Every Move You Make ch.1 [Grunkle Stan x Female!Reader]
pairing: grunkle stan/reader
word count: 2,613
rating: M (for later chapters)
notes: thank you for your patience x_x
Road trips had always taken so much longer when you were a kid. Maybe it was the anticipation, the mystery of not knowing where you were headed or when you would get there. When the only thing you could do was sit and watch the world pass by in fields and billboards and cars full of other people, other families, going somewhere. There had always been so much more time to watch. But now you’re an adult. You know where you’re going. You know every little last detail about this trip down to how many times you’ll have to stop for gas, and where. There’s no time to sit and watch the world pass, only time to focus on the long stretch of road directly in front of you. There’s no mystery.
Well...that’s not exactly true. There is some mystery.
You pull off the highway into Gravity Falls and barely recognize the city as you drive down Main Street. It’s so much busier than you remember. And where did all these people come from? The ice cream parlor on the corner is now a vegan bakery, the used bookstore now a used bookstore/dance studio, and you don’t recognize a single face you see pass by. With the last vestiges of nostalgia beginning to slip from your mind, you start to wonder if the trip was worth it at all...until you reach the forest.
Slowing down as you approach the gravel road cutting through the trees, you roll down your windows and are met with the pleasant, cool breeze of a Spring afternoon. Turning the radio down and then off, you take a moment to check your phone.
Your parents should have arrived hours ago but you haven’t heard a word from them since you left that morning. Ah, well. As prone to forgetting things as they are, you don’t worry about it. Probably busy catching up with an old friend. You toss your phone back into the passenger’s seat with a shrug and start the long drive away from town and into the trees.
And this-- this, you remember. Lush, verdant green spreading out around you on every side, trees lining the path with boughs swaying in the wind, like the arms of old friends welcoming you home. You take a deep breath, relishing the familiar damp moss smell. Images of your younger self running through this forest flash in your mind: scrambling to climb over fallen trees, trying and failing to catch whatever weird and slimy creatures you could find splashing through the creek, building forts that nearly always collapsed almost as soon as they were finished.
The Mystery Shack materializes out of the landscape after the next turn. Though there’s no other cars to be found, you drive around to park in back next to a beat up old convertible. You can’t help but smile as you admire the peeling paint job, remembering seemingly endless summer days spent squished in the middle back seat. Heaving your heavy duffel bag out of your trunk and over one shoulder, you take a moment to stare up at the broad side of the building sloping up to the roof. Some planks are broken or missing completely, and a handful of letters on the sign still sit askew despite multiple repairs. The structure looms over you the same way it did all those years ago, seemingly untouched by the passage of time. You don’t yet know whether or not that’s a good thing.
The screen door squeals loudly as it opens onto the back porch, drawing your attention away from the crumbling facade.
“Hey, kid!”
And then, all at once, you are a kid. You’re the bumbling, love-struck tween you once were. It all rushes back to you in an instant-- tagging along with your parents whenever they came to visit, the countless hours spent taking the same tour over and over again despite your waning interest in the exhibits. Every cringey, embarrassing thing you’d ever said and done to try and impress this man.
“Hey...Stan.”
The name sounds weird coming out of your mouth. Stan. That’s what your parents call him. You always called him Mr. Pines, or sometimes Grunkle Stan when the other kids were around. Never just Stan, like he was just another person you knew, a friend or acquaintance. Like he wasn’t the reason you begged your parents to bring you along during every geological survey that brought them this way for years.
Finding yourself at the bottom step leading up to the porch, you can’t help but stare. You remember a black suit and a red fez, but the man staring back at you behind thick glasses is wearing an old gray sweatshirt and a pair of pajama pants. And slippers, you see, as you look down at his feet. Even so, he still seems just as imposing as he did back then. Larger than life. Mythological.
Stan goes for a handshake, or maybe he’s just trying to take your bag and help you up the steps, but you automatically open your arms for a hug. Looking down at his single outstretched hand, you make a noise of apology and put your arms down. He just smiles and opens his arms, and you can’t help the warm, fluttery feeling in your stomach as he gestures with both hands for you to bring it in.
Stepping up onto the porch, you hesitate for a moment, not sure how to proceed. You ultimately wrap your arms around him and stare straight ahead at the wall behind his shoulder. You wonder just how long you can hug him without making it any weirder than it already is.
“Good to see ya again, kid,” he says to the top of your head with obvious amusement, patting your back as you awkwardly embrace there on the porch. It’s not as awkward as it could be, though. For a moment you’d felt like you were reconnecting with an old friend from high school-- somebody you used to know, but who had become a different person in the mean time, and not knowing exactly where you stood. But Stan was the same old Stan that he’d always been, and you...well, this didn’t really feel any different than it did before.
You relax against his barrel chest with a sigh and close your eyes. There was something about him that always made it easy for you to relax. He smells like soap and something else, maybe cologne, something familiar that tickles the back of your brain as you inhale deeply. It reminds you of old, musty pine needles. It’s nice. Only when he clears his throat do you pull back, realizing too late that you’ve lost track of time. You don’t know whether to laugh or apologize when you see the look on his face – polite bewilderment – so you do both. Then you take a step back and grab onto the strap of your duffel bag so you have something to do with your hands.
“So, where are your-”
“Are my parents-”
You both start at the same time, talking over each other, then both apologize. He laughs, sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck.
“I thought they’d be here already,” you say, reaching into your pocket just as your phone starts to vibrate. Speak of the devil.
“Oh- this- sorry, just let me-” you mutter, and then you’re stepping back off the porch and walking out into the empty yard as you lift the phone to your ear. Stan plops down onto the ratty old couch next to the door and waits, watching you with a bemused expression on his face.
It takes your parents nearly ten minutes to explain that they got lost-- actually, you mom insists, it was your dad who got lost, and she doesn’t know why she let him drive in the first place because he always gets lost, but what was she supposed to do after she misplaced her driving glasses? And your dad in the background all the while saying that he didn’t get lost at all, but was only following the computer telling him where to go, and your mom then jumping in to explain the intricacies of their mobile phone plan. You walk in circles and nod along, offering an occasional noise of affirmation.
You shoot a look back at the porch and shake your head, shrugging, as if to say, I’m sorry, you know how they are, and Stan only laughs.
“They’ll be here tomorrow,” you say as you come back to the porch, shoving your phone back in your pocket and starting up the steps just as Stan rises from the couch. “...Probably.”
“Figures,” he chuckles. “Ah, well. You don’t mind spending time with an old man like me, do ya?”
“Course not,” you smile up at him as you both make your way toward the screen door. He holds it open for you.
“I always liked hanging out with you the most, anyway,” you add as you duck inside, immediately regretting having said that. But Stan just laughs in his good-natured way and you try not to look too mortified as you follow him up the stairs.
xxxx
The kids’ bedroom in the attic has long been vacant, cleared long ago of sparkly boy band posters, old books, and other junk. Two bare mattresses sit on either side of the room and you throw your duffel bag onto the one on the left, taking a seat and immediately sinking down into the lumpy, squeaky mattress. Maybe the other one would be better.
“It ain’t the Ritz,” Stan says from the doorway, suddenly appearing with a pile of mismatched blankets in his arms. “But it beats sleepin’ outside.”
