SquidgeWorld Archive

"Any development on the Petersen case?" Paul asked the room, shuffling the papers in front of him and frowning his usual staff-meeting frown. His gaze focused on Denny, who was staring back at him rather blankly. "Denny?"

"Yes?"

"The Petersen case? Your case?"

"What case?"

Paul could feel a headache coming on. "Mark Petersen, the CEO of our largest pharmaceutical client, being sued for..." he cleared his throat, "certain indiscretions involving several prescription drugs?"

"The asshole," Denny answered, crossing his arms. Paul stared at him. "Denny Crane," he supplied helpfully, with a shrewd nod. Paul closed his eyes in misery.

"I believe Alan was second chair on this case, Paul," came Shirley's rather amused voice. "Perhaps he could shed some light on the case status."

"Wonderful, although I imagine he would first have to show up for the meeting before he could participate in it," Snapped Paul acerbically . Brad smirked. "Where is Mr. Shore, then?"

"Off being offensive somewhere, I'm sure," Denise muttered with a hint of a smile, and Paul shook his head with a sigh.

At that exact moment, the aforementioned Alan Shore sauntered (very nearly prancing) into the room, humming, and munching away cheerily on a brownie. "Good morning everyone!"

"You are fifteen minutes late, Mr. Shore," came Paul's tight response, as Alan flopped into the empty seat beside Denny.

"And you are looking unpleasant as ever this morning, Paul. How do you keep up with yourself?" He asked airily, before taking another bite out of the brownie.

"Where'd you get the brownie?" Denny asked, squinting at it a little hungrily. Alan scooted away.

"Mine." He said with a small scowl, and there was momentary silence as they all stared at him. "A grateful client brought them to me, and I am not sharing."

"Well now that that's settled," Paul sneered, "Perhaps we can get back to the matter at hand? We were just discussing the Petersen case. I would like to know what progress has been made regarding a settlement with--Mr. Shore what are you doing?"

Alan did not answer immediately, too preoccupied with staring in concern at his hand, which he was holding a few inches in front of his face. "I'm looking at the matter at hand, Paul." He looked up, eyebrow arched. "There's nothing the matter with my hand." And then he began to giggle.

"What is the matter with you?" Shirley asked loudly in exasperation.

"Now it's all of me, not just my hand?" Alan asked, looking affronted, before beginning to laugh again.

"What is the status of the Peterson case, Mr. Shore?" Paul bit out, fingertips pressed so hard against the conference table that they were white and bloodless.

Alan took a few moments to respond, stifling his snickers with his palm, (which, he muttered, giggling again, there was nothing the matter with) before clearing his throat. "The Petersen case," he said, pondering. "The Petersen case." He frowned, turning a little to look at Denny, and munching off another bit of the brownie. "Aren't you the primary on this, Denny?'

"Mad cow," sad Denny gruffly, motioning vaguely at his head. "Denny Crane."

"Ah," answered Alan, as if that explained it. "Well then, the Petersen case. I'm currently, right now, as we speak..." he paused and blinked. "Settling. Yes. That's it. Well, trying to settle." He ate the last bite of his brownie.

Paul looked to be at wit's end. "For how much?"

Alan frowned. "seventy five thous-- no, seven hundred fifty thous... eight hundred? Do you know," he said slowly, "I can't seem to remember. Something seems to be wrong with me." And then he chuckled again.

Denny looked at him, frowning with the first bit of clarity of the morning. "Mad cow?"

"Alan Shore," Alan answered with a nod, falling back into his continued laughter.

"Mmph," said Denny. He eyed a crumb left on the table from Alan's brownie. "I'm hungry."

Alan stopped laughing, and sat up very straight, looking determined. "As am I!" He declared. "I'm going to get another brownie. I've got the munchies."

The other members of the staff meeting stared at him. Although Alan was known to be flip, glib, and, at times, downright silly, but it was always done with a sense of purpose and...well togetherness, that was altogether lacking at the moment.

Alan made to stand, but instead glanced down at his lap, frowning, and, perhaps, blushing very slightly. "On second thought, perhaps I ought to stay seated for a bit." Brad's face morphed into an expression of horrified disgust, and Paul appeared to be spiraling into the depths of an apoplectic seizure. Denise merely sighed.

Denny looked over at Alan, following his gaze downward, and then he gasped. "Chubby!" He declared in a dramatic whisper, and Alan fell about to laughing again.

