#My barely contained lust for the lightning rod from sdv how did you get in here

[smiley-mcdoggington]

Omega Stan omega stan omega stan

THIS TOOK WAY TOO LONG TO WRITE TW STANCEST TW MPREG TW DUBIOUS MEDICAL PROCEDURES KINDA TW MENTIONED SA TW A/B/O

It was absolutely no fair that Stan still had to do the heat thing when he couldn't even give himself a reach-around. He was sweating like hell, his teeth were chattering as if it weren't 100-something degrees and Ford was still out on his fucking nerd quest to write about mushrooms for another 16 hours.

At least he didn't have to build a nest all at once while he had the physique of a boiled egg. He'd been slowly building it up for the past two months and yeah Ford had bitched he was running out of slacks but Stan would like to see him try resisting the urge to nest when he had two future boxers dukeing it out in his guts and keeping him from being comfortable for weeks.

He used the side of the bed to help him get on his knees before crawling to the nest on the floor - his belly button grazed the floor with his pathetic maneuver but if he fell when Ford wasn't home it would probably turn into a flipped turtle situation and he liked to pretend he still had dignity.

His palms sank into pillows and he pressed his face onto a small wall of Ford's soft sweaters over slacks and once again thought about that portable lightning rod Ford had in his study. Yes, it was lab equipment and he would probably get shocked straight to hell but the ribs on it. The way it kinda shook when it was powered on. The solid 10 inches. But Ford would kill him for cramming any of his stuff in the ol' prison wallet even for sex reasons, so he refrained. (also because he didn't wanna crawl that far and he refused to be bipedal again until his body stopped trying to boil both him and the future rugrats)

And the cruelest fate. He couldn't reach his dick. It was hard as a rock, digging into his overlarge stomach and he couldn't reach it. He could put his fingers on it, kinda, but jacking off and dusting off were so painfully different and he blamed Ford. Ford who left him alone to take care of himself when he didn't even remember what his feet looked like. Ford who was off crouching and standing up unassisted, getting another 20000 spore samples, then touching his toes just because he could. Ford was definitely doing that. Toe-toucher.

Then the front door opened - the door opening could be heard from the whole house, Ford had spent good American dollars on worse hinges specifically for it. Stan moaned loudly and pathetically because Ford should feel bad for making him egg-shaped.

Ford's boots thunked up the stairs hurriedly, and then the door was flung open. "Stanley?!"

Stan gave him a sour look. "Why do I even have heats - I already got the gold, stop making me run the race." He bitched. "And you! I can't touch my dick because of you!"

Stan made the effort to shift himself just enough to see Ford's expression.

That man was laughing in his hand. That dickhead. That jerk. That fucker. Why did every insult have to relate to sex, Stanley would be clawing at the walls if they would just get closer. "Stanford." He said.

His brother walked closer - he hadn't been wearing those fucking scent pads since they got the house, now that cocksucker just had to go around in his loose button up making the whole house smell like Stan was about to get lucky. That fucker. That cunt. That asshole. "What do you need, Stanley?" Ford asked like he wasn't fully fucking aware, little smile on his lips and rolling his sleeves up like something was gonna get messy. He really fucking hoped it was him.

Stan heaved himself onto his back, head resting in Ford's dirty sweaters, buck naked because he gave up on the idea of getting his tent-sized pajamas on the second he realized his heats didn't stop for anything, not even when he was about to pop. Ford was looking down at him expectantly, and Stan would have probably squirmed under that look if he wasn't so exhausted.

Stanley was practically panting. "Would'ja just get on with it?" He grouched, because Ford wasn't an idiot and Stanley wasn't being subtle.

Stanford stepped into the nest, Stan didn't know if he'd kicked off his boots first, he probably didn't because he was a dick. A cock. A fat cock. Stan was going insane. Then Stanford took a knee, one wide, cool plam resting on the stomach currently cockblocking him. He really needed to stop thinking about cocks. Ford leaned forward just a little, his voice smooth and quiet. "Do you want me to take care of you--?"

"Yes!" Stanley barked, because he would probably say yes even if Ford tried calling it 'Fornication' again even though he'd sworn he would never. He was cold and he was sweating and all his stupid soupy pregnant brain could focus on was tracing the outline of exactly where the six fingers on his stomach laid.

