#oreo fic

[r3djy]

Dinner is served!❤️

[anxiousgaypanicking]

Oreo

Synopsis:  As a joke, Roman's forced to ask Virgil out after losing an oreo. Flustered, and somewhat embarrassed and humiliated by the connotation that dating him would be such a bad thing, he says yes out of impulse, and must now deal with what being Roman's "boyfriend" entails. Taglist: @renys @falsemood

Part Five: Oversleeping Masterlist

Does he even have a reason to despise Roman? A real reason? 

He knows he hates Remus, but he can’t drag Roman into his brother’s bullying. Well, technically he could, but it’d be immature. 

Huffing, Virgil tries to think of a reason - perhaps an annoying interaction they’ve had or teasing that was taken too far - but he ultimately comes up short. He just seemingly decided one day after seeing him around Remus that he didn’t like the man. Overlooking the fact they’re brothers in order to justify his bitterness. 

Virgil squeezes his eyes shut. 

Okay, he’ll admit that was a bit unfair of him. Deciding that he didn’t like Roman just because of who he’s related to was silly. 

But, at the same time, Remus harassed him and his friends constantly. How could someone as wonderful and caring as Roman be related to someone who’s so pathetic that he picks on other people to feel some semblance of self worth? 

Virgil’s fists roughly hit against his pillows, letting out a frustrated groan as he struggles to sift through the thoughts flooding within his mind like unruly waves crashing against a beach. He can’t focus on anything for more than a few seconds; a thought would come, he’d feel guilt or justification, and then a new thought would take its place. 

He sits back up, adjusting his position on the couch, before he turns and presses his face into a new cushion. Closing his eyes once again, the “date” he’d just gone on plays in his mind like a movie. 

Roman’s smile… The ease by which he talked... 

And his laughter. 

Virgil pulls his knees up to his chest, sighing as he urges himself to relax. The sweet taste of a milkshake on his tongue seems to linger. A wave of exhaustion overtakes him as the exertion of today finally catches up. He’s not an extrovert by any means, and spending the entire day out with Roman was taking a toll. 

He leans back on the couch, yawning dramatically, before pushing his face hard into one of the cushions. He lets his eyes close. The date seems to play in his mind like a movie, and he lets the memory of Roman’s soft chuckle lull him to sleep. 

***

He wakes up the next morning with a headache. 

His phone is beeping repeatedly, and when Virgil looks at him, he’s quick to push himself onto his feet. 

Groaning as a wave of vertigo overtakes him, he watches a call from Janus suddenly end, adding to a culmination of missed calls currently capped at “16,” but still threatening to increase. He doesn’t bother answering, instead quickly unlocking his phone as he stumbles towards his room, being met with a barrage of texts including ‘where are you?’ and ‘class started fifteen minutes ago!’

Fifteen minutes. And to make matters worse, Virgil can tell he’d overslept, meaning he feels exhausted as ever. Next time he gets home early from a date, he’ll try to keep himself up until ten. 

Quickly, Virgil sends an ‘i overslept’ text to the group chat, met with the singular reaction of a thumbs-down emoji from Logan. Truly helpful. 

He quickly gets ready, shrugging off his dirty clothes in favor of a different hoodie and another pair of black jeans, before patting his pocket to make sure he has his house key. He throws his backpack over his shoulders, and nearly trips down the stairs. 

Under his breath he curses himself for putting off getting his driver’s license. It’s not a long walk by any means, but with him already being late, having a quicker mode of transportation would definitely help. 

Essentially sprinting, he can feel himself getting sweaty, and he shakes his head and groans as he realizes he forgot deodorant or toothpaste. Gross. 

When he finally hauls his ass into school, he desperately explains his situation to the main office, and is given a late pass which he shamefully carries as he makes his way to his first class. He looks a mess, and he knows it, and so tries to keep his head down as he walks inside. 

Every head raises to stare at him, including Janus’s, and the teachers. He shifts uncomfortably where he stands. 

"Mr. Addams," she addresses him, sounding rather annoyed. "Glad to see you're finally joining us. Do you have a pass?” 

Virgil raises her arm to hand her the slip, and she reads over it before nodding and setting it on her desk. 

“The office will adjust your attendance,” she says, dismissively, and Virgil walks to his desk in the back of the room. His chest aches as he feels everyone’s eyes following him. How stupid does he look? Did he remember to lock the front door?

He collapses into his seat, feeling his legs throb as he keeps a hand on his chest, trying to steady his breathing. Running here took so much effort, and keeping his eyes open wasn’t proving to be any easier. He feels as though he’s going to fall to the ground unconscious at any moment. 

He resists the urge to lay his head down on his desk, and tries his best to pay attention, not wanting to upset his teacher any further. She already wasn’t pleased with him; he’d hate to do something that would result in a stern talking-to, or even worse, a referral. 

In the corner of his eye, Virgil watches Janus type on his phone under the desk, though his head stays straight. His eyes look between Virgil and the teacher. Though he’s curious, Virgil doesn’t bother to check the vibrating phone in his pocket, not wanting to risk fumbling and dropping it. He’d already drawn enough attention toward himself today. 

Thankfully, the bell rings after just a short while for Virgil, and he trudges out of the room, Janus at his side.

“Geez, you look like shit,” he comments, making Virgil roll his eyes. He rubs at his face, focusing around his eyes, as he tries to wake himself up more. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I might pass out,” Virgil groggily responds, before forcing himself to stretch. As he reaches his arms over his head, he lets out a slight groan, and then relaxes again. It didn’t help much, but his body feels less strained. 

Janus sets a hand on his back. It’s a light touch, but it’s clear he’s helping guide Virgil, if only a bit. 

That doesn’t keep Janus from grinning, though. “Don’t worry. All you have to do is stay alive until lunch, and then you can fall asleep on that hunk of a boyfriend you have.” Janus wiggles his eyebrows, attempting to entice some bitter or embarrassed refute from Virgil, but all he gets is a slight hum in response. 

Janus whistles. “You must really be tired, hm? Not a glare? No shoulder punch?” He stops their walking to set the back of his hand against Virgil’s forehead. “Are you sure you’re just feeling tired? You’re not running a fever or anything, are you?” 

