#may or may not crosspost to ao3

[miralines]

A Moss-Covered Home

a little cinderrose ficlet I've been meaning to post for ages, inspired by @bookshopsbizarreblog's suggestion of "a moss-covered home" for their ship name. This isn't canon to any of my other ouatis fic, but I thought I'd finally share it for @mechtober-2024! Alternate prompt: haunted ^-^

Many years after Briar and Cinders have parted ways, years after Cinders mourns the woman who never was her wife, Cinders has settled down someplace. A little cottage in a densely-forested part of Perrault. She’s finally home. It’s terribly lonely, but she prefers the quiet to everyone demanding her time and her stories and her opinions, so she can endure it.

She endured the solitude for thirty years, after all. She’s long used to it by now. Cinders knits, sings, picks up reading again to pass the time, and more years pass quietly.

And then things start happening. She finds objects in places she didn’t leave them. The windows are open when she swore she had them shut. She thinks perhaps she’s just aging; she’s quite old by this point, old enough to be expecting death in the next few years. But things keep happening. More and more. And as time goes on, she begins to feel a presence, warm and familiar.

She doesn’t know if it’s just her mind, but it comforts her. She welcomes the presence. She walks around her mossy cottage, speaks to it sometimes as she does. It’s remote enough here that no one can hear her. Cinders swears sometimes she can almost hear a voice.

She takes to setting out an extra plate for it. It’s her companion in the last years of her life. 

And then her health declines. She knows the end will be soon. One evening, she’s sitting by the fire, resting, feeling the presence. Wishing she could touch her.

As she thinks it, the presence resolves into sight. It’s Rose. Still fresh-faced and youthful, looking the way she did in that lifepod all those years ago, but seeming older and wiser. Seeming to match Cinders. She smiles, and reaches for her. 

Cinders takes her hand.

Her body is found the next morning by the girl who delivers her groceries. Cinders is mourned across the galaxy as one of the last major heroes of the rebellion. And then the galaxy moves on, as they’ve been doing for decades.

In the cottage, Rose and Cinders sit together, invisible to anyone but each other. They’re together at last. The cottage falls into disrepair, the moss overtaking it, but what does that matter to a ghost? It isn’t their grave, but it is their resting place. It’s their home.

[lexsssu]

Milk Shake (Dante)

TAGS: Dante/F!reader, lactation kink, pregnancy, smut, drabble Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

“Now ain’t this the freshest, creamiest milk in town? And there’s so much of it too...You’re really spoiling me here, sweetheart~”

“D-Dante…! Don’t say such embarrassing things!!!”

“What’s so embarrassing about the truth? This really is the best damn milkshake I’ve ever had and it’s all for me~”

“...Need I remind you that this milk is supposed to be for your son who is yet to be born?”

“That’s the keyword, darling. He’s ‘yet’ to be born, so that means all this creamy milk is for Daddy in the meantime.”

You have no further words to refute his statement, opting instead to just bite your lower lip and look away in embarrassment. Seeing the attractive flush on your cheeks, a smirk crawls its way onto the handsome devil’s chiseled face, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before he buries himself into the ample softness of your breasts.

Seated on his lap while he lounged on his favorite office chair at the shop, Dante is sure that this is what heaven feels like as his senses are saturated with the softness of your scent and buried in the plush and smooth texture of your flesh as your body prepares itself for motherhood. The pheromones your draconic body exuded has his own inhuman instincts running in full overdrive, cock straining against the leather of his pants and yet what he wanted more than anything at the moment is to suckle on your puffy nipples and drink up the nourishing milk you’re currently producing for your child.

With your arms wrapped around his neck and your full, leaking tits in his face, is there any good reason he shouldn’t allow himself the pleasure of drinking from you? The dark wet spots that stain the fabric of one of his shirts which barely fit you now thanks to just how much your breasts filled out has him salivating. There is a subtle change to your scent ever since the day his seed had taken root inside your womb, a change that is very much welcomed as you grow softer and more fragrant in his arms with each passing day.

It only makes his inner devil hunger for your taste even more than it already does.

“Thank you for the food”

Dante doesn’t forget to mutter a quick thanks before he lifts the hem of the shirt upwards, your bountiful bosom seeming to jump and jiggle as they are freed from their prison. A pale white wetness stains the tips of your globes, a sight that makes his loins grow and harden especially as your aroma directly hits his sensitive nose.

Sorry kid, but your old man’s gonna be taking the first sip.

Though with how enthusiastically the half-devil suckles at your full teats, hand kneading the unattended one, it’s obvious to you that your husband certainly has no qualms about taking the milk intended for his child.