His brother snorted, leaning forward until his own stupid tiny stomach laid against Stan's beach ball and their noses were just barely touching. Stan didn't want a kiss, he wanted Ford to get to business. But then their lips met and Ford's cool hand was brushing the sweaty hair off his forehead and they were breathing the same musty air and Stan felt himself relax for the first time in hours. The kiss was soft, because Ford had learned quickly that if he started too fast and got the kids kicking it would ruin the mood because Stan would start hurting and Ford would start looking at his body less like an unstoppable sex machine and more like an ant farm.

Stan hummed, both hands on Ford's shoulders both for support and possible pushing-down leverage while Ford started sucking on his bottom lip. He really needed Ford to get his head in the game, the teasing was cute when they were nineteen in the back seat after Ford got a power boner from glaring down some fucking scuzz trying to get to second base with Stan in the showers - but that was four years ago, when Stan was sexy and topheavy and way too patient. Stan pushed Ford away just slightly. "D-Didn't you say you was gon-na take care of me?" He murmured.

Ford hummed. "There is something I read recently," He said, but Stan didn't care because Ford's hand was sliding lower. "About this." He said measuredly, and his hand skipped Stan's dick (Stan was gonna start throwing shit) to run his thumb over the slit between it and his hole, his newest source of aching to go with everything else because Stan couldn't catch a break.

Stan sighed. Ford was in one of his moods. No quick jerk for Stan, the man carrying his children, oh no, that would be too easy. The only reason Stan didn't kick Ford out of his nest and start riding that portable lightning rod until he got turned into a frankenstein was because he was weak and Ford's hands were giving him that stupid drunk giggly feeling and that was the most energy he'd had all morning. God he missed being drunk, he felt so hot when he was drunk, not like a boiled egg at all.

Ford was still talking about something. Stan was no longer paying attention. The thumb on his slit was slowly rubbing up and down and it wasn't really doing much for him but also Ford was so close to his leaking hole, or his leaking dick, he just had to fixate on the one dry part of his body.

"Stanley?" He prompted. He had probably asked Stan something.

Stan huffed. "Sure, Six." He said and Ford started moving. "Could you just hurry up and touch me where it-- counts--" His sentiment was lost when his throat tightened until he was whining - Ford's tongue was on his slit and it was weird but Stan would take weird, weird was almost like getting his ass eaten, weird was so close to good, close enough to good for him. His hips rocked down and sounds kept slipping out of his tight throat that made him sound like a teenager.

Ford looked up at him - which took some effort on account of mount everest - silently asking for approval, which was even weirder. "Whats'a matter?" Stan asked.

"Tell me if it starts hurting, okay?" He said, a little undercurrent of anxiety leeking through. Stan probably should have been paying attention to whatever Ford was planning on doing down there but it was too late and Stan was not in the mood to prolong sex things. He nodded and Ford sank back down.

Then Ford's tongue was on the least fun part of his genitals again, slowly lapping at the space, pressure just enough to sooth the ache he hadn't noticed the severity of until it was gone. One hand on his inner thigh, thumb rubbing circles into his skin. Then there was a hand around his dick and he yelped - he couldn't see a thing going on down there, Ford could have brought a book and if he still had a hand around Stan he really wouldn't care.

Then his tongue slipped inside and Stan cursed, immediately having to jerk his legs open to keep from boxing Ford 'round the ears. Ford's tongue wasn't as warm as his insides and the lack of moisture just made it feel so wet and weird and then Ford' s hand started moving and suddenly he didn't mind the feeling like there was a tiny cold tentacle in the nebulous space under his dick as long as Ford kept up the pace. Ford was always doing odd shit, at least for this one Stan didn't have to piss on some newspapers.

Ford was kinda kneeding more than jerking, hand tightening and loosening around his dick and Stan was reminded of how Ford would open and close his hands over and over when he was focused. One time he was doing it while talking to Cathy Crenshaw and she thought he was making the 'honk' gesture and smacked him. As if she even had anything to honk. Ford usually got a little too focused when he was in one of his weird sex moods but Stan didn't really get why this of all things was setting off his nerd brain. Yeah it was odd, but more like in a 'it's not you it's me' kinda way than anything.

Stan started lightly rolling into Ford's hand, and Ford took that as an invitation to completely take it, and his tongue, away, because he was mean and awful and cruel to his poor poor brother.

Ford poked his head up again, and Stan thought this might be the most Ford has ever consulted Stan on sex stuff ever. Ford's lips were bright red and hanging slightly open, spit shining on his cleanly shaven chin and panting just a little. He was gorgeous, Stan wanted nothing more than to get up and make Ford look even more fucked-out, but Stan could barely lean up on his elbows.

