Mabel Pines could never stand the nickname 'Aunt Flow' for periods. Hearing it made her straight up cringe. Like, if her period has to be described as some metaphorical 'Auntie' figure – and really, she'd rather it not be – then it sure ain't no aunt of hers. If it is she'd be a super estranged aunt. The kind of aunt who's annoying and unnecessary and who you'd really rather not invite to the family reunions, uh uh, no ma'am.
Her period started yesterday afternoon, and the first few days always leave Mabel feeling extra greasy and icky. So consequently, bloated, crappy, tired, and gross-feeling are the words she would choose to describe the overall mood of this less-than-amazing Thursday. This morning she woke up with a pimple on her cheek mercilessly on its way to Mt. Vesuvius status. Coupled up with that were cramps out the wazoo, like a herd of tiny bite-sized goats repeatedly head-butting her insides. What's worse is she slept through her alarm, and therefore didn't have enough time to shower before school, which only magnified the gross feeling twelveteen-fold.
Ugh. Curse you day two. Curse you!
Although, she can't say The Thursday Of Ickiness has been all bad. There've been a few high points. Most of them thanks to her main saving grace today, aka her brother... well him, and also getting lots of ego-boosting comments on her Elizabethan cat sculpture during group critique in art class, that was pretty awesome.
Okay, but the bro-bro, though. First, he did her a solid and packed her lunch for her that morning while her discombobulated, goat-cramp-assualted self was hobble-rushing around upstairs getting ready. She didn't ask him to, he just did it, and Dipper barely remembers to pack his own lunch most of the time, so it was a kindhearted gesture by itself, for reals.
But when Mabel broke out her pig-shaped lunchbox in the cafeteria later that day, inside she discovered that the considerate-sib-gesture came with bonuses: an extra pack of Tigerfist fruit snacks and a scribbly note thing written in code, which he'd folded at least ten times. Her heart quickly made a mad dash to melty-town, and she'd had to fib to her friends about why she was suddenly smiling so hard.
She spent half of 5th period Spanish with her tongue poked out in concentration (it was a pretty short note but she's slow at this stuff) using the hastily scrawled out cipher he included to decode the sweet little message. So friggin sweet that she got called out by Ms. Melendez in front of the whole class for making high-pitched squeaky sounds in her throat without realizing it. Oops. Worth it, though. Dipper doesn't do the love note thing often, only once before, but when he does the notes he writes to her are so awkwardly heartfelt and cute, with lots of scratched out bits and eraser marks in between blurbs of his messy handwriting. Like he was really struggling to get the words just right before he scrambled them up into secret not-actually-nonsense. Gah, she can't even with him. It actually made her forget about the groggy grossness for awhile.
On top of the lunch-packing and cute-note-giving, when they got home from school that day, instead of holing himself in his room and hittin' the books– after some artful pestering– Dipper agreed to be her model for a giant figure drawing assignment of hers (due tomorrow, assigned last week, Procrastinabel-Mabel strikes again). Which is a pretty big deal for him, considering how much he's been freaking out lately about all the AP exams happening next week. That adorable psycho took four AP classes this year, and therefore has been diving headlong into study mode as soon he gets home from school for many moons, now. Man she can't wait 'til those dumb exams are over. Study mode has seriously been cutting into mackin' time.
But still, freak-out-mode 'ahhhh I have to know every single detail about everything or obviously I will fail and then also die' Dipper doesn't put his textbooks and pages and pages of color-coded-via-highlighter notes aside for just anything, or anybody. Being prioritized over homework will sure make an icky-feeling gal feel special (ooh that sounds a little sad when she thinks it aloud. Whatever, she stands by the sentiment!).
And that figure drawing sesh ended up being like, the most fun she'd had all day so far. With the dumb jokes flowing and flirty banter that was more life-giving than anything that had come from hanging out with her friends at school. She'd arrange his limbs into poses that Dipper would never do in real life; Adonis-esque poses or Coyote Ugly poses or butt-accentuating poses that he actually went along with, all pretend-serious, until they were both broken down into giggle-messes and she had to re-pose him into something a little less hilarious and a little more stable. She kept sabotaging herself by making him laugh when she needed him to sit or stand very very still. But in the end her drawings came out pretty good anyway, and Dipper's face got all smiley and cute when she showed them to him.
He wasn't willing to risk giving her a proper thank-you kiss since Dad had just gotten home from work, although he might've snuck a quick one in there while Dad was in the bathroom, turning her face into a goopy smiley number that rivaled his. Once again, her significant brother had made her temporarily forget all about her Aunt Doom woes. Such a magical being, he is.
