

"Real mature, you can't come up with an excuse, so you take a jab at my height."

One by one the party retreated back into their rooms., waiting for the drama to blow over so they can get their things.

"This place is weird." Vonvon said to Connie.

To be continued?

@artsycooky13

[nontrivialproof]

There is actually one slash-potential relationship on Chuck. I cannot personally ship it in the slightest because the two white dudes are Zach Levi and Matt Bomer. But the fact that the show doesn’t even consider the implications makes me crazy so let me just tell this story for a minute. Major Chuck (2007-2011) spoilers from here on out.

You are a student at Stanford University. You are cool and good-looking, but you are also a nerd, and you bond over this with a nerdy, awkward guy who becomes your best friend and college roommate. There are scenes of you having a nerf gun war in a college library. Your junior year you are recruited to work for the CIA, something that will prevent you from ever having a normal life. Your senior year, the professor who recruited you is planning to recruit your roommate to become, essentially, a living tool for the government. To save him from this life, you commit the ultimate betrayal of framing him for cheating and getting him expelled, knowing that this will cause him to hate you forever. At the same time, his girlfriend (who is also a spy) dumps him and (on spy orders) says that she is dating you, so that he believes you betrayed him so that you could date his girlfriend. Your and her betrayals turn your best friend into a shell of himself for many years. During these years, you are executing life-or-death international spy missions with your partner, a female spy who you pretend to date for a cover but also are actually dating, albeit in the detached manner of spies who know they will never have a real future. The two of you have very similar baggage. You both secretly long for a better life while not understanding how you could ever escape or find happiness outside of the spy life. Eventually (in the first scene of the show!) you betray the government after realizing the Super Powerful Spy Tool is in danger of falling into the hands of the evil organization that has infiltrated the CIA, and you die stealing the tool and sending it to your former best friend on the blind hope that he will somehow still trust you enough to accept it. Except that it turns out you’re not dead, because you were rescued and cryogenically frozen by the evil spy organization. You wake up to find that your former best friend has been successfully pulled into the spy life by you and that he is partners with your former partner. The two of them are orbiting around each other in an intense will-they-won’t-they, and they have their first kiss in front of the box containing your frozen body. To him, she represents the exciting life he has dreamed of, the possibility for more than there has always been. For her, he represents the stability and quiet life she thought was impossible. You are also there. You enter into an awkward love triangle, because he is your best friend, and she is also your best friend, and you are in love with her. You are definitely in love with her and only her. That is definitely what is happening here. Eventually, you realize that you are standing in the way of both of their happiness, and you remove yourself from the narrative. You die the way you lived, foisting weight-of-the-world spy responsibility on the shoulders of the man you just wanted to protect. You are Bryce Larkin.

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

Be Mine, This Quarantine ~ (II)

Dean pulls out his phone, clicks on the camera icon, and takes a selfie.

He looks adequately grouchy in it - his uninterested eyebrow-raise, an indisputable declaration that clicking a picture of himself irritates and annoys him, as it should every respectable non-preadolescent person. Also, he manages to get Cas's apartment building, a little bit of the night sky, and his very last moving box of stuffs, in the frame.

It's labelled 'Socks' on the top, and should make Dean feel like a dork if he wasn't going to send the picture straight to Sam - the dorkier of the two of them, by far, and also someone who's well-acquainted with Dean's fascination for hilarious novelty socks.

No sooner has the message been sent, it's been seen, and Dean's getting a call from his little brother.

"It's dark." Sam greets, with all the subtle pointedness of a soon-to-be-lawyer. "Why is it dark?"

"Are you just staring at your screen, waiting for me to text you all day?" Dean throws back, and Sam makes a noncommittal sound. "And it's dark cause it's almost nine."

"And you're still not done?" Sam sounds surprised.

"Almost," Dean bites his cheek. He has to admit Sam has a point. Moving in's supposed to be a morning, in-the-sun kind of activity. "In my defense, I started late. Cas made me spend all morning at his place, getting to know Catsanova."

"His cat?"

"It's literally in the name, Sammy."

"Hypoallergenic?"

"Do I sound dead to you?" Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, she is. And cute, too. Black, and it's got whiskers. Responds to 'Cas'."

"Figures." Sam grins, audibly. Kid's always been an animal person - he's probably going to be asking for pictures all the time now. "It sounds pretty similar. So what, you say Cas, and both the cat and human come up to you?"

"Neither of them come up to me, cause neither of them's fond of moving. Big Cas ignores me until I make it like I'm dying, and Small Cas still doesn't really care." Dean laughs. "But I'm going to try and work up to it."

"Good luck." Sam says to that, before clearing his throat. "You should finish moving your socks in, Dean." There's a pause. "Thank you for listening to me about the quarantine thing, I guess. And staying safe."

Dean's first instinct is to immediately dismiss the sentiment, but then he decides not to. And settles for, "You too, Sammy. And thank you for the move-in-with-Cas advice."

Sam lets out a soft, "Yeah."

"But if you tell me what to do again," Dean adds, right after. "And try to threaten me with cheap flight tickets to Kansas? I'm not fucking giving in."

"And you're welcome for the caring about you." Sam retorts, and Dean rolls his eyes a second time.

"That's my job."

"Yeah, right."

"Just shut your face. Smartass." Dean can't contain his smile, in spite of himself. "Stay inside, okay? I've got Gabriel's eyes on you." That's Cas's stepbrother, also in Stanford, and Dean's not really used him yet - but he really could. Dude's sorta obsessed with Sam.

"I -" Sam huffs. "Jerk."

Dean grins. "Bitch."

The phone clicks, and Sam's gone. Dean picks up the last box - it's pretty light, so he props it on his hip and uses a free hand to slam Baby's door shut, and walks into the building he's going to spend (at least) the next three weeks in.

*

"Pizza's on it's way." Cas says from the couch, first thing as Dean enters and shuts the door behind him, setting the box on the floor.

He can't get a normal greeting fucking ever in these parts - but he doesn't really pay attention to it, because every braincell which isn't involved in keeping him alive and standing, fixates all at once, on the scene which beholds him.

He's obviously seen Cas plenty of times before - probably more keenly than he should've been seeing him, to be fair - but this is different. It's like seeing Cas in his natural habitat.

He's in the middle of the couch - typical roommate-lacking behavior - with bare feet propped up on two of Dean's boxes, like there wasn't any furniture around before Dean moved in. And in his collarless bee-patterned shirt and pyjamas which match the brown throw pillows, it's basically like he's dissolved into the couch under the weight of Catsanova who's settled on his tummy, with his hands around her, petting. His hair's enough of a mess that he could've had a reverse-Jonathan-Van-Ness moment by himself when Dean went downstairs for the last time, and his eyes are glued to the TV screen even when he speaks to Dean, and then proceeds to keep up a soft, toddler-voice conversation with his cat.

Holy shit.

Dean loves him.

This is going to be so hard.

"I changed out of my jeans," Cas adds, not even slightly in Dean's direction, per se. "I know you wanted to go out earlier, but it's Catsanova's dinner time now, and I was wondering if the three of us could just eat together. And watch The Middle." The last part, he directs to Dean, eyes wide and curious.

"Uh." Dean says, eloquently. "Sure."

The Middle's exactly the kind of thing Dean should've expected Cas would watch. It's sappy and sweet, and revolves around a hilariously dysfunctional family, and it's half ways to a sitcom and Dean can clearly imagine them bingeing through all of it - piled on the couch with the cat on Cas's lap, and he's still in the middle cause Dean really doesn't mind squeezing on his left as long as their shoulders brush and knees touch, and they're having pizza and Cas is in ratty graphic tees, and -

Alternatively, this is going to be a little bit perfect.

"I'll go change as well." Dean rubs the back of his neck, scanning the room for his bag which contained a set of clothes in case he got too lazy to unpack. As had happened.

"Are you going to be needing any of these?" Cas draws his attention to the two boxes he's got his feet on, by wiggling his toes.

"Nah." Dean checks the labels. "There won't be any pyjamas in DVDs or Boo -" He stops. That's supposed to be Books. "Boo?" Dean repeats, frowning.

"Catsanova likes scratching letters off of words which make them more adorable. Don't you, Catsanova?" Cas grins, running his hand through her fur as he talks about her. She doesn't really pay attention to it. "Say Boo again for us, Dean."

Dean fails to resist the blush. "Screw you. And do you always say her full name, like, all the time? I get that it's funny - or punny, or whatever," Castiel beams at that bit. "But it's kind of a mouthful."

"An earful, you mean." Cas muses.

Dean shrugs, because he's stuck trying to rein in the overpowering affection he feels for this messy, gorgeous guy, who always addresses his cat by her full name, and lets him move in for quarantine. "Just call her Nova or something. She's smart, she'll get it."

"But her name's Catsanova." Cas clarifies, as if it wasn't clear to Dean before.

"Your name's Castiel, Cas."

"I blame you for that."

"Sure you do, Happy Meal."

Cas scowls, not giving Dean more material to work with, and silently going back to watching the TV. "Spoilsport." Dean grins. "Isn't that what he is, Catsanova?"

She, once again, doesn't pay any real attention to them, but Cas's lips quirk up in a smile. They're done discussing nicknames for the cat apparently, so he moves on. "You can freshen up in my bathroom right now. There's no towels in the other one yet."

"Roger that."

Dean picks up his duffel and sets off for Cas's room. He's been to this apartment plenty of times, before. On his way, he passes what's going to be his room - previously, Cas's study slash storage, and takes a detour.

It's the same size as Cas's room, with smaller windows and grey curtains, and looks pretty comfortable, though Dean's more of a spend-all-day-in-the-living-room sorta guy. It's got wardrobes and shelves, for when it's morning and Dean resumes the elaborate routine of unpacking, and a desk at the side, and - oh, fucking hell.

Dean flings his duffel on the chair, which is the only place to sit in the entire room, - and marches out. "Cas!"

For once, even Catsanova reacts to him, jumping down from Cas, and Cas looks downright alarmed when Dean storms into the living room. "What happened?"

"Where the hell's your futon?"

"Oh." Cas pauses. Dean waits, impatiently for an answer, which seems to come to Cas fairly quick, bringing in its wake, a horrified expression of remembrance. "I lent it to Kelly."

"Then," Dean fixes Cas with an accusing glare. If he were standing, that would've been a finger jabbed at his chest. "Where the hell am I going to sleep?"

"Oh."

"Well?"

Cas blinks. And quietly declares - for the benefit of Catsanova, probably, because the two humans already know, and are staring at each other in despair. "I may not have completely thought this through."

*

"I call right."

"Right-now-right, or on-the-bed-right?" Cas confirms, voice coming in from the bathroom where he's brushing his teeth.

"You're on my right when we're sleeping." Dean declares, stifling a scowl. It's not like he's trying to be rude, but he really hadn't expected any of this. He hasn't expected to finish moving in at nine, and dinner at ten, and then proceed to sleep in Cas's bed for the first night he's here.

("I'm so sorry, this is completely on me -" Cas had kept apologizing, with blue eyes in full-on Bambi stare. "I can't believe I forgot about giving away the futon! I'm such a -"

"Whatever, Cas." Dean had frowned back, rolling his eyes. "S'not that big a deal. I'll take the couch."