Ford swallowed thickly. "Yours-s or mine?" He asked, eyes continuing to dart between Stan's face and that new part of him that just fascinated Ford so much.

"Your what?" Stan asked, tracking every twitch of those bruised lips.

"Male omegan pseudo-vulvas don't self-lubricate with arousal." He huffed, ever the nerd. Ford's gaze burned into him. "Who's slick are we using?"

"Yours." Stan said immediately, even though he was probably making a puddle in his nest just from existing in heat, he didn't care. He wanted Ford's.

Ford nodded, undoing his belt. Stan strained to see over his own stomach, and Ford, the most beautiful, amazing, wonderful person in the world, stood up. He was looking smug, because of course he was when he slowly, slowly pulled his belt out of the loops of his slacks (he kept buying more, he had to be, no man had that many pairs of the same dark gray pants) turning around to put his belt on the dresser and giving Stan a full view of why he needed those pants in his nest. Ford had been doing a lot of filling out since they got the house, and slacks that used to fit him like any good dweeb now stretched obscenely over his rear and Ford fucking knew it. It was almost as bad as when he started wearing a pair of Stan's old green middleschool gym shorts in college, before they somehow went missing.

Ford bent low to get at the laces of his hiking boots, and Stan groaned. He was doing it on purpose, torturing the man carrying his children for his own sick kicks. From the new angle Stan could see a little dark spot where Ford was leaking. Stan needed those pants for his nest.

Ford stood back up, stepping out of his boots and turning back around, he still looked like the smug bastard he was but he was still flushed down his neck at the attention. "How the hell'd a fox like you manage to come from the same stuff as me?" Stan muttered, just to see Ford chuff a little.

"I suppose it's hard to miss, what with you being so perfect." Ford said back, unbuttoning his shirt smoothly, his fingers hypnotic as they worked down, revealing more and more chest hair.

Perfect, though. That was a word Ford always used for him. When they were little, Ford used to say that "Perfect is impossible, improvements can always be made" whenever Stanley tried using the word. But now he used it for Stanley, and Stanley's never been perfect at nothing, not even really good, either, and Ford had to know that, he was always correcting Stan. But then he called him perfect anyway. It turned Stan's heart inside-out.

"Its definitely you that's the perfect one, Sixer." He murmured, and Ford's smug smirk melted into a serene smile.

He walked back into the nest, in those fucking pants but nothing else, and straddled Stan right where his stomach ended, that little wet spot on his pants directly against Stan's dick. "Of course I am." He said as if Stan even remembered the conversation over Ford On His Dick. Ford laid his hands on Stan's stomach. "I'm the only one for you, that makes me perfect." He said, no doubt at all in his tone. "That's also why you're perfect, Stanley." His voice dropped, leaning forward until his lips were brushing Stan's baby bump. "You're mine."

Stan felt dizzy, fingers digging into Ford's cable knit sweater behind him and feeling Ford slowly grind into him. Ford was making these short hums every time he rolled his hips just right, and Stan was huffing through noises he couldn't help at this point.

Ford started going faster, his little hums speeding up to match were music to Stan's ears as he slowly got them both closer and closer, brows pinched together, mouth flexing into a tense little frown, hands beginning to tense and loosen against Stan's skin, Stan rocking back as much as he could. Stan could feel himself start to tense - he was so close, but Ford was in one of his moods and he really didn't want him to stop for whatever kind of edging-related kink testing he was up to today. "C-cah--" He had to ask, Ford usually let him when he asked. "S-Sixer can I? Can-n I?"

Ford's eyes snapped open with a short gasp the moment he comprehended the question, looking right at Stan when his body started trembling over Stan's, a thin wail leaving his open mouth as he nodded frantically just in time for Stan to snap, fingers burying into and possibly through the sweater behind him, riding out the shocks with Ford until they finally stopped to catch their breath.

Ford kissed Stan's baby bump again before easing himself off of Stan, the wet patch in his pants now so much bigger and more steal-able. He quickly undid his pants, shucking them without his earlier flare and kicking them away and just in Stan's reach, who snapped them up and started clinging to them like a kid clung to a toy because dignity was for losers anyway.

Ford was wearing his little space-themed briefs with little cartoon stars and planets and rocket ships that Stan got him as a gag gift two years ago. Stan's stupid mushy pregnant brain tried to make him cry over how cute it was, but then Ford got rid of those, too, leaving them out of snatching range.

