#glovesforthis

[ryeheart-blog1]

your consenting mind

The world was a blur.

Lost in the depths of a drunken stupor after an evening of partying at a nightclub, Stan could hardly differentiate between objects and people, the only concrete shape being him. Him and all of his beauty, how his blue eyes glistened as they reflected incoming headlights.

His thin frame leaned forward, asking a question so adorably innocent and sweet, "Hey, could you turn the radio down a little? I think Mabel might be falling asleep up there." There was an unintelligible, on-the-brink-of-sleep protest, but Stan didn't register it, couldn't be bothered when he was too caught up in Maverick. His Maverick, whom he hadn't seen in so long, who'd left him so many years ago.

It hardly mattered, even when the smaller figure upfront clunked against the window, bolting away with a loud 'ow!'. Then, she was crawling onto the console and into the backseat. "Maverick," she whined, "I wanna use you as a pillow!' Something about the words, about his name sounded... off, but no heed was paid to the inconsistency.

"Christ, Shooting Star. You make this whole scene about wanting shotgun, now you're ditching?"

There was a second of hesitance before he was helping her climb over. "Okay, just… be careful, don't kick the gearshift." And once situated she was leaning into him, nuzzled comfortably in his shoulder as he slung an arm around her, pulling her in tightly.

Then, those gorgeously blue, stormy eyes were on him, searching him as they always could with ease. Seeing through him. "Stan," the way he said his name— it was tender, heartfelt and laced with concern, exactly like he remembered it. Nothing had changed, and it filled his heart with hope. "Are you alright?" His Maverick had his head tilted at him now, worry etched on his smoothed, delicate features. But god those eyes, those damn cerulean eyes would never fail to melt him.

"I'm always wonderful when you're around," Stan told him warmly, and his expression brightened with a blush and a timid lip-bite at the compliment. Oh, how couldn't he be? His Maverick had returned to him after all these years.

"Oh, uh—" he sputtered, seemingly holding back a laugh, "gosh, thanks? That's super nice of you. Kind of weird but still nice."

From the driver's seat, he could hear a growl. "Leave my Pine Tree alone, you old fuck." Pine Tree? That was a lovely name, so fitting of his Maverick. He loved nature and the outdoors.

"Come on, Bill." Bill? That didn't seem right. Shermie was driving tonight. Shermie was what he'd meant. The chide was gentle with affection, but really, that was no surprise. Maverick always had adored everyone and everything, almost to a ridiculous extent when he refused to engage in violence for a situation as dire as self-defense. "He's drunk out of his mind, just let him say whatever. He probably doesn't mean it."

Oh, but he did mean it. Every word. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked. "I meant every word, ya know?"

"That's," there was a thoughtful hum, then he shrugged, "flattering? I like it when you're around too." Ducking his head, he wore a faint grin. The mere sight made the wait worth his strife to Stan, it was as if the stars had aligned and it all had fallen into place. He couldn't count the number of times he'd dreamed of that smile, begging whatever heartless gods were out there to give him a chance to witness it again. "At first, I thought you were sort of intimidating, but I gotta hand it to you, you're not as bad as I thought." Stan broke into a smile, looking at his Mav– how refreshingly blue his eyes were, like the ocean on a hot summer day, and how a tuft of his brown hair hung just above his eye. It was adorable. Stan wanted to kiss him.

Blinking, he inquired, "Are you sure you're okay? You're looking at me and it's… been like a minute." A cough, and he was averting his eyes only to bring them back a moment later, shuffling closer to the best of his ability, hindered by the form leaning on him. "Jeez, you really drank a lot, shouldn't do that to yourself. Seriously, dude."

"Hun," Stan spoke quietly, leaning close to his face. "I'm fine, I just…" he leaned in more. "Wanna kiss… ya."

"Oh, man," he said with a breathless, maybe nervous chuckle, fluffing his brown hair as a slender hand ran through the strands. It had a bit more of a reddish tint than he'd thought it did, a possible trick of the lighting. "You are completely out of it." Turning away, he told Shermie, "I'm going to stay with Stan once we get back, okay? Just for a bit, like… to make sure he's okay and gets to bed without hurting himself." Although he continued speaking, the rest was muffled to Stan, only processing bits: "...overdid it tonight… doubt he'll even remember."

Shermie huffed, uncharacteristically displeased. "If he tries anything, I'm kicking his ass."

"You can come with, if you want..? Just thought you'd rather shower to get sand out of, um… places." Places? Stan knew his Mav liked to stroll along the beach and throw beached starfishes back into the ocean with a promise that he'd be there if they were ever washed ashore again. His and Mav's twilight walks together were some of his best memories, just chatting while his sweetheart lovingly tended to the world.