“No, it’s-- it’s fine,” you say, quickly jumping up to take the blanket he offers. You choose to throw it over the other mattress instead, eyeing the several he’s still holding. Would you need so many blankets, you wondered? Did it get that cold?
“I really…I appreciate you letting me stay,” you say, straightening up from the bed. You turn to stare out the triangle window for a moment before your gaze falls to the spot on the floor between the beds, and you remember the nights you spent curling up in a sleeping bag in that very spot, night spent staring up through that very window. Your gaze sweeps the room. You don’t remember it ever being this small.
“You’re too young to have that look on your face.” You look up to meet Stan’s eyes, skin crinkling at the edges as he smiles. “All...wistful. You didn’t miss this place that much, did ya?”
“No-- I mean, yeah. I did-- it’s just, I-- I dunno,” you stammer, and he laughs as he claps a big, warm hand on your shoulder. You can’t help but smile back and laugh at yourself, at the situation.
You didn’t have to stay here. There were hotels in town, probably fancy ones with WiFi and free continental breakfast and everything. You didn’t even have to come along this time-- you weren’t a kid just tagging along with your parents, anymore. You didn’t have to come back. But you did.
Maybe you really did miss this place.
“Well, this place missed ya too, kid,” Stan says with one more squeeze of his hand on your shoulder before he takes it away. The sudden absence weighs heavier than anything.
“Really?”
“Yeah-- can’t find anyone who wants to work in the gift shop for free!” He laughs and you smile at the memory of your younger self manning the register, out here in the woods where the watchful eyes of the Oregon Board of Labor didn’t reach.
“Hey, I didn’t work for free! I still have that Mystery Shack key-chain, somewhere.”
At that he laughed harder, holding a hand to his stomach. “Oh, yeah-- I always wondered where that went!”
You both laugh and when he finally catches his breath he lifts his glasses and wipes at his eyes. And you both can’t help but grin, two adults staring back at each other across a quickly shrinking distance. And all at once, you know where you stand.
xxxx
Stan makes, or rather reheats, dinner and you sit at the kitchen table nursing an ice cold Pitt Cola while you tell him everything that’s happened since the last time he saw you. Years of life updates about school, work, striking out on your own into your first shitty little apartment which is, of course, your current apartment. He keeps you talking long enough to set a plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of you, then does the same for himself before taking the opposite seat.
“College?” He asks, urging you to continue where you left off. You make an unsure noise, an I’d rather not talk about it kind of noise, and he nods as he twirls his fork in his spaghetti.
“Hey, that’s okay. College isn’t for everyone-- I never went to college, and look at me!”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You ask as you bite into your slightly frozen meatball, smiling, satisfied, as he erupts with laughter. You were always able to get a laugh out of Stan before, but it means so much more now than it did then. Now he really means it. Now he isn’t just entertaining a kid who won’t leave him alone.
You ask him to fill you in on what you’d already noticed during the drive through town-- changes over time brought on by slow and steady growth. But you hadn’t been aware of the mass exodus of locals and influx of townies only a few years after your last visit. Now Gravity Falls was bigger than it had ever been, which was great for business, and there was never a shortage of listless teens to employ in the gift shop during the summer.
“So if you’re here lookin’ for a job, you’re outta luck,” he says with a wink before taking a bite, chewing thoughtfully. You figure he’s probably trying to decide whether or not to stick it in the microwave.
You realize for the first time that despite the height difference while standing, you’re eye to eye as you sit across from one another. You remember him as a giant compared to your younger self who’d spent your days tagging along at his heels. You had creepily stared at the back of his head for hours, wishing he would turn around and look at you. Now you lock eyes and for an instant you worry he can see everything-- the teenage crush you’d shoved so deep down inside of yourself that you’d forgotten the ferocity of it. Now it had clawed its way back to the forefront of your mind with such enormous intensity that you were sure if he stared long enough, he would be able to see it take shape behind your eyes.
In the wake of your adolescent feelings you’re left facing the reality of your fully adult desire for a man you find incredibly attractive in his humanity. He’s no longer larger than life. He’s something real, something you could just reach out and touch if you wanted to. And God, do you want to.
“Heh...do I got somethin’ on my face?” He asks, and you realize now you’ve been staring.
“Uh, no-- no, it’s-- nothing,” you stammer unconvincingly, quickly looking down at your plate with a shake of your head. You stuff your face in the hopes that a full stomach will calm the burning in your belly.
pairing: bill cipher/reader
word count: 1,940
rating: M (depictions of violence, more messed up stuff to come)
notes:
forgive me
As you make your way through the forest, eyes turned up to watch the canopy dance gently in the breeze, you let your fingers brush against the still-damp trunks of the trees you pass. Huge, billowy white clouds leisurely drift by overhead. The chirping of insects and birds alike assures you that the threat of storm has passed, and you’re free now to wander as long as you’d like. Your sneakers sink into the wet ground with every step, but it doesn’t bother you. Being back in Gravity Falls after so long makes you feel like you can finally breathe again.
You feel not a small amount of guilt about having left. All the old excuses run through your mind now, though you’re alone and have no one to convince but yourself.
Going to college, finding a job that wasn’t at the mall, wanting to travel and meet new people…really, it only ever boiled down to one, simple thing: you wanted to get away. Find yourself, outside the concept that others had created for you. You hadn’t even done most of the things you set out to do, stubborn as you were and stuck in your ways.
You’re still finding yourself.
Hopping over the exposed roots of some ancient tree threatening to uproot itself, you’re confident in your own ability to navigate the familiar landscape-- up until you feel the snag of your jacket on a branch. You fall back and nearly topple over the thing, righting yourself the next moment and pulling your jacket free with an embarrassed huff. As you hurry away, fingering the newly-torn hole in the hem of your jacket, you find relief in knowing that no one else could possibly have seen that…except for maybe a deer, but you doubt they’d tell anyone. And even if they did, who would believe a deer?
You’d meant to come back sooner. Really, you had. But...life got in the way.
This is what you tell yourself when you think about everything you wanted to do, which you hadn't yet done. Life got in the way.
What life, exactly? You weren’t sure. But you’d heard others say that and people usually seemed to understand what they meant. More often than not it was met with an understanding nod and a quick change of subject. That was good enough for you.
The wind whistles through the canopy above you as it changes direction and you suddenly find it at your back, the hood of your jacket blown up and over your eyes. Your foot catches on something and you stumble before falling hard to one knee, though you manage to catch yourself on a rock where your palm skids smoothly across the damp surface. When you stand again and brush yourself off, you hiss as the rough edge of your skin painfully catches on your jeans.
Better than cracking my head open, you think to yourself, examining the cut in your palm. Blood springs to the surface along the shallow slice, mingling with tiny specks of moss and dirt. But that’s probably enough for today.
It’s been at least an hour since you wandered away from your friend’s Summerween party-planning party. Why she wanted to plan her party in the middle of the day, in a cabin in the woods, was beyond you. You weren’t one to argue, and you couldn’t deny your best friend’s tearful-eyed request to come back home and help her. Besides, you would do almost anything for free food.
You check your phone for the time – 2:22 – and decide to head back.
That is, if you can find your way back.
It should be simple enough, right? Just turn around and walk back the way you came. But as you slowly turn in a circle and survey your surroundings, you can’t really tell exactly which way you came. The part of the forest that should have been at your back seems much wilder, now. The trees much closer together, the light struggling to reach the floor through the thick branches high above, like fingers, intertwined.