"Of course not." Cas had looked horrified. "It's cold out here, and my couch is too small - it's just a three-seater. You're way taller than three horizontal butts, plus twice the armrest." Dean had given him a look for that one, and if he wasn't annoyed, he would've been laughed.

"So?"

"You're obviously sleeping in my bed."

"Well, you're taller than three butts too." Dean had sighed, still annoyed - but it slowly subsiding to some sort of thrill which was definitely associated with getting to sleep in Cas's bed.

"I know." Cas had sighed back, a little grim. "I'll just sleep with you.")

Now, Cas exits the bathroom, and walks straight to the bed, setting the pillows right. It's a King-size, so they're going to have enough space, really, but Dean's a little skeptic about getting under the covers first. So instead of climbing on his side, and settling in like his body really wants to, he lingers around, rummaging through his bag even though he has everything he needs.

His phone's plugged in next to his bed, and he's just in a t-shirt and pajamas now. Sure, he usually sleeps in just his boxers, but he has a fair idea of how ridiculous that'd be when Cas, right next to him, sleeps in a full, adorable ensemble.

And that's the last time he's letting himself think Cas - or his bee-themed outfits are adorable.

"I'm going to go put Catsanova to bed." Cas announces, with a smile. "To couch, to be honest. She sleeps inside the couch and I think she likes to think it's her very own hiding spot."

"So that's why I'm not sleeping there?" Dean throws back, stifling a yawn. Somehow, it's eleven, and that's not exactly late, but on a day you've moved into your best friend's apartment, and made friends with his moody cat, it feels pretty late. "Cause the three-butt analogy wasn't your best move, buddy."

"You guessed it." Cas returns, flatly. "I made us sleep in the same bed so that Catsanova's sleep routine didn't get disrupted. Now, how about you actually sleep, Dean?" There's one of those I-know-more-than-you-think-I-do smiles on his face. "You're clearly tired."

"'M not sleeping without you." Dean can't hold in the yawn this time, and it comes out garbling the last bits of his sentence and causing Cas to stare at him in a horrified kind of fascination.

"Before you." He corrects, his cheeks burning, when he actually hears himself. "That'd just be weird."

"Not at all," Cas shrugs. "But sure. Just come with me to Catsanova's night couch."

"Whose couch is it in the morning?"

Cas doesn't really think about it. "Hers, though she settles for indirect use of it's luxury, via our laps."

Dean nods thoughtfully, and follows Cas to the living room. The cat is already all fed, of course, and doesn't really seem keen on playing with them - probably because, and Cas told him this once, cats tended to have bedtime installed in their cat brains. Dean may or may not think that's adorable.

Catsanova curls up in the middle of the couch, much like her (nick)-namesake, and Dean's breath hitches when with a slight purr, puts her head on her paws. She's not a kitten, Cas had mentioned, but she's still so small, that she fits on just one cushion, and with her tail drawn up close, and squinting eyes, she's the cutest thing Dean's ever seen.

"Isn't this somehow better than even the best youtube cat videos?" Cas whispers, eyes turned adoringly at his cat.

"I don't watch -"

Cas gives him a look.

"Okay, yeah, I do, and it is." Dean gives in, rolling his eyes at being called out. "Maybe not better than the kitten falling asleep in the middle of dinner though."

Cas raises his eyebrows, impressed. "You're not wrong."

"But a close second?" Dean offers.

Cas smiles, softly, straight at Dean. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, with hands around his ankles, and Dean's on the low settee behind him, staring at both the cat and Cas, lazily smiling too.

It feels perfect. In fact, he's so physically exhausted and mentally blissed out that in the moment, that he's not even freaking out about the fact that after this, he and Cas are going to go sleep in the same bed.

(In his right senses, he would've been. When it got suggested - or pretty much, declared, he couldn't have put up a big argument, because if Cas could be so cool about it, how weird would it have been if he wasn't? Why shouldn't he be, indeed?

Except for the fact that he's in love with Castiel and growing increasingly aware of it as the day lives by, there's absolutely no other reason, he's sure.

So after a few weakly presented excuses, including his insistance that it isn't necessary - "Dean, of course it is!" - and bringing back the couch solution - "Dean, why would you sleep on the couch for my mistake?" - he'd given in.

He just couldn't come around to the point that he really isn't sure he'll be able to survive being next to Cas on a bed for an entire night, and figures that it didn't occur to Cas either.

Because of course it fucking didn't.)

"Okay, then." Cas lets out, standing up from the ground swiftly, though Dean holds a hand out. His voice holds a tinge of we're done here, like a superhero in a mission, and Dean grins, in spite of himself. "Let's go."

Since 'putting Catsanova to bed' apparently only includes sitting in front of the couch and staring at her in adoration while she falls asleep and eventually snuggles so close to the back of the couch that she ends up rolling inside, as Dean has now learned, Dean gets up too.

"How'd you like it?" Cas sounds proud.

"Her sleep routine? She did all of it herself." Dean tells him, as the both of them drag themselves to Cas's room. Even Dean knows the house well enough to not have to think about it. "I don't know what I expected, but that wasn't it."

"Did you imagine cuddles and lullabies?" Cas laughs.

"You built it up, buddy."

Cas shrugs nonchalantly, as they reach the bed, and Dean's too tired at this point to even care who's getting in first. All he notices is when they're both in - Cas half-sitting up, legs stretched out under the comforter, and Dean lying on his side as he speaks to him.

"All you did was watch her sleep." He mutters, not really thinking anymore. Sleep is fast trailing his heels, and well, he's stopped running from it.

"I like watching over her." Cas answers, easily. "And it's a sign of trust that she lets me, to be fair. Cats aren't shy, but -"

"Territorial?"

"I guess."

"Huh." Dean closes his eyes. The pillow under his head is the perfect percentage of soft, and it's warm inside the comforter, as compared to the cold in the room. He pulls it up to his neck, trying to tuck himself in without making it obvious.

There's a pause.

"I didn't want to sleep before because," Dean confesses. "Sometimes you look at me." He likes it, but hopefully that doesn't come out in his voice.

There's a weight shift in the mattress, as Cas lies down too. Straight on his back, hand curved above his head, staring at the ceiling.

"It's weird." Dean mumbles. "Kinda."

Cas says, "Okay." But Dean's already asleep, slightly huffing when he exhales, and so there's nothing said in return, and Cas reaches to turn off the lap and goes to sleep, too.

*

Thing is, falling asleep when you're tired is easy. Staying asleep when you're anxious is not.

Dean blinks awake, with a startled breath, and takes a beat to process his surroundings. Gauging by the darkness in the room, it's a long way till sunrise. He stretches drowsily, an unconscious habit of getting up, and his hand nudges against something.

It feels like muscle, and hair, and turns out to be Cas's forearm, because as soon as his eyes get adjusted to the minimal light - he discovers Cas is right there.

They've both migrated towards the middle in their sleep - more Cas than him, Dean assumes quickly, and are still facing each other. When Dean draws his hand back, folding it under the comforter again, there's a few inches between them everywhere - yet suddenly, he's extremely awake, and aware, and losing it.

Cas is quietly asleep, features completely free of tension - with his face smoothed over in sleep, and lips slightly parted. He's unfairly beautiful, and practically a head-jerk away from Dean's pillow, and it's crazy how much it's all getting to Dean.

Even asleep, he's driving Dean nuts.

He doesn't even know what he wants to do - keep staring at this picture of serenity, force himself back to sleep, or something entirely different, but was he does is turn around.

He turns a hundred eighty degrees, keeping his eyes closed, and finds himself facing Cas's bookshelf.

The easiest way to deal with this burst of emotion is to sleep, he convinces himself, and maybe he'll forget about this in the morning. Maybe he'll fall asleep trying to read the titles of the books in front of him, and forget about waking up to Cas in front of him, dreamy even when dreaming, and forget about being overpowered by just about everything in that moment, as he is right now.

He just needs to go back to sleep.

Dean's repeated this to himself enough times to actually be drifting off to sleep, when he feels an arm randomly fall around his waist.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Cas, still asleep, has apparently decided to put his hand around Dean as if he were a fluffy stuffed toy or something, and it's landed ridiculously close to his abdomen, and his toes curl, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

And if Dean inadvertently pushes back towards the warmth radiating from Cas, and ends up little-spooning him because he's somehow backed up until he's reached Cas - then that's just a whole other thing he's never going to think about.

He finally goes back to sleep, not having to try and read the book titles at all, because apparently Cas hugging Dean to himself like a goddamn pillow, is all his fucking insomniac brain's ever needed.

(Although, he's never sharing a bed with Cas again, because he's sure he couldn't survive another such night.)

*

Catsanova wakes Cas up at six, meowing stubbornly at the door because she doesn't care about Dean's private, middle-of-the-night freakout as long as Cas gets up to pay her due attention, and Dean wakes alone at nine, and ends up pretending he's asleep until Cas comes with coffee.

He doesn't look at Dean different or at all, while climbing on bed with the tray - and Dean definitely doesn't notice that he doesn't, because he's obviously not paying attention.

And he obviously doesn't care.

[versatilewindow]

A Night in ‘Las Vegas’ (its actually Daphne’s mansion)

Find it on Ao3!

Summary:Party at Daphne's, Velma experiences requited gay panic. Written for @scrubyjay<3

A/N: if u asked me a week ago what id be writing, scooby doo lesbian fanfic definitely wouldn't have been anywhere near my mind. im kinda surprised i even had this much to say about them.

In the past few years, the Mystery Gang had made a habit of meeting up before a new semester of college started to relax and hang out before their studies took over their lives. Daphne was hosting at her childhood home (as she called it, though most would consider the estate a real true mansion) as usual, (Her parents were off on their yearly honeymoon or what Daphne would call their regularly scheduled time for absolute debauchery among other acts that are certainly in a legal grey area.) and she had full reign of the staff and tonight's event. This semester’s theme was “A Night in Las Vegas”, meaning the gang would be dressed in their best cocktail outfits, and that there were actual slot machines and gambling tables, complete with dealers using rigged card decks to make sure no one would threaten the casino’s nightly earnings, not that they were actually gambling it’s all for realism.

This was the week before most the gang’s final semester, most as in Shaggy decided that he’d rather learn some cooking skills on the job rather than some pompous 75 year old teacher at the nearest cooking school, not realizing he would instead have to deal with an egotistical 40 year old going through what was surely the world’s worst case of mid-life crisis. The rest of the gang was spread around the country, Fred was at the local state college on a football scholarship, studying business and was the VP of the school’s biggest fraternity. Daphne was studying investigative journalism at Colombia, if asked she went to school in New York, and she was in fact related to the Blakes financially backing the new Blake scholarship for students studying journalism. Velma was at Stanford double majoring in Criminal Psychology and Forensic Science, and was set to continue her studies in a Phd program at Harvard. 