Stan leaned in closer, prepared to close the distance between him and his love, but he was jolting back, looking flustered beyond belief. Utterly stunned, a little frightened. His shoulders were tense and drawn together, and he kept stealing brief peeks at him but kept his attention trained forward, his handsome face deliberately out of reach. His Maverick must've been feeling shy, almost challenging him– he'd always been skittish with affection, and Stan was going to accept that challenge. "Look, I— wow. Mmmaybe… let's not do that."

"Ya know ya want it," Stan hummed as he leaned in again, trying to close that precious distance between them once more. Mav loved playing hard to get, and Stan knew his face would light up once he was attacked by kisses.

There was a hand pushed to his chest, forcing him to stay at arm's length. Though, 'forcing' was a stretch since Mav had never been the most muscular and wouldn't last under brute strength. "Stan, no. I know you're totally wasted, so… yeah, I get it, but I don't think either of us actually want this." Removing the hand from his chest, he used it to prod Shermie, appearing pleading. "Drive faster, Bill." That strange name again. "Pretty sure drunk Stan is trying to kiss me, so it'd be nice if we could get to the penthouse and y'know, never mention this again."

He was… being rejected? That couldn't be, Mav always liked being kissed. He was also against driving fast, his ideal speed limit was ten miles per hour everywhere. "Why are ya rejecting me, hun?"

A sigh resounded from the driver's seat, from Shermie undoubtedly. "Listen to him. He's so fucked he won't remember any of this."

"I know," he concurred with a nod, and then Stan saw it as he looked back at him— his eyes pools of anxiety and a pinch of sadness. "Sorry for rejecting you, man. I just… you get why, right? The only reason you're doing this is because you had too much to drink at that nightclub."

What? No, he was doing this because he was Mav, and Stan loved his Mav. ...Why was Mav looking different? His wonderful blue eyes had grown murky, a deep brown… and Stan pulled back in confusion. Even his hair was different, having a distinct reddish tone in his brown. It definitely wasn't the result of poor lighting. What the fuck?

Noticing, he… whoever it was, asked, "Whoa, what's wrong?" But they sounded so similar, it was so close and yet the pitch was wrong, it was higher, more strained. No. No, no, no. "Stan. I'm seriously worried about you, what's going on?"

He squinted, as if that would fix everything wrong with how Mav looked. "I'm seein' shit."

"Like, hallucinating?" His eyes widened with fear, throat working silently as if getting out a single word was a struggle. "It's alright," the tone suggested it was aimed to be reassuring, compounded when he grabbed his wrist, "I'm here and uh… I— I'll make sure you're okay, I promise, but you should stop drinking so much in the future."

Stan let out a laugh. "It's crazy, for a second it looked like ya had brown eyes."'

"Oh! Well, yeah, I do," he clarified jovially, a chuckle escaping. "I guess I've been told they're hazel in different lighting, but brown is kind of the consensus." What? No he didn't, he had a striking pair of blue eyes. Right? ...Oh, fuck.

No.

Fuck. Stan recoiled further, pressing himself back against the car door. This wasn't Mav, Mav was gone, his Top Gun-obsessed lover had left long ago. This was… this was Dipper. Concern flashed in the depths of his off-eyes, and he reached out to stabilize him. "Dude, calm down. It's not a big deal."

"You–" Stan had begun to speak, but the touch was by Mav. Instantly calming. He was certain the others didn't exist, that they were merely a figment of his imagination. Mav was the only real thing. "Shit. I think you're fuckin' with me, love bug. Your eyes are blue again. I always liked your eyes."

In another second, those eyes were darting nervously, something he rarely saw on his beloved. "Are you sure? I mean, I think they're mostly brown. Nobody's ever called them blue, so maybe it's too dark in here to see or something." There was a quiet puff of a laugh, his touch retracting to wring his hands together.

He'd moved closer once more, leaning into Maverick and enjoying the warmth of his body against his. He missed this so fucking much. "They've always been blue," he told him. "They're fuckin' pretty."

"Okay, thanks…?" he responded tentatively, then Stan could feel his shoulders lifting and falling in a shrug. "I'm just glad you're feeling better, man. You had me worried for a while, I thought we were going to have to call Ford."

Why'd they call Ford when he was with them? "Ford's on your lap, jus' wake 'im up."

A frown pulled the corners of his lips downward, and he was giving him the same critical stare. "No, that's Mabel," he spoke gently. "She fell asleep after we left the nightclub because she'd danced for like, two hours straight. Ford isn't here, that's why we went out in the first place."

He didn't know who that was, but he knew Ford wasn't big on dancing. Did someone give the guy too much spiked punch or something? Stan couldn't remember slipping him anything, it was so unlike himself. "Ford is here," he insisted. "He's right there. See?" He pointed at the sleeping figure on Mav. "Must've tired himself out thinking too fuckin' much."