Rubbing your cheek in bewilderment as you try to think, you turn back around and find the path now in front of you quite a bit clearer. Bright, safe. The obvious choice. And, remembering that you’re bleeding, you quickly pull your hand away and wipe your face on your sleeve, only succeeding in smearing blood across your chin and cheek.
You know the smart thing to do is try to make your way back through the forest behind you, rather than continuing on and getting more lost. But you know these woods...maybe not as well as you used to, but you know them! And you know if you keep walking, you’ll eventually come out on the other side.
This is what you tell yourself as you continue forward. Just keep walking, this forest can’t go on forever.
The path of least resistance is nice. The trail is clear and there are pretty flowers and you even see a deer scampering about in the distance, in the trees. Bees and butterflies drift between the flowers as you pass, and the dappled sunlight makes everything beautiful, catching the little pools of rainwater trapped in flower petals like jewels, like gold. Yes, this is the right way. It is, even if it isn’t.
You continue along a downward slope so gradual that you don’t even realize you’re walking downhill until you’re at the bottom, but even that isn’t enough to deter you from moving forward. The wind is at your back again, urging you onward into a clearing.
It's a strange thing, the statue- but you've seen stranger things in these woods, where strange things live. Moss and vines have overtaken the pitted, weathered stone, small cracks widened over time. It’s hard to tell the true size with it buried in the dirt, but you can tell it’s massive. The top of the statue – a hat? – nearly reaches the top of your head. One big eye stares up at you, one arm outstretched, four thin fingers splayed wide.
To shake, you think.
When the wind sweeps up again it screams past you, seeps in under your jacket and into your bones, ice cold. You’re bowled over by a strong gust and brought down before the statue, the wind through the trees so loud you can’t even hear the sound of your own thoughts. So you don’t think, instead acting on instinct as you reach out for something to steady yourself and find the statue’s hand. You hold on tight as you kneel before it, staring into its single, massive eye. And very suddenly, all at once, you can’t hear anything at all.
The wind dies, taking the breath from your lungs with it. The forest is-- calm is not the right word. You struggle to think of another word that might describe the way it feels. Like floating in a void, a space between things that exist, but not quite there.
Managing to tear your eyes away from the statue, you look instead to your hands. White knuckled, you’re squeezing hard enough that blood seeps out between your fingers and slides down your wrists and the statue's thin arm at the same time. You quickly pull your hands back, wincing as prickly thorns wrapped around its hand tug at the edges of your skin.
Though you find it difficult to tear yourself away, and fearing the statue’s single, stationary pupil might follow you if you do, you finally manage to stand and stumble further into the clearing. The arm of your injured hand tingles, the fingers of your other hand absentmindedly rubbing your wrist as you walk.
At the edge of the clearing is a line of trees which you easily slip through, not sparing another glance behind you as you carefully descend the slope. You think you can see a road just past, relief flooding your body as you push through the thick treeline--
Into the clearing.
The statue stares up at you from the ground, mockingly. Your stomach turns as your skin goes clammy, confronted with something that doesn't make sense, something impossible. You close your eyes and shake your head, knowing when you open them again that you’ll see something else. Anything else.
You open your eyes and see…the statue. Right where you left it.
You’re quicker to move past it this time, jogging toward the trees at the end of the clearing. You descend the slope again, careful, and push your way through a thicket--
Into the clearing.
You don’t look at the statue this time as you pass, giving it a wide berth as you push your way through the trees, again. And down the slope, again.
Into the clearing. Again.
You run this time. You barrel out of the trees and almost clear the slope in a single jump, almost, but land halfway and tumble the rest of the way down. You struggle up from the ground and limp toward the trees, fighting your way through as the branches tear at your skin. You push through only to find yourself in the clearing.
Again. And again. And again and again and again until your clothes are in tatters, your skin scraped and bruised and bleeding from clawing your way through an infinitely dense forest of dark trees, from falling and rolling down the slope countless times, your arms and legs aching, begging for a reprieve. Your lungs and throat burn from panting, from screaming.
A sob tears its way out of your throat as you collapse at the base of the statue, shaking your head from side to side, wordlessly crying, begging for it to end.
Let me out! Let me out! Please, I want out!
DEAL! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS ASK! HA HA HA!
You’re laying in the grass at the edge of the forest. The sun shines on your upturned face, the warm earth at your back. The wind gently whispers in the trees, many voices speaking at the same time. You think you could single one out of them if you really tried...but a sharp, chiming noise cuts through just before you start to make out the words.
Your ringtone wakes you from your reverie. Pulling your phone from your jacket pocket, you note the time – 5:55 – and the noise drops off just before you can answer.
“Found you! Had a little to much daytime wine, huh?” Your friend asks as she pops into view standing above you, the sunlight ringing her hair like a brilliant halo.
“Uh?” Is all you can manage as she pulls you up from the ground, stumbling, and she laughs at your apparent inebriation. You look down the length of your body and find yourself none the worse for wear. Your clothes are untouched, save for a few grass stains. You stare at your hands and find them clean, if not a bit dirty. Your brain struggles to reconcile what you’re seeing with that you remember-- but even as you try to recall...something, it slips from your grasp like smoke between your fingers.
“Come on-- everybody’s already inside! We’re making mini pizzas and we’re gonna go over the pre-party, party binder!”
She drags you away from the forest toward the cabin. The further away from the trees you get, the easier it is to forget that you’re forgetting anything at all. Even so, you pause at the door before going inside and cast a glance back. Nothing looks back save for the trees.
First off.. WARNING.. this is SMUT.. I do a lot of Reader x.. but its usually fluff.. this is a SMUT one shot.. sorry ;)
THE SCENE-
“You didn’t have to dress up for me, ya know,” he says with a smile as he hands a customer their change. You attempt to explain the costume while the two of you do the delicate dance that is changing places, but you find yourself a little tongue tied while trying to make room for him to leave while taking over the register. And the customer next in line is asking so many questions about the merchandise that you almost don’t notice the way Stan’s hand lingers on the small of your back as he scoots past.
The next moment he claps an appreciative hand on your shoulder and leans in to whisper a quick thanks, kid, his warm breath ghosting over your ear only for a moment before he’s gone. Before he leaves through the door at the end of the room he lifts his fez and gives you a wink– at least you think it’s a wink, it’s hard to tell with the eye patch. The goosebumps on your neck disappear a few minutes after he does.
So You Married Your Rival’s Daughter and Plan to Kill Her on Your Wedding Night: What’s Next?
So you married the larger, neighboring kingdom’s princess/your arch-enemy’s daughter: what’s next? Chances are that you’re planning to kill her, either with your own hands or via an assassin, in what will surely be the culmination of your life’s work. Whether you’re looking to gain unlimited power or just wanting to frame someone else for the untimely demise of your true love, you’re probably thinking that since you’ve gotten this far, you can’t possibly be stopped. Unfortunately, you couldn’t be more wrong.
Here are four reasons you might want to put your evil plans on hold:
4. Everyone is expecting you to kill her.
That’s right - everyone already knows your plan, and chances are that someone’s already on their way to stop you. Don’t be surprised when you go to wring the life out of your new wife’s neck and find a skillfully crafted dummy in her place and a sword at your back.