Virgil finally scoffs, and pushes Janus’s hand away. Janus was right in a sense though. He just had to make it to lunch. Then, he could take a quick nap! Hopefully, he’d feel better after that.

Thank god tomorrow was Friday.

Virgil sleepwalks through his next few classes, but it doesn’t seem like any of his teachers notice. Janus and Logan accompany him through a few of them, but he hardly notices. With his head down, he struggles to keep awake, and resorts to kicking his leg in order to stay awake.

Finally, after what seems like centuries to Virgil, lunch comes around. 

His eyes burn, and he feels like he’s shaking with every step he takes. He just needs to make it to the cafeteria. Then, he’ll be okay. 

As he’s walking - rather slowly - towards the loud chatter and open double-doors, an arm wraps around his shoulders. Virgil jumps, and stiffens as he cranes his neck upwards, only to see Roman. 

“Lacking the pep in your step, I see,” Roman jokes, and Virgil can’t help the small smile that graces his lips. 

“I’m tired,” Virgil clarifies, as he lets Roman guide him forward.

Roman chuckles. "You shouldn't be; you told the teacher you overslept.”

Virgil rolls his eyes, but Roman suggests “you can nap at lunch. I don’t think all the screaming would make the greatest white noise, but to each their own.” 

Virgil laughs softly. “Janus told me a similar thing.” He leaves out the bit where Janus joked about Virgil falling asleep against Roman. Being reminded of that, he’s quick to pull himself away from Roman, who eases his grip and allows Virgil to do so. 

People whisper as they pass. It was still big news that Roman decided to date some social outcast! Virgil still needed to ask how people found out about that, though, with Roman’s love for affection and his brother’s big mouth, he definitely had a few guesses. 

Once they sit down at their table, Virgil immediately slumps over it, and tucks his head into his arms. Roman, who’s apparently decided this was his new table as well, pats Virgil’s back comfortingly. 

“I take it you’re no longer completely against dating Roman?” Janus teases, alluding to the fact they walked in together. 

Virgil just shrugs, too lethargic to care at the moment. 

Janus laughs. “Better watch out, Roman! Virgil might actually be falling in love with you.” He winks, and Roman smiles, but Virgil lets out a string of muffled words at Janus’s teasing. 

They’re mostly incoherent, but Janus can just assume the obvious; Virgil was obviously saying something along the lines of “I could never fall in love with someone like him.” 

Roman has no qualms laughing at Janus’s words, though, cheeks a nice pink at the idea. Virgil actually falling in love with him? Never. And Roman becoming equally smitten? He doesn’t see it happening. 

There were no real romantic feelings between them, and Roman knew that. But he’s not a quitter, and if Virgil insists on being in this “relationship,” then Roman will make sure it’s the best relationship Virgil’s ever partaken in. 

Sneaking a glance downwards, Roman’s met with Virgil’s (supposedly) sleeping figure. He was breathing rhythmically, so Roman assumes he’s finally managed to drift off. 

Out of courtesy, Roman lowers his voice, and when Logan finally comes over to join them, he does the same. Logan has a book out as he eats, but he has no problem talking while reading, as if that wasn’t an impressive task. And as lunch carries on, Logan and Janus become more invested in each other, leaving Roman to eat his lunch quietly, side-by-side with Virgil. 

When the bell rings, Janus and Logan get up and walk off together, leaving Roman with a sleeping Virgil. 

With a sigh, Roman gently shakes Virgil awake. Virgil groans, before weakly swatting at Roman’s hands. His accuracy is horrid, but Roman’s arms retreat anyway, giving Virgil space to stretch. 

“Don’t touch me… you heathen….” Virgil yawns, blinking his eyes open. 

Roman grins. “Heathen? That’s an awfully mean thing to call somebody who’s looking out for you. Here I am, selflessly making sure you get to your next class on time, and you insult me.” Roman sets a hand on his chest, feigning being struck, as if Virgil’s insult had punched him square in the torso. 

Virgil stands, yawning again, before cracking his back. Then, he begins walking. Roman walks with him. They don’t share the same class this period, but it’s in the same general direction.

“Believe me, Roman, I could call you worse,” Virgil threatens, voice gravelly. He still sounds exhausted, but he looks a bit better. Hopefully, with a quick cat-nap, he’d be better suited to finish the rest of the day. 

Roman laughs, but doesn’t respond. Silently, they head to Virgil’s class, before Roman waves and turns away to walk to his own, leaving Virgil to settle himself at his desk. 

Their afternoon classes are uneventful, and the two are both fairly happy when the dismissal bell rings. Roman runs to his locker, which is already swarmed with fellow football players, other boys trying to associate with the “cool” jocks, and girls desperate to talk to them. 

He manages to worm his way to his locker, but in attempting to grab his stuff and leave, he’s stopped by Remus. 

“Hey, loser,” Remus greets him, with a wide smile. He’s leaning against the locker next to Roman’s. “Have you convinced that outcast to break up with you yet?” Remus picks at his teeth with his pinky as he waits for an answer, seemingly intrigued. 

“No,” Roman replies, as he shuts his locker a bit louder than necessary. “I haven’t been trying.” 

Remus looks a little surprised. “Why not? Don’t tell me you actually caught feelings for that accident?” 

Roman narrows his eyes, turning to Remus with comically red cheeks. He was frustrated, but such a look could easily be mistaken for fluster. A strange compulsion to defend Virgil wells up in his chest. Maybe it was because Virgil wasn’t here to stick up for himself. 

“So what if I have?” is his immediate jest, threatening Remus to raise any sort of objection. “Is that such a problem?” There’s a glare not normally present in his soft green eyes, and it makes Remus jut his chin out in a mixture of curiosity, and amusement. 

Roman doesn’t actually have feelings for Virgil, but he has respect and basic decency. Unlike Remus, apparently.

“You barely know him,” Roman continues, as the increasing volume of his voice draws the attention of the people around them, “and from what I’ve seen, he’s a better person than you are.” 

“That’s not a hard bar to surpass.” 