Most recently, when Mabel dragged her feet into Dipper's room at the tail end of The Thursday Of Ickiness, flopping down face-first into his bed, whining dramatically that her stomach hurt and she couldn't sleep and desperately needed to play some cheer-up videogames, he graciously closed the AP Bio textbook he'd just had his nose buried in. Pulled himself away from his desk with an "I call Player One," walked over to dig around in a jumbled milk crate full of old electronics, cords and controllers, successfully unearthing his dusty Gamecube.
Hot diggity dog, the Dips is a keeper, a dang keeper. As a broseph and as a bee-eff (well obviously, duh).
And um... she really did come in his room just wanting to play old Nintendo games, she swears. It did start out that way, with them crammed next to each other against a pillow-pile on Dipper's bed, giggling and smack-talking in low voices as they duked it out over some Smash Bros on the boxy, old-as-heck TV that's been in Dip's room since the dawn of time. Buuuut, like many of the one-on-one-hang-out activities she does with the broski these days, at some point old videogame playing mysteriously turned into making out. How did this happen? Truly, it's a mystery. So mysterioussss.
Pff, what can she say, it's unanimously their fave one-on-one activity. The whole twin-on-twin-dating phenomenon is still pretty newish, and the novelty of being able to kiss him whenever she wants has yet to wear off. Well, 'whenever she wants' as in when they're completely alone and the door is locked and every box on Dipper's irritating clear-for-lip-landing mental checklist has been ticked off... admittedly there's some fine print, there. But still. It sure as heck hasn't worn off for her brother, either. The mutual rush they get from together-togetherness doesn't feel like something that can ever 'wear off,' to be honest.
Sooo uh, yup, that's where she's at right now. Deep in major mack mode. Score one for icky Mabel.
Sometimes making out with Dipper is something soft and sweet, more about chillin' out and simply enjoying being close to one another. Lips-on-lips close. Where they're not in any hurry, and they can just spend hours snuggling and hand-holding and kissin' up each other's faces in a warm, comforting embrace. Maybe it'll get a little heated here and there, but it doesn't lead up to anything besides a buttload of warm fuzzy feelings in her chest.
Other times, though, the kissing is much less patient, and isn't what Mabel would call soft, exactly– more like swelteringly hot, full-body-buzz inducing, ravenous liplocks where she feels like she could devour him whole if she's not careful, like umph step aside Mom's meatloaf this gal's havin' Dips for dinner kisses. Faster paced, if-I-don't-keep-kissing-you-i'll-die, hands all over the place shenanigans that make her heart race way too fast to be healthy. That kind of making out, if the timing is right, often leads to either some or all of their clothes sprawled on the floor, and damp sheets. Uh, from sweat. Mostly from sweat.
Mabel can safely say that she likes both kinds of Dipper-make-out styles equally. She likes that they're capable of both, she likes that she gets to wake up in the mornings never really knowing if it's gonna end up being one or the other, should make outs happen that day.
She especially loves that there's never, ever any pressure to do anything except what feels right in the moment. Being with Dip is just like that, she's joyfully come to discover. It comes so naturally, so blissfully easy to her. Before him, she didn't think being this comfortable gettin' all physical-like with a guy was even possible... though she can still sense that Dipper might not be as one-hundred-percent comfy sometimes, when it comes to rated-M-for-mature make outs with her. Not because he doesn't want to or anything, he's certainly the same eager beaver that he's been since the beginning of this luuuhve saga. It's more along the lines of him being overly careful with her, visibly overthinking his touches and moves, seeking out her permission so often that it's a little annoying, that sort of thing.
But she'd never tell Dipper she thinks it's annoying. His heart's in the right place, and she long ago gathered where all the cautiousness stems from. All those weeks of thinking monstrously icky thoughts in that overthinky icky-thought-prone brain of his, thoughts that involved him convincing himself he'd done Unforgivable Things back when they were in awkward post-first-hookup relationship limbo, sure messed her bro up good. Whiiich is something she still can't help but assume full responsibility for, since she failed to nip those evil-alien thoughts of his in their evil-alien-egg buds via flamethrower, Sigourney Weaver style, from the very beginning... even if she wasn't really aware of the full extent of them, even if he's assured her multiple times that 'none of that stuff's on you, Mabes,' (they've had a handful of cuddly late night heart-to-hearts since they started the boyfriend-girlfriend thing).