Although he gave a blank, uncertain stare for several moments, his attention swapped to the front and he asked, "Shermie,” that was better, “what do I do about this? Like, is this how Stan normally acts when he's really intoxicated?"

Shermie huffed. He was surprisingly huffy today, Stan couldn't understand why. Shermie was always in a good mood. "He always acts like a drunken buffoon, ignore him. If he tries to kiss you again, I'm pulling this car over."

"Yeah, that's a good idea," Mav agreed. "If you don't mind, maybe I could switch seats? Honestly, I kind of wanted to be in the front to begin with, but Mabel stole it from me."

Stan blinked, looking at Maverick and all of his cuteness. He leaned in, moving to sneakily steal a kiss and he almost had it— before Mav seemed to flinch at the last moment, seeing what he was doing and turning his head so his lips collided with his cheek. "Seriously, I don't think we should be doing that." It was followed by a mumbled lamentation, something about wondering why drunk people always tried to kiss him.

To Shermie, he said, "Okay, so that just happened. Can we pull over now?" The car had already screeched to a stop, Shermie growling in the front.

Stan emitted a noise of distress, watching as his Maverick seemingly disappeared from his side. "Where'd ya go?" he called out quietly. "... Did you leave me again?"

"I thought I'd take the passenger seat? Then if you want, uh.. you have more room to stretch out and stuff, or maybe fall asleep. Yeah, that'd be good." There was the voice, but it still didn't sound quite right. Too tight, on the verge of cracking, heavy with anxiety. Quieter and leaning toward Shermie, he said, "Can this be the last time we go out with Stan if he's going to get totally drunk?"

Shermie leaned over to his Mav, planting a loud kiss to his lips, and Mav was reciprocating eagerly, finding his hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. What the fuck? Why was Shermie kissing his adoptive—? Eh, sorta, if plucking the kid off the street counted. Didn’t matter, that wasn't like them at all. Shermie hardly liked Stan dating him to begin with, said it was too dangerous, too treading on the border of immoral. "Why are ya kissing him and not me?"

They parted, and it seemed Mav was surprised by the question. He'd better be, that was fuckin' weird and Stan didn't like it. "Because… we're friends with benefits? Not dating, or anything obviously, because we're just friends and nothing more."

"Why are ya friends with benefits with your adoptive dad?!"

"Okay, I… wait, what? I don't have an adoptive dad, and also, meet Bill. Bill Cipher, the guy in your crew, the huge jerk easily mistaken for a bumblebee?" The last bit was twinged with a moonstruck affection that made Stan's stomach churn. "He's my friend with benefits." Bill… who? He'd been so sure it was Shermie. His brother, their leader, the one who'd made it possible to be with Mav. Who was this Bill? Was this just a twisted dream, a nightmare come to haunt him?

No, he realized with a startling revelation. This was real. Mav was gone forever, like he was twenty years ago when he left the crew in favor of a domestic life. Stan had hoped… he'd hoped they could reclaim their lost relationship, that Mav would accept his love and enjoy an unofficial legal binding like Stan wanted to. He wanted to make him his, wanted to grow old with him until they died, but all of that was ruined, and nothing could fix it. Now… now he was left with his kids and shattered memories and dreams, and Stan could feel the tears welling in his eyes. "I wanna go home," he muttered, struggling to keep his voice even.

"We're on the way to the penthouse," Dipper said. "Bill's almost there."

Stan wanted to be there five minutes ago. Make that ten. He wished he never left the penthouse, that he never thought he saw Mav. "Can it go faster?" His question was a forced grumble, and it elicited Bill looking back at him.

"Not with your shitty attitude slowing us down. Stars, I wish Fiddleford hadn't given you that heart medication. It's made you less fun when you're fucking drunk."

"Bill, be nice," he said frowning. "I think everyone's just tired, so… I don't know, maybe give it a rest for tonight."

Stan heaved a sigh, leaning against the window as he closed his eyes. He regretted drinking so heavily around Dipper, and he didn't plan on doing it again. Would that last? Probably not. He didn't want to see Mav, he didn't want to feel this pain again, to know he couldn't… get back what he'd lost.

Trying to tune out everything else, the voices of Dipper and Bill talking were slowly fading away, becoming more distanced as he drifted off to sleep.

Exiting the shower, Bill made quick work of drying off and tossing on fresh boxers. He returned to his bedroom, flopping on the bed and wiggling under the sheets with some grumbling. What was supposed to be a fun night at the club had soured his mood with Stan hitting on his Pine Tree, and now he just wanted to snuggle up with his favorite person and sleep. Beside him, Dipper was on his phone, probably reading something nerdy like Huckleberry Finn or something stupid like Conservation Efforts Weekly. Bill would convince him to put that shit down and cuddle with him, one way or another.