3. You need a vacation.
You have been plotting to take over the world for as long as you can remember, and now you’re taking a chance on a single night? Don’t let your hubris get the best of you. Take a little “me time” to cool off and surprise everyone at Evil Sandals Jamaica with your still-living wife. You already paid for a honeymoon, you might as well enjoy it.
2. It’s easier to kill someone who trusts you.
You already know this from when you pushed your own parents into an active volcano during your journey to become a lich. Why make it harder on yourself by trying to kill your wife when she’s expecting it? Every morning that she wakes up alive will only help to convince her, and everyone else, that you truly mean her no harm.
1. You might fall in love.
You are so, so lonely. When you look into your betrothed’s beautiful eyes, that’s not just acid reflux you’re feeling - that’s your cold, icy heart starting to beat again. Life as the most feared pirate that the seven seas have ever known might be everything you’ve ever dreamed of, but at the end of each day can you tell yourself that it was really worth it? Maybe the world you’ve been wanting to take over can be found in the innocent gaze of your arch enemy’s only heir, and the power that you’ve dedicated your life to finding is in the surprising gentleness of her touch. What good is having everything when you don’t have anyone to share it with?
19) Are there any stories that you’ve written that you’d really love to do a sequel to?
Hmm, for the majority of my stories I would say no? I really enjoy doing one shots because that’s what I’m most comfortable with, for smut at least. I’ve never actually written a sequel to anything before, or even written a multi-chapter story (yet…..).
However I am working on a sequel for my bill fic, and I would consider writing a sequel for my invader zim fic which is on my ao3.
Side note: if anyone is wanting a sequel for a story of mine, feel free to let me know! Thanks! 💖
I LOVE IT!! Admittedly it’s hard sometimes when I feel like the scene is too repetitive or all of my smutty writing is the same, or it’s going on for too long, but I do enjoy it! I just love writing things that people enjoy reading and really respond to.
pairing: grunkle stan/reader
word count: 4,150
rating: M (they do it)
notes: dfab reader // some of these requests are like a year old i’m so sorry you guys omg
Halfway through your friend's Summerween party and your first glass of wine, which you hold precariously in one hand, you find yourself digging through your purse for your phone. You only have a moment to register that you have two missed calls before you answer, clumsily licking at the spilled wine trickling down your wrist as you listen to the man on the other end of the line. He's brief, desperate, and slightly out of breath, and he needs your help. Begs, even. You find yourself emboldened by either the alcohol or the tone of his voice and ask if this will be paid overtime. After a few seconds of tense silence he grunts an alright, but you better get over here before I change my mind.
It's that and your admittedly pushover-ish nature that has you leaving the party early and starting the short and very careful drive out of the city and into the forest. There isn't much to keep you at the party anyway. If you're being honest you didn't want to go in the first place, since you barely know any of the people that your more outgoing friends had invited. It's only the guilt trip they laid on you for the past month and the promise of free drinks that had gotten you to leave the house at all.
The windows are down as you drive, the warm summer air offering some relief from the stifling heat, cooling the sweat on your brow. Your headlights guide the way through the tall trees that stare back at you with dark eyes, and you're glad you only had a little to drink or else you'd really be freaked out. As it is, you're only a little freaked out. You keep both hands firm on the wheel...just in case.
For once, you have a hard time finding a parking spot when you get to work. You end up pulling around the back next to the boss's own ride, slipping between the two vehicles and hurrying past a line of customers and around to the gift shop entrance. You regret not going home to change before heading to work, realizing now that while your costume is only slightly work-inappropriate, it is hot as hell. The Mystery Shack doesn't have any air conditioning to speak of, so you can only imagine what it's going to be like at the end of the night. You pull down on the hem of your skirt self-consciously before you go in, glad that you had the foresight to wear tights.
Stan gives you a smile from behind the register as he sees you, lifting his fez and running a hand back through his grey hair. He looks at you from head to toe and back again, and you feel your face warm even as you smile sheepishly and shrug, feeling the irony of your sexy witch costume fall flat-- it wasn't meant to be seen by anyone outside of your immediate friend group, who are all likewise dressed as sexy doctors, cops, and bees.
The costume isn't meant to be worn for long, only long enough to get a few laughs, and under the sobering overhead lights of the gift shop, and outside of the protective group of friends you'd coordinated with, it leaves you feeling exposed.
The dark top is more low cut than you would normally wear, and tighter, though the skirt is flattering enough to cover your stomach and hips when worn high up on the waist. The little petticoat beneath provides some poof, which was fun at the party, but has since become increasingly uncomfortable. The tights are, well, just that: tight. Black. Ripped and torn in places to show the fishnet underneath. The tiny cape does little else but make you look cool, and the big black hat as well, all spider webs and plastic spiders hanging down. You've had to swat them out of your face several times already.
“You didn't have to dress up for me, ya know,” he says with a smile as he hands a customer their change. You attempt to explain the costume while the two of you do the delicate dance that is changing places, but you find yourself a little tongue tied while trying to make room for him to leave while taking over the register. And the customer next in line is asking so many questions about the merchandise that you almost don't notice the way Stan's hand lingers on the small of your back as he scoots past.
The next moment he claps an appreciative hand on your shoulder and leans in to whisper a quick thanks, kid, his warm breath ghosting over your ear only for a moment before he's gone. Before he leaves through the door at the end of the room he lifts his fez and gives you a wink-- at least you think it's a wink, it's hard to tell with the eye patch. The goosebumps on your neck disappear a few minutes after he does.
x the day before x
He'd promised that you wouldn't have to work Summerween for at least the week leading up to it, and as you'd naively done for the past several holidays, you believed him. He’d promised that you would have time to go trick-or-treating, or whatever it is young people do these days, he'd added.
Summerween Eve you found yourself helping him bring down boxes of decorations from the attic of the Shack, as well as a few disassembled seasonal exhibits such as Gravity Falls' own Man-Cat, half man, half cat, all freaky. Following him back down the stairs wasn't as easy as following him up, especially when you had a heavy box held in your arms, so you took your time. More confident in his own steps, he was down and back up again by the time you made it halfway down the stairs.
“Movin' like molasses, kid,” he said, standing on the step below you with a smile. You tried to apologize but he didn’t let you, waved it away, and while you've found yourself doing that a lot less since you started working for him, it was a hard habit to break.
“Can I get through here?” He asks, and the two large hands you suddenly found on your waist moved you to the side. He made his way up the stairs behind you and the red in your face lasted much longer than the feeling of his hands on you, though they were both gone by the time you made it downstairs.
x present day x
You have everyone rung up in half the time it would have taken him to do it and you feel a sense of pride as you watch the last paying customer leave the gift shop only moments before he leads the next group in from the tour. You smile and give him a nod, if only to let him know you have a handle on thing, and the next time you look back at where he was he's already gone.
You manage to clean up the counter a bit between groups, discarding empty coffee cups and balled up receipts, and you wonder how long he waited to call you. You both know he's better at putting on a show than doing menial work like customer service. You tidy up the cash drawer, laughing softly to yourself as you straighten out some of the more crumpled bills, imagining him stuffing them inside in a hurry as he tried to ring up customers.