Blah, but she can't change lame past-Mabel decisions, or let herself get swallowed up by the guilt monster. All she can do is continue to coax him in the right direction, keep building up his confidence and letting him know it's all good.
And it is all good. He's come a long way confidence-wise already. Even if that wasn't the case, she loves the stuffing out of this kid, she doesn't mind the extra emotional hand-holding. Plus, in the end she gets to make out with him either way, so, yayy for Mabel!
A Gamecube controller gets kicked off the end of the bed as Mabel squirms and squeaks out a breathy moan, raking her fingers through Dipper's hair while he fervently sucks at her pulse, halfway on top of her. She moves a hand down to teasingly drag her nails up the inside of his thigh, causing his boxers to ride up. He chokes in a ragged breath, whispering her nickname heavily against her neck before firmly reattaching his mouth to hers.
Ayup. Tonight feels like it's leading down the path of Dip-make-out style numero dos. The hot to trot kind. And even as Mabel tugs him closer, sighs sensually into his mouth, nips his bottom lip with conviction, a tiny little minuscule piece of her brain is just outside of being completely in the moment.
On any other day this level of friskiness would be fine, more than fine, and it's still mostly fine but... argh, today is day two, and hot-to-trot make outs with Dipper have never happened on day two before, or on any other heavy Aunt Doom day. It just... it throws the teensiest of wrenches into the mix. While she is all about Dip's fancy tongue work and tushie squeezes, she absolutely does not want him discovering the war-torn granny panties and maxi pad she's currently rockin' (why did she not at least think to put on cuter underwear before she came in here, why universe, why?!).
So she's gotta play it cool, keep the focus on him. Which might be easier said than done, because Dipper, bless his heart, is definitely, erm, what one might call a giver when it comes to him and her and doing stuff. Ohh boy... no no, she's got this, she's got this. It'll be fine.
Soon she's got him out of his shirt, and they're wrapped up in each other's arms good 'n tight enough that she can feel how happy to be here his body is. So goshdern happy that it wants to spread the joy via leg-poking. Heat surges through her at the feel of him, her stomach diving into a somersault, her back bowing into an instinctive arch.
Dipper hisses out his first breathless curse of the night and arches his back, too. He drops any notion of being subtle about where his head is at, deliberately pressing himself into her thigh until she can feel so much of him that her head goes for a floaty little swim. Her flushed skin rapidly becomes blazing hot, the between-the-leg tingles escalating into warm, pleasurable throbs.
He starts to grind against her leg, his hips rolling just barely. Just barely is enough to make her let out a soft, high pitched sound, her nails scraping down the length of his back. The vibe quickly gets more desperate, sharp breaths escaping through the split-second gaps between their mouths as they frantically tilt their heads in search of angles that allow them better access. The music from the choose-your-character screen still displayed on the crappy off-color TV serves as their official eat-face soundtrack, the upbeat intensity of it really working for them somehow (poor Kirby and Fox, long ago selected but never to see battle. At least, not tonight).
Unfortunately, at some point Mabel kind of forgets about Operation Keep-Things-Focused-On-Not-Her. Which isn't her fault! Make-out style number two makes her brain turn to static. Also it's hard to discourage or redirect anything he's doing when she's umm, enjoying it so much. Like, a loooot. A lot a lot. She didn't actually realize it until he started getting handsy with her junk-in-the-trunk, but no thanks to stupid ol' AP exam prep eating away most of Dipper's time and brainpower, it seems she's become a tiny bit pent up as of late. And he's so hard and warrrrrrm, sweet Sally he's practically searing her leg through his boxers as he moves against her and wait, whaat are thoughts again? Does she really need any of those right now? Nahh, right?
She feels Dipper lifting the hem of her own brightly colored sleep shirt (her old Boyz 4 Now concert tee, their last tour before they broke up, r.i.p.), and he gets it halfway up her torso before meeting her eyes and breaking out that classic doe-eyed, 'can I...?' face. Mabel just sits up and lifts her arms in response, and he wordlessly finishes pulling it off of her.
Dipper's hand starts to trace the undersides of her breasts, his lips still busy workin' their magic on hers, which is, hngg, great, and then he gently squeezes her over her purple sports bra which is even more great. But eventually his fingers trickle away from her bra in a southwards direction, and Mabel's eyes fly open, her face jumping from kiss-dazed to mildly anxious.
Oh, poopnuggets, fingers have definitely started to move down her belly, mm-hm, downwards movement confirmed – uh oh. Is he going for what she thinks he's going for and what based on previous experience he's more than likely indeed going for?