You could only silently sit on his lap, core moistening as he gyrates his hips every now and then to rub the tent in his pants while he drank from you like you were an all-you-can-drink milk bar.

Despite how shameless he can be, there’s no denying the warmth that overflows in your eyes as your hands idly play with his hair.

[becauseplot]

Phil wakes up in the morning, curled up on his side of the bed, wings splayed out over the empty half of the mattress behind him. As always. Snags his robe off the hook by the bed and shrugs it on and doesn't look at the vacant hook beside it. As always. Half asleep hauls himself out of bed and shuffles into his slippers and opens the blinds; bedroom flooded by golden sunlight, shining on the glass panes of the framed family photos hung up on the walls, drowning them in morning glow. As always.

It's just another morning up here on the wall. He heads down into the basement expecting the usual: finding Tallulah already awake and writing quietly in her diary, listening to her giggle as Phil drags her dead-to-the-world brother out of bed, sending them both off to go get dressed and wash up while he fumbles something together for breakfast.

When he steps into their bedroom, their beds are empty.

The spike of panic is immediate. He knows he put them to bed last night. They're not staying over anywhere else. They weren't anywhere in the front garden. There's no obvious note or sign anywhere that Phil can see. Where did they go? Where are his kids?

But then he hears it---the laughter. Clinking of dishes in the kitchen. The smell of eggs and bacon and beans. Soft Spanish that's low and syrupy-sleepy, still waking up.

Phil walks into the kitchen, and it's like walking into a dream.

The three of them are crowded around the counter, with Chayanne standing on a stepstool to the left and Tallulah standing on a chair to the right. Daylight spills in through the window above the sink and makes the mirage of Missa expertly dicing onions shimmer, body wreathed in warmth.

Missa sets down the knife. He turns around, the off-white of his bone mask almost dandelion in the sun, and Phil just about loses it.

He's relieved. He's disbelieving. He's ecstatic, and he's furious, and he's oddly numb. Something inside him wants to hurl a fist across his jaw; something else wants him to curl a fist around the lapels of his cloak and never let go.

Phil's arms are around him before he even realizes that he's crossed the kitchen.

Missa makes a sound of surprise, arms briefly hovering like this is the last thing he expected, but it doesn't matter---Phil feels him return the embrace a heartbeat later, and Phil sinks into it. A soft noise of anguish dies in his throat; he buries his face in Missa's shoulder and clutches at the back of his cloak and squeezes him like he wants to shatter bone and nestles in closer with the irrational, irrepressible desire to burrow into Missa's chest and fucking live there. Missa would probably let him.

A hand comes to cradle the back of his head. He feels lips and nose land softly in his tangle of unbrushed morning hair.

"Buenos días, querido."

He's home.

[soaphawk]

Medwhump May 1 // Under Anesthesia

Simon’s never had the best experiences with surgery. Luckily, Captain Dad is there to help.

w/c: 1,194

pairing: ambiguous John Price/Simon “Ghost” Riley (can be read as platonic or romantic)

tags/warnings: surgery, hurt/comfort, simon needs a hug, good dad john price

For @medwhumpmay <3 cross-posted to ao3

/// /// /// /// ///

“It’s gonna be okay, son.”

John squeezed Simon’s hand tight, fingers stroking over his bare skin in an attempt to comfort his lieutenant. Simon wasn’t having any of it, though, turning his pleading brown eyes on his Captain.

”Please, sir,” he begged, “Please don’t make me do this.”

”Simon…” He flinched when John’s free hand rose, hated how much of a burden he was being in the moment. His captain had never raised a hand in anger, there was no reason for him to be so terrified. “It’s gonna be okay.”

”No…” Simon’s low, weak moan, coupled with the tears gathering in his eyes, prompted John to slowly stroke over his short blonde hair. “Please, please, please…” he chanted.

John squeezed his fingers again, thumbing over scars and veins across the lieutenant’s skin. Why was he being so weak and pathetic? His captain had better things to do than console the man who’s name struck fear into the hearts of their enemies. Mentally, he scoffed. He needed to be stronger, shouldn’t be afraid of something so trivial. He shouldn’t have been sobbing like a child!

Simon had shed that skin years ago, hadn’t he?

(He had, but this was one of many moments where he so desperately wished John had been his real dad.)

”Simon, let me help.” John swiped the tears from his cheeks. “What’s going on?”

Simon’s mouth went dry, trying and failing to formulate words. How could he even explain? He shouldn’t fear pain, not like this.. not with what he’d gone through… not with what he’d put others through.

But it wasn’t just the pain.

It was the feeling of being trapped again.

