Playdate, a meet the robinsons fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not own Meet the Robinsons or any of its characters. I do not... but I wish I did. Amazing movie it is.

Hey, I've been spewing our favorite 'Cest Slash pairing ever a lot... Three oneshots in like... one week. Wow... Heh, oh well. I haven't gained enough gusto to continue working on the long one I've been planning forever... Well, thansk for reading. Long live Wilbur/Lewis. Uh... read my other fanfics on MTR first to make this more sense... I happen to build off them in this genre.

Yay SLASH SMUT!

Just thought I'd say that...

Lewis had left a long time ago, leaving room for Cornelius instead. Cornelius loved Franny. Cornelius was a father. Cornelius was the one everyone wanted to see. Lewis… Lewis was something a little less than that.

Lewis was a closet case with a big brain and a bright future. Lewis was a twelve-year-old boy who fell in love with his son, who had traveled through time to meet him. Lewis was gay, timecestuous freak. Lewis was the darkest corner of Cornelius' heart.

So it was definitely Cornelius who had sat in his son's nursery for hours, catering to the toddler's every need. But Lewis was inside, waiting, watching, and weeping.

And Wilbur, said son of Cornelius, knew this. No, not in his very small, chubby, adorable form, but rather the one that had been watching for some time from the invisibility cloak of the time machine that was parked just outside the window. That Wilbur was plotting. The other… well… The other was filling its diaper with bodily waste.

Cornelius hadn't suspected a thing as the Wilbur from the future silently made his way back to his own time, only to reappear with a fat little creature with spiky blonde hair gurgling along to one of Barney the Dinosaur's horrifying songs that was playing from the stereo while strapped into the Tickle Me Elmo car seat - an antique in his time - he had placed in the backseat. He was in for a surprise.

Wilbur Robinson had always taken pride in his sneakiness, so an unplanned entrance upon the nursery was out of the question. So were pigeon calls, as he had greeted Lewis with so long ago, since the little Lewis was, ironically, afraid of the things. Maybe it had something to do with showing him that movie, The Birds… So, Wilbur just had to settle with a sneak attack.

When Cornelius had gone to get little Wilbur another bottle - the older Wilbur had become quite mortified of both his chubbiness and his gigantic appetite - was when he made his move, easily making his way silently (besides the pigeon-calling he had decided to do just for the heck of it, despite his son's irrational phobia of the feathered creatures) through the house to the nursery that would later become his room, little Lewis squirming in his arms.

"Here's your milkie, wittle Willy!" Cornelius cooed, something he was ashamed to do in front of another living soul, as he reentered the room. From behind the door, older Wilbur laughed silently to himself; his dad could be such a goober!

"Daa!" cried little Wilbur in response, crawling over to his father quickly. As Cornelius sat upon the carpet that boasted a range of every ball from soccer to zap ball, he faced not one baby, but two; one with a cowlick he had bared since conception, the other with spiky blonde hair and big, hungry blue eyes. Needless to say, he was confused.

Where he was hidden, Wilbur slapped his forehead; even though Lewis looked exactly like his grandfather, he had inherited Wilbur's sneakiness, and then some. He hadn't even realized when he all but materialized out of his arms!

"Graa-paaa!" the little blonde infant exclaimed, and Cornelius' face dropped at once. He scooped up both babies in his arms, dropped the warm bottle of milk to the ground, and screamed.

"WILBUR!"

The man snickered and made his entrance, opting for a more spectacular appearance than merely popping up behind his father in the way that he had trademarked his own. No, it was time for a change. So, scaling the wall as much as he could, he catapulted himself down to the ground, screaming, "LEEEYROY JENNNKINS!" as loud as he could.

Cornelius jumped about three feet in the air as Wilbur landed directly in front of him, afterward scowling at his son and thanking God that he hadn't dropped the babies in surprise, though that would probably explain Wilbur…

"Wilbur!" Cornelius cried, not as loud as he had before. The older Wilbur laughed and shot his a dazzling smirk, and his father sighed.

"Hello-o-o, Fruitcake," Wilbur chirped happily, leaning forward to a very awkward to leave a very awkward inch between them after his unconventional greeting. Cornelius relinquished to the inner Lewis just once, letting himself shiver as Wilbur's hot breath wafted against his face, revealing that he was either chewing gum or had recently had a breath mint. "You up for a playdate?"

"I'm hoping you mean for the kids," Cornelius replied in a voice that he hoped showed no signs of Lewis' presence. "And no, I forbid you from having a playdate with your son. Haven't we messed up the time stream enough?"