Roman groans, before stomping his foot dramatically. “Whatever, Remus! Get out of my way; I’m going to see my boyfriend.” 

He pushes past Remus, purposely bumping his shoulder against his brother’s, before stomping off, leaving Remus there, intrigued. 

Roman takes deep breaths as he makes his way to Virgil’s locker, where he hopes the latter is. And he’s pleased when he sees Virgil there, though Virgil looks exhausted. 

His forehead is pressed against his locker, eyes closed. He was holding his bag by his strap, though it hangs down, being drawn to the floor. 

Roman sets a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, and apologizes immediately when Virgil jumps. His eyes are wide as he stares at Roman, before sighing out a short “what do you want?” Ever so polite, Virgil wastes no time getting straight to the point.

Roman smiles. “I came to ask if you wanted to come over!” 

“Why?” Virgil responds, voice sounding tired. It’s enough to make Roman shift his weight from one leg to the other, debating whether or not he should just drop the topic. 

“You mentioned earlier that you didn’t like being alone,” Roman replies, smile faltering slightly. “I came to provide you an alternate option!”

“Who said I’d want to spend time with you instead?” 

Roman lets out a sigh, adjusting the bag on his back. “I guess you have a point. I’ll take that as a no, then.” He turns to leave. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow-” 

His hand is immediately grabbed, and Roman turns to see Virgil looking a little anxious. He quickly masks it when they make eye contact, and releases Roman’s hand just as quickly.

“I never said no,” Virgil replies, wiping his hand on his pants as though Roman had infected it with germs. “I’ll come over. Are your parents okay with this?” 

Roman just shrugs in response, but he smiles wide. “I’m sure they won’t mind.” 

He takes hold of Virgil’s hand, pulling him through the school and out the front door. He pulls a pair of car keys out of his pocket, and leads Virgil to a slick, white car. Not a single splatter of mud or pile of bird shit over it. Roman unlocks it, and even opens the passenger side door for him.

The seats are comfy, and Virgil settles into his with a pleased groan, as Roman gets into the driver’s side and starts the car. 

“I could fall asleep right now,” Virgil comments, making Roman laugh. 

“It’s a short drive,” he assures Virgil. “I have a comfy bed you can fall asleep on at home instead.” 

Virgil lets his head fall to the side, staring at the window as Roman drives them out of the school parking lot, and down the street. They go straight for a while, before Roman turns down a certain street. The houses lining the sidewalk were giant, and looked incredibly old. 

Virgil’s eyes go wide. 

“The historical district?” Virgil exclaims, pressing his forehead against the window. “But… but the houses here are super expensive! Do you really live here?” 

Roman nods, and slows his car as he turns and drives up a nice paved driveway, leaving Virgil to stare at the large house they’re pulling up to. It’s white with many, many windows, and a faded blue roof. Large pillars act as support, and a giant yard is freshly trimmed, with marble decorations. Flowers grow along the driveway and the path to the front door. 

Roman parks the car on the driveway, behind two black cars parked side by side. He pulls a key out of his pocket and walks Virgil to the front door, before unlocking it. He shuts the door behind them, and then interlocks his arm with Virgil’s. 

“Dad, Papa, I’m home!” Roman then calls, giving Virgil’s arm an assuring squeeze. “And I brought somebody you might want to meet!”

[senipsenipsenip]

Stan shook his head, chuckling as he hung up the phone. Geez, if he hadn't put a stop to that he was pretty sure his nephew was going to overheat and explode like one of Ford's old computers. Speaking of, he should probably make sure the fire extinguisher down in the lab wasn't expired if Ford and Dipper were gonna be messing around down there the rest of the summer.

Eh, that was a tomorrow problem. Dipper was still up in the attic with Mabel unpacking for another summer in Gravity Falls. Hopefully that meant Stan had at least twenty-four hours until the nerds started blowing stuff up. Mabel and Dipper's parents had seemed surprised the twins wanted another summer with their Grunkle Stan. After all, they were teenagers now, Stan couldn't blame their parents for expecting the two of them to want to spend a summer with kids their own age in California rather than an old fart in the middle of the woods. Well, two old farts, but their parents didn't know about the second one. Besides, Ford would probably object to being called a fart. He'd probably complain that's not the proper term Stanley, if anything I'm an old flatulence.

Stan shuddered. Man, he musta been on that boat with his brother for too long.

"GRUNKLE STAAAAAAAAAN!"

Speaking of the kids. Stan grunted as he hefted himself out of his armchair and made his way up the stairs toward the attic. There hadn't been any sound of breaking glass before Mabel's call, so he figured he could take his time getting up there. He heard a loud thump, a groan from Dipper, and a loud giggle from Mabel. Okay, maybe he should walk a little faster.

"There you are!" Mabel called. Stan stood in the doorway, staring at both of his niblings sprawled out on the floor, a half-rolled poster laying between them and a hammer still clutched in Mabel's hands.

"Dipper's trying to hang up this poster, but he's still not tall enough. I tried climbing on his back, but I guess he still hasn't gotten his puberty muscles yet." Mabel scrambled up and ran to Stan, holding out the hammer in front of her. "Can you do it?"

"I do too have muscles," Dipper grumbled, sitting up. "But no one can expect to hold up the forty pounds of sequins on your sweater and your giant head!"

Mabel stuck her tongue out at her brother. Stan laughed and took the hammer from her, ruffling her hair.

"No sweat, Pumpkin. Let a real man take over." He couldn't ignore the way Mabel's smile grew wider at the nickname. It had been almost a year since Stan got his memories back, but it seemed any little reminder that he was recovering still made his family happy. It was weird, in a good way, to see people care about him so much. And if he made sure to call Mabel by her nicknames even more than her real name, well sue him.

"You could just get me a stepladder," Dipper grumbled, shuffling to his feet.

"Ugh, then I gotta walk all the way back downstairs," Stan picked up a bent nail off the floor. "I'll just get it over with now. Besides, then Mabel can whip us up some lemonade while I work."

"Ooooo can I make Mabel-ade?"

Stan shrugged. "Sure, knock yourself out."