His caressing hand finishes its meandering trail down her stomach, easily slipping past the waistband of her loose-fitting, hamburger-and-fries-themed PJ shorts to reach the elastic of her ramshackle for-period-week-only panties, and Dipper breathes out a soft groan against her lips as he starts to wriggle his fingertips underneath it–
–Yup he's def going for it aw dang it.
"Hmmmmaybe not tonight actually," Mabel blurts, hurriedly grabbing his wrist before he can dip his hand inside. Dipper's whole arm goes rigid at the contact and his hand instantly jerks away.
"Ah, s-sorry–" his head rears back to look at her with a (sadly familiar) mortified, skittish look that makes her heart sink like a rock, his whole body gearing up to shoot away from her, "crap, I'm sorry Mabes, I should've asked–"
Aw, flapjacks.
"Noooo it's not– nnnn oh my god stop retreating you doof," Mabel grabs onto his shoulder and scooches closer, not letting him get away any further on the bed, then cups his jaw so he's forced to look directly at her with that endearing, panicking doof face of his. "Hey, it's alright. Deep breaths, Dippinsauce. You didn't do anything wrong, I'm just– I'm on my period."
She follows up with a resigned, yea-it's-lame-what-are-ya-gonna-do facial expression and shrug combo. Dipper blinks a few times in a row, his eyebrows un-furrowing as this new information sinks in, his mouth opening and his expression changing hilariously fast.
"...Oh."
"Yeahh... probably should've mentioned that before stuff got all hot-n-heavayyy, I guess. Buuut yeah. It's day two and day two is tampon-plus-a-pad day if ya know what I'm sayin. S'not pretty, uh-uhh, no it is not."
"Oh," Dipper says again, breathing out the word in a sort of dazed sigh of relief.
"Like you were headed straight for the danger zone, buddy. It's a bloodbath down there."
"Ah. Gotcha." He bobs his head slowly.
"I'm talkin' total warzone. So many fallen tampax soldiers, like you wouldn't believe."
"I think I got it, Mabel," Dipper breathes out a few chuckles, his coffee-colored eyes shifting down and back up to hers.
"Okay just wanted to be clear. I can't have you thinking I'm not into fun times with the Dip fangers or anything. Gotta nip those evil thoughts right in the bud." She gives him a solemn, wide eyed look that finally cracks him, silent giggles beginning to shake his shoulders. "Rrrright in the bud," she repeats with one of her infinite number of silly accents, her fingers darting out to attack the ticklish spot on Dipper's belly. He jerks, folding forward and letting out a loud guffaw, immediately clapping a hand to his mouth afterwards.
"Oh my god Mabel don't tickle me, we're supposed to be being quiet, here," Dipper hisses as he reflexively looks towards the bedroom door to reaffirm its locked status, but she can still hear remnants of laughter in his voice even though he's trying to be all serious.
"Whoopsie, my bad, my bad."
Dipper straightens back up so they're face to face, a small all-is-forgiven grin on his lips. For a few moments they listen for any signs of wakefulness from their snoozing parental units down the hall, but there's not a rustle to be heard, and paranoid-Dipper thankfully retreats back into his paranoia cave.
Mabel takes the opportunity to nuzzle her nose against her brother's for a languid eskimo kiss. "So anyways, back on topic," she kisses him, light and teasing, "I'm off the table for stuuhrff, but that doesn't mean we can't still get you all good 'n taken care of..." She waggles her eyebrows, rubbing her hand along his thigh so that her fingers disappear just inside the shorts of his boxers every time she moves it up.
But Dipper doesn't react at all the way she was expecting to her offer to do stuuhrff to him, definitely not the way he usually does. All of a sudden he's having a hard time meeting her eyes, his brow looking the slightest bit frowny and uncertain. What the heck, does he not want an H-jay or possibly maybe a bee-jay or some other kind of jay? Uhm, that sure doesn't sound like the Dip she's come to know over the last few weeks... the half-tent he's pitchin' in his undies says otherwise, too.
"Oh-kay Dipper, time to spill, what's wrong," Mabel asks, her tone mostly jokingly exasperated but also a hint of worried, which gets him to look at her for real again. "Are you not in the mood? That's fine, too..."
"No, no," he says a little too fast to be considered cool, "it's– really, definitely not that. I'm just..." He cocks his head at her and nibbles on his bottom lip a tiny bit, still glancing at her all weird and unsure-like.