Out of all the gang, Velma was the most excited for the night, she rarely got to see the others because of the physical distance between them. She walked up the marble steps outside the front doors of the Blake estate, duffel bag in tow, (they always ended up absolutely sloshed at the end of these dinners, opting to stay in one of the many guest rooms with plush king sized beds rather than waiting for a taxi) and pressed the buzzer which linked to a pager on the butler’s uniform. It was only a few moments before Jenkins opened the heavy oak doors.

“Ah, Miss Dinkley, glad to see you’ve made it here safely, would you like someone to take your bag to your room?”

“No, thank you Jenkins, Daphne wanted to get ready together and I have some things I’ll need in the bag. Is she in her room?”

“Yes, allow me to escort you there.” With that Jenkins turned into the Foyer, walking under the first of many grand chandeliers, and up the grand blush pink marble stairs towards Daphne’s suite. Before she knew it they were in front of the door to the bedroom.

Jenkins knocked on the pale door, “Miss Blake, Miss Dinkley has arrived.”

“Oh Yes! Send her in please! The door’s unlocked!” A light rustling was heard behind the door as Jenkins opened the door for Velma, revealing Daphne moving towards her vanity in a silk lavender robe that ended mid thigh. “Velma! I’m so happy you could come early!” The taller woman changed her course towards the shorter one, who seemed almost frozen in the doorway. “Come on in! Thank you Jenkins, let me know when the boys have arrived.” Jenkins responded with a light bow before swiftly turning away, no doubt to continue the prep for tonight's event. 

Velma walked in the room, closing the door behind her, and setting her bag down on the loveseat in front of the room’s TV. “I’m glad I could make it too, I wasn’t sure if I would’ve been able to trade shifts with someone at the bookstore, but Sarah S., remember her from high school? She was trying to avoid a family event that was going on earlier today, her aunts are always setting her up on dates and she didn’t want to deal with that again. So it all worked out!” 

Daphne smiled at Velma, “Oh Sarah’s wonderful, I almost forgot she worked at the bookstore too during the breaks. There’s a robe for you in the bathroom to change into before we do our manicures.” Velma turned into the attached bathroom, quickly changing into the orange silk robe she usually used while at Daphne’s, the light geometric patterns reminding her of all the sleepovers the two shared in high school. Stepping out of the bathroom, Velma saw that Daphne had already set up the station to paint their nails. “So what’s tonight’s color scheme for you? I’m going with glittery hot pink.” Daphne had started with the base coat already.

“I brought an orange leather skirt, and I was thinking of a black top, but the options I brought don’t really fit with the cocktail dress code for tonight.” Velma sat down across from her friend in a dark luxurious chair, fiddling with the collection of polishes in front of her. 

Daphne grabbed a mid-tone orange from the selection, “Don’t worry about your top, you know I have a lot to choose from.” The smile on her face was audible, and she continued, “If it’s the leather skirt I’m thinking of, it would pair great with this sheer, flowy turtleneck I have.” Daphne’s delicate hands grabbed Velma’s, and with skillful light touches started applying the polish. The two took turns with the materials, falling into a comfortable silence finishing the task quickly.

“It’s make-up and hair next, right? I have some things in my bag.” Deeming her nails dry enough, Velma stood and made her way over to the aforementioned bag, pulling out a travel toiletries bag that had her small selection of make-up. It’s not that she was against make-up in any way, it was really more for special events than the day to day, also her college-student budget meant some luxuries were limited, and make-up was on that list. Adjusting her glasses, Velma turned to where Daphne was standing next to the vanity chair, she had a slight pout on her face, the one she used to get what she wanted from anyone.

“Can I please do your make-up? You know I love to do it and you love the outcome every time.” The pout stayed on her face.

“I suppose I could let you do my makeup Daph, seeing as you’re asking so kindly.” Daphne let out a light giggle at the fake sass in Velma's statement. (They both knew that Velma would never say no to Daphne, with or without the pout, not that Velma would ever admit it.) Velma sat down, leaning against the back of the chair, removing her glasses and setting them down on the vanity to allow Daphne full vision of her canvas.

Feathery touches moved across Velma’s face, applying the primer on to soft moisturized skin. “Are you wearing contacts tonight?”

“I brought them, but I’m not sure I’ll remember to take them off before sleeping tonight.”

Daphne continued with the base make-up. “Don’t wear them, you look cute with your glasses.”

A light blush covered the tips of Velma’s cheeks and nose, it certainly wasn’t her first time hearing that phrase, but something about hearing it from Daph’s rosy lips made it different. 

Working swiftly, Daphne made her way to the eyes, she grabbed Velma’s eyeliner, leaning in close to work on the wing. The controlled, concentrated breaths tickled the lightly covered freckles on Velma’s face, the flush from before continuing on strong through the powder pink blush Daphne already placed on the high point’s of her cheek bones. Daphne leaned away from her to examine the work done, hands lingering behind on Velma’s face, a satisfied smile appearing when she decided the two sides were even. “We’ll do lips after we change, you good on your own for hair?” Velma nodded while putting her frames back on to inspect the work Daphne had done on her face. It was simple, what she liked best, but it was better than anything Velma could do on her own. Daphne had perfected her technique in blending and choosing colors, if she didn’t know the other for years, Velma would’ve expected Daphne to enroll in a fashion and design school. 

The two made quick work of the rest of their prep work, gossiping about the town’s latest scandals. (The Adam’s were being investigated for tax fraud, and the Miller’s were going through a particularly nasty divorce.) Velma straightened out her hair, smoothing it from the usual halo of frizz, stealing glances at Daphne while she did her own make-up and hair. Their gazes met each other once, staring deep into the other’s dark eyes for a beat before looking away as though nothing happened. 

The evening drew to a close, night just beginning to settle in, the others would be here soon. Their attention was now drawn to the expansive walk-in closet in the room. Daphne pulled out the sheer turtleneck mentioned before for Velma, it had shiny glittery threads spread throughout, perfect for tonight’s event, and a hot pink sequined mini dress. They both changed in front of each other, as they had many times before, but something in the air was different, there was an unspoken tension between the two of them growing from the lingering touches and frequent glances from earlier. Velma looked up from her skirt’s zipper to see Daphne’s bare back in front of her, dress unzipped. She said a light ‘I got it’ before pulling the hidden zipper up the pale back, the dress tightly hugging the curve of the toned body before her. 

The tension dissipated as they walked over to the rack of shoes covering a wall of the closet, Daphne thinking out loud, wondering if she should go with boots or a strappy pump. She grabbed a chunky platform heel for Velma, one she often borrowed, before deciding on black suede thigh high boots. Daphne’s pink phone pinged, a text from the boys, they were five minutes away. As she pulled the boots over her long legs, Daphne saw Velma staring at her thighs, pinked nose, where skin met suede, and blushed herself, not mentioning that she’d caught the other. 

Shrugging this off, Daphne stood and walked out of the closet, to the door of her room, waiting for Velma. As the shorter walked to the doorway, fingertips touched the small of her back guiding her through. The two walked to the main room on the ground floor where it had been transformed to feel like a real casino, the lights were dimmed, 5 slot machines took up a wall, a dealer’s table next to the grand fireplace, tall, small tables with tea lights and stools took up the center floor, and two servants stood at the edge, one with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and the other a tray of champagne. Meeting the ladies at the bottom were their friends, and Jenkin’s informing them that dinner would be served within the hour. The boys cleaned up well, Shaggy’s usual mop of hair gelled back, with burgundy suspenders against a white button up holding up light green slacks. Fred opted for a more classic black and white suit, with a sapphire blue tie to add his own flair. Even Scooby looked prepped for a red carpet, his nails cut, a light almond scent from soap rather than his usual distinct dog smell. 

The forty or so minutes before dinner was served went smoothly, Shaggy, Scooby, and Daphne spent their time catching up at the slot machine; Fred and Velma playing black jack while laughing about funny stories from the past semester. The waiters did their jobs, handing out each person’s favorite snack before the meal, or snacks in Shaggy and Scoob’s case, leaving no glass unfilled, although they insisted they all have at least a glass of plain water for every couple of refills. 

Once it was time for the meal, the servants put their trays down to push the tables together, so the group could enjoy the dishes together. Daphne pulled her stool next to Velma’s brushing her hand against the smooth skin of the other’s thigh, and noticed how the seated girl’s relaxed, slightly tipsy posture tensed at the quick touch. The dinner continued with similar interactions, a tap of one’s foot against the other, a brush of knees under the table, dabbing away sauce at the edge of the other’s lips. If the boys had noticed these seemingly innocent interactions, they either didn’t care about the clear subtext, or were too drunk to even notice the tension growing with each lingering touch.

After they had finished eating, the ladies continued with their behavior at the table even though the others moved to the dealer’s table for poker. With a well placed hand on the other girl’s thigh, Velma took things a step further and gave a light squeeze, causing Daphne to get out her stool, pulling the other by the wrist to the nearest bathroom, offhandedly mentioning their destination to the hired boy bringing out chicken nuggets for Shaggy. 

In the bathroom, Velma locked the door behind them as the taller girl pulled her onto the granite countertop in a rushed passionate kiss. Contrary to popular belief, Velma was no stranger to Saturday night party bathroom hook-ups, but she was in her childhood best friend’s home having a bathroom hook-up, with her childhood best friend no less. The flutter in her stomach that was growing during dinner, turned into heat and a blazing fire at her core as Daphne’s supple pink lips trailed down the side of the other neck, lightly biting where the top of the turtleneck ended. A quick hand undid the button at the top of the sheer shirt, allowing Daphne more places to nip and kiss. Velma’s hands pulled the other closer as a soft moan left her lips, making Daphne continue the attack at her neck with more vigor. With a light squeeze on her butt, the orange haired girl looked up from the other’s neck with half lidded eyes before asking, “do you,” a kiss on the cheek, “want to take this” a kiss on the other, “to my room?” a kiss on the nose, “I have some things there that could make this even better” a kiss on the lips. At this, Velma hopped off the counter, straightening out her disheveled clothes as best she could before unlocking the door and rushing towards the stairs, Daphne close behind with a large grin on her face. The only thing that pulled them away from their mission of making it to the room was a quick stop telling the boys they were turning in for the night.

The next morning, Daphne figured it was a good thing her parents insisted the boy’s sleep on the other side of the house.

Bonus: after the ladies mentioned they were off to bed

Shaggy turned to Fred, he was drunk, but sober enough to notice the smeared lipstick on Daphne, or the trail of lip marks down Velma’s neck. "You're gonna have to pay up man, did you see them?"

Fred slumped down onto the table and mumbled, "Why couldn't they stick it out a few more months till after graduation, I'll have your money on Monday."

A/N: uhhhh, velma got RAILED, lets leave that as the description for the smut. I would also like to get dommed by Daphne Blake. Lmk if u liked it!

[omgjasminesimone]

His Place

Bryce x MC (Casey)

A/N: Since we still haven’t learnt Bryce’s secret (I’m very impatient) I had to write this.

Word Count: ~2000

A sequel to this drabble

Bryce wakes up at 5:30 AM on the dot, like he does every morning. Even on his days off, his internal clock is so fine tuned that he can’t sleep in. Casey has no such problem and she’s still sound asleep, using his chest as her pillow.