The words were barely out of his mouth before Mabel was squealing and running down the stairs. In the silence, Stan shifted on his feet, giving Dipper an awkward sideways glance.

"I haven't...had Mabel-ade before, have I?" he whispered.

Dipper smiled. "Nah, don't worry. That's a whole new horror you get to experience first hand."

Stan chuckled. "Right." He made his way to the wall, squinting at the wooden beams to try and figure out where he could safely sink a nail in. It's not like the place was structurally unsound, but he also hadn't had any sort of building inspection in uh...ever.

"So," Dipper started. "Why'd you want Mabel out of the room?"

Stan smiled. "Perceptive. Good job, kid." He lined up the nail on the beam that had the least amount of termite holes. "You're not in trouble, just wanted to warn ya. Speaking of 'puberty muscles', your Pops called. Apparently he thinks you still haven't had The Talk yet. He told me to keep an eye on ya and that he'd explain everything when you get home."

Stan slipped the edge of the poster under the nail, resting his elbow against the poster to hold it in place while he started hammering.

"Had himself all worked up over it. 'Oh Uncle Stanford, Dipper's a teenager now, he might start to get ideas'," Stan laughed as he finished hammering. "So just, ya know, when you see him pretend I didn't tell ya about the birds and the bees already or anything. Some dads get weird about that. Apparently, he wants to be the one to tell you himself." Stan put his hands on his hips and admired his handy-work. A little crooked, but what wasn't in this place? He nodded and turned to Dipper, who was looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together.

"But...Grunkle Stan, you didn't have that talk with me," he murmured.

"Ha! There ya go," Stan grinned, punching Dipper on the shoulder. "You're gettin' better at lyin' kid."

"But I'm not lying."

"Wow, I almost believed you that time!"

"No, Grunkle Stan," Dipper grabbed Stan's hand before he could leave the room. Stan looked down at Dipper and realized the boy's face had turned from confusion to distress. "You really didn't."

Stan frowned. "Whaddya mean I didn't? Don't tell me you forgot. I still remember having that talk with my old man." He shuddered. "Not the sorta thing you forget."

Dipper gripped his arm tighter. "How well do you remember having that conversation with me?

"Kid, you were making a face like I was about to pull your teeth out the whole time and you screamed, like, a lot. You couldn't even look at the diagrams in my Why Am I Sweaty? book."

"Grunkle Stan...none of that happened."

Stan froze. "But I remember it."

Dipper gently pulled the hammer out of Stan's hand and set it on the ground before grasping his other hand. "Have you...has this happened before?"

"Has what?" Stan could feel his heart rate picking up.

"Remembering things that aren't real."

"Alright kid, whatever joke this is, it isn't funny." Stan ripped his hands from Dipper's hold, rubbing them against his pants as his eyes darted around the room. An old habit. Looking for an exit.

Dipper held up his hands as if approaching a wild animal. "Stay calm. I can get Ford, maybe he can help figure this out. Maybe the memory gun just...um..."

"Just what?" Stan could feel his voice going shrill. "That gun was supposed to take stuff out of my head, not put stuff in!"

Dipper was beginning to look as panicked as Stan felt.

"Oh God," Stan muttered. "What else did it put in there. Dipper? What else isn't real?"

"This is the first time!" Dipper began to pace. "Unless...has Great Uncle Ford said anything? On the boat, did anything like this happen? This conversation?"

Stan shook his head, his breathing starting to feel funny. "No. But apparently asking me to remember stuff isn't exactly trustworthy - "

"He would have told me," Dipper said with certainty. "Great Uncle Ford would have told me if something happened. So it didn't. So this is the first time and, and, and, we can fix it! Right?"

Stan just stared at Dipper. They shared the same frightened eyes. For Dipper's sake, Stan nodded.

"MABEL-ADE IS READY! YOU WERE OUT OF CHERRIES, SO I USED MARBLES!"

Dipper and Stan glanced towards the stairs.

"Let's get you something to drink first," Dipper muttered, walking slowly towards Stan to take his hand again. "Then we can figure everything out."

"Sure, kid," Stan whispered. He didn't let go of Dipper's hand until they reached the kitchen.

***

They decided it was best not to tell Mabel. After all, it didn't seem like the sort of problem that the scrapbook could solve, and it wasn't worth causing her distress until they knew what they were dealing with. Instead, Dipper had been tasked with distracting Mabel while Ford and Stan commiserated in the kitchen. Stan really wasn't sure how good of a job they were doing of fooling Mabel. She had given him a weird look when he gave the kids money to go get ice cream in town. He couldn't blame her. He'd even thrown in a couple quarters so she could get sprinkles.

"Didn't Dipper mention some sort of brain scanner?" Stan offered. "I don't really like the idea of you poking around in there, but would it help?"

Ford shook his head. He was pacing the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back. "No. Project Mentem is broken. And even if I were to fix it, all I could do with it is see and or encrypt your memories. There would be no way for me to discern what's true and what's false since your mind interprets all of them as true." He stopped his pacing to take another swig of his Mabel-ade. Stan liked to give Ford grief about his coffee intake, but at this rate he'd be willing to let Ford have a couple cups of Joe if it meant he'd stop ingesting whatever sour, spicy, glittery drink Mabel was trying to pass off as lemonade. He was pretty sure Ford's eyes were starting to shake.

"So, you had no memory of this talk with Dipper until your phone call with his father?"

"Right."

"And when the memory returned, did it feel like the rest of them? Think hard, was there any difference in sensation?"

Stan shook his head. "Nope. The same sort of itch I always get."

Ford hummed. "Fiddleford told me once that some of his returning memories would get scrambled. Two puzzle pieces fitting together that shouldn't. For example, he swore there was a Christmas that I spent with him and Emma Mae, but it turned out he was combining his memories of Christmas with her with our own holiday celebration in the lab. Can you think of any other conversation with Dipper you could be mixing up? Anyone else you would have been having that conversation with other than Dipper? Perhaps your mind replaced your real conversation partner with Dipper?"

Stan frowned. "You think I just go talkin' about the birds and the bees with everybody?"

"Stan, just think."