Wilbur laughed, hopping around so he and Cornelius' eyes met. "You pervert, I'm married! And I have a son!" Cornelius' eyes rolled. "And really, what's the point of having a time machine if I can't rip a few holes in some stupid time space continuum crap? Have you seen the Meet the Robinsons video game?"

"Every day I thank the gods that you will never, ever become a scientist," was Cornelius' reply as he kissed little Lewis' forehead and thrust him back into his father's arms. "I mean it, Wilbur, get out of here. I don't want anything to happen to Lewis. I don't want his life ruined because of your irresponsible nature."

Now, Cornelius understood that this was a little cold, even for the shell he had created around himself to keep from his past self from leaking into his life once more. But Wilbur's face never fell, which would have been the point as to the rudeness behind Cornelius' words. There had to be a way to get rid of his son before everything came crashing down…

"I take absolutely no offence to that statement, Pops. It's true I might have grown old, but growing up is a horse of another color," Wilbur replied nonchalantly, plucking his younger self from Cornelius' arms and placing both of the infants in the rather large playpen in the corner of the room. Then, he found himself sitting across from Cornelius, legs crossed and eyes tracing the familiar room's ceiling. "How's life?"

"Just peachy," Cornelius replied with a roll of his baby blue eyes, which afterward trained on baby Wilbur and Lewis playing together with a horde of blocks depicting the faces of famous inventors and scientists. He inwardly sighed as little Wilbur chucked Isaac Newton clear across the room so hard that, when it collided with the wall, it bounced back to hit him in the back of the head. Wilbur watched as well without surprise as his miniature self started sniffling in pain; that had been a very accurate depiction of the struggle he had with physics in high school.

"North Montana recently joined the union, and Nixon is planning on running for office again," Cornelius continued as if nothing had happened, knowing very well that little Wilbur would build a bridge and get over the river he was crying from his interaction with the vengeful block of wood; this type of thing happened on a daily basis, only yesterday it had been Alfred Binet, whose block had been heavy enough to knock a few I.Q. points off of Wilbur's score for life.

Wilbur scoffed and twiddled his thumbs absently. "I asked about life, Dad, not politics. Besides, I did take American History in college, even if I didn't want to. I know these things." He paused. "I also know your revitalization technology is responsible for this. And I know you're not happy about it. I also know that blocks are hard. I threw them at walls. Lewis throws them at me."

"Franny is doing well," Cornelius said, as if Wilbur hadn't just rebuked his mindless comments. "She's inspired by you; she wrote her frogs a symphony the other day. She's going through an instrumental stage; Frankie isn't happy about it."

"That frog better suck it up," Wilbur said with a snort. "He'll croak shortly after I leave for college, no pun intended. Mom threw a fit after that low blow that Fate dealt her… It didn't help. There's no science that can make one live forever." His brown eyes traced Cornelius; form for a second, and a sigh made way to his lips. "Not yet. But you'll find a way; you always do."

Cornelius laughed, but he didn't sound amused, Wilbur noted. "If I always found a way, none of this would exist," he replied softly. "If I always found a way, you wouldn't be my son, and I wouldn't be twenty-six years older than you. We'd both have the rest of our lives in front of us and no pretenses, and I wouldn't be Cornelius. Not to you."

"You're still Lewis. In a way, you always will be," Wilbur said softly, watching as little Lewis and little Wilbur giggled together in the playpen. "Now that I'm born, do you think…?"

By the time Wilbur was halfway through his unfinished sentence, Cornelius knew that Lewis was prying his way into his consciousness and sighed; half for the return of such an unconventional side of him, half at the fact that he was practically setting himself to be diagnosed as bipolar, at the very least. And then, his mind, however vast it may be, could only manage to give him one thing to say.

"Not with you sitting right there," Cornelius scoffed, and, despite the fact that Wilbur knew very well this was his father's way of denying such a thing completely, he broke out into a dangerous smile. How he loved he insane nature of time travel.

"Come on, Lewis," he muttered, becoming serious once more. Chocolate brown met sky blue, and for a moment there was silence. "I know that side of you is still in there, Dad. But I'm born… It's safe now."

The second Cornelius' eyes snapped off of his son and to the big blue sky looming outside the window, Wilbur knew both he and Lewis had lost some type of battle they had posed against the Cornelius persona. And when he shook his head, that just fortified the cowlick-bearing man's suspicions.