The groups get smaller and smaller as the night goes on, and while there are a few costumed customers, they're few and far between. You do feel a little better knowing you aren't the only person who looks like a complete idiot, though.
Once it slows down you take to tidying up the rest of the shop, and with your sleeves pushed up to your elbows, you busy yourself sweeping up. You're really only sweeping the dirt out the open gift shop door, not confident enough in the integrity of your outfit to not tear into pieces if you bend down with the dustpan.
“Now that's a sight.”
You jump at the sound of his voice and turn to see Stan in the doorway leading to the exhibits, lifting his fez to pull his eye patch off with a smile.
“A witch with a broom,” he clarifies. You smile back and start sweeping again, and you try to pretend he's not there, if only so you don't get flustered. You're too prone to clumsiness if you're nervous, as you often are when you know someone's looking at you, but his gaze isn't as judgmental as it is thoughtful. If anything that makes you even more nervous.
You catch the broom on a shirt rack and drop it, and when you bend to pick it up you're glad to find that the costume doesn't immediately burst into pieces under stress, though you do feel one of the rips in your leggings tear, leaving a big hole over the back of your thigh. The floor creaks behind you but when you stand back up, you find yourself alone again.
x
It's been almost an hour since the last tour group came through and you're flipping through the pages of an old magazine when Stan sets a cup of coffee on the counter next to you. You smile up at him and say thanks, downing the drink which he's made especially sugary-- just the way you like it.
“You're not trying to keep me awake because more people are coming, are you?”
He laughs and shakes his head, and assures you there's no one else. No one left, he says, thumbing his way through a stack of bills he pulls out of his jacket. You hand him the money from the till with one hand while you sip your coffee.
“Thanks again, y’know I couldn't have done it without ya,” he says, pausing his counting to look at you.
“Oh...no problem,” you say, feeling a little warm from the coffee and the look on his face. You're not used to such sincerity, especially not from him. “I wasn't...doing anything anyway.”
“You weren't doing anything? So these are your pajamas?” He asks, gesturing to the costume with a smile, eyebrows raised.
You just chuckle and shake your head and say that, okay, maybe you were doing something. “..Everyone was dressed like this.”
“Sorry I missed that,” he chuckles, and you just smile and roll your eyes.
You go back to reading the magazine and nursing your coffee while he finishes counting the money, only the soft swish of his fingers on the bills and the turning of the pages breaking the silence.
“That's a nice costume, y’know...Ya look real nice.”
You don't look up as you snort and say thanks, and it takes a moment for it to really click. When you look back up you meet his eyes for a moment and then look away, smiling sheepishly.
“I mean, thank you,” you say, looking back down at your hands, the magazine, anything, as you tell him you know it's a stupid costume.
“No, really. You look...good.” It's the way he says good that makes you look back up at him. He smiles down at you in that way you like so much and takes his hat off, running a hand back through his hair.
“Whadda ya think of my costume?” He asks, straightening the lapels of his jacket. You tilt your head and ask what exactly he's supposed to be dressed up as?
“A reputable business man- see, I even wore a clean shirt.”
You say he looks pretty good and can't help but laugh, and he says there it is, tells you how you have a nice smile and you should use it more often. You hide your blushing face under the wide brim of your hat, shaking your head.
For months you've been hiding a growing affection for the old man-- or at least you thought you were hiding it. You also thought it might pass after a while, but he was always doing things to keep you from forgetting how much you liked him, like bringing you coffee when you worked nights, or donuts in the morning, or the way he looks at you sometimes like you've done something funny when you haven't done anything at all.
“Hey, kid, can I get past ya?”
When you look up he's no longer on the other side of the counter, but instead is standing right beside you. You turn and find you're eye to tie with Stan, and you go a little red in the face as you wonder how long he's been there without you noticing. No stranger to feeling like you're taking up more space than necessary, you take a step back and lean against the counter. The height difference is much more obvious when you're standing right in front of the man, who has at least a foot on you if not more. He leans down for a moment to put something beneath the counter before popping back up with a smile, his fez tumbling off his head. You grab it before it rolls off the counter and, without thinking, reach up to place it on his head.
You only have a second to think about how close you are before his lips are pressing against yours, a hand on your cheek. You stare wide-eyed at his face as your heart attempts to jump out of your chest, and when you try to talk you only mumble against his lips, feeling the scratch of his stubbly skin on yours. He pulls back and takes his hand away, looking concerned.
“Hey, I'm sorry, kid, I shouldn't have-” he starts, and you squeak out a, “N-no, it's fine!” You're surprised at yourself only slightly more than you're surprised at him. The worried look on his face melts away into a smile and he sighs in relief, taking off his fez to scratch his head.
“For a second there I thought you didn't want to-”
“No, I want to!” You say, mortified at your own eagerness. “Sorry, I'm just...n-nervous,” you explain, grabbing the hem of your skirt in both hands. He chuckles and places a hand on your cheek, and you find yourself instinctively leaning into the touch. This time when he kisses you it's much slower, and you can taste the coffee you've both been drinking. You don't know what to do with your hands so you reach up and grab the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. He chuckles and it rumbles deep in his chest and against your lips.
When he moves closer and pushes you back against the counter, his hand on your hip, you break away to take a breath. He kisses the corner of your mouth and your jaw, then your neck, and the noise that escapes your open mouth is both embarrassing and just loud enough for him to hear.
“Mr. Pines...” you breathe, staring up at the ceiling in a haze as you feel his hand slide down your hip and beneath the hem of your skirt. You let out a shuddering breath as he kisses your throat and presses against you with his body, feeling the strength, the size of him. You can tell by the way he touches you that he knows what he's doing, and it feels so good to be with someone who knows what they're doing, since you really don’t.
“S-Stan,” you whimper as his hand slides up your thigh and between your shaking legs, pressing his fingers up against you, against the tights. His other hand is on your chest, and he slides his fingers down the low cut front of your shirt, his hand groping over your bra, too eager to push it out of the way.
“W-wait,” you gasp, head thrown back, and you tug at the front of his jacket. He pulls back and you take a moment to catch your breath, head swimming. “It's...”
Stan leans down to kiss your forehead, removing your witch hat to run his hand back through your hair. “What, is it your first time?” He chuckles, like it's a joke.
“Yes..”
In the living room, where he explains you'll be much more comfortable, you start losing clothing. He first tosses his jacket onto his chair, then helps you undo the back of your skirt and petticoat and they fall to the floor where you stand. His hands on your hips help pull down your tights and the fishnets beneath them, slowly pulling them off, and as he kneels in front of you and kisses your thighs you thank the powers that be that you wore your cute underwear.
He helps you sit back in his chair and, kneeling between your legs and framed by the tv light behind him, slides a hand beneath the hem of your shirt and pulls it up to your bra. He kisses your soft stomach and you blush even more if possible, hiding your face. Strong, sure hands, so different from your own, grip your thighs. He kisses the soft, warm skin there, his stubbly chin scratching in a way you think you could really get used to. You think you should feel shame, maybe, at the fact that he's the only person who's ever touched you this way, but you don't. You don't think you could. You like him too much to feel that way.
Your stomach flips as he helps you out of your underwear, which land somewhere on the other side of the room, and the way he looks at you now is so embarrassing you think you might just melt into a puddle and disappear right there. Just when you think he might change his mind, he dives between your legs with the enthusiasm of a starving man at a buffet.