"Mmm, whuzzup with that face, I don't like that faceee," she sing-songs, frowning.
"I was just– gonna ask... uh, aree you? Totally off the table for stuff? Because if you're not comfortable that's totally fine but like, if you didn't want me touching you for, you know, my sake, I mean... I wouldn't actually uh, mind um..." Mabel's eyebrows shoot up, sky-high, like, all the way up. Dipper shrugs, the last remnants of his confidence breaking down to shyness at the surprised, entirely skeptical look she's fixing on him. "I-I'm just saying, I, I'd be okay with... stuff. Even though it's day two." He gives her an awkward smile.
Mabel's face turns cherry red. She shakes her head at him, wincing and squinting dubiously. "Uhhhhm, I really don't think you know what you're signing up for there, Dip."
"I mean...seems pretty self explanatory..." he scratches the peach fuzz on his chin, blurting out the rest of his sentence quickly, "but like I said if you're not comfortable with it then the point is moot ya know? It's fine." Another shrug.
Mabel gives him a long look, narrowing her eyes at him, her eyebrows still raised.
"...What?" Dipper says when he can't take her staring anymore, his cheeks completely flushed.
"I'm thinking."
"Okay..." His eyes shift around the room restlessly as he lays there on his side and waits for her to say something more. When she doesn't for a while he speaks up again, "...any chance of youu maybe sharing? What you're thinking?"
She heaves a dramatic sigh at the ceiling, flopping an arm over her face. "Ughh I'm trying to figure out which Mabel is gonna win this one."
"Uhh, not sure I follow..."
"As in there are two Mabels. Two rough-and-tumblin' Mabels. In muh brain. And they're in the midst of this cage match, right," she mimes a few boxing movements with her fists, "and one of them is the Mabel who is super in the mood to get her rocks off right now, we'll call her for lack of a better, less icky word," she throws up some gratuitous air quotes, " 'Horny Mabel,' and she's facing off with the Mabel who is mortified at the thought of you having gross period hands because of me, and her pro-wrestling name can be... uhmmm how bout 'No Freakin Way Mabel.' Er no. 'The NoFreakinWayinator.' "
"...Oh," Dipper clears his throat awkwardly. "... So, uh, who's winning?"
"Don't know. Pretty evenly matched, those two. They're still going at it."
He goes quiet for a while, looking so annoyingly (beautifully) sympathetic, clearly fumbling for what to say to her. "...I don't think you're gross," is what he ends up deciding on.
Ah, Dipper. Sweet, naive child.
"Aw, I know, bro. I'm not saying I think I'm gross it's just that... bluhhh, periods are pretty gross man. And this whole offer-deal is coming from someone who has, and I'm just assuming here, never experienced gross bloody period hands firsthand."
"Er, ahm– Iguessthat, you, well. Hm." Uh oh, looks like she broke him. She's whined about her periods many-a-time to Dipper before but she supposes she's never gotten this gory about it. Haha, oh, teenaged boys and their weak constitutions...
He finally gets his mouth to form organized(ish) words again, "It's not like I'd be– like I wouldn't actually be doing the full, er– I mean I could just stick to–" he lifts up his hand and moves his index and middle fingers around in tiny circles, grinning innocently.
Mabel snorts and makes an anguished face, her tongue sticking out as she smacks his hand out of the air. "Oh my gosh, stoppit stoppit right now I will punch you."
Dipper laughs, raising his hands in surrender. "What? That's what it is!"
"Yes Dip, I am aware. Now please, no more fingering the invisible wizard."
His lips purse hard, clearly struggling to hold back a giant laugh although some of it still escapes through his nose. "I thought the invisible wizard was a dude."
"Uh uh, he's nonbinary. Also he can spontaneously change sexes, depending on the needs of the wizard population. Like West African frogs."
Dipper rolls his eyes good naturedly, brushing a curl out of her face and twirling it around his finger. "Okay Dr. Grant. Now I'm thinking you're just trying to change the subject."
Mabel drags her hands down her cheeks, pulling down her lower eyelids to make a scary monster face at him, "Bgghhffffuhhh. Whyyyy are you being so insistent about this you weirdo."
There he goes again with that dumb, annoying, entirely sweet and gentle smile. Errgh. "Because I don't think it's weird," he chuckles softly, "and since we've been talking about it this long I'm pretty sure you actually want me to do it, and I want to do it, and, yeah."
She whines, rolling her face into her pillow with a torn, muffled, "I don't knowwwww. You might not feel weird about it but I kinda feel weird about it."