Ford sat back down on the nest's floor of soft blankets, hands on Stan's knees. "Are you ready to continue?" He asked, and Stan had nearly forgotten his fixation on Stan's new hole.

Stan nodded. "Go nuts - but don't touch my dick yet, gimme a minute for that." He said, opening his legs for the love of his life who was way too interested in what was really just the temporary baby hole.

He could hear Ford wetting his fingers with his own slick, his eyelids drooping in a way Stan would recognize before his own name. Then he shifted, and cold, wet fingers were against his slit. A finger slipped in like nothing at all, then two with only a slight burn. Ford peeked up at him and Stan just nodded, not sure what to say. The burn was familiar, a little duller at the VIP access than at general admissions, but similar enough that he started warming up again.

Then Ford hooked his fingers, and Stan's whole body tensed up. If his prostate was like rubbing the inside of his dick, this was like a good scratch to his urethra - it was sharper, and very, very weird. His mouth was hanging open a little and Ford was looking worried again - seriously, it was unlike him. "Stanley, are you still okay?"

"Are you?" Stan huffed. "You're acting like your defusing a bomb here, Six, we can stop whenever you want."

Ford's brows furrowed. "I already explained exactly why I'm being cautious, Stanley." He snipped - and he probably did, right around that time Stan stopped paying attention. "Apologies if it's inconvenienced you." He said harshly, shoving a third finger in with the first two, the anger and the pain doing things to Stanley he refused to admit.

Ford was thrusting shallowly with his fingers when he crooked them again, and Stan gasped. The feeling wasn't really absolutely good the way his prostate being hit was, but it was intense, making Stan feel the flush on his forehead and his shoulders as Ford tapped the spot again, and again. Maybe the only reason it was good was because Stan was already getting worked up. Soon the fingers were moving freely and quickly.

Then Ford was touching himself again, he knew without seeing it, and then Ford's wet off hand was spreading slick next to his fingers. And a fourth finger was pushed in. Stan keened at it, hips rolling down to prolong the burn, stomach tense just to bring that weird spot closer, make sure Ford couldn't stop brushing against it. He felt a dribble of slick roll down onto the bed but he kept going, humping his brother's hand as much as he could.

Then Ford was touching himself again and touching Stan again and was he planning on adding a fifth? Stan has never taken five before, Ford only went to four on special occasions, three was always enough. Stan couldn't even panic about the thought, too busy feeling like someone put a pipe cleaner in his dick in a good way (somehow).

Then the fifth pushed in, and Ford started slow again, gently pushing and pulling, but it didn't matter because he could feel his prostate. From the wrong side. Pressure was still on the weird spot but now it was on his prostate too and Stan could feel them both. At the same time. Stan's mouth was perminantly hanging open, but then Ford's fucking knuckles pushed into him and Stan couldn't help the loud, pathetic noise he made, one hand onto his newly stolen pants and one hand in his own hair, rolling down on Ford's fingers like it was his last day on earth - with the way he was heaving, it actually might be.

Then Ford kissed the side of his knee. "You're doing perfectly, Stanley." He muttered, and the only sound that could come out of Stan's tight throat was a whine. "Just one more, Stanley." He said and it sounded fonder than any nickname.

Stan started rolling faster, making the kids kick but he could barely notice at that point. Ford's thumb started burrowing in with the other five and That was his whole hand holy fucking shit--

Ford kissed his knee again. "Good. Now you asked earlier, ask again." He said and Stan didn't have the time to consider telling Ford to fuck off before his mouth started trying to make syllables.

"Stan-n-ford I gotta - can-can I? Plea-se-"

"Go ahead, Stanley. Come for me." He said, and Stan's whole body erupted in static, his vision blurring out while his front spot and his back spot got milked by Ford's entire fucking hand, he could have been gone for an hour and he wouldn't'a noticed.

When he finally came back down, he was still in his nest, but now he was propped up on his side with pillows supporting his mass, and Ford was at his back, nose on his shoulder, one hand on Stan's stomach like the kids might disappear without him there.

Stanley turned his head a little. "That was great - dunno what you were even worryin' about, Sixer." He murmured.

Ford hummed. "Well sue me for being cautious, I didn't want to force labor a week before you're due."

Stan's body went cold, and he heaved himself into a sit. "You was risking making me labor early, Stanford Pines?!"

Ford looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "You said it was fine."

"You Almost Made Me Labor!"

He was leaving him for the lightning rod.