He shrugged. "The only people I talk to who would even be young enough for that would be Soos or Wendy. There's no way I woulda given that talk to a girl, and I'm pretty sure Soos's abuelita woulda ripped me a new one if I had done anything to take away Soos's 'innocence'. I have enough self-preservation not to do that."

Ford nodded. "Alright. I feel comfortable with that reasoning." He took another swig of Mabel-ade. "However, then we're dealing with the more uncomfortable reality of the memory being completely fabricated."

"If you keep drinking that stuff, you're gonna start hallucinating too."

Ford's glass slammed down onto the table. "You've been having hallucinations?"

"No. I mean, not that I know of at least. Have I been?"

"Not that I've seen."

"Alright, then no."

Ford sighed and sat down in the chair across from Stan. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table and hands clasped together.

"I don't like hearing you do that," Ford murmured.

"Doing what?"

"Doubting your mind." Ford looked up to Stan, his eyes that horrible mix of calculating and pitiful that tended to appear these days.

Stan shrugged. "Why shouldn't I? We know I'm just making stuff up now. Heck, if Mabel didn't have pictures of all the crazy stuff we got up to last summer I'd probably think that was made up too."

Ford's eyes narrowed. "Hm. That might work."

"The scrapbook?"

"No, physical stimulus." Ford stood from the table again. "You said that when you had this conversation with Dipper you used a book to show him diagrams and such, correct?"

"Yeah. Why Am I Sweaty?"

Ford blinked. "You still have that thing?"

"Ma mailed it up back when she was cleaning out the house. She said she had a whole bunch of 'old science books' she thought her 'little scientist' might want before she donated 'em. I said I'd take 'em 'cause I was hoping some of them would be able to help with the portal. Turns out it was just a bunch of textbooks I stole from the high school and that thing. Came in handy though." Stan shrugged. "Maybe."

"Where is it?"

"If it wasn't destroyed it's probably still in my office. Why?"

Ford left the room without a word, coat billowing behind him. Stan took the opportunity to dump the rest of Ford's drink down the sink. He had a hunch he was about to have the full attention of a scientist on him for awhile and he'd prefer if that scientist wasn't vibrating like a beehive.

"Here we are!" Ford announced as he entered the room. "As I was saying, a physical stimulus might -" he stopped, staring at his glass. "My drink."

Stan shrugged. "I got thirsty."

Ford squinted at him. "Hm. Try looking through the pages of this. Maybe it will help ground you."

"But, won't that just make the fake memory more real?" Stan asked, flipping through the pages. The Pituitary Gland.

"That!" Stan shouted, pointing at the diagram. "Dipper screamed at that!"

Ford frowned. "That seems unlike him."

Stan groaned, dropping the book and putting his head in his hands. "I know but...I swear I can see it Ford. It feels so real."

Stan could hear the sound of Ford getting out of his chair, and there was suddenly a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"We'll figure it out, Stanley," he said softly.

"I just don't get why my brain would choose that memory to make," Stan mumbled through his hands. "Not that I want a buncha fake memories, but I could have at least come up with something cooler. Like winning a prize fight or kissing a mermaid or something."

Ford chuckled. "Well, I - " he was interrupted by the sound of the Shack door slamming open, frantic footsteps racing toward the kitchen. Stan lifted his head from his hands, leaning back to adopt a more nonchalant position in his chair. Ford gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford!" Mabel burst into the kitchen, two small paper cups in her hands. "The ice cream lady said I could have two free samples, so I got two old people flavors! They're melted, but you can drink them. Who wants Butter Pecan and who wants Rum Raisin?"

Dipper shuffled in behind her, Mabel's enthusiasm waning as she took in the tense atmosphere of the room.

"What's wrong?" she asked hesitantly. "Do you guys not like those flavors?"

Stan turned to look at Ford, who had that pinched look around his eyes again.

"Mabel," Ford said gently. "Maybe you should sit down. We have something to -"

He was interrupted by a scream. Mabel had dropped the ice cream cups on the floor, leaving two splats that Waddles wasted no time in beginning to lick up. Stan sat up quickly in his chair.

"Sweetie, what - " before he could complete his sentence, Mabel had grabbed Why Am I Sweaty? and hurled it through the open kitchen window.

"Die childhood killer, die!" she shrieked. She stood huffing for a few more moments, eyes slightly crazed, before straightening up and looking towards the floor.

"Awwww piggy cream!" she cooed, squatting down to pat Waddles' head.

Dipper was the first to break the silence. "Mabel...what was that?"

She glared at Stan from the floor. "An evil book. Is that why you wanted us out of the house? So you could trap us with that horrible book when we got back?"

"You know that book?" Ford asked.

Mabel shuddered. "Ugh, unfortunately. Why do you even wanna read that thing again? It's not like it's hard to forget. Unless..." she frowned. "Were you...showing it to Grunkle Ford? Grunkle Ford, do you not know where babies come from?"

"No, I am well acquainted with a variety of human and alien reproductive systems." This time it was Stan's turn to shudder.

Ford reddened. "Not like that!"

"Wait, Mabel, you read Why Am I Sweaty?" Dipper asked. He looked to Stan, who was beginning to look green around the gills.

"You're the one I read that to?" Stan asked hoarsely. "But that's...that's not for you! I thought I read that to Dipper, you're telling me that I read that to...What?!"

Mabel slowed her petting of Waddles, beginning to look sheepish. "Well...you didn't know it was me. You thought I was Dipper."

Stan's mouth hung open. "Are you telling me my brain was swiss cheese before the memory gun?"

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh," Dipper groaned, slapping his hand against his head. "That was during the whole carpet thing wasn't it."

Mabel nodded.

"Carpet thing?" Ford asked.

"Yeah," Mabel began to scritch under Waddles' chin. "That carpet from your secret room. It made everybody switch bodies. I was Dipper for awhile and he was me. Soos was Waddles and Waddles was Soos!" Mabel grinned, holding up Waddles to stand on two legs. "Just look at this adorable little former handyman!"

"I was also Waddles," Dipper admitted. "A lot of people were a lot of people. McGucket tried to eat Soos."

Ford frowned. "Soos as Waddles?"

Dipper and Mabel shared a look.