"No," Cornelius muttered sadly, "It's not right, Wilbur. It's not right for you, for Louise, for Lewis, for Franny, for the family, for me… Not for anyone. This is the last thing we needed to happen, and it did. So we just have to… get over it."

Wilbur groaned. "We've been getting over it for fourteen years now, Lewis," he snapped, reverting back to using the name of his best friend, not his dad. This wasn't his father he was talking to. Not anymore. "Look how that's turned out. I'm married to my cousin who looks like you, who was named after you. My son looks exactly like you and he carries your name. You can't look at baby me and just say to yourself, 'That's my son.' You also have to say, 'That's the one I love.' I am jealous of my own mother because she has you; so jealous that even as she gets old and wrinkly and vulnerable, I, her only son, can't bring myself to help her. Lewis, nothing has gotten better. I don't have to have a time machine to tell you nothing is ever going to get better. I have a time machine, though, thanks to you. Do you think I didn't wonder if I was ever going to be really happy again? Well, I did. I went into the future. We're both gonna die miserable and alone, just to let you know. I'm committing suicide shortly after your death, father dearest, so why can't we just be bad? Why can't we give in, just this once?"

"That is an excellent question," Cornelius groaned, mimicking Wilbur's still-present catch phrase as his fingers flew to adjust his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose. He sighed and slid down the seat until he bottom rested just on the edge, and Wilbur watched in dismay as his father and his love nearly broke down in stress.

And despite all of this, he felt robbed. "You stole my catch phrase," Wilbur stated quietly, that impression a bruise to his vanity. On Cornelius' face dawned a small, bitter smile, and he barked out one small, pathetic chuckle.

"You stole mine first," he argued, smirking at how juvenile that declaration had sounded. "Keep moving forward, Lewis," he continued in a squeaky, horrible imitation at Wilbur at the age of thirteen.

"I gave you your catch phrase, dude, and I never talked like that," Wilbur argued, beginning to pout. "I handed, 'Keep moving forward,' to you on a silver platter. If I hadn't told you about it, you would never have used it, and it never would have been your catch phrase. So really, I should be the one being paid a dime every time those words are used in such a formation."

"I don't get paid when people say that, Wilbur, the money from my inventions is what paves the gold-gilded road that leads to both our misery and your overpowering ego," Cornelius reminded his son, and said futuristic man just crossed his arms.

"Your loss," he sniffed. "I would have patented the phrase, and the I would have millions of euros! Bet you didn't know we switched over to those around 2047. Of course, they're called pangeons now, and each one is worth about ten U.S. dollars. Only your invention of spray-on rubber gloves - and good job on that, you gave the doctors yet another reason to stick their fingers up my ass and down my throat at the same time to see if they could touch each other's hands through my multitude of internal organs every time I see one, since they're skin tight and can be applied as high as is deemed necessary - managed to cover the mammoth-sized electricity bill that comes along with that fancy schmancy lab you have here, talk about bringing your work home with you… See, it's wasted on the likes of you."

Cornelius shrugged, impervious to Wilbur's long-winded scolding. "Eh, keep moving forward," he muttered casually, beginning to examine his fingernails. Wilbur scowled.

"You're doing that just to annoy me, aren't you?" When he got no reply. It was just as much as any confirmation. "You are! Oh, you so are. That's not cool."

"Well, keep moving forward," Cornelius repeated, and Wilbur's frown deepened.

"Stop saying that," he demanded. "It's getting annoying. You didn't start saying it until I did, copy cat. Follower. Wannabe."

"Keep. Moving. Forward."

Cornelius smirked as Wilbur took a deep breath, trying to flush out his anger. "You're not going to stop saying that until it gets old as you are, are you?"

"Keep moving forward," was Cornelius' only reply.

"Faboo," Wilbur sighed, "I'm more mature than my dad. Boy, do I feel old."

"You sound old, seeing as you know a token phrase from a cartoon that stopped airing in nineteen ninety's," Cornelius added, just to pester his son a little bit further.

"Yeah, well you are old, seeing as you were actually there for that," Wilbur retorted, and Cornelius shrugged.

"I wasn't, Wilbur," he told him, "I was in diapers when the show went off the air. You, on the other hand, are nerdy for knowing that."

"Excuse me for liking slapstick comedy cartoons," Wilbur scoffed. "Animated violence was so much better back then."

"It's a shame the Warner Brothers stopped making cartoons," Cornelius sighed. "Disney might be famous for their animated movies, but they just don't cut it for slapstick."