He caresses her cheek before leaning in for a quick kiss to her forehead. Then, Bryce carefully navigates his way out of her bed without waking her. He quietly closes the door to her room before making his way to the kitchen.

Jackie, Sienna, and Elijah are all at the kitchen table, dressed for work.

“Good morning!” Bryce greets jovially, grabbing the milk off the counter and making himself a bowl of cereal. “Where’s Aurora?” Bryce asks.

“Overnight shift. She should be home soon.” Sienna replies.

Bryce pours the last of the orange juice into a glass before taking a seat beside Elijah.

“You know Bryce, if you’re going to practically live here, you should probably start chipping in on rent. Or at least on the grocery bill.” Jackie deadpans, munching on some avocado toast.

“And, you could also not walk around in your boxers.” Sienna adds tentatively, a blush staining her cheeks.

Bryce smirks, leaning back. “Grocery bill, no problem, I’ll Venmo you Jacks. But putting on a shirt? Sorry, no can do Sienna.” He teases.

“How many sit ups do you do a day to maintain your abs?” Elijah asks curiously, pushing away his pop tarts since he suddenly has a new lease on life and fitness.

“100 in the morning, and then 200 at night.” Bryce answers.

“Man, I’ve got to get on your level.” Elijah comments.

“You should join me and the boys in the gym on Tuesdays! I know some seated ab exercises.” Bryce offers.

“You know what? That sounds great! See you guys Tuesday.” Elijah says with a smile, rolling away from the table to head to work. Sienna and Jackie follow after offering quick goodbyes to Bryce. After Bryce finishes his cereal, he loads the dishwasher before making his way back to Casey’s room.

She’s awake now, dressed and standing by her nightstand.

“Good morning beautiful.” Bryce greets, closing her door behind him. He quickly dodges to the left when Casey suddenly turns and throws a framed picture of them at him. It bounces off the door, scuffing it a little. “What the fuck Casey?!”

“Who is Taina Lahela?!” Casey yells, his phone held in her hand as she looks at him accusingly.

It takes a second for Bryce’s brain to catch up. He feels all his lies crumbling around him.

“That name not ringing any bells? She’s the woman texting you, ‘we’re out of milk’.” She throws his phone at him, but he catches it so it doesn’t break.

“Casey-“ Bryce starts before she interrupts.

“Are you fucking married Bryce?!”

“What?! No! How could you even think that?!” She has to know that he’s not that kind of guy.

“I’ve never been to your place! And now I find out you’re living with some woman who you’ve never told me about, what am I supposed to think?!” Casey screams, tears streaming down her face now.

Bryce tries to step closer to her, “Baby, it’s not like that.” Casey takes a step back.

“Who is she?” She questions again.

Bryce sighs, caged into a corner now to the point where he has to tell her the truth. “My mother.”

Casey scoffs, disbelieving. “Who saves their mother in their phone as their first and last name?”

Bryce shrugs. “Someone who doesn’t have a strong attachment to her. I was mostly raised by my grandparents. She was never a good mother, but biologically that’s what she is. I don’t call her mom. I call her Taina.” Bryce explains.

Casey quiets as she soaks this in. She’s obviously trying to decide if she believes him or not. “That doesn’t explain why you won’t have me over.” She finally says, looking at him suspiciously.

Bryce takes a seat on her bed, running his hand down his face as he prepares himself to share things about himself that he goes to such great lengths to keep hidden. “I didn’t want you to meet her.” He explains.

“Why?” Casey prompts, tentatively sitting beside him.

“Because she’s a drug addict who lives with me because the only way she could get out of jail on parole was to give them an address, and she was homeless. Not exactly the ideal roommate. Not the kind of person most people would want in their families. Not someone I’m proud to have come from.” Bryce elaborates.

“Bryce.” Casey tries to comfort, taking his hand and lacing their fingers. “You can tell me things. I’d never judge you.”

“See, you say that, but I’m sure you can’t help but judge. Like all the kids at school did. Oh, there’s Bryce Lahela. His mom is a drug addict, and sometimes a prostitute. She’s in jail for theft to feed her habit. Let’s all pity Bryce.” He recalls bitterly.

“She doesn’t reflect on you Bryce. Coming from that, you worked your way to Stanford Medical School. And to a top Surgical Residency Program, where you’re the best surgical resident. You did that all on your own. That’s something to be so proud of Bryce.” Casey replies, resting her head on his shoulder.

Bryce sighs, resting his head atop her’s. “I just….I guess I just wanted to portray my background to be happier. It was a rough childhood honestly, but I don’t want anyone to feel bad for me. I’m good now. I’ve got a lot of great things in my life, like you, to counteract the bad things like being caretaker for an addict.”

“That must be hard to balance.” Casey comments, squeezing his hand.

Bryce shrugs. “I have to do all the grocery shopping. I can’t give her money or she’ll buy drugs. She’s not very pleasant or grateful either. But if I didn’t take her in, my grandparents would have and they’re getting too old to have to deal with her.”

“….Does she know about me?” Casey asks tentatively.

“No. I generally just try to keep her separate from the good things in my life.”

“Well, I’d like to meet her.” Bryce looks at her with disbelief. “Bryce, I want you to feel comfortable telling me things. I want to know about your past. Because I see a future with you.”

“Still?” He asks hopefully.

Casey nods, taking her head off his shoulder and turning to kiss him softly. “I love you Bryce. And I’m really glad you’re not married.”

Bryce chuckles, cupping her cheeks and giving her a longer, more passionate kiss. “I love you too. Even when you throw stuff at me.”

Casey blushes, “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. You have terrible aim.” Bryce laughs as Casey smacks him playfully with a pillow, falling over onto his back.

Casey lays down on top of him, running a hand through his hair as his hands run up and down her sides. She grips his left hand suddenly, inspecting it.

“What are you doing?” Bryce questions.

“Looking for ring finger tan lines. Good news, you’ve passed the inspection.” Casey teases, leaning in to kiss him again. Before they can get carried away, she pulls away, rolling off of him. “Let’s head to the grocery store for the milk before heading over to your place.” She invites herself over.

…

..

Bryce holds the grocery bag with one hand and Casey’s hand with the other, leading her from the Green line T stop to his apartment.

“It’s this building.” He announces when they’re standing in front of an older low-rise apartment complex.

“I like it.” Casey comments, hip bumping him as he hesitates at the entrance to the building. “Come on Bryce, you have nothing to worry about.” Casey comforts, tugging him inside.

He has to let go of her hand to insert the building key in the entry way, but he laces their fingers once more before leading her to the staircase and then up to the third floor. He lets out a long breath before opening the door to his apartment.

Taina is on the couch, watching Maury. “About time. I was starving.” She complains, not turning to look at them.

“Taina, this is Dr. Casey Valentine. My girlfriend.” Bryce looks at Casey tentatively. Even though they used the L word today for the first time, they didn’t actually define their relationship. But she smiles and squeezes his hand, confirming their new official relationship status. “She’ll be around from time to time.”

Taina turns her head to look at them. “That’s fine.” She concludes.

Bryce’s jaw clenches. “I wasn’t asking permission. This is my apartment. I’m just letting you know.” He counters.

Taina rolls her eyes, turning back to Maury. “Fine.” She says again.

“Nice to meet you Taina.” Casey greets before turning to Bryce. “Now, I want an apartment tour.”

Bryce leaves the groceries on the table before stepping behind Casey, wrapping her in his arms. “This is the kitchen-slash-living room.” He begins the tour, resting his head on top of her’s.

“I like the art.” Casey comments, gesturing to a seascape Bryce made at a Paint Night event when he first moved to Boston.

He guides her to the hallway, his arms not unwrapping from around her belly. “Guest bathroom there.” He shows her the small bathroom briefly before leading her to the master bedroom. “And this is where you’ll be spending most of your time here.” He explains, letting go of her so she can walk around the room.

“So Taina is sleeping on the couch?” Casey asks.

Bryce nods. “It’s a 1 bedroom, and I definitely wasn’t taking the couch. I’m the only one paying rent around here. Taina has been here for almost 10 months already. I’m hoping she’ll get on her feet and find her own place soon. She’s on a waitlist for some post prison housing program in Honolulu, so hopefully that will work out.”

Casey nods to show she’s listening, picking up a framed picture of the two of them apple picking from his dresser. “I bet you’re excited to have your space back.”

“You have no idea.” Bryce mutters, and Casey laughs. “I wouldn’t mind sharing my space with you though, if you’d want to move in.” He offers tentatively.

Casey smiles, walking back over to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. “My oh my, we’re taking so many relationship steps today.” She teases.

“Well, this one is just practical. We basically live together now anyway, but we’re paying rent on two separate places. That makes no sense, being as poor as we are.” Bryce replies.

“If this is about being economical, then you should just move in with me and my roommates when your lease is up. Splitting the rent 6 ways will be a great deal.”

“True, but the privacy of our own place, just you and me, might be worth some extra cash.” Bryce insists.

“Hmm…and what are you planning on doing with this privacy?” Casey whispers, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

She laughs when he tosses her over his shoulder, carrying her over to his bed.

…

..

“Your bed is so soft.” Casey mumbles afterward, head resting on his chest.

He plays with the edge of one of her dark curls. “I got a great deal on it at Macy’s.”

“Hmm…this might clinch the deal on me moving in.”

Bryce kisses the top of her head. “Perfect.”

…

..

Taglist:  @octobereighth​  @akrenich​  @lovehugsandcandy​ @regina-and-happiness​  @brightpinkpeppercorn​  @choicesarehard​  @lizeboredom​ @hellooliviaolivia​ @dreaming-of-movies​  @friedherringclodthing​  @weaving-in-words​  @fairydustandsarcasm​  @goldenjellyfish12​   @pessimystic-fangirl​  @mimikoasahina​  @srta-give-me-my-jax-rl​   @god-save-the-keen  @caroldxnvxrs​  @cora-nova @emceesynonymroll​ @choicesgremlin​ @anxious-arliah @cordoniasmost​ @lahelable​ @ohsnapitzlovehacker​ @crispycrunchyleaves​ @debramcg1106​ @emichelle​ @desireepow-1986​ @lilyofchoices​ @liyanin​

[instantlyexhaustedowl]

"He was my first love... And only one."

Summary:

Old photos, one old love and two not that old twins. A bit of talking after Weirmaggedon. Stan listening to his bro-bro memories about college lover.

Notes:

Please be kind to me, it's my first fanfic in English and also my first fanfic i have ever posted.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28580418

Ford was nostalgically sorting old photoes. Wrinkled paper gently rustled in his weary hands. All those memories, forgotten things with distand feeling of lost love, whole past in his worn out hands. "Ya look sad, bro," Stan's voice broke the silence of Ford's room. His twin was looking at him with curious brown eyes covered with thick glasses. He leaned on the doorframe.

Older twin  smiled sligtly, running his polydactyl hands thru grey hairs. Fingers touched silver stripe that cut thru dark grey hairs. He felt suddenly old and exhausted. "Just... Overthinking past, i guess." He patted spot on the sofa next to himself, showing that companion is welcome.