"Never mind all that," Mabel offered, smiling tightly. "Let's talk about why Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford were talking about puberty. Do old people do it twice or something?"

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. "We weren't talking about puberty, we were talking about a memory Stanley had of discussing puberty with Dipper. Which Dipper thought wasn't real. Now we know why."

Stan raised his hand. "I would now like to pivot the discussion to Ford not leaving his experiments lying around where small children can find them."

"Wait!" Mabel gasped. "Does this mean that Dipper hasn't had the talk yet?" She leapt to her feet. "Because Mom gave me the girl one when we got home last summer! Does this mean I know the girl one and the boy one and Dipper knows none of them?"

Dipper sighed. "Mabel, I've seen nature documentaries."

Mabel whooped. "I know more about something than Dipper! Like, an actual science thing!"

"Mabel, I still know about - "

"Oh yeah?" Mabel reached into her skirt pocket. "Then what's this then?" With a wicked grin she slapped a bright pink wrapper covered in stars onto the kitchen table. Stan slapped his hands over his eyes. Ford's face went slack. Dipper grimaced.

"Mabel...I share a bathroom with you, I know what a pad is."

Ford cleared his throat. "They certainly," he coughed. "They certainly have changed a lot in the past thirty years."

Mabel frowned. "Were the old ones in black and white?"

Stan groaned. "Can we skip ahead to the part where Sixer burns that carpet and we all celebrate that I'm not actually losing my mind?"

Mabel wrapped her arms around Stan, pulling him into a big hug. "Of course! I'll go grab the lighter fluid!" And with that she fled from the room, snatching the pad off the table as she went. Stan lifted his head from his hands and the three Pines men stared at each other awkwardly.

"Well," Ford clapped his hand back on Stan's shoulder. "Another mystery solved."

Dipper nodded. "Sorry to freak you guys out like that. I don't know how I didn't think about the whole 'body swap' thing earlier."

Stan hefted himself up from the table. "No sweat, kid. Er." The three of them turned to the window where Gompers could be seen chomping away at the pages of Why Am I Sweaty?

They turned to each other. A silent agreement was made. Stan grabbed the popsicles out of the freezer and they began to file out of the kitchen, ready to meet Mabel at the fire pit to send that carpet back to Hell where it belonged. If there was anything they'd learned from last summer, it was that some knowledge was best left hidden.

AN: Sequel to this and this! I may or may not manage to get another one done by the end of Stanuary tomorrow (probably not), but either way, thanks for joining me!

[zelekhia]

Tuxedo Cat :3

I bet when Damian was thinking of names for Danny his new nemesis one of his ideas was Kaito Cat...

[fishfingersandscarves]

little cover for Beautiful, Strange, and New by @moorishflower bc it just ended and was wonderful

[moorishflower]

Dirty Talk (Dreamling, Explicit)

This is because of @landwriter making me realize I don't have much practice writing dirty talk. This is still pretty tame in that regard.

"I don't think you're even capable of talking dirty," is what Hob says, one fine winter evening, comfortable and a bit comfortably tipsy, sat at his regular table in the New Inn with Dream of the Endless sat across from him, and he knows by the way Dream rears back like a cat whose nose has been flicked that he's made a mistake in saying it. It's only been a few months since Dream has come back into his life, since he's gifted Hob with information and explanations and finally, in the trenches of autumn as the leaves had crumpled from the trees in red and gold splendor, the rare sight of his smile and a trembling lower lip, and a soft, My friend, but in those few months Hob's come to the realization that he would do anything, literally anything and everything, to hold Dream's friendship. To make him feel safe. To keep him here.

And maybe mocking his friend's mode of speaking isn't the right way to go about it but, again, he's just pissed enough for it to not seem like a big deal, and Dream doesn't seem upset so much as he seems offended. Mates give each other shit all the time, Hob reassures himself, and it's not like they were talking about something life-changing. Dream had only been complaining about his sibling interfering with his realm, which has apparently caused some sort of imbalance in the Dreaming, and from there had followed a great lot of metaphysical and esoteric explanations that boiled down to 'wet dreams are on the rise' (pun intended). It explains why he's had so many in the past week. It doesn't explain why so many of them have featured dark hair and skin like cloaked starlight and eyes bluer than the Aegean Sea, but that's his albatross to bear, not Dream's.

And then Dream had said something along the lines of how sex dreams had used to have poetry to them, there'd been an intimate back and forth, not just of bodies but of words, a build-up and a climax. One thing had led to another, and Hob had said what he said, and he stands by it. Still stands by it, even as Dream's eyes turn flinty and the corner of his mouth turns up into a smirk that would shame the devil.

"I am the Prince of Stories," he murmurs. His voice is a laser that cuts through the raucous din of the New Inn. There's a van's worth of footballers a few tables down, either celebrating or commiserating, it's not clear which, and the entire pub is lousy with the noise. Hob doesn't have to lean forward to hear his friend, so tuned is he to that purring baritone, but he does so anyways. It gets him closer to Dream, who also leans in, like he's about to share a secret. "Do you truly believe me incapable of crafting words titillating enough to bring one to completion?"

"I don't think you've ever said the word 'cunt' in your life," Hob says, doubling down like the idiot he is. He's never claimed to be a wise man, and especially not when he's in his cups. Besides, it's the winter hols, he's got nothing to do tomorrow, and if he ends this night with nightmares that make him piss the bed he'll concede that Dream has won this round.

"You would be incorrect."

Hob can't imagine Dream ever speaking in a way that's less than dignified. There's such power to him, all the time, such staid and solemn surety, and there's no room in that sort of denseness for telling your partner how much you'd like to suck their brains out of their prick. More's the pity, because he thinks if he could imagine it, the shape of his stranger's lips around the word 'cock' would surely be a fine feature to add to his repertoire of fantasies.

It's at this point that Hob makes the stupidest decision he's made all night.

"Prove it," he says, and takes a sip of his drink, secure in the knowledge that six centuries of swiving has rendered him immune to embarrassment, even in such a public setting. There is a long pause during which the only sound is the ambient riot of the Inn around them, the clink of glasses and the cheering -- or bemoaning? -- of the footballers, the nearly-incomprehensible drone of the sound system piping Top 40s Modern Rock into the kitchen behind the bar, Marv the bartender swearing as he uncorks a bottle of champagne for a mixer.