But before he could manually deter his attention, Dipper was peering to him, cocking his head to a side. "Hey, do you feel better? I'm assuming the sand had to be kind of uncomfortable. Guess that's what we get for making out on the beach like lovesick teenagers, huh?"

Did he feel better? Bill didn't think so, not when Stan spent the drive home eyeing his boyfriend up. Dipper was his, and his alone– why didn't Stan get that? He wasn't his fucking ex. Mav was dead, had been dead for a couple months now, although Stan would refuse to acknowledge that. 'Maverick died twenty years ago in the crew,' he'd drunkenly argue on the rare occasion the subject arose. 'Maxwell is a stupid politician, they're not the same fucking person.' Such bullshit, especially now that there was no uncertainty over the dude's death. Robbie had made sure of that. "Yeah," he murmured. "About the sand, at least. Hey, cutie?"

Locking his phone and setting it aside, Dipper shuffled deeper into bed, drawing near. "What's up?" His curious gaze was transfixed on him, intrigued, trying to examine him and probably mentally entertaining hundreds of theories. Ugh, the kid thought too much, he could hear the gears turning from here.

"If Stan had tried going further, and I wasn't there, would you have stopped him?" An idiotic question, he knew, but he wanted to make sure. Stan was… unpredictable, when he was drunk, and it didn't help he seemed to be fucked up from combining his medication with alcohol.

"Bill," he was addressed through a reverberating laugh, "I did stop him tonight. You basically did nothing except grump and pout, so yes, it's safe to say I would have." Scrambling to rest partially atop him, Dipper brushed their noses together and murmured, "You're the only one I want. I know we're dating, but you're still my now-and-forever heterosexual life partner too."

Bill huffed, moving to wrap his arms around him, a hand drifting over his pajama shirt. "I'd better be, sugar." Seriously, he couldn't be without him, and he didn't want to be.

There was a pause before Dipper said, "Oh! Okay, so while you were showering… I made sure Stan was okay and all that, left him some water and ibuprofen for tomorrow but uh— when I came back, you were still in the shower, so… remember what you said earlier? About wearing the bowtie on my leg? I kind of got creative." Dipper leaned back, pushing the sheets with him to reveal his lower half, sporting his star-patterned boxers with bowties wrapped around each thigh, the bows facing outward and resting approximately midway between his waist and knee. He was biting his lip to stop from laughing, a delighted flush on his cheeks. Mm, he was pleased with himself for this.

"Oh, stars." He loved it, wanted to rip it off of him and make him his. "Cutie, you're on the highway to being fucked soon if you keep this up."

That finally got the laughter to spill over, and Dipper went with it, gracefully falling forward on top of him. "The mandatory clubbing turned this into a really long night, but honestly I… I kind of just want you to pin me down and do stuff, pick up where we left off earlier on the balcony and the beach. Is that weird? I'm pretty sure I'll crash immediately after if we do, though."

"What," Bill teased, eyeing him as he spoke. "All that dancing got you frisky, doll?" He loved it when his Pine Tree was horny, eager and flooded with desire.

"It's not that!" he protested, the redness on his cheeks flaring, and Bill swore he could feel the heat radiating off his skin from where he laid. "It's— it's just that after you shower, you look super good?" Dipper's voice raised with embarrassment, smile turning bashful. "Like, your hair is wet, you smell nice, I can see all your tattoos, and it reminds me of the first time I drew you. ...And then we ended up making out."

Bill chuckled, leaning in to connect their lips, and Dipper made a happy noise into the kiss as he returned it. "We'll be doing more than making out, doll." Probably just grinding, but Bill longed for the day they could take it further.

Pupils dilating, Dipper inhaled sharply in response and squirmed in his lap, Bill thrusting up against him. "Th-that's what you want to do?" he asked, eyebrows raised. "Okay." That was followed by a more intentional grind, this one slower and with less contact, meanwhile Dipper's gaze never left him. Watching, waiting. Bill narrowed his eyes, suddenly heaving himself to a side to knock Dipper onto the mattress, pinning him down and hearing a squeak probably more for show than out of surprise. That was confirmed when Dipper didn't protest or fight, instead wrapping his legs around him and pulling him closer, the silent encouragement to keep going.

There was a kiss on his shoulder, then on the junction of his neck, and he murmured dreamily, "I can't wait until you're… uh, y'know, actually… inside of me like this."

Bill couldn't wait either. He wanted to take him now, make him moan in pleasure as he was pounded into oblivion, but he knew Dipper wouldn't be ready. Not yet.

That was fine, Bill could wait longer. He'd just have a fun night with his boyfriend in the meantime.