Dipper purses his lips to one side, his eyes gazing down towards the pillow under his shaggy head of hair (he's gonna have to get his butt to a Great Clips soon). "Well... if you feel that weird about it, then we don't have to. That's totally fine, too."
Mabel just whines again through her pillow barrier, in an obvious that's-not-the-answer-I'm-looking-for way.
Dipper swallows, gearing up to propose an alternative strategy, "Or- I could just..." he tentatively moves his hand to trace the pads of his fingers up the side of her thigh, "you know, rub you, like. Outside the underwear? Would that work?"
She peeks at him, back to looking skeptical. "...You'd actually wanna do that?"
"Yeah, sure," Dipper says, sounding a little confused, like his answer ought to be completely obvious.
"...Even though I'm wearin a granny pad? With wings?"
The pitiful look on her face and slightly-dejected note in her voice spurs Dipper to reach up and tenderly touch her cheek, leaning in a little closer to kiss the tip of her nose before he spouts off in a super-soothing voice, "especially 'cos you're wearin a granny pad." Mabel makes a weirded-out face and he instantly winces with embarrassment, shaking his head, "ack, I know, yeah, that came out wrong. That's not what I– ugh, okay, really failing at the trying-to-be-comforting thing, here..." he clenches his eyes shut for a second and takes a breath, trying again. "I just meant that I don't care about the pad. Or that you're on your period. Still wanna touch you."
Dipper shoots her a crooked, genuine smile, and Mabel feels herself turning red again, still halfway buried in the pillow and peeking out at him.
"Ghhhh... blahhhh..." she lets her tongue loll out of her mouth, caught up in the last of the Mabel-v-Mabel-brain-battle. Then she sighs, finally rolling out of her hiding place to skitter over and snuggle up to her brother, burrowing her head under his chin. He wraps his arms around her, and it's quiet for a little bit.
"Mm, hey. Bro." Mabel breaks the silence, using her index finger to draw swirly, invisible pictures on Dipper's bare chest. "You're really not failing as badly as you think you are at being comforting. Just to let you know. Also you're cute and I heart your schmoopy butt."
"Ah, well that's a relief," he chuckles, gently scratching his nails up and down her back. "Although schmoopy, is that, a good thing? A positive butt quality? Cause it sounds... hm."
"In this context, oh yes, it's a very good thing."
"Alright. Guess I gotta take your word for it."
Dipper kisses the top of her head. Mabel smoothes her fingers back and forth over the small amount of hair on his chest before moving up to lay her head on the pillow right next to his, and the twins regard each other warmly for a few comfortable (but sort of giddy) seconds. Dipper starts to lean in, but Mabel moves faster and beats him to it, closing the majority of the gap, cradling his face and kissing him soundly. The kiss makes the switch from sweet to heavy pretty fast, the sounds of wet smacks and a soft moan or two once again joining the quiet (but epic) Melee menu music.
Eventually they break apart, both gasping for breath and a lot redder in the face. Dipper opens his eyes slowly, his lips pink and swollen and parted, gazing at her with a half-lidded, heated look that makes her heart beat double time.
"Hey. Love you," he decides to whisper, his hand stroking the mussed up tresses on the side of her head, as if her whole body didn't already feel melty enough.
Hng. Ah. Hm. Ghhh... oh, all right. What the hey. He said he wanted to do it like a bunch of times, and he was right on the money about her, she definitely wants him to touch her right now. She can't witness the look that's currently on his face and not want it. That dork. The NoFreakinWayinator humbly accepts her defeat.
"Hmmm," she hums contentedly, murmuring back, "love you too." She leans her forehead against her twin's birthmarked one, breathing out, letting her eyelids drift closed again.
"...Okay," she whispers.
"Okay?"
"Okayyy," she repeats, reaching up to take the hand in her hair and move it down between her legs, her eyes still closed.
She doesn't have to say anything more than that. Dipper tilts his head and kisses her again, slow and longing, his hand drifting up only to ease right back down between her shorts and underwear.
"Okay," he whispers back, his breath hot against her lips. The single, hushed word bursts with anticipation, making her heart beat faster still. Seriously, too fast to be healthy. Ah, who cares.
And then his mouth cozies right back up against hers and his fingers start to stroke gently, and it's not too long before he gets her where she needs to go, maxi pad be damned.
Wowie, The Thursday Of Ickiness sure does end on a surprisingly good note.
Gah. Bless her sweet, wonderful sib. She's really gotta remember to slip a note or two or twelve in his lunch tomorrow.