Shirley, on the other hand, was fighting her horror, and thinking hard. Something was simply off. This was not the same sort of insanity she had come to expect from Alan. This was more Denny's flavor, but even that was wrong. Excessive cheeriness, absentmindedness, idiotic giggling-- her eyes grew wide as the symptoms listed grew. Trouble remembering figures, the 'munchies' as he had put it, inappropriate spikes in libido, and, and--

"Brownies!" She gasped, horrorstruck. Every stunned gaze swung to her, and again, Alan stopped laughing, looking very serious.

"Told you you couldn't have them," he said warningly. "Mine."

"You're stoned!" Came her answering cry, her mouth gaping. "You're stoned out of your head, Alan!"

Alan cocked his head at her. "Having never been stoned before, Shirley, I really could tell you. But I am feeling a little off for some reason." And he wanted to get off. He flushed again, disturbed at his marked lack of control.

"Never?" Denny asked, looking stunned.

"Never," came the reply. "Although there was a brief period where--"

"It's the brownies, Alan," Shirley cut in. "Who brought them to you?"

"Well I told you," he answered. "A grateful client from a pro-bono case of mine."

"What were the charges?" She asked him, running her fingers through her hair in anxious irritation.

Alan waved his hand vaguely. "Just some petty illegal drug traff...oh my."

"Oh God," Paul moaned, burying his face in his hands. Brad was laughing, and Denise's mouth was twitching with amusement.

"How many brownies have you eaten Alan?" Shirley didn't really know if she wanted his answer.

"Three." Alan frowned. "Four? They're very good brownies."

"I'll bet," said Denny, and Denise began laughing, too.

Paul muttered something obscene under his breath, face still pressed despairingly into his hands. Shirley sighed. "Alright, you can't stay here, you'll be no good to anyone for hours, the state you're in, particularly if you've never been...afflicted with this before." Shirley paused. "Never?"

"Never," he answered again. "I'll just get my coat and be leaving then."

"You're not driving yourself," she warned him as he stood, pretending not to notice the file he held with false nonchalance in front of his crotch.

"Why ever not?"

"What part of stoned don't you understand, Alan?" She sniped, irritated. He blinked at her. "Because I said so. Denny," she turned to stare sternly at the older man. "Why don't you go with him. That way your driver can get him home, and someone can...make sure he's alright." She swallowed convulsively, unable to believe she'd just place Denny in charge of anything. Anyone.

"But--!" Alan began, but got no further before Denny rose as well, taking him by the arm.

"Come on kid, let's get you home," he said, with a friendly pat on the arm.

"But I'm merely a little off!" Alan protested, even as they went along. "You're completely off all the time, and no one ever makes you go home."

"Denny Crane."

Alan began laughing again, and the two men disappeared out the door, the senior staff of Crane, Poole, and Schmidt staring after them.

BLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBL

As he clambered into the limo beside Denny, Alan considered that perhaps the phrase 'a little off' was a bit of an understatement. Because Alan Shore, quite frankly, felt utterly looped.

And horny.

Alan was a man of good taste and strong libido, but even for him, this level of arousal, over absolutely nothing, was absurd, distracting, and damned uncomfortable. He wondered idly if this was usual, shifting around a bit to try and ease the pressure as Denny told the driver to take them home.

"Really never been stoned before?" Denny asked him, and Alan felt irritated.

"Why do I keep getting asked that? Is it really that surprising?"

"Yes."

Alan sighed. "It simply never held any interest to me, I really couldn't tell you why." He cast a sideways glance at his friend. "I take it you are not a cannabis virgin?"

Denny eyed him. "Denny Crane is not an anything virgin," he declared in his best macho voice.

Alan felt the giggles rising up again. "Not anything?" He asked, thinking of one car in particular Denny had told him he would never drive.

"Nothing," came the jaunty response.

Alan throbbed. Eyes screwed shut, he forced himself away from the millions of images that statement brought to mind. "So tell me about the great Denny Crane's marijuana escapades."

"College," Denny said simply, leaning back against the leather interior. He sighed. "Great sex."

Well, at least that answered Alan's question on how normal his current state of mind was. "Oh yes? Are we speaking of one incident, are you a repeat offender?"

"Always make a good mistake at least a dozen times," he answered. "Different women, of course. But pot always makes for good sex." Denny sighed, and Alan wiggled. "Good sex. I remember once--"

"Denny," Alan cut in, rather breathlessly, regretting bringing the subject up, "I'm finding myself in a rather distracting condition, and think perhaps, that this," he waved his hand a little, "conversation should be postponed to a later date."