You let out a cry and lift your legs for him, though he's already lifting them over his shoulders, hands grabbing your thighs to pull you closer. You gasp and grab two handfuls of his hair as his tongue slides up between your lips, circling the sensitive bud of your clit before he starts sucking on it. You can't help but whimper and cry his name, or what might be his name, mixed in with what are probably other words. You can't really tell, but it doesn't matter. His fingers dig into the soft skin of your hips as he sucks and you pull his head closer to you with a long, low moan.
One hand leaves your hip and slips between your legs, and he sinks his middle finger between your hot, wet lips. He laps at your clit as he fingers you, slowly at first, and you're already so wet his finger slides in and out of you easily.
“S-S-Stan, S...st...f...ff...I c..c...” you stutter and whimper, and he only smiles up at you from between your legs and curls two fingers inside of you now, two fingers much larger than your own. His other hand slides beneath your bra and engulfs your soft breast, his rough thumb sliding across the sensitive skin of your nipple, teasingly slow. Your thighs tremble on either side of his head as he fucks you with his fingers, breathing hot against your clit as he laps at it hungrily.
When you come you cry his name, pulling at a fistful of hair with one hand while the other grips the arm of the chair, your thighs holding the sides of his head, and even when you're clenching tight against his fingers he doesn't stop until you cry out, overstimulated and shaking. When you finally go limp, legs splayed, head resting back against the chair in a daze, he only looks up at you with a grin. He lays gentle kisses on your trembling thighs and up on your stomach, pushes himself up to lean in and kiss you again. His mouth is open and your lips open for him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He pulls back and brushes the hair away from your damp forehead, cupping your cheek as he kisses your forehead.
When you have the strength to move again, he has you up on your knees on the chair, your arms resting over the back, your legs spread. You look back at him as he presses himself against you, grinding against you with his bulge. He reaches beneath you and feels the soft expanse of your stomach, holds you there with one hand while the other cups your breast, his breath hot on your neck as he tells you how long he's wanted to do this, how he couldn't help himself, how when you walked in that night he knew he couldn't wait. You gasp as he groans this into your ear, rocking his hips into you.
“S-Stan,” you whimper, closing your eyes, your cheek pressed against the couch, against his jacket resting there. “I-I...Please, please...”
“I know what you want,” he breathes, reaching between the two of you to unzip his pants. He slides them down along with his boxers, kicks them away, and when he presses himself back against you, skin to skin, you can feel the head of his cock brush against your sensitive lips. You press your face into his jacket and groan as he rocks his hips against you, teasingly dragging his cock up against you, sliding it between your lips. You push back against him with a whine and he kisses the back of your neck, and he helps position you with one hand on your hip, pulling you back against him. He tells you to spread your thighs more and you do, eager and willing to do whatever he wants.
When the head of his cock enters you for the first time you gasp, the feeling so different than his fingers, so different from yours. He thrusts his hips up into you and you cry out as he fills you, feeling the stretch of him inside of you. He holds himself against you and tells you how good you're doing, how good it feels, and as he slowly pulls his hips back you let out a whimper, fingers digging into the material of the chair.
His hips thrust against you, his cock sinking deeper into you, faster now. The sound of skin on skin is broken only by his deep groans, the man purring your name into your ear, and your own wordless cries for him to go faster, faster, fuck, Stan, please, faster!
“Look at you, your first time, huh?” He chuckles and kisses the back of your neck, holding onto your hips as he thrusts into you. “You love it, don't ya? Tell me you love it,” he breathes into your ear.
“I l-love...I l..I love it, fuck, fuck, oh, f...fuck, S-Stan!”
He grunts in response and bucks his hips harder up against you, burying himself inside of you. His fingers slide between your thighs and circle the hard nub of your clit, wet and hot and throbbing. He's close now, he tells you, he's going to come. Tell me you want it, he grunts in your ear.
“F-fuck, St...Stan, I..I w..want it, p-please, please! Fuck!” You cry as you come again, crying out his name as he fucks you against the chair, and you feel yourself clench around the hardness of his cock, and then a new sensation, warmth spilling into you and out of you as he keeps fucking you, and he holds your hips and groans your name as he comes inside of you.
You're left a shuddering, shaking mess as he pulls out of you a minute later, and you groan as you feel him slip out, leaving you open and wet, dripping onto the couch. He helps you stand and then he sits, and you sit in his lap, leaning your head against his shoulder, your body limp. You stay there for a while, his lips pressed against your forehead, his arms around you.
Later, when you can both stand, you find your clothes and then the bathroom, cleaning yourselves. You shower together, of course, to save water, and you don't feel as nervous as you had before. Being with someone who loves your body has made it easier to share it with them, you find, as he presses you against the shower wall and kisses you deeply. You both close up the Shack that night and go to bed together, wrapped in each others arms. Even better, you still get overtime.
the one i love [grunkle stan x reader x stanford pines]
pairing: grunkle stan/reader/stanford pines
word count: 2,360
rating: M (they do it)
notes: gender-neutral dfab reader
In the chill morning air with the mist rolling off of the water, having not slept the night before and now swaying between sleep and awake, you watch the sun rise over the bay.
The dock workers come and go as the ships arrive, and you remain vigilant, watching behind the rim of a weak cup of coffee for any two that look too much alike. You're dead tired, tired in your bones, but still you wait. That's what you've been doing. Waiting.
It's been almost a year since they left.
No, you didn't go with them. You had too many things keeping you on land. And it was their time, anyway. You hadn't wanted to get in the way of thirty years' worth of backed up brotherly love. You stayed at the shack to help Soos and Melody out, now more than ever since they were expecting, and Soos does a great job as the new Mr. Mystery, of course. But every once in a while you'll catch a glimpse of a black suit and red fez out of the corner of your eye and, for a split second, get your hopes up.
Now you're wrapped in several layers to keep warm but the sea air still manages to freeze your ears and the tip of your nose, your chattering teeth hidden behind a very bright and very well-made knitted scarf. Your hands grasp the edges of your jacket, pulling it in closer against the biting cold.
It's the morning of the first day of summer.
The Stan O' War II pulls into the dock just after sunrise, and you can finally breathe again, and you run to greet the first twin off the boat. It's harder to tell them apart, now, both bearded and tanned by the sun, but it's the twelve fingers grasping your shoulders that tell you it's Stanford Pines beaming down at you. He pulls you into an embrace and holds you against him, your own arms wrapped tightly around him, around his sturdy body, familiar and warm. You both try to ask each other questions at the same time – How are you? How are the kids? What was it like? - but when you end up speaking over each other you just laugh.
“And what about me, huh? Don't I get a hug?”
You turn and Stan wraps his arms around your waist and you throw your arms around his shoulders, the both of you holding each other tight as if he might leave again at any moment, and he tells you how much he missed you. Ford brings you both back in for a hug and tells you how much he missed you in one ear while Stanley tells you that he missed you just that much more in the other ear, and if you weren't in tears before you are now, held between them, in their strong arms, now overheated by their warmth, your face red. You grab onto each of them as best you can. One wipes away your tears, kisses your cheek, and then the other, and your face is squished between the both of them, their stubbly cheeks and chins scratching you, and you can't help but laugh.