"Pics?" asked carefully Stanley. His mind was still a bit wobbly, but he remembered nearly everything. Definitely good sign. Stan sheepishly sat next to Ford on the sofa. Old matress swayed under his weight and caused, that Ford leaned a bit agaist Stan's shoulder. "What? Oh, yeah... Pictures. Old ones." said author of the journals with sigh while his hands gently folded photos on the lap. "Hehe, 'm probably not in your colection,...  Hey that one... that guy looks cute," chuckled his brother. He pointed at picture of tall smiling boy, maybe a bit older than twenty-one. Long sand blond hair, big blue eyes brightly shining with happines were hinding partly behind small round glasses. That noodle nerd had two daysies tucked behind his ear, big smile on his face. He looked like hippie college student. "Yeah... Fantastic old friend of mine. Wait! It...He is a man. Why do you think he is cute?" suddenly asked Ford. Stan was ladies man. Why he would think something like that?! Stanley blushed. His eyes wondered over room. Now seemed every piece of furniture like super interesting. "Ehh...No comment?" "No Stanley. We should be more honest with each other. We spend enought of our time pushing each other away. I just want to know why do you think that. No judgement, only curiosity." Old man mumbled something. Then he scooted away from Ford. Scietinst seemed a bit concerned. His brother was always the one who wanted to feel the others presence, but this was different. He was suddenly so shy. Ford like physical contact too but only from persons he loved and liked. Stanley was different- he loved patting peoples shoulder, hugging them even thou they were strangers. His attention was like contact sport. And sometimes it could change into one when that person made him angry. Ford's attention thou. It was more about reading between lines. "Pardon, Lee? I didn't understand." "I said... That i dated men too," sighed Stanley. His fingers were twiching. Eyes were trying to burned thru the floor into the heart of the Earth. He made himself look tiny. Whole body curled into himself. Ford's mouth formed into small silent "oh". "'m sorry... Gonna vanish, don't worry." "Are you crazy, Lee?! No vanishing, no going away." "But..." it was strange. Stanley could brake a montain with bare hands and now... He looked so vulnurable. Like scared teen he once was- standing outside in the middle of warm spring night hoping that Ford could forgive him. "But 'm nothing just familly disapointment. Stupid big idiot and even gay..." "If you say it one more time, i will punch you. Without warning! You are not disapointment! You are my best friend i have ever had and best twin brother i could wish for!" "Poindexer, i am weird old fag!" "Probably not. And that is absolutely horrible word, do not use it, please! You did loved Carla, hm." "And some other girls..." admited Stanley with blush of embarassment. "So you are bisexual. You like both." "'m not picky type," shrugged younger brother with hint of smile. He seemed more comfortable now. Hands put on his knees, eyes still sticked to the ground but he didn't look like persone who wanted to crawl under the rock and stay there for next few milleniums. "I am fag... At least that would Pa called me... If he had knew about it..." "That explains lots of things... And highschool," mumbled Stan scooting back so they shoulders touched again. "Pardon me?!" shrieked Ford. "You were curious only about science. And why girls didn't talk to you! Nothing was about girls, only why they kept ignoring you," explained Stan. Ford blinked few times, his face making pretty good impression of confuesed owl. Stanley was smugly smiling: "I've knew the whole time that you are not straight. 'm glad that Pa never knew about it thou. He would kick ya out too, maybe beat ya...Ya would never make it out unharm, on the streets..." "You were the one that ended up there... I can not forgive myself," two big tears started to roll down. Ford tried to dry them with his sleeve. "Poindexter, let it be. We are here, we are good..." "And gay," added Ford with tiny smile. Roaring of Stan's laught filled the room: "YEAH, we are gay! SO ... Who was that cutie? First crush?" His eyebrows wiggled in devilish way. "First crush, first love and only one. He took my heart without asking and never gave it back..." His brother wrapped arm around his shoulders. "You are old sappy man, Ford." "I know. I... Everything could be so different." "What happened?" asked younger twin. He hated seeing Ford depressed. "First time he went back to his family, after a while he had one too. And later when we found each other... Portal happened." "Sixer! I ... I caused...! Did I....?" Stanford grabbed old photos. He hold them on his chest, close to his fast-beating heart. "It was my fault, we had huge arguement and split up. I should have listened to him, but i was the biggest idiot on this Earth!" Stanley suddenly gasped. "You were dating McGucket?! Old man MCGUCKET?! Oh holy hot Belgian waffles!" "Kids aren't home," snarkyly pointed out Ford still carressing his pictures. "In that case- FUCK!" Small smile crept on scientist's face. "May i tell you a story, Lee?" asked Ford. He looked way younger now. Shy blush on his cheeks, still a bit teary eyes behind glasses. But they were light up with memories. "Yep, ya nerd. I haven't heard romantic novel for a long time! Ok i saw one last night. But i want to hear yar romance," beamed happily Stan and made himsleft comfortable. He was now sprawled on sofa, legs streched infront of him, hands folded on his soft belly. "So...Tell me yar fairytale, bro-bro." "Lee you are so silly," nudged Stan's elbow Ford playfully. "Fine. Long time ago... Ok, i am really getting old and silly. We were college roomates. I liked him first time i saw him. He was true opposite of me. Emotinal, empathic, wonderfully talented. His genius was amazing. After a while we got closer and closer. Fidds was so carring, nearly motherly. You should saw him when i was ill. I phoned dad, that i needed some money... to see a doctor, cause i felt really awful. He... shouted at me- to be a man and sleep it off. So i tried it. And fainthed during one of our classes we had together. Fidds did knew what to do, he took care about me. Got me to our room, helped in bed where i stayed for next week barely knowing about world. I don't remember much, my fever was too high. All seemed like a dream. After i got better i found him sitting on the window frame. His eyes were looking into starry night, silently crying. He was aftraid about me whole week and...He finally snapped... We started dating few days later." Ford had tears on his cheeks while he hold old pictures like precious treasure. His hands were clutching them, only gems he had from his past. Someone knock on the door frame. Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket stood there. He was dressed in jeans, silly shirt with watermelons and drinks on it. He had crazy bowler hat with daisy that kept danggling. Still with beard that could belong to the oldest wizzard in the Dungeons, Dungeons and more Dungeons, but under it was hidden smile. "I swear Stanferd, ma biggest mistake was leaving ya. And i fool made it twice!" Stanley looked at them with squint eyes trying to seem like he fall asleep. "Stop foolin' us, ya'r great conman, but that's horrible try," laugh Fidds hopping on the sofa from Ford's free side. He covered one six-fingered hand with his small one. They fitted perfectly, like two pieces of puzzles. Maybe their hands were a bit cold, but hearts were still aflame with passion and love. "I guess now i've to keep an eye on two nerds," sighed Stanley. "Have fun ya two, i am gonna go to... Don't know. Want a coffee?" "Yeah we will join you," smiled Ford when Fiddleford hugged his waist. "Yej, coffee is great idea pals!" "Gentlemen, we will have gayffee party!" clasped his big hands Stanley and went to the kitchen, chuckling because he liked that new horrible pun. Ford froze a bit and then shouted: "Do not tell this term in front of Mable! Or we all end up covered in rainbow glitters! I don't mind them but i certainly don't like to drink them with my coffee!" "WHO SAID SOMETHING ABOUT RAINBOW GLITTEEEEEERS???????!" "Mabel, calm down! Honey, put that bottle of rainbow disaster down!"

[semperintrepida]

The Sellout, chapter three

three: the bad news

"So are you going to look at it, or what?"

Ellen was talking, from her favorite seat on the couch with the best view of the register, but Kyra just stared at the jar on the counter, at the card lying face down and innocent on top of all the other cards inside it. She knew damn well what company that card came from — she'd seen the flash of green as it spun in the air from being dunked into the jar with savage glee.

Starbucks green.

"Kyra?" Ellen's voice was closer now. Right at the counter.

Kyra wordlessly pushed the jar in her direction, and Ellen pulled up a sleeve and stuck her hand in, her head tilting into a question. Is this it?

Kyra nodded.

Ellen fished the card out of the jar, her eyes widening as she read it. "Motherfucker," she said. "You were right — she is bad news."

"Show me." Kyra held out her hand.

The card landed in her palm, and as she flipped it over, her fingertips slid across bumps embossed onto its surface. Braille. On a business card. There was nothing a billion dollar company wouldn't do to give itself the tiniest edge over the competition.

The Starbucks logo greeted her on the front of the card. No surprise there. She scanned the text, eyes glancing over the woman's name — Kassandra Agiadis — but her name was less important to Kyra than her title: Vice President of International Real Estate Development.

The words on the card began to smear, and it was like falling while roped in during a climb; that sudden, twisting spin before the world dropped out from under her.

Real estate development. What's the premium for a high visibility retail space in this neighborhood?

She considered the card in her hand — amazing how something so weightless could be so crushing — then tore it in half, flinging the pieces onto the counter hard enough for them to fly off the edge on the other side.

Ellen's head swiveled to follow their flight path, and then she silently walked past the counter and stooped to pick the pieces up from the floor.

Kyra knew this day would come, but like all disasters, it had sat off in the distance until the moment it showed up on her doorstep. For years, Starbucks had been content to keep mostly to the west side of the river, with seventeen stores crammed between I-405 and the waterfront.

Seventeen stores. Down in the Pearl District, there was a Starbucks on every fucking corner, choking out all but a handful of indie shops. But the river had made a good moat, and with Starbucks contained, she'd been able to make a decent living within the rougher, more corrugated edges of the Central Eastside and Distillery Row.

She'd survived Dutch Bros putting in drive-throughs north and south of her on MLK, the coffee shortage of 2011 that tripled the price of beans, and the slow sprouting of competing coffee shops across the neighborhood. She'd managed to stay on the right side of the profitability line, but she'd been clinging to survival by the smallest of handholds for months now. One slip would be enough to send everything plummeting to earth.

She should have taken Thal's money and opened up more shops. She should have sold to Stumptown when she had the chance. She should have—

Her eyes began to sting. She resisted the urge to flee to the storeroom; if she went back there and let the tears leak out, she wouldn't be able to stop them again. And running off wasn't an option even if she wanted to — she was the only one working this shift and someone had to watch the fort.

She breathed in slowly, breathed out, until the prickle in her eyes faded enough for her to push the retail mask back into place.

Ellen was still standing there, watching her. "You'll figure something out, Kyra. You always do," she said, placing the torn halves of the card on the counter. "Hang on to this shit, huh? Just in case."

Ellen made it halfway back to the couch when Kyra spoke up again. "Do you have your laptop with you?"

"How else would I abuse your wifi?"

"Can I borrow it for a few minutes?"

Ellen's grin was feral. "I thought you'd never ask."

.oOo.

It took a while to get the laptop sorted, much of it involving frantic clicking and password after password as Ellen rambled something about needing a VPN and not trusting the government, but eventually Kyra found herself looking at an empty browser window with a cursor blinking lazily in its address bar.

"Where are we stalking first?" Ellen asked, rubbing her palms together in anticipation.

Kyra pulled up LinkedIn and typed "Kassandra Agiadis" into the search field, and when the results appeared, the photo at the top of the list smiled a familiar smile, the woman's confidence captured in pixel form along with that sharp glint in her eyes.