"Disney sucks," Wilbur snapped, and both father an son began to feel an unknown source of dread in the pit of their stomachs. "Thank God this is a fanfic," he added, "or else I have a feeling that last comment would have had me diminished to a devilishly handsome, well-loved minor character with little to no character development. Like Renesmee, only better-looking, and much more well-received. And a lack of supernatural powers, but I think the cowlick makes up for that."

"What..?" Cornelius found himself confused, but didn't dwell on it. One thing he had learned from Wilbur was that most Robinsons had a chronic disease of making little to no sense.

"That is another story for another day, father dearest," Wilbur replied with a chuckle. "Ah, how I love ambiguous references," he said, never mind the fact that many off the references before weren't very ambiguous.

Cornelius sighed; was Wilbur naturally so crazy, or had he driven his son to be like this? He couldn't tell anymore…

As the inventor dazed off into his thoughts for a bit, Wilbur looked over to the two infants once again. They seemed to be playing nicely, exchanging the inventor blocks and giggling at the funny hair that most of them wielded. At least they shared a sense of humor…

Wilbur looked over to his father. His hair just couldn't compete with the hair on Einstein… too bad. But with the large glasses, the big eyes, and the sweater vest Cornelius happened to be wearing, he fit the nerd bill well enough. A cute nerd, Wilbur allowed himself to admit in his mind, but still definitely a nerd.

In fact, the cowlicked Robinson had never pictured him with the geeky type. An intellectual, sure, but he hadn't fancied glasses at all, and he certainly didn't like it when the one he was in love with began spewing mathematical equations and the knowledge of life that only people of an unusually high IQ could possibly understand with great clarity. But then, all that had changed when he met Lewis, his dad in younger form. Then, he had accepted, nay, embraced the nerd look, loving every aspect to it. Lewis was a cute nerd. He was also a guy… and that had scared Wilbur at first. No, not that his father was in fact male, but that he found the young version both adorable and attractive.

That had been the most confusing time in Wilbur's life, arguably, when he had first discovered that he was homosexual, and that he had developed a love for his father's young counterpart. Most people didn't have to go through that… Most people wouldn't dare. But Wilbur accepted it rather easily, knowing just how much pain it would bring.. He let it happen, because he found that it was just too unstoppable for him not to. He would have been lying to himself, and if Wilbur liked one thing, it was himself knowing exactly who he was.

So, there he ended up, sitting in his old room alongside both the man he loved and his father, watching his younger self play with his son. And, strangely, Wilbur was alright with that. He could live with that. He… he had to.

"Hey, Lewis," Wilbur murmured, a thought coming to mind. He was stronger. As the blonde involuntarily looked his way, he smirked widely, immediately pouncing on the inventor.

The two fell out of the chairs completely with the sheer power of Wilbur's pounce, and before Cornelius could justly verify what was happening, he found himself pinned against the floor with his very son hovering overhead, a growing smirk ever plastered on his lips.

"Let me go now, Wilbur," Cornelius threatened, struggling to get up. But Wilbur was indeed stronger, and was barely challenged as he held both his father's arms and torso down with his own. "I'm serious, Wilbur, I'll send you off to boarding school!"

"No you won't," Wilbur said with a laugh, " you'll thoroughly enjoy this. Stop struggling, I'm stronger. I always was the more athletic out of us two, you know. Seems like it's finally becoming useful."

And then, before Cornelius could protest anymore, Wilbur captured his lips in a forceful kiss, trying to subdue the upstanding citizen in Cornelius. He was trying to let out the dark corner of his mind, the little closet case in there that started it all, but somehow was forgotten along the way.

And when Wilbur found himself not only kissing the man below him, but also being kissed back, be knew he had let that little closet case out. Lewis was back. He was free.

Lewis snaked his tongue between Wilbur's lips, teasing him with a gentle soft of the muscle before pulling back into his own mouth. Wilbur pouted into the touch, his tongue immediately following Lewis' as he retreated, not half as gentle or slow as the blonde had been.

He found himself, much to his embarrassment, moaning as Wilbur's tongue began to war with his own, curling around it teasingly before letting go to explore the rest of his mouth, then returning as faithfully as the cowlicked Robinson had always been with his devotions.