A shudder wracked his body, mind dipping to those months spent isolated and afraid—

John’s arms wrapped around him the same moment he let loose a fearful, mournful moan. Startled, Simon didn’t react for a few moments before he sagged against his captain’s chest, sobbing weakly.

”I’ve got ya.”

”I… know,” Simon choked out.

”What’s scaring you?” John pulled back to look the man in the face, forcing Simon to meet his gaze. His voice held no judgment, only calm concern. Like he could fix anything Simon threw his way.

Could he?

Would he?

”It’s the anesthesia,” he finally warbled. “I can’t… last time…”

John’s eyes softened, encouraging him on. “You can tell me, Si.”

”It didn’t work.” Simon’s hands plucked frustratedly at the scratchy hospital sheets, glaring down like they’d personally offended him. Though, if he was being honest with himself, this entire goddamn place offended him. “Last time,” he clarified, watching John’s confused expression. “They tried to put me to… to sleep. It didn’t… take.”

John’s voice held soft horror. “You were awake during your last surgery?” At Simon’s nod, his hug tightened.

“Yeah,” The next words spilled unbidden from Simon’s mouth. “They told me to count back, and when I woke up it’d be all over. But I.. I felt them digging into me, poking and prodding and I couldn’t move—” he broke off with a loud sob, voice catching hard on the next words. “I couldn’t… escape… kept thinking back to… to—”

Words failed him. At the same time, John’s hand curved up to cradle the back of his head, carding through the unruly blonde strands. Simon gave himself over completely, slumping into John’s arms as his terrified cries continued.

God, he was weak. He didn’t deserve the name Ghost.

“Shh, easy lad.” John soothed. “I’ve gotcha, I’ve gotcha.”

”Please—“ Simon gasped. “Please don’t… be angry, sir, I’m… so sor—“

”None of that now,” John commanded. Simon stiffened in his arms, attempting to pull back with a silent sniffle. John only tightened his grip, smiling sadly. “At ease, son. Focus on me. You’re safe.”

”Please don’t hit me,” the words fell from his lips before he could snatch them back. “I’ll be good, I promise!”

His vision tunneled, breaths coming in short, heaving gasps as he tried to shove John away. The need to flee consumed Simon’s mind, overtaking every other thought as he struggled and cried in pain and desperation. He heard John bark something over his shoulder before returning to holding his lieutenant close. Big hands stroked down his back, warm and soothing and loving as John caught Simon’s limp form once more.

”Shh, Si, you’re safe. You’re safe, Simon,” John squeezed gently, careful to not hurt the man in his arms.

”I’m so scared,” Simon hiccuped. “I can’t—“

”Yes, you can.” John’s firm voice held so much conviction, Simon couldn’t help the plaintive whimper that he replied with. “You can. I won’t leave your side. I’ll be with you the whole time, last thing you’ll see before your nap is this ugly muppet’s face, and it’ll be the first thing you see when you wake up.”

”Captain Price?” A nurse poked her head in, voice no more than a squeak. “We need to prep the lieutenant for—“

”I’m coming with him.” John declared, leaving no room for argument.

And he did. Through the hallways, into the elevator, down to the operating theatre, John’s hand never left Simon’s. The string of gentle, soothing words never let up, those big blue eyes the only things Simon could focus on for fear of coming undone once more.

As soon as the doctors approached, however, Simon went stiff. A low whine built in his throat as they began their prepwork, gaze desperate as he lost sight of John for a moment—

“I’m here,” John, now donned in a surgical gown and cap, appeared above his head, hands grazing Simon’s temples. “Look at me, alright? Don’t look away. Just focus here.”

Simon helplessly stared up at his captain’s brilliant blue gaze. He tried—and failed, once more—to suppress a fearful whimper as a mask descended on his face, eyebrows knit together. John stroked his hair softly, the firm pressure keeping him grounded as the nurse hovered to his left.

”Count back from 100 out loud for me please, Lieutenant.”

”You’re gonna be alright, Si,” John assured. “Focus here.”

”100…” Simon couldn’t help the tremble in his tone.

”99…” Already his mind was fogging over.

”98…” Everything felt so far away, his body felt so heavy…

”Atta boy,” John murmured, sounding so distant to his tired ears. “Doing so well.”

”97…” His eyes were so tired, closing them couldn’t hurt, right? His captain would keep him safe…

”9… 6…” His voice slurred.

”9…” Simon never finished the end of the sentence.

John’s hand ended up being the first thing he could feel when he managed to pry his eyes open. Simon’s head pounded, vision swimming and thoughts scrambled. Groaning, he went to sit up, before another hand pressed down on his chest.