Kyra opened the profile.

Executive leader and consummate strategist with a proven record of results in aligning real estate acquisitions and portfolios with business goals...

She skimmed the suit-speak until she reached the background part of the profile.

MBA, Sloan School of Management, Massachusetts Institute of Technology BS, Economics, Stanford University

A lengthy list of job titles followed. Kassandra had only been at Starbucks a little more than a year. Before that, stints at Apple, Chipotle, CVS. The list went on. She'd rarely stayed longer than three years in a position.

Ellen whistled. "That's a lot of different companies."

"She's a mercenary," Kyra said. "Hired to do something specific and then move on."

Kyra opened another tab and searched Instagram, finding the woman's profile easily enough. The grid of photos featured a lot of concrete and metal, clean lines and minimalism, more Dieter Rams and Mid-Century Modern than any ostentatious displays of money being tossed around. Kyra kept scrolling. Except for the cars. And motorcycles. Apparently Kassandra liked her cars fast and her motorcycles retro.

"It's all very sterile, don't you think?" Kyra said, tapping a finger against her lips.

"I'll say. It's fucking fake. No one lives like that."

"I'm not sure all of it's fake, but it's definitely curated." She wiggled the cursor over a photo of the interior of a cabin, blonde wood and floor-to-ceiling windows framing a view of a lake. "She's paying someone to manage this for her."

"What's the fucking point of that?"

"Maintaining an image. Projecting a sense of old money." But something didn't add up, and Kyra couldn't pin down what it was.

She opened a third tab, this time for a good ol' Google search, and skimmed the list of results. A press release announcing Kassandra's hiring at Starbucks. More press releases. Talks at various conferences. Nothing particularly revelatory in the first few pages, but then a headline caught Kyra's eye and she clicked through.

Agiadis leads Stanford to national championship win

NEW ORLEANS (AP) — Led by a scintillating performance from Kassandra Agiadis, Stanford won its second consecutive national championship in a come-from-behind victory over rival Tennessee on Monday night.

Agiadis scored 24 points, muscled her way to 12 rebounds, and was two assists away from a triple-double as she powered Stanford to a 76-72 win, including sinking three crucial free throws in the final 34 seconds, in a game where Stanford found themselves in an early 12-4 deficit at the end of the first quarter.

"She wants to win more than anything, and she showed that tonight," Stanford coach Tara VanDerveer said of Agiadis. "We were in a hole after that first quarter, but Kassandra lifted this team up and said, 'Whatever it takes.' She simply refused to lose."

The article was old, and the photos accompanying the text were small, but unmistakably her: Kassandra, basketball in hand, pushing past two orange-clad players under the hoop. There was plenty of broad-shouldered muscle in that white Stanford jersey, but it was Kassandra's eyes, bright and clear with relentless focus, that caught Kyra's attention.

Ellen snorted from over Kyra's shoulder. "So she's a fucking jock. Why am I not surprised?"

Kyra didn't respond, too distracted by the second photo, which showed Kassandra surrounded by her teammates in a storm of confetti as she held an enormous trophy over her head in triumph, her smile as radiant as the sun.

And now she wore a suit instead of a basketball jersey and cut real estate deals for fun and profit. Seemed she was good at it too, but did it ever make her smile like she had while holding that trophy?

Kyra hoped the answer to that question was no.

.oOo.

She drifted through Wednesday and Thursday, irritable by day and sleepless at night, and when Friday evening arrived with its expanse of free time, she made three attempts to dig into Green's translation of the poetry of Catullus before setting the book aside and walking out to the shed in her back garden where she'd built her bouldering wall.

The faint scent of sweat, chalk, and dusty earth greeted her inside. It was her sanctuary, her shrine to defying gravity. Every handhold was as familiar as a lover.

But tonight she couldn't even climb the simplest problems. Her toes kept slipping and her fingers faltered.

She'd lost her grip.

Eventually she gave up and lay on her back on the crash pad, staring at the curving shadows the holds cast upon the wall, thinking of how problems she'd solved a thousand times could suddenly become so impossible.

.oOo.

Five minutes before closing on Saturday night, Kyra was wiping down the fridge under the counter when the door opened and a presence entered the shop. Maybe it was the way her visitor displaced the air in the otherwise empty room, or the sound of heavy footsteps, but Kyra knew exactly who she'd find when she stood up again.

Kassandra was standing next to the table closest to the register. This time, she wasn't wearing a suit — just an untucked linen shirt over tailored slacks — and she'd pulled her hair up into a loose chignon. The effect was to make her seem casual and relaxed, but no less moneyed.

Kyra wiped her hands on a clean rag to keep her eyes off the intersecting curves of Kassandra's jawline and neck. "Are you going to ask me to make you another fucking cappuccino? Because if so, I'm closed."

That drew a short laugh from Kassandra. "No. As much as I loved the one you made for me, even I'm not evil enough to ask for another this late."

"Then why are you here? So you can gloat before you put me out of business?"

"I don't want to put you out of business." Kassandra pulled a chair out from the table and made herself right at home, stretching her legs out before her. "I want your business."

Kyra's eyebrows lifted.

"I'll buy this," Kassandra said, as easily as if she was ordering a drink. She gestured around the room. "All of it. Right now."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm very serious. How much would it take to get you to say yes?"

Kyra walked out from behind the counter to the narrow wooden bar that ran along the windows, and began flipping stools over on top of it. "Never mind buying me out — why are you here? Don't you have some lackey to work deals like this for you?"

Kassandra shrugged. "I like your coffee."

"Enough to buy my shop." She tugged the pull cord on the OPEN sign to turn it off.

"It beats the alternative."

Kyra skirted around Kassandra's outstretched legs on her way past, and when she reached the counter, she leaned back against it and crossed her arms. "And that would be..."

"We put in a new flagship store down the street from you on MLK — and you take your chances."

Ten years ago, Kyra would have been thrilled at the news that Starbucks was opening a store nearby. In those heady days, Starbucks was a tide that lifted every coffee shop around it. It was Starbucks that taught the average American that there was better coffee out there than freeze-dried instant — and that it was worth paying more than fifty cents a cup for. The spillover in foot traffic from a nearby Starbucks could launch a shop's profits to stratospheric heights.

Those days were long gone. Coffee had become cutthroat and commoditized, and now people bitched that her lattes cost a nickle more than the ones they could get at Starbucks. Sure, there were people out there who cared that her coffee was sourced from a roaster who paid a fair price for beans from small, family-run farms, but there weren't enough customers like them to keep her lights on and her espresso machine humming. So she kept trimming her margins, trying to stay competitive on price while offering better product, knowing it was unsustainable in the long run.

Kassandra's offer was tempting. She could take the money, take a real vacation for the first time in years, make the funds last long enough to find a job, somewhere. Fuck, she could go and work for Thal at his chain of shops over in Bend. She'd probably make more money with a lot less stress, and she'd even have time to climb—

The sound of the door opening again brought her back to reality. A man stumbled into the shop, disheveled and dirty, wearing an oversized puffy coat and a shredded pair of work pants. He shuffled closer, stopping a few steps away from Kassandra. His body swayed with the restless twitching of an addict, too far gone to know where he was, much less care about sweltering in a heavy winter coat during a spring heatwave.

Trouble piling on.

"I'm sorry sir, we're closed," Kyra said as neutrally as she could, threading the line between being welcoming and unwelcoming.

His eyes darted to and fro, unfocused, and he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot while he gestured aimlessly around him.

Kassandra eased herself to her feet. "Hey man, what do you need?" she asked, her voice taking on that even, reasonable tone that most people used when talking to the unhinged.

"Got any spare change?" He was shaking now, deep in his need for another hit.

Kassandra slowly lifted her hands. "Sorry, I'm all out," she said. Then she nodded back towards Kyra. "She's all out too."

Kyra shook her head apologetically.

Her movement caught his attention, and he peered at her with manic eyes. "What you doing here? Huh? Huh?" He reached up and pulled angrily at the hair above his ears. "My house. Mine."

"Nah," Kassandra said. "You're all turned around. Your house is out that way." She motioned towards the door.

He didn't seem to hear her, his eyes hardening to glare at Kyra as his face twisted. "You!" he shouted, and then the moment crystallized into a series of quick-cut images, unfurling into a jerky slideshow: the man lunging towards her, Kassandra sliding in between to intercept him, Kyra dodging out of the way as he slammed into Kassandra, knocking her off her feet...

Kyra could only watch helplessly as it put Kassandra's head on a collision course with the display case on the counter.

Chapter three of The Sellout. Continued in chapter four...

Author's Note: I've taken some liberties with NCAA women's basketball history here. Apologies to UConn fans — I've borrowed a couple of your titles and given them to Stanford. Creative license, eh?

[snekatiegf]

The McGucket Residence

Ford, Fiddleford, and Tate interactions with a little Fiddauthor

Summary: The Pines family is back for the Summer, but with the Mystery Shack being occupied, they need a new place to stay, so Ford makes a visit to McGucket.

Pairings: A little bit of Fiddauthor- as a treat

Warnings: A confrontation of sorts

Characters: Ford, Tate, Fiddleford

Ford rang the doorbell, and could hear the faint jingle from inside the house, as well as the whirring of mechanical workings from whatever modifications Fiddleford had added to the bell. Ford visited this place once before but he still feels quite inadequate next to the doors of the mansion. The house was huge. He had no idea how the Northwests could have been at all happy here. Now Fiddleford owns the place and Ford hears it's a much warmer, happier spot. He rents out rooms for cheap and he has many people coming and going at nearly all times of the day- humans and creatures alike.

It was Tate who opened the doors and he was already talking, as if he was tired of repeating this same thing for visitors. "No need to ring, you can come in anytime-" he faltered when he realised who was standing in front of him. "Oh, you're back. I'm guessin' you're here for my dad? Also, for future reference, Dr. Pines, you can just come right in."

"Right, of course," Ford replied. Tate stepped back and Ford walked into the house. Tate closed the door behind him and began to lead him to the main room. "Also, you know you can call me Ford, Tate."

"I know, it's just…"

"It's been a long time, I know."

Tate said nothing, and instead stopped by the entrance of a large room.

"You can wait here for dad," he said, motioning inside. The room held several couches and chairs, and a coffee table, a large tv screen, and several beanbags. There was a fireplace built into one wall but was currently unlit, and on the mantle were a whole lot of photo frames.

Around the room lounged a variety of the manor's other residents. A couple of gnomes lounged on the beanbags, watching some movie on the tv. A lone manotaur was dozing on a chair, and abandoned magazine on his lap. A couple of fairies flitted up by the ceiling, casting colorful light on everyone below. Wax Larry King's head sat on the coffee table with a bowl of M&M's beside him. The Multibear lay curled up and half asleep in the corner of the room. Ford was quite impressed with the lineup of creatures in here.

"Jeff, do you think you can get my dad?" The gnome frowned but nodded, standing up and jogging out of the room. Ford called a quick thank you to the small man before turning to examine the photographs above the fireplace.