But Wilbur wasn't satisfied with that. While he wouldn't go all out, he wanted the blonde's skin under his mouth, yielding and feverishly hot as they wasted away what little time they could ever have together. So, he pulled away from Lewis' lips, gently placing kisses along his brow and cheek bones, down to his jawbone and neck, each peck becoming longer, more passionate, until finally they were at the point of bruising.

It didn't hurt Lewis, though, for nothing Wilbur did could seem to hurt him all that much. He would always bounce back, anyhow. Physical bruises were not of his concern. Not in the least. In fact, the blonde was instead moaning quite openly beneath Wilbur, squirming from the pure need for continuation. For more.

Wilbur smirked; he still had it, whatever it was, if he even had it to begin with. He could make Lewis squirm, make Lewis moan… It brought a sense of joy to his mind, a euphoria that drove him onward, egging him on as he unbuttoned both Lewis' sweater vest and the dress shirt he wore under it to allow himself to continue trailing kisses downward sloppily.

Lewis moaned freely as Wilbur's mouth gave way to his tongue, which began to trace the faint outline of the muscles the inventor had never thought to strengthen, and smiled despite Cornelius nagging in the back of his mind.

"I'm a horrible, horrible father," Lewis laughed, all semblance of restrain the had before snapping, allowing him to direct Wilbur's lips back up to his face for a more passionate kiss; a kiss that took the cowlicked Robinson by such surprise that the genius could immediately flip their situation over, settling himself on top.

When their kiss finally broke, Wilbur smirked up at Lewis, who he was very well aware of straddling his waist, and replied airily, "Don't be so hard on yourself. I think you're the best dad in the world."

"Of course you do," Lewis said, swooping down upon Wilbur to sensually run his tongue around the brunet's lips. He groaned and inclined to take Lewis' mouth against his, but the blonde had already pulled back up too far to allow him to. With a teasing smile, Lewis added, "I don't think it counts."

"You're a tease," Wilbur moaned, and Lewis' smile grew wider, more defiant. He bent down again, biting the brunet's earlobe experimentally, following with an open-mouthed kiss to the spot right under Wilbur's jaw that seemed to drive him crazy.

He moaned and writhed under Lewis' body, wanting more. He would always want more, for he could never be given enough to satisfy. No, he couldn't be given a life with Lewis, a life the way he wanted…

But this sampler, it was enough to leave both of them in euphoria for the moment, and that was what mattered at the moment: satisfying the craving.

"Nnnngh," Wilbur moaned, tilting his head back and arching his spine as Lewis treated him with the same routine that he himself had gotten a few moments ago. The blonde smirked as his tongue traced the well-defined pelvic muscles that disappeared into Wilbur's pants; he loved the idea that he was able to make him that ecstatic, that excited…

"Did you start working out?" Lewis questioned as he pushed Wilbur's shirt up farther, allowing his tongue to run across his pectorals before he began to focus his attentions on the brunet's nipples.

Wilbur's back arched even more, if possible, and Lewis groaned from the heat and pressure being put too temptingly on his groin. Wilbur chuckled through unsteady pants, he himself trying to resist the pure joy he was beginning to feel, and murmured, "You're nearly ten years too late with that sentiment."

"Or perhaps fifteen too early," Lewis replied. "It's all in your outlook."

Wilbur laughed once more, sitting them both back up so he could pull Lewis in for another wet, heated kiss. Then, as they both drew back, panting heavily, Wilbur pushed Lewis to the floor, making quick work of the blonde's belt buckle.

And, just as Wilbur was about to tug down Lewis' pants, Franny's voice brought them both back to reality as she yelled from somewhere in the hallway, "Cornelius! Oh, Cornelius!"

Baby Wilbur and baby Lewis cried out together in their pen, cooing out at the sound of a familiar voice. "Mama!" "Gra-maa!" Wilbur and Lewis joined in, jolting up from the floor with identical, horrified expressions plastered on their reddening faces. "Mom!" and "Franny!"

"Hide!" Cornelius barked, reverting back to his old self as he handed Wilbur his shirt and his child before pulling up his pants and hastening to button up his shirt. When he was about halfway done, Franny burst through the nursery doors, her face shining in joy.

"Cornie," she squealed, running up to him in joy, "you know Jenny, right? The new frog with amazing potential? She's learned to play both the clarinet and the French horn at the same time!"

"Oh ho," Cornelius faked a laugh, pasting a nervous smile onto his face as Franny beamed up at him expectantly, "Benny Goodman and Barry Tuckwell better watch out, a foe of the greener variety is gonna take their claims to fame."