Then Hob feels something brush against his foot beneath the table, and the rest of the pub goes silent.

Or rather, not silent, but…muffled. Like someone's draped a great blanket over the both of them, and now it's just him and Dream, as it's always been, as it always will be, facing each other across a worn, wooden table, as much of the original wood as Hob had been able to salvage. He's worked it into the foundations, into the bartop and the tables and the floor, trying to preserve the stories he'd told for his stranger, the history, like it was ale that had soaked into the floorboards. Dream's eyes are focused on him, impossibly blue, and he feels another soft touch, this time higher up his leg. Like a foot stroking up his calf, except no game of footsie has ever left him feeling this breathless before, this yearning.

"Would you have me prove it to you with words of prose, Hob Gadling?" Dream's voice is a thing with texture. It'd be prosaic to compare it to such human stuff as velvet or fox fur, but Hob's limited in his petty human understanding, and to his ears it's plush and warm and welcoming. It's a voice to bury your face into, a voice that drips down the skin like warm honey or candlewax, with just enough bite to be interesting. "Would you have me woo you with poetry? Shall I compare thee, not to a summer's day, but to the wild bounty of the fields? More comely than all of autumn's fruits and grains, thy hair rich as the loam and the fertile earth?"

Fertile is an unfair word for him to use, Hob thinks. His brain's scattered out his ears in an attempt to try and hear better, but he doesn't have a choice, because if he wants to not hear he's going to have to get up and leave. And not listening to this just…isn't an option. Not with how Dream is looking at him, head cocked like a bird and his mouth red as garnets shaping around words, words, words.

"Shall I opine about the shape of your body? How broad and virile your chest? I have seen you at sport, Hob, and I know what you hide beneath sweaters and cardigans. I have seen the daydreams of those who lust after you. They imagine you coming in from your war games, stripping the shirt from your back and drinking the sweat from your body. They imagine what it would be like to sink to their knees and bury their mouths into your most intimate places. Worshiping you with hand and tongue. Would you have me describe these fantasies, Hob?"

Oh, please, he thinks, and wonders if it must show on his face, how dry his mouth's become, how tight his trousers are now, because Dream's little smirk grows wider. His pupils are blown so large they nearly eclipse his irises, and there's only a thin ring of startling blue outlining a sea of infinite void.

"Or would you prefer it in cruder terms?" The light pressure that's been dragging up and down his leg inches higher; it feels like fingers kneading into the soft insides of his thighs, and Hob's legs fall open to give the phantom hands better access. The Inn looks and sounds like it's moving in slow motion, but maybe that's just because he can't look away from Dream.

"Would you like me to describe how beautiful your cock is?" Dream asks, and he says it with the disaffected expression of someone asking about the weather and the deep and growling voice of a jungle cat, and Hob is fairly certain he makes a noise of his own, something undignified and stifled by how quickly he bites his lip. "How the weight of it would fit perfectly in my hand? You are made for pleasure, Hob. Thick. Heavy. Better still, to hold the shape of you in my mouth."

"Oh, fuck," Hob says. He's barely aware that he says it, but Dream's eyes light up with fiendish inner fire. There's no blue anymore. It's just black, and stars, and Hob drifting in them like a rogue comet, burning up.

"Yes. I could describe how you would fuck me. How you would turn me inside out. I would want to ride you first, to see the shape of you inside me. I would want you to fill me with your spend until I could taste it in my throat, and then, when I had found my pleasure, I would want you to bear me down into the bed. I would want you to break me in half, Hob Gadling, because I will accept no less than the most ardent lover, and if I do not finish the night with your cum leaking down my thighs and my arsehole gaping for you, I will not be satisfied."

The ghost-touch that's been drifting higher and higher along his thighs presses firmly against his groin, and Hob makes a strangled, gasping little noise, swallowed up by the thick syrupy slowness of the Inn, and comes in his pants. It's an orgasm so sharp and sweet and high that it feels like the prolonged note of a flute, and leaves his thighs quivering in the aftermath, and his breath coming in heady little rasps. He hadn't even been aware he was that keyed up, but then, he hadn't been aware of anything but Dream, and Dream's voice, and now how Dream is staring at him across the way, eyes glittering like a thousand diamonds set in velvet. Hob watches as he slowly lifts his hand from beneath the table, spreading his fingers. They're covered in cum, little beads and drips of it sliding down to the second knuckle, and Dream holds his gaze like a fist around Hob's heart as he raises his hand to his mouth and begins licking his fingers clean.

There's another noise, an uncomfortable whimper, that Hob doesn't want to think is him but probably is.

"Have I sufficiently proven myself?" Dream asks, popping his fingers free of his mouth with the most obscene, wet sound that Hob has ever heard. He imagines those fingers spearing into him and making that same sound from all the lube dripping out of his arse, and Dream's nostrils flare.

"Dunno," Hob manages to say, when he finally finds his voice. It's a thready, needy voice, but it is there. "Could use some more convincing. Don't suppose…you fancy coming upstairs to continue this conversation?"

There's a gentle stroke along the inside of his thigh, making his poor, spent cock twitch, and Dream smiles at him. "Yes. I believe there is more I could tell you, Hob Gadling."

And there is. A lot more. That night, and into the morning, and the next, and the next. Hob needs a lot of convincing.

He's grateful Dream seems up to the challenge.

[olteacup]

very important question that i need answered,

what fruit is Renee, or better question is what flavor of pie is she

i feel like she'd be either peach pie or apple pie but i don't even know how pie taste so im winging it

saying that what about Tamarack or Qiu? cause I feel like Baxter would be an oreo pie, no questions asked. he's definitely an oreo pie

[agentianlegend]

A Vigilante, a Different Vigilante’s Sister and a Villain Walk Into a Bar

A Danny Phantom x Batfam (DC) Crossover

AO3  |  FFn

Tags: Anger Management, BAMF Jazz Fenton, Supportive Jazz Fenton, Awkward Flirting, Flirting, First Dates, BatPham, Fluff, but not like super hardcore fluff, more like light and playful fluff preceding badassery

-------

"I enjoy the classics. Especially moody or creepy ones. Eyre, Poe, sometimes Dickens."