Eventually the three of you make it back to the truck. They make busy tossing their sacks of dirty clothes and bags of wriggling things they assure you aren't dangerous into the back and then climb into the cab with you squished into the middle between them. You drove all night to the port so you take the time now to relax and enjoy the ride. Ford drives and you rest your head against Stanley's shoulder as you leave the coast, each of your hands in one of theirs on your lap. The radio drones in the background as they recount their adventures over the past several months, and when they laugh you can't help but join in, the way they tell it makes you feel like you were there with them. Your fingers curl between theirs and they hold them tight.
You find yourself lulled in and out of sleep by their voices, the motion of the car, the warmth and comfort you find sandwiched between them. You see an ocean of trees turn into small towns, the morning turn to afternoon. You stop for lunch and to stretch your legs and the three of you end up eating greasy burgers and drinking cold Pitt Cola's sitting on the tailgate of the truck outside of a gas station.
The day turns to night and with the night comes a storm. Fat raindrops hit the windshield and transform it into a mosaic of blurry streetlights in waves, the windshield wipers doing their best to carve out a clear view but it's ultimately too much to go on any further. It's Ford's idea to stop for the night and find a place to sleep, and you and Stan agree, eager to get off the road.
The motel you end up staying at boasts color cable TV and free coffee in pink capital letters on the sign out front, and the giant neon letters shining above that light up your room when the curtains are open. You keep the curtains closed.
While one twin showers you wait with the other and they both sneak kisses while the other is busy, making up for lost time while they have the opportunity. It's not necessarily sexual in the way they touch you, but rather attempts to maintain contact, holding your hand, sitting close to you on the bed while you watch TV, a leg resting against your own while talking about what to order for dinner. A damp and fuzzy-looking Ford takes Stanley's place on the bed while he goes to shower and you lean against his warm skin while he orders a pizza, and you can still smell the ocean even under the cheap complimentary motel soap.
They tell you about all the creatures they've seen and fought while you eat and you end up almost spitting out your pepperoni laughing when they inevitably end up wrestling, reenacting their struggle against the giant land squid. Neither of them want to play the squid.
Stanford, having lost, gets to clean up.
You offer to help but when you stand from the bed you feel a pull at your shirt and are brought back down, your stomach flipping in the moment you're falling, and when you land you're laughing again, Stanley already there waiting for you. When he pulls you closer you wrap your arms around his shoulders and press your face into his chest. You kiss his neck, his jaw, and he sighs. You always loved that about him, about the both of them, their strong jawlines when the rest of them were so round and soft. The familiarity of it all is whats gets you, how it feels like its been a day since they left, like nothing had changed at all, or as if you've been with them all along.
“I missed you,” you breathe, and he brings a hand up, against the back of your head, drawing you into a kiss, and you both hold each other there until the bed dips beneath Ford's weight. You raise your head and as he brings himself in closer as you reach for him, and he catches you, bringing you in against his chest, and you have just enough time to take a breath before he kisses you, taking it away. Stretched out over the both of them you smile, feeling Stanley's hands slide up under your shirt, Ford's lips on your throat, his strong hands on your hips, twelve fingers making their way down the back of your pants.
Your hands move along his shoulders, along his throat, up to cup his cheeks, fingers sliding into his hair, combing through his wet locks. He presses his head up into your hands and you kiss his forehead, closing your eyes. You sigh his name, Stanford, into his ear, both of his hands cupping your ass. With Stanley's hands on your chest you grind against his thigh but soon enough find it gone, the man having slipped out from beneath you and taken a spot behind you instead.
You eagerly help them both undress you, raising your arms as they slide your shirt off and toss it away, shifting from one knee to the other as they help you shimmy out of your pants. Ford takes a seat at the head of the bed and you press yourself to him, lips on his collarbone, Stanley's hands holding your hips as he grinds against you, two fingers slipping into your underwear. Your own hands make their way down Ford's chest, over the soft pudge of his stomach and down to his boxers, where his cock strains against the thin material, and when you pull it out it's warm and hard in your hand.
You and Ford groan in unison as you hold him in your fist, Stan sliding a finger inside of you, and eventually you all fall into the same rhythm. You rock your hips back against Stan's as Ford rolls his hips up into your hand, one of his hands gripping your shoulder, the other on his face, pushing up his glasses, running into his hair. As you jerk him off you keep your eyes on his face, as it grows red, his mouth hanging open, and you smile when he bites his fist, your own panting breath rolling out against his chest.
You look back when you feel Stan's fingers leave you, catching his grin as he positions his own cock between your thighs, moving it against your lips. He keeps one hand on your back and you press yourself against him until he's inside you, until you can feel the size of him filling you again, the old familiar feeling, and you groan as he grips your thighs and thrusts up into you.
When you finally take Ford into your mouth he places a hand on the back of your head and curls his fingers in your hair, guiding your head down until your lips press against the soft hair at his groin. You pull back up, eyes closed now, listening to the both of them moan your name at either end of you, tasting the salty precum on your tongue, on your lips. Stan bends over you, against your back, pressing you down, his breath and your name spilled out against your back, his hand reaching between your legs, calloused fingers finding your sensitive clit. You steady yourself with both hands on Ford's thighs, and between one twin holding your head down and the other thrusting into you, your body is heavy and hazy with feeling. The sounds you’re all making are enough to drive you forward, the wet slapping of skin on skin, their whines and moans, your wet tongue on Ford’s cock.
When Ford cums he holds your head down as he bucks up against it and he fills your mouth but you swallow it all, and when you pull back up to stare at him he smiles his lopsided smile and cups your face, and with his glasses hanging half off and his hair a mess, he pulls you forward and kisses you deeply. Your own orgasm draws out Stan's and he thrusts against your hips needily as you groan into Ford's mouth, hands grasping at his shoulders as he holds you up against him, and you break the kiss as you gasp, pant, fuck, oh my god, against his neck. Stan slows and, groaning against your back, comes to a stop and just stays there for a while, his hot breath against your skin.
When he pulls out and you both fall back to the bed, you rest your head against Ford's knee, his hand running through your hair. You could almost fall asleep like that.
x
When you clean up and do end up crawling back into bed between them, they wrap their arms around you and squeeze in close, sandwiching you between them. In the dark of the night, laying between their sturdy bodies, surrounded by their warmth, you fall into a deep sleep. Sometime hours later you wake up, as you always do when you get too hot during the night, and with two large space heaters on either side of you it's no surprise when it happens. But the warmth is comforting rather than suffocating, and when you wake to find their arms still wrapped around you, you draw yourself farther into the embrace, your back against Ford's chest, Stan in front of you with his head under your chin.
The soft pink neon light slips in above the curtains and blinks on and off against the ceiling and you watch it for a minute, then close your eyes, feeling yourself being pulled back into sleep. Ford's arms coil tighter around you and you smile, and you don't know if he knows you're awake when he tells you that he loves you.
“I love you too,” you whisper, and he presses his lips against the back of your neck. You both fall back asleep like that.
x
That morning the sky is clear. You sit out on the patio with Ford at a table with an umbrella, the both of you silent as you watch the large white clouds float by. Your hand in his rests on the tabletop.
Stan walks up behind you and sets three cups of coffee on the table, leaning down to kiss your cheek.
“I love ya too, you know that?”
You smile as you watch him take his seat, taking his hand.