"Yup," Franny giggled, still smiling widely, "Benny's the first to go, 'cause he can't play catch up. He's already dead!" Cornelius smiled, not completely sure if it should scare him or not that Franny was happy that the clarinet player's life had expired.

"Yay?" he questioned, and Franny nodded, her gigantic smile suddenly turning to a small, worried frown as she inspected his half-buttoned shirt and the skin that lied beneath it.

"Cornelius," she murmured, "why do you have all those bruises?" Both Cornelius and Wilbur, hiding in the closet with little Lewis, held their breath, waiting for something to come to mind.

"Uh," the inventor droned, pausing as he wracked his mind for an answer. "You know how Wilbur is with his blocks. In retrospect, it was a bad idea to get him ones with the top one hundred most influential scientists in history when he wanted those Dora the Explorer ones. It's not good to give him a reason for revenge when he has a great arm…"

"Oh," Franny said with a relieved sigh, "so he's been throwing those blocks at you? My poor baby… Well, I'll take him off your hands for a bit so you can get back to putting bacon on the table. God knows how those silly frogs calm him down…"

"No, it's fine," Cornelius snapped too quickly for his wife's liking. "I mean, I barely spend time with Wilbur. It's a shock he calls me his father at all. I can take a few hits for my boy anytime."

"Well, that's good," Franny murmured. "Maybe you'll finally learn how to dodge a projectile flying at that big head of yours. Goob never had too much fun playing baseball with you…"

"See you later, Franny," Cornelius replied with a smile, and Franny nodded, giving him a simple peck on the cheek before bouncing out of the room. Cornelius closed the door after her, and immediately Wilbur sprung from the closet, his shirt still in his hands, wrapped around little Lewis.

"That was close," he said with a sigh, running his hand acros his sweaty forehead. "Boy, did Mom give us a heart attack or what?"

Wilbur knew something wasn't good as he was met with utter silence from Cornelius, and, with a sigh, he realized it was him who he was talking to, not Lewis.

"Fine," he murmured sourly, "leave it to Franny to ruin the moment. I'll leave, you don't have to tell me…" Wilbur shoved little Lewis into Cornelius' arms, demanding, "Hold this," as he tugged his shirt over his head before reclaiming the baby and stalking over to the door.

"Hey, Wilbur," Cornelius called after his son, and, a frown adorning Wilbur's face, he turned around, wondering what the blonde could want. "Same time tomorrow?"

The brunet smiled widely, a certain mischievousness lurking in his eyes as he appraised Cornelius. Nay, Lewis. "It's a date," he replied with a wink.

"Nope," Lewis corrected, and for a moment, Wilbur's smile seemed to fade until the blonde sent him a flirtatious wink. "It's a playdate."

First thing… Yes, Leroy Jenkins. I know, I know… That's all I have to say. Second… when little Wilbur chucked the block across the room and it managed to his him in the back of the head? I wrote that a while ago, so I guess I was either thinking that he turned around before it hit him or that it went straight through the wall, orbited the Earth, and came back to hit the back of his head for vengeance. In about the span of three seconds… Personally, I like the latter more, so I left it in.

… And I just noticed how hilarious that sounds out of context. Here: "… as little Wilbur chucked Isaac Newton clear across the room…" Sounds like a crack fic. Isaac Newton Meets the Robinsons! *shudders* If that turns into a fic, I am going to kill myself…

And yeah, if you read Little Wonders, then you'd kinda see the irony behind the whole Wilbur committing suicide thing shortly after Cornelius' death thing…

Eh, everyone see who can guess who Alfred Binet is correctly, and they get a free cookie and a hug from Wilbur!

Wilbur: Who am I, your biatch?

Lewis: Impossible. He's my biatch.

Wilbur: Is it possible to love you more? And, uh, are ou drunk?

Lewis: That is an excellent question! - Hic! -

Wilbur: Biatch…

Lewis: Your biatch.

Wilbur: Always, my Fruit-Cake.

I really wanted to quote something there… "GO HOME, BITCH BOY!" "You had me at bitch boy!"

… Biatch is fun to say…

And yes, I know I put more physical stuff into there that like… ever. But that's alright. Even I was getting fed up with my pure drabble-ness. And… I managed to bridge into smutty nothingness. Eh, not quite smut. The foreplay of smut. Which is just regular foreplay… Hnn…

Well, that's all for today. Sorry, folks. Review, favorite, alert even though it's useless since this is a oneshot… Do whatever you want. And, uh… See you later!