”Easy, son. Don’t move, just relax… that’s it…” His da—no, John’s—low voice soothed him.

“I—“

”It’s all done, you did brilliantly. It’s only been a couple of hours, just rest. You’re alright.”

”Thank you…” in his mind, he supplied the word ‘dad’ once more, mind still cloudy.

John chuckled softly as Simon’s eyes slid shut again. “Y’know, Si… I’d be proud to call you my son. Just sleep, your dad’s right here. I’ve got you.”

[dansconcepts]

Balloons

A (not so) little Komahina drabble with a Kyouko (and hints of Naegiri) preamble based on this interaction from the Danganronpa Summer Camp game (and yes I 100% bought it and for full price because I'm really silly but I'm so committed for the interactions like JSKAJSKSKA I want them to be happy so bad):

Hajime: You make the flower petals like this, attach the stem… and there ya go, done! Kyouko: Huh, you're surprisingly dexterous. Kyouko: Would you mind if I took this flower? Hajime: Sure, no problem at all. Kyouko: Thanks. Keep up the good work. Kyouko exits. Hajime: I know it's a fake flower, but… giving it to a girl is still kinda embarrassing. Hajime: And to Kyouko, no less. I hope she doesn't tell the boys that she got it from me…

The detective thumbs at the rubbery material, indeed appreciating Hajime’s workmanship. He truly does seem capable of plenty, even if it was like a jack of all trades. But oftentimes is better than a master of one. She retorts her silent conjecture. And indeed, it shows in the way his determination seems to spark around people who are motivated in their passions.

It is just like the creation of this flower. The happy yellow it sprouts reminds her of a certain classmate. She has no need to act coy to herself, it is prevalent to her that her emotions have strayed to a place she never anticipated them to go.

Makoto Naegi, the Ultimate Luck. He has shown time and time again he was more than such a title. Every time he asks questions, remarks on a viewpoint she hadn’t considered, provides patience and calmness when she is unable to compose herself quickly enough… he was endearing and dependable, the type that she can’t help but be drawn to in the midst of the chaos that was her detective duties.

Perhaps she will present this flower to Makoto. It may not be overly affectionate, but she knows Makoto enjoys small acts with messages as simple as “being thought about”. It’s an idea to scoff at, with his easy going personality being the most digestible compared to her fellow classmates. He is, quite often, considered by everyone as the de facto leader of their class the moment he stepped up in second year. His development was quite admirable and impressive. Everyday, he will be greeted by everyone and talked to in one way or the other.

In that sense, it is easier to dismiss his more anxious side, melancholic and self-loathing. Although caring for others is not very easy for her despite the strides being taken by her classmates, there is something about Makoto that makes her feel adequate in giving him an ear to listen to rather than forcing physical affection.

“Kirigiri?” A soft voice pushes through her reverie. Lavender eyes trail up to stark white hair, and a more casual outfit than she has ever seen him wearing. It reflects the setting of the festival however, and she endeavours to say as much-

“I apologize for interrupting you with my presence. I know you must have more important matters than looking upon trash like me,” Kyouko’s mouth closes. Nothing has prepared her to treat this sudden situation. She is aware of Komaeda’s low self-esteem and the way it manifests, but she has never been on its receiving end and is uncertain how to proceed. Komaeda continues on regardless, “I saw this flower balloon had flown out of your hands and I managed to get it back in one piece. How lucky!”

Indeed, in his hand is the yellow flower balloon that she must have let go of during her musings. She takes it from him and nods. “Thank you Komaeda.”

He beams. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, I’m very happy to help. It’s really the least I could do for an Ult- for such an admirable person.”

She notices the intentional slipping of the word “Ultimate”, but does not make any move to indicate her recognition of it. Clearly, it was a habit of his he was trying to stop, if his behaviour is any indication.

“Although," Komaeda says, "I did find it strange you had a balloon with you.”

“Hinata is the one making them. Although his repertoire was limited, he does what he offers quite well.”

The Ultimate Lucky student hums, turning his head back in the direction of where Hinata’s table was. “Really now? How fascinating.” He looks to the ground, and she wonders what he is pondering about.

She remembers seeing them together often, albeit in passing. She notes that their position relative to the celebration is quite distant, out closer to the beach, but still close enough to see most of the attractions. Hmm… “From what I observed, he still has about half a package of balloons left. I’m quite certain you can get one from him.”

Kyouko studies the way Komaeda turns to her warily. She has a hunch now though, and she states, “He would gladly give you one, regardless of what occurs. I think he will appreciate a more familiar presence supporting him.”