He didn't have to look at his friend to feel Denny's eyes shoot down to a certain part of his anatomy, before glancing back up at his face. "I'm not sleeping with you."

"I never asked you to," Alan returned, closing his eyes again, and gritting his teeth to keep from making a sound at the heady rush the very idea gave him. God he was horny. He snickered quietly to himself. Horny. Horny horny horny.

And still hungry, as a matter of fact. Maybe a nice steak. Some pasta. Ohhh, pasta, drenched in red sauce, with garlic bread.

"I want food," He declared.

"I'll order a pizza."

Alan's mouth watered, and he spent the rest of the ride in hazy silence, fantasizing about flaky golden crusts and juicy pepperoni.

BLBLBLBL

Alan had rather unofficially moved in with Denny quite awhile ago, when his night terrors had started up again. Denny hadn't believed him at first, but after one episode in which Alan almost plummeted headfirst over his balcony ledge, the older man became fiercely insistent that Alan not sleep alone.

And so, when they got to Denny's, Alan wandered complacently around the familiar living room for a moment or two, before collapsing on the big leather couch, and turning on the widescreen plasma. Even with Mad Cow, it could never be said that Denny Crane did not have his priorities straight.

He flipped idly through the channels, enraptured by the unusually bright colors covering the screen. In the background, he could hear Denny ordering pizza on the phone. He hoped Denny remembered to order it with banana peppers. There was a basketball game on, and he left the television there, closing his eyes and leaning back. He suddenly felt a little sleepy.

"Forty five minutes," Said Denny as he came into the room and sank down beside Alan.

"Mmm," he replied without opening his eyes, somewhat distracted by the pressure of Denny's leg against his own. He was still hard. "I'm not sure I'm a fan of marijuana, Denny. It does uncanny things to me."

"Huh," Denny huffed. And then there was silence, but for the sounds of the game on TV. Of Alan's three currently strongest drives, sleep was beginning to win out, even over sex and food. He was beginning to really drift off, floating in a lethargic haze of mellowness.

"Aren't you going to take care of that?"

Blearily, Alan forced an eye open to look at his friend, to find Denny looking very uncomfortable in that gruff manner he had, and motioning vaguely towards Alan's lap. Not moving, Alan pondered for a moment, considering. "It will only come back," he said eventually, feeling faintly betrayed by his wayward appendage. He closed his eyes again.

Denny grunted. "Why don't you call that...shrink woman? Have her...measure your inseams." Alan looked at him, another rush of blood heading southward at the idea. "Or whatever."

"She's not a hooker to be brought at my beck and call, Denny," he answered, swallowing hard as he swelled further.

"I could get you a hooker."

Denny glanced down again as he spoke, and Alan felt his member twitch. He took a deep slow breath. "I'm--I'm afraid I've rather lost my liking for paid sex, Denny. I find it is not nearly so...worthwhile, if actually intimacy is lacking." He tried not to think about the press of Denny's warm leg against his thigh. "I think this is just better suffered through. Thank you, however." He felt absurd, embarrassed, and, to his added discomfort, was finding himself getting harder than he had been in months. If Denny kept it up, he was going to have to go take care of his...problem, which would involve a lot more energy than Alan felt like expending at that exact moment.

"Sure," Denny said, in a tone Alan couldn't quite read. But nothing more was said, and, after a moment, the younger man closed his eyes again, letting himself float back towards impending sleep.

This particular aspect of being stoned was not so bad, Alan decided sleepily. He was more relaxed and at ease than he could ever recall being, and aside from his groin, every muscle in his body was loose. Not a bad stress reliever, he thought to himself absently, his mind drifting slowly into unconsciousness . Perhaps he could convince his client to make a fresh batch of brownies...

The harsh rasp of a zipper, and a firm, warm pressure against his cock brought Alan to, eyes shooting open with a gasp. He looked around in stunned bewilderment, to find Denny's hand working on the button of his unzipped slacks. "D-Denny?" he said weakly, making to sit up. But Denny pushed his other hand against the younger man's chest, pushing him back firmly into the couch, as the black button popped free.

Alan's inebriated mind was reeling, his cock was throbbing, and, as Denny's fingers deftly slipped inside his boxers and pulled his thick, heavy member free, he though he might be going crazy. But then Denny stroked him once, and Alan really didn't care whether he was losing it or not, just so long as he didn't stop feeling that hand on him.