In each one was Fiddleford with at least one other person, Tate mostly, but there were a couple of him with a variety of mythical creatures, a group photo of the twins' thirteenth birthday, and two that Ford noticed was with him.

One was from last year before he and Stan had left for the arctic, taken at the birthday party. Ford had been talking to Dan Corduroy- he hadn't seen the man in years and although he knew that he didn't remember him (Fiddleford and his Blind Eye had seen to that), it was still nice to catch up on what the lumberjack had been doing for the past thirty or so years. Fiddleford had unexpectedly leapt onto him and Ford had barely managed to catch him, but they had both gone tumbling to the ground. Mabel had managed to capture the moment. In the photo, Ford, looking shocked, was on the ground with both arms wrapped around Fiddleford, who had a huge grin on his face.

Ford had to smile once he saw the photo, but the next one just made him feel a bit sad. It was an old Polaroid from college. Fiddleford had taken it- it was a picture of him with his arm slung over Ford's shoulder. Ford had a book in front of him and a frustrated look, proving that this photo had been taken against his will. He wasn't sure when exactly this was taken, but it was amazing that Fiddleford had it still, especially after everything that had happened to him.

"Stan gave him that one, right before you two left," Tate explained from behind him. "He said he found it and a couple others when he was clearing out the Shack."

Ford nodded. He knew what Tate was talking about- he had been there helping when Stan had recovered a box of old photographs from the lab. He had given the box to Ford, but Ford wasn't aware that he had passed some to Fiddleford as well. He grabbed the frame and held it closer, examine it with a small smile. How long ago this had been. He turned when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"He's gotten much better, you know," Tate told him. Ford tilted his head quizzically. "I mean, I know you've been callin' and sendin' your letters back and forth, and you saw him at New Years, but I thought you might want to hear from another source."

"Thank you, Tate," Ford said, smiling at the young man. Tate nodded but his face shifted into something much more serious.

"You're lucky he forgave you so easily. If it were me, I doubt I would have done the same," he said. "Now, I'm willin' to give you another chance, especially after all you've done to save the town, and I can tell you really do feel bad about what happened. But you better watch your back if anything goes wrong while you're here. You and your family are good at meddlin'- I've seen your folks get into a whole lotta dangerous situations in this town."

"Of course, Tate," Ford said. "I care about Fiddleford deeply. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I ever ended up hurting him again. He deserves the best in the world."

Tate gave him a small smile, lifting his hat slightly in a rare show of his eyes. "You better be the best in the world then, because he cares a lot about you, too." He pushed his hat back down and stepped back. "Seriously, though, keep an eye on those kids of yours. They're good at gettin' into trouble. They had a run-in with that island beast last summer, even though I warned them not to go."

Ford sighed, picking at the friendship bracelet on his wrist, a gift from Mabel. "That is true. Unfortunately, I can't always be there for them. But they lasted most of the summer on their own before I returned. I trust they can take care of themselves." He turned back towards the photos, eyes landing on the group photo at last year's party. Ford and Stan stood in the back with their arms around each others shoulders. "Plus, they've got Stan too. He's been keeping them closer, when he can. He's worried he might lose them again."

"I can tell you missed him," Tate said. "I only saw you once and twice before you two left, but I can tell you're much more content. And I've read some of your letters to dad- you guys seem to be having the time of your lives."

"Yeah, well, nothing is perfect," Ford replied. "There's still the nightmares, and Stan's memory lapses occasionally. A lot less often than before, though. And I keep hearing Bill's laughter in my head at times, but I can tune it out. Most of the time, at least. But it's so great to have Stan back, no matter what. Although, there is one thing that concerns me…"

"What is that?"

Ford glanced at the other occupants of the room. None of them seemed to be paying much attention to the pair, but he lowered his voice anyways. "A lot of the mystical beasts we've encountered seem almost… afraid of Stan, and they don't react the same way to me. It's as if they can sense something inside of him. And I don't like to think about what it might be."

"I'm sure it's fine, Dr. Pines. Besides, you've got some strong and smart people on your side. If anything happens to your brother, I don't doubt you'll be able to help him."

"Thank you, Tate."

Tate nodded. He sat on one of the empty couches and Ford moved to follow him, but then Jeff reentered with Fiddleford and he was back on his feet immediately. Ignoring the amused sound from Tate, he was by Fiddleford's side in the span of about half a second, wrapping his arms around the other man in a hug.

"Well if it ain't Stanford Pines," Fiddleford said. He pulled back and gave Ford a big grin that covered his whole face, and Ford was almost thrown off by how much the old man had changed since last year.

He bad definitely been a little different when Ford had seen him last in December. Then, he had had his beard trimmed and was wearing nicer clothes, and his face had filled out more. Now, nearly half a year later, he looked even better than before. He stood up straighter, he had gained weight, he seemed to be almost shining.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Ford asked.

"Well, shucks, after thirty years, six months is nothin'. How's your adventurin' been?"

"As well as chasing after dangerous monsters can go. It's good to finally be with Stan again."

"That's good to hear!" Fiddleford replied. He turned to his son. "All good Tater? I'll take it from here."

Tate nodded and stood up. He gave his dad a quick pat on the arm as he left the room.

"Now, tell me why you're visitin' my shed today," Fiddleford said. "And have you got the others with you?"

"It's just me today, the others are lodged up at the Shack. That's why I'm here, actually," Ford said. "Soos and Melody are more than happy to let us stay there for the summer, but there's not nearly enough room for all of us. I was wondering if we can spend the summer here."

"Of course! You don't even hafta ask! I'm sure I've got four open rooms."

"Well, Dipper and Mabel will want to share, so make that three."

"Even better! Bring your folks right now and I can get 'em settled in."

"Thank you, Fiddleford."

[aerozin]

facts about Thompson my oc hehe

he's an irregular pentagon

same species as Bill. his powers are very limited though because Bill only gave him some of his own.

he's a henchmaniac and an old friend of Bill's

he's TERRIFIED of the Pines family but he finds humans interesting and actually likes the way they live

he's an INFP and he has mental illness. he also has ADD

he wears turtleneck sweaters or scarfs most of the time to make himself look like he's a diamond shape

he has a long history with Bill. he finds Bill's antics quite terrifying but he likes to see Bill happy but this has problems sometimes.

he prefers being in an object head form or a human form. he only uses the human form during Weirdmageddon to help any humans that might have been affected by Weirdmageddon.

in the main AU, Stanford and Stanley's plan to erase Bill fail. Bill breaks free and Thompson asks Bill if he can keep the solar system. Bill hesitates but eventually allows it, but it's pretty difficult for Thompson to keep things protected from Bill's chaos and he finds it hard to keep up with because Bill wants Thompson to be part of his gang.

Bill in this AU was framed and gaslighted into believing he caused his home dimension's destruction. Thompson, Bill, and Kryptos are the remaining survivors of the destruction. they are ALL locked up in the Nightmare Realm, kinda like Mabel's bubble. but it's Bill's own bubble. as time passes, Bill really believes he was the one who destroyed his dimension and he even shows off. the other henchmaniacs are simply illusions, imaginary friends, basically friends that Bill lost. Thompson and Kryptos see all of it happen... Thompson TRIES to help Bill while Kryptos enables Bill's loss of reality and it goes even downhill from there. Thompson gets more scared and worried for Bill because he doesn't want Bill to get seriously hurt from all of this.

Thompson has romantic feelings for Bill but he tries his best to hide it even though it's pretty obvious. Bill just doubts it and even questions if he likes him back as well but he denies it and keeps it to himself.

Thompson loves nature, he loves tea, and just comfortable, warm places. he would definitely spend his time up in the Penthouse Suite at the Fearamid since it's not crowded or loud.

Thompson doesnt enjoy parties and often finds himself hiding or just doing things to get Bill's attention. when that doesn't work, he just leaves or walks down the weird halls in the fearamid.

Thompson hides his face a lot and he also cowers or often has his knees shaking or makes weird noises. usually tea or sleep or cuddles make it stop. he is very warm so please cuddle him.

while Thompson might be viewed as lame or boring to the others, Bill secretly understands Thompson more than anyone else and he knows how lonely he must feel. Bill is a little more empathetic in this AU. he would definitely try to talk to Thompson (IN PRIVATE BECAUSE HE DOESNT WANNA RUIN HIS REPUTATION HE HAS WITH THE HENCHMANIACS)

Thompson would definitely annoy the hell out of Bill so he leaves the Pines family alone. sometimes he'll hug Bill or fix his bow tie for him.

Thompson can be pretty clumsy.

Thompson usually wears sweaters BUT he'll sometimes wear fancy suits but only for special stuff like dates or to impress

Thompson's hands are naturally pointy. when he gets nervous, panicky, anxious, scared, or angry, they sharpen like claws. he rarely gets angry but it usually happens when characters push his buttons too much. Bill finds it amusing or adorable when he's mad or sad.

Thompson is protective and cares a lot about his friends. he'd definitely make human friends and live on earth if he had the chance. he cares about Bill a lot but he tries not to condone or enable Bill's bad behavior. he'd risk his life to save humans. he's aware that the Pines family don't like him or trust him because well... he's friends with Bill, but he tries to stay honest with them.

his blood color is orange-ish red currently

he likes to do Bill's eye makeup and sometimes Bill even does Thompson's eye makeup (hence why he's got crazy eyelashes lol)

he's bisexual and confident about it

his height is 5 ft 4 but he can actually change it if he wanted to.

he can shrink, grow, glow, and shift a few forms. he can also shoot beams of light enough to kill or destroy something. but he rarely uses that unless he really has to. he can also float but he likes to stand on two legs.

even though he feels left out with the henchmaniacs, even when theyre technically illusions that don't come to life until later in Weirdmageddon, Bill often tries to help him feel like he's part of the gang and calls him a freak and his bestest friend to make him feel a little better. he tries.

he's so warm it actually makes Bill warm even though Bill is cold all of the time physically

Thompson enjoys chaos. he finds it to be somewhat natural in the fact it makes sense that it doesn't make sense. he doesn't like when chaos destroys or hurts others though.

Thompson knows who the real arsonist was and when he thinks about him, he feels angry because to him it ruined Bill. he knows Bill misses his home dimension and he even tries to get Bill to pour those emotions out to him privately.

he likes music and fashion from the 1900's up to the 1970's

his voice claim is Crispin Glover currently. https://youtu.be/BaYADHcpdng

"Are there any demons other than yourself? And if so, are you on good terms with them?"

"THEY'RE LUCKY IF THEY'RE ON GOOD TERMS WITH ME!"

[blk-chauvinist]

Why Women Aren’t Funny

BY CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS

JANUARY 1, 2007

Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: “He’s really quite cute, and he’s kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he’s so funny . . . “ (If you yourself are a guy, and you know the man in question, you will often have said to yourself, “Funny? He wouldn’t know a joke if it came served on a bed of lettuce with sauce béarnaise.”) However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: “She’s a real honey, has a life of her own . . . [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] . . . and, man, does she ever make ‘em laugh.”

Now, why is this? Why is it the case?, I mean. Why are women, who have the whole male world at their mercy, not funny? Please do not pretend not to know what I am talking about.