Jazz nodded approvingly. "I lean towards nonfiction, mostly, but I enjoy a good ghost story."

A smile teased the corner of Jason's mouth. "Poor little Casper doesn't scare you?"

"Psh, please, growing up my house was basically haunted," Jazz dismissed. "Though you might think I'm crazy if you don't give any stock to the existence of ghosts. Do you believe in life after death?"

Jason was visibly suppressing a smirk. "You'd be surprised."

-------

"Why do you have a gun?!"

"It's fuckin' Gotham. And I saw that silver piece peeking out of your purse," Jason indignantly replied. "Don't act like you're not packin'."

"That's different. It's a peeler; it's not for humans."

The local whirled around to gawk at her. "The fuck is it for, then?!"

-------

Summary: Jason and Jazz surprise each other when their date takes a turn for the dangerous. But, hey, rogues need therapy too, right?

A bit of gratuitously bad flirting that somehow still works, plus a dash of badassery on the side.

-------

Well peeps when @weshney / @weshneyreblogger tagged me in a post by @spacedace about Jazz therapizing rogues around Gotham rather than in Gotham, it combined with my recent love of the Anger Management ship to become a deliciously awful first date idea.

I saw you guys wanted to be tagged in a continuation of the initial post, so here you go! I hope you enjoy it even though I went off-script a bit lol

@thewondersoflebanon / @thedepressedrobin / @akikkobara / @overlycaffeinatedsuperwholockfan / @spectralstardustandphantomnights / @nutcase8691 / @stargirl1331 / @amercurio / @malice-of-the-sunrise / @screamingtofillthevoid / @mnemovoid / @leftmiraclechaos / @sailor-goddess / @phoenixdemonqueen / @rin1sakami​ / @itsloveleo (I’m sorry but your tag isn’t working)

[stabbyfoxandrew]

you know what's fucking insane though???

it's only been 3 days in the mafia front fic. THREE DAYS= ~34k. (so far, we're still on day three rn)

wow i'm truly insane. three days... mein gott

(potential spoilers for this fic in tags???)

[wildlife4life]

Oreo Towers will Tumble

Buddie M 7K

Drew Heyward has been a floater at the 118 for a few shifts and ends up as man behind one afternoon. During this time he finds a surprise visitor, Eddie Diaz, one of the handful of omega first responders and the person Drew has been covering for. Turns out, Eddie is Buck's mate, very pregnant and bored after weeks of bedrest. They talk, panic attacks occur, and oreo tower bets are made, creating a new friendship.

“Well until I was put on stupid bed rest a few months ago, this was my place of work.” The omega answered, annoyance lacing his tone. Immediately Drew caught on who their guest is. “Holy shit your Eddie Diaz.” “Technically Buckley-Diaz, but yep that’s me. And you are?” Drew didn’t answer at first, because he was…well he was somewhat starstruck.  Eddie Diaz is one of a handful of omega first responders in the state of California and he was badass.  Pulled a live grenade from a man’s leg, climbed a tilted hotel and a submerged Ferris wheel, and survived the sniper attack back in May. His saves were legendary, and he broke through all the glass ceilings held above omegas.  “Um…” Diaz squinted a bit, eyes on the beta’s chest, “Firefighter Heyward, you good there?” “Holy shit I didn’t know I was covering for you! Oh my god! And did you say Buckley-Diaz? Buckley? As in Buck? He’s your mate?” Drew finally caught the underlying scent of ocean salt and smokey cedar of his fellow fireman mingled with Diaz’s spiced chocolate. “Holy shit!”

Its here! May not be the a/b/o fic ya'll are expecting, but this one is complete and posted! This fic was literally inspired by a pack of Oreos and the random ass image of Eddie stacking them on his pregnant belly. I hope you all enjoy!

[oreoambitions]

what if I watched Supergirl again but just to the end of S3 and pretended that nothing canon happened after that and wrote fic from there what then

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Now that we’re branching beyond pizza, I have three mildly unconventional culinary creations to share.

When my mom was growing up, spaghetti with applesauce was a common meal. (She has since learned better.) My dad still enjoys an open-faced hamburger sandwich (which isn’t too weird, but it’s just not something you hear often and I personally find it gross). And I will swear by any divine entity that peanut butter goes really well with mint Oreos.

OKAY speaking of Oreos, I am on a prolonged mission to try as many of the bullcrap weird Oreo flavors they keep coming out with. Just because I'm curious what the hell they were thinking

[anxiousgaypanicking]

Oreo Masterlist

Synopsis: As a joke, Roman's forced to ask Virgil out after losing an oreo. Flustered, and somewhat embarrassed and humiliated by the connotation that dating him would be such a bad thing, he says yes out of impulse, and must now deal with what being Roman's "boyfriend" entails. 

Focus Ships: Prinxiety, background Loceit/Intruality

Part One: Dickbucket (Derogatory) Part Two: Lost An Oreo Part Three: Pain And Plans Part Four: Wonderful Part Five: Oversleeping Part Six: Sleepover Part Seven: Aftermath Part Eight: Movie Theatre Mayhem

[turbulenthandholding]

Here is what I know: @anxietycroissant is the absolute best. I have not yet returned to myself after digesting everything this week (the trailer! The episode titles!). And in chapter 4, no good deed goes unpunished (especially when it's covering for a late-night ER shift on the night of a full moon). Claire has a meet-cute, a late-night Uber ride that makes her sad, and a surprising phone call (and an overactive imagination), in that order.

[3rdrayman]

You ever get really sad and lonely, but then you eat oreos and

Well, you're still sad and lonely, but now you have oreos

Anyway, here's a book I wrote:

[fishfingersandscarves]

A playlist and some art i made for @moorishflower 's new fic Beautiful, Strange, and New is out and the first chapter is up!!! It's a beautiful beautiful longfic that I highly endorse and everyone better read it!!!!!