"God," He gasped out, eyes slamming shut as Denny's fingers danced along his cock like liquid fire, his thumb circling the weeping slit once, twice, before it disappeared altogether, coming back an instant later to cup his balls, rubbing lightly. A gentle squeeze, and then an expert roll of his sac between Denny's focused fingers, and Alan could not stop the desperate cry that escaped his lips, his hips thrusting helplessly upward.

"I thought," he gasped out, whimpering as Denny took his cock in hand once more, "that you said you weren't --Christ--! S-sleeping with me."

Denny paused in his movements, and Alan opened his eyes, frightened that he'd done something to ruin whatever had overcome his friend. But Denny merely looked him in the eye and asked, "Do you see anyone sleeping here?" Before squeezing his hand around Alan tightly, and beginning a slow stroke up his cock.

"N-no," was all Alan managed to get out before all coherent thought left him, and there was nothing left in the world for him but Denny's hand.

Alan had always prided himself on dignity, albeit a rather perverse version of it. He was always in some semblance of control. Always. Except for now. There seemed to be no dignity left to him, and no control left in him as he thrust up into Denny's hand, unable to stop the cries and whimpers that escaped him as those warm, strong fingers slid up and down his cock, slick with precum.

It was like heaven and hell all meshed into one, and Denny was moving too slow. His strokes were paced and even, down, up, twist, down, up, driving Alan mad. He needed more, needed faster, needed something, anything.

"Please," He moaned out, his head rolled back desperately against the couch, his fingers digging into the leather as though it was the only thing holding him to the earth. "Denny-- Ah God-- please!"

Denny Crane was not one to disappoint. Alan shuddered helplessly as he sped up, gripping even tighter, every stroke making the younger man swell further, gasping and writhing. The other hand was on him suddenly as well, fondling his balls, stroking firmly over a spot just behind them that made Alan buck up desperately, crying out in wordless abandon.

"That's it," Denny whispered to him gruffly, his gravelly voice dropping straight into Allen's cock as he sped up his strokes even more. "Come on." One more stroke, and another firm rub against that spot, and Alan did, whimpering out unintelligible phases as he thrust up into Denny's hand, back arched, semen spurting out in hot, heavy ropes as his entire body was wracked in shudders of absolute pleasure.

"God, God, Denny," He groaned with a final thrust, gasping for breath as he collapsed back, boneless, against the couch.

There was an indeterminate amount of time spent drifting in post-orgasmic euphoria before Alan was even coherent enough to realize what had just happened. He was very vaguely aware of Denny rising up and moving away from him, only to return a moment later, tissue in hand. Weakly, Alan raised his hand for it, and was startled when, instead, Denny began cleaning him up himself. There was a moment of silence as he worked.

"I think your suit is ruined."

"My dry cleaner's is a miracle worker. Denny..." Alan took a deep breath. "What was that?"

"That was a hand job." Denny frowned, not meeting his eyes. "Don't they teach you damn Democrats anything?" He swiped the tissue along the base of Alan's dick, which gave a somewhat feeble twitch in response. Alan blushed, but Denny didn't notice, instead staring, almost offended, at the organ. "It had better not come back. That was the best I've got."

Alan gaped at him for a moment, embarrassed, shocked, and incomprehensibly satisfied, before beginning to laugh. "I wouldn't worry, I do believe it's-- I'm out of commission for the moment."

Denny made an indecipherable noise, and got up to throw away the tissue, while Alan took care of getting himself back in order. When the older man returned, he stood for a moment, staring at Alan, who couldn't help but stare back, although it did not last long before he broke out into another helpless bout of almost-giggles. "You're still stoned," Denny groused, sitting down beside him.

"Mmm," Alan hummed in agreement, but secretly thought he was just a tiny bit giddy from everything that had just transpired, although his anxiousness was not gone. "Denny... are we--"

Denny held up a finger, and he fell silent. "Don't make this any more complicated than it is, Alan. I won't be able to handle it." He tapped the finger to his head. "Mad Cow, remember?"

Alan smiled, understanding perfectly. "Denny Crane."

"Alan Shore."

Alan smiled even wider, before yawning, his eyes slipping shut sleepily. "Wake me when the pizza comes, would you?"

He got a garbled mumble of assent from Denny, before he felt the other man rise from the couch. Then he felt the gentle, warm, if slightly awkward touch of lips against his own. He opened his eyes again, to look up into the startlingly open gaze of Denny's stare. Denny leaned down and kissed him again, nothing more than another light brush against his mouth, before the older man straightened up, and wandered off in the general direction of the kitchen.

Content, Alan slipped off into slumber.

My first slash, and my first lemon. Feedback would be lovely.