All right—try it the other way (as the bishop said to the barmaid). Why are men, taken on average and as a whole, funnier than women? Well, for one thing, they had damn well better be. The chief task in life that a man has to perform is that of impressing the opposite sex, and Mother Nature (as we laughingly call her) is not so kind to men. In fact, she equips many fellows with very little armament for the struggle. An average man has just one, outside chance: he had better be able to make the lady laugh. Making them laugh has been one of the crucial preoccupations of my life. If you can stimulate her to laughter—I am talking about that real, out-loud, head-back, mouth-open-to-expose-the-full-horseshoe-of-lovely-teeth, involuntary, full, and deep-throated mirth; the kind that is accompanied by a shocked surprise and a slight (no, make that a loud) peal of delight—well, then, you have at least caused her to loosen up and to change her expression. I shall not elaborate further.

Women have no corresponding need to appeal to men in this way. They already appeal to men, if you catch my drift. Indeed, we now have all the joy of a scientific study, which illuminates the difference. At the Stanford University School of Medicine (a place, as it happens, where I once underwent an absolutely hilarious procedure with a sigmoidoscope), the grim-faced researchers showed 10 men and 10 women a sample of 70 black-and-white cartoons and got them to rate the gags on a “funniness scale.” To annex for a moment the fall-about language of the report as it was summarized in Biotech Week:

The researchers found that men and women share much of the same humor-response system; both use to a similar degree the part of the brain responsible for semantic knowledge and juxtaposition and the part involved in language processing. But they also found that some brain regions were activated more in women. These included the left prefrontal cortex, suggesting a greater emphasis on language and executive processing in women, and the nucleus accumbens . . . which is part of the mesolimbic reward center.

This has all the charm and address of the learned Professor Scully’s attempt to define a smile, as cited by Richard Usborne in his treatise on P. G. Wodehouse: “the drawing back and slight lifting of the corners of the mouth, which partially uncover the teeth; the curving of the naso-labial furrows . . . “ But have no fear—it gets worse:

“Women appeared to have less expectation of a reward, which in this case was the punch line of the cartoon,” said the report’s author, Dr. Allan Reiss. “So when they got to the joke’s punch line, they were more pleased about it.” The report also found that “women were quicker at identifying material they considered unfunny.”

Slower to get it, more pleased when they do, and swift to locate the unfunny—for this we need the Stanford University School of Medicine? And remember, this is women when confronted with humor. Is it any wonder that they are backward in generating it?

This is not to say that women are humorless, or cannot make great wits and comedians. And if they did not operate on the humor wavelength, there would be scant point in half killing oneself in the attempt to make them writhe and scream (uproariously). Wit, after all, is the unfailing symptom of intelligence. Men will laugh at almost anything, often precisely because it is—or they are—extremely stupid. Women aren’t like that. And the wits and comics among them are formidable beyond compare: Dorothy Parker, Nora Ephron, Fran Lebowitz, Ellen DeGeneres. (Though ask yourself, was Dorothy Parker ever really funny?) Greatly daring—or so I thought—I resolved to call up Ms. Lebowitz and Ms. Ephron to try out my theories. Fran responded: “The cultural values are male; for a woman to say a man is funny is the equivalent of a man saying that a woman is pretty. Also, humor is largely aggressive and pre-emptive, and what’s more male than that?” Ms. Ephron did not disagree. She did, however, in what I thought was a slightly feline way, accuse me of plagiarizing a rant by Jerry Lewis that said much the same thing. (I have only once seen Lewis in action, in The King of Comedy, where it was really Sandra Bernhard who was funny.)

In any case, my argument doesn’t say that there are no decent women comedians. There are more terrible female comedians than there are terrible male comedians, but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three. When Roseanne stands up and tells biker jokes and invites people who don’t dig her shtick to suck her dick—know what I am saying? And the Sapphic faction may have its own reasons for wanting what I want—the sweet surrender of female laughter. While Jewish humor, boiling as it is with angst and self-deprecation, is almost masculine by definition.

Substitute the term “self-defecation” (which I actually heard being used inadvertently once) and almost all men will laugh right away, if only to pass the time. Probe a little deeper, though, and you will see what Nietzsche meant when he described a witticism as an epitaph on the death of a feeling. Male humor prefers the laugh to be at someone’s expense, and understands that life is quite possibly a joke to begin with—and often a joke in extremely poor taste. Humor is part of the armor-plate with which to resist what is already farcical enough. (Perhaps not by coincidence, battered as they are by motherfucking nature, men tend to refer to life itself as a bitch.) Whereas women, bless their tender hearts, would prefer that life be fair, and even sweet, rather than the sordid mess it actually is. Jokes about calamitous visits to the doctor or the shrink or the bathroom, or the venting of sexual frustration on furry domestic animals, are a male province. It must have been a man who originated the phrase “funny like a heart attack.” In all the millions of cartoons that feature a patient listening glum-faced to a physician (“There’s no cure. There isn’t even a race for a cure”), do you remember even one where the patient is a woman? I thought as much.

Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not want women to be funny. They want them as an audience, not as rivals. And there is a huge, brimming reservoir of male unease, which it would be too easy for women to exploit. (Men can tell jokes about what happened to John Wayne Bobbitt, but they don’t want women doing so.) Men have prostate glands, hysterically enough, and these have a tendency to give out, along with their hearts and, it has to be said, their dicks. This is funny only in male company. For some reason, women do not find their own physical decay and absurdity to be so riotously amusing, which is why we admire Lucille Ball and Helen Fielding, who do see the funny side of it. But this is so rare as to be like Dr. Johnson’s comparison of a woman preaching to a dog walking on its hind legs: the surprise is that it is done at all.

The plain fact is that the physical structure of the human being is a joke in itself: a flat, crude, unanswerable disproof of any nonsense about “intelligent design.” The reproductive and eliminating functions (the closeness of which is the origin of all obscenity) were obviously wired together in hell by some subcommittee that was giggling cruelly as it went about its work. (“Think they’d wear this? Well, they’re gonna have to.”) The resulting confusion is the source of perhaps 50 percent of all humor. Filth. That’s what the customers want, as we occasional stand-up performers all know. Filth, and plenty of it. Filth in lavish, heaping quantities. And there’s another principle that helps exclude the fair sex. “Men obviously like gross stuff,” says Fran Lebowitz. “Why? Because it’s childish.” Keep your eye on that last word. Women’s appetite for talk about that fine product known as Depend is limited. So is their relish for gags about premature ejaculation. (“Premature for whom?” as a friend of mine indignantly demands to know.) But “child” is the key word. For women, reproduction is, if not the only thing, certainly the main thing. Apart from giving them a very different attitude to filth and embarrassment, it also imbues them with the kind of seriousness and solemnity at which men can only goggle. This womanly seriousness was well caught by Rudyard Kipling in his poem “The Female of the Species.” After cleverly noticing that with the male “mirth obscene diverts his anger”—which is true of most work on that great masculine equivalent to childbirth, which is warfare—Kipling insists:

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same, And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

The word “issue” there, which we so pathetically misuse, is restored to its proper meaning of childbirth. As Kipling continues:

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.

Men are overawed, not to say terrified, by the ability of women to produce babies. (Asked by a lady intellectual to summarize the differences between the sexes, another bishop responded, “Madam, I cannot conceive.”) It gives women an unchallengeable authority. And one of the earliest origins of humor that we know about is its role in the mockery of authority. Irony itself has been called “the glory of slaves.” So you could argue that when men get together to be funny and do not expect women to be there, or in on the joke, they are really playing truant and implicitly conceding who is really the boss.

The ancient annual festivities of Saturnalia, where the slaves would play master, were a temporary release from bossdom. A whole tranche of subversive male humor likewise depends on the notion that women are not really the boss, but are mere objects and victims. Kipling saw through this:

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her.

In other words, for women the question of funniness is essentially a secondary one. They are innately aware of a higher calling that is no laughing matter. Whereas with a man you may freely say of him that he is lousy in the sack, or a bad driver, or an inefficient worker, and still wound him less deeply than you would if you accused him of being deficient in the humor department.

If I am correct about this, which I am, then the explanation for the superior funniness of men is much the same as for the inferior funniness of women. Men have to pretend, to themselves as well as to women, that they are not the servants and supplicants. Women, cunning minxes that they are, have to affect not to be the potentates. This is the unspoken compromise. H. L. Mencken described as “the greatest single discovery ever made by man” the realization “that babies have human fathers, and are not put into their mother’s bodies by the gods.” You may well wonder what people were thinking before that realization hit, but we do know of a society in Melanesia where the connection was not made until quite recently. I suppose that the reasoning went: everybody does that thing the entire time, there being little else to do, but not every woman becomes pregnant. Anyway, after a certain stage women came to the conclusion that men were actually necessary, and the old form of matriarchy came to a close. (Mencken speculates that this is why the first kings ascended the throne clutching their batons or scepters as if holding on for grim death.) People in this precarious position do not enjoy being laughed at, and it would not have taken women long to work out that female humor would be the most upsetting of all.

Childbearing and rearing are the double root of all this, as Kipling guessed. As every father knows, the placenta is made up of brain cells, which migrate southward during pregnancy and take the sense of humor along with them. And when the bundle is finally delivered, the funny side is not always immediately back in view. Is there anything so utterly lacking in humor as a mother discussing her new child? She is unboreable on the subject. Even the mothers of other fledglings have to drive their fingernails into their palms and wiggle their toes, just to prevent themselves from fainting dead away at the sheer tedium of it. And as the little ones burgeon and thrive, do you find that their mothers enjoy jests at their expense? I thought not.

Humor, if we are to be serious about it, arises from the ineluctable fact that we are all born into a losing struggle. Those who risk agony and death to bring children into this fiasco simply can’t afford to be too frivolous. (And there just aren’t that many episiotomy jokes, even in the male repertoire.) I am certain that this is also partly why, in all cultures, it is females who are the rank-and-file mainstay of religion, which in turn is the official enemy of all humor. One tiny snuffle that turns into a wheeze, one little cut that goes septic, one pathetically small coffin, and the woman’s universe is left in ashes and ruin. Try being funny about that, if you like. Oscar Wilde was the only person ever to make a decent joke about the death of an infant, and that infant was fictional, and Wilde was (although twice a father) a queer. And because fear is the mother of superstition, and because they are partly ruled in any case by the moon and the tides, women also fall more heavily for dreams, for supposedly significant dates like birthdays and anniversaries, for romantic love, crystals and stones, lockets and relics, and other things that men know are fit mainly for mockery and limericks. Good grief! Is there anything less funny than hearing a woman relate a dream she’s just had? (“And then Quentin was there somehow. And so were you, in a strange sort of way. And it was all so peaceful.” Peaceful?)

For men, it is a tragedy that the two things they prize the most—women and humor—should be so antithetical. But without tragedy there could be no comedy. My beloved said to me, when I told her I was going to have to address this melancholy topic, that I should cheer up because “women get funnier as they get older.” Observation suggests to me that this might indeed be true, but, excuse me, isn’t that rather a long time to have to wait?

From Vanity Fair