“I love you, Stan.”
You can live without them, but you prefer not to. Their love fills you with warmth and energy and like the Earth thawing after a long winter, they make you feel alive. Their presence, their love, it keeps you going. You squeeze their hands, laughing.
pairing: grunkle stan/reader
word count: 1,634
rating: M (they do it)
notes: gender-neutral dfab reader, set after S1E7 Double Dipper
At the end of the night you find yourself sweeping the floor room. The string lights leave the room dim and the music drones softly in the background but you find yourself swaying with it, in a dream, undisturbed, humming with each sweep of the broom. The party over, you volunteered to stay late to clean up, enjoying the opportunity to stretch your legs after selling tickets the whole night. Parties aren't really your thing, but when everyone was having fun and you were left outside with nothing to do, you wouldn't have minded coming in for a dance. Now you gently bob your head and spin a few times as you sweep, carefully creating little piles of confetti you'll pick up later.
A laugh from the other end of the room brings you back out of your head - you were sure you were alone but when you look up Stan stands there, leaning against the table, money in hand, watching you. You blush, caught off guard. He always seems to pop up when you least expect it.
“I thought you took the kids to bed!”
“I did. Had to come back, couldn't miss the show,” he laughs, tucking the money into his shirt.
“Not much of a show,” you shake your head, smiling nonetheless, as you look back at the floor. What a funny old man.
“I liked it.” He's closer, now, and when you look back up he's right in front of you. “But I think you'd do better with a partner, whadda ya say?”
You laugh, but he's serious.“Oh, Stan, I don't know. I can't really dance..”
“Ain't nothin' to it, let me show ya,” he smiles, holding out his hand.
After a moment you shake your head, letting the broom fall to the floor and, smiling, you take his hand. He draws you closer to him, resting one hand on your lower back, and you place your own on his shoulder as leads you out into the middle of the room one step at a time, graceful. You try not to trip over your own feet or his as he pulls you closer, holding you against him, hips swaying with the music, he's light on his feet, confident, doesn't even have to look to see what he's doing. He keeps his eyes on you.
You close you eyes, enjoying the closeness, even something as silly as this – the two of you haven't had a lot of time to be alone together since the kids arrived, and while you love having them around, you miss these moments with Stan.
He pulls you away and, following his lead, you try to turn. You manage to get a half turn before you trip, catching yourself against his chest. You bury your face into the front of his shirt, feeling the cool metal of his medallion against your forehead.
“Come on, kid, I know you can do better than that.”
When you look up at him he's smiling, always reassuring, and you sigh.
“One more time, I'll show ya.”
You pull away, taking his hand, and he spins you out and brings you in, your back against his chest, your arms crossed. He holds both of your hands and you sway together, and you can't help but smile. Letting your hands go, he grabs your hips.
“Move like this,” he says, softly, breathing into your ear. “Just like this.” You can hear the smile he's wearing in his voice, his hands creeping up your sides, making you shudder. Up, farther, he raises your arms and leads them up and back until they're around his head, your fingers resting in his hair, your head resting against the side of his.
When he's got you where he wants you his hands find their way to the front of your shirt, fingers unbuttoning, finding their way inside, under your bra, and cupping your breasts. You can feel him, hard, grinding against you, his groans in your ear. You happily press yourself back against him, closing your eyes as he kisses the side of your neck, Stan, you sigh.
“I missed ya, kid.”
You look up at him, as best you can, and catch his gaze, grinning.
“Don't get sentimental, now,” you laugh, pressing a kiss to the side of his stubbly face. He turns you around and presses his lips to yours, your hands reaching up to cup his face, and you sigh happily against him as he works at getting your pants off, slowly guiding you back. Eventually your legs hit the couch and, caught off guard, you fall back into it with a laugh.
“Stan! I thought I was gonna fall on my ass!”
Staring up at him, the dim light casts a soft glow around his head, and you grin, grabbing at his shirt as he leans over you, pulling him closer. He pulls off his belt and undoes his bellbottoms before falling onto the couch beside you, pulling you on top of him. You settle on his lap and he pulls your shirt off and your bra follows, both thrown away into the room - always so eager, you'd lost a couple of shirts like that, flung away in the heat of the moment.
You press yourself down against him, chest to chest, your arms around his shoulders, hands in his hair, knocking away his fez. When his mouth finds your neck you smile, sigh, Stan, as he kisses at your collarbone, His hands on your back, they move to grab your ass.
“Don't you worry, kid, I'd never let anything happen to it. I love it too much,” he says, the both of you laughing.
His hands slide down to your thighs, one moving to reach between your legs, fingers pressing up against you, through the thin material of your underwear. You gasp as he draws them up against the sensitive nub there before he pulls the material away, slipping underneath. You reach a hand down between the both of you and find the bulge of his cock beneath his boxers, pulling it free, drawing a groan against the side of your neck as you take it into your fist. His hips roll up into your hand as you slowly pump it up and down, teasing, your own thighs shaking against the hand between them, a finger easily slipping inside you as his thumb rubs circles against your clit.
After long you know you can't take it any longer, by the gasps and groans he can't contain you know he can't either and you pull back, the both of you red in the face, warm, his eyes on you. His fingers leave you and he holds your underwear out of the way as you bring his cock toward you, positioning yourself over him, until you can feel him against your lips. They part as you lower yourself onto him, drawing a groan out of both of you.
When he's inside of you, you let go, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, his hands on your ass, guiding you down. Slowly at first you raise yourself back up, moaning at the familiar feeling, being filled by him, his hands on you, his voice in your ears. When you've both found your rhythm he rocks his hips up against yours, his lips on your neck, your chest, finding your nipple. As he licks and sucks at the sensitive spot, you tangle your fingers in his hair, groaning his name, Stan, oh, God, the slap of skin on skin filling the room.
You move together for several minutes, your orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, electric, your legs trembling with the effort, each movement drawing whimpers from you, his breath hot and fast against your skin. He stops, pushes you off and for a moment you're confused, until he shifts, lays you down next to him, onto your back on the couch, Stan still inside of you. You grab at the front of his shirt to steady yourself and manage to pull it open, the money inside spilling out onto your bare stomach and breasts. With your head against the arm rest, Stan holding one of your legs up on the side of the couch, the other falling off the front, and covered in a couple hundred dollars of cash, you laugh.
When you reach to try and brush it off, he grabs your wrist.
“No, leave it. You've never looked better, baby,” he grins, and you can't help but smile back as he pulls your arm over your head. He thrusts back into you suddenly, his body pressing down against yours, his cock filling you completely, and you cry out, wrapping your leg around him. Your free hand slides between the both of you, fingers spreading your lips, feeling him moving in and out of you, your thumb massaging your clit. It's only a matter of time until his groaning turns to grunts, fuck, oh, fuck, and your name, always the last thing on his lips, your own orgasm rushing over you, oh, fuck, stan, fuck yes!
His hips buck against you before slowing, stopping, and he releases your wrist, catching himself against the couch, panting above you. When you catch your breath he slides out of you, tucks himself back into his boxers, drawing you up against him on the couch. You both sit there in the afterglow for a while before you gather your clothes, flip the couch cushions, and head back into the Shack.
In his room, he collapses into bed and you follow, molding yourself around him, head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, his name on your lips.