Some emotions seem to dart across Komaeda’s face, but she cannot process them all in time before it settles. He sighs. “Ah, I suppose you figured me out. As expected of the Ultimate Detective!” He praises. She sees the way he glances back to the festival tents. “I suppose I can pay a friend a visit.”

She allows herself a smile, hoping it comes off as encouraging. “Good luck.”

He laughs. “I sure hope I'll have it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Nagito hugs himself loosely, clutching onto the soft fabric enveloping him as he walks past stands and tents. He looks around, biting his lip. A sigh inevitably escapes, much like his resolve always does.

He listens. Chatter, laughter- so much, so loud... But no cries or sobs. No cracks of wood or thumps of metal. And most thankfully, no screams. Regardless, he checks around him anyway. His presence here can change so many things. He can bring so much despair just by simply existing. Why did he possibly come in here again?

A glimpse of spiky brown hair and a familiar tie fills his vision. Right. It always traces back to Hajime.

The Reserve Course student goes to finish up shaping a red balloon into a flower, and hands it over to the Ultimate Astronaut, although his name escapes him. He can hear the “Awesome!” all the way from where he's standing, which is kind of impressive. The man makes his way to the Ultimate Caregiver, who he immediately tries giving the flower to. She looks pleased. Yet, she shouts “Do you want to die!?” so maybe he misread her?

Nagito turns back to Hajime, who’s already gesturing to him to come over. “Hey!” He smiles. “Didn’t expect to see you here!”

He frowns. “I know that my presence isn’t deserved around U-.”

“Okay, shut the fuck up. You know I’m just glad you’re out here. How are you enjoying it so far?”

“Ah. What if I said I only came to see you?” He can’t help but tease. Hajime’s ears, as predicted, turn red.

“You can’t be serious. Out of everyone else?” that are Ultimates isn't spoken, but heavily implied.

“Now who’s the one who needs to stop talking about status?” He teases.

“H-hey! I didn't even say anything!” Hajime coughs. “I know what you’re doing. Don’t change the subject.”

Nagito hums. “I’m not joking though, I did come here because of you. Kirigiri told me you made her flower balloon and I just had to see what that was about.”

Upon sharing that info, Hajime averts his gaze, clearly blushing. How interesting…

He feels tempted to smirk, but doesn't in favour of sounding noncommittal, “Something wrong about what I said, Hajime?”

“Nope, nothing.” He trails off. “…You don’t think she’s told anyone else, do you?”

Nagito crosses his arms. Why would Hajime care? Is he embarrassed? How silly. He eyes the bag of balloons and lets out an amused puff. “Well, it certainly benefitted you if she did, considering you’ve emptied the whole bag.” The sigh escapes him before he can stop it. He didn’t even realize he wanted a balloon before it was taken away.

Just his luck. How disappointing.

“Huh?" Hajime asks. "It’s empty?”

He swiftly lifts the bag. "Aha!" He calls out triumphantly. Turns out, under the opaque portion of the packaging sits a deflated green balloon.

Nagito grins. “How lucky!”

Hajime responds with a smirk. He adds as much air as possible to the balloon, and when satisfied, says, “Alright, I know you’re going to make fun of me, but I can only manage a flower and a dog. Which one do you want?”

Although he probably would’ve been quick to tease Hajime about his skills “befitting a Reserve Course student”, the mention of a dog makes the words freeze on his tongue.

“A dog would be nice.” Nagito admits.

“Oh, sure.” Hajime says, a little disconcerted by the honesty, and his eyebrows are furrowed. Adorable. He doesn’t know how Hajime isn’t an Ultimate. In a way, he almost likes that he isn’t.

Within a few minutes of tanned hands twisting and turning rubber, he is finally presented with a cute little dog.

The ends of his lips tug upwards. He gently grabs the balloon, being extra careful to transport it into his arms.

“This is wonderful.” He says breathily.

Hajime looks at Nagito, bemused. “Your eyes are sparkling. I’ve never seen you so happy.” And almost as if it was an afterthought, he adds, “It looks good on you.”

What? “H-huh?”

“It seriously can’t be that surprising. It’s… nice to see you happy. Not that you don’t already look nice! You tied your hair and even wore a jinbei for the festival. You’re looking pretty good.”

The lucky student just stares at Hajime, who grows steadily more red under the gaze. The Reserve Course student swipes his hand through the air, as if that'll somehow dispel the flurry of thoughts going through his head. “Alright, what’s with that look?”

“I’m glad you think I look ‘good’, Hajime." He starts, "I wasn’t trying to impress anyone, much less someone like yourself, but I see your eyes would be more used to seeing trash in your everyday life and thinking it’s beautiful.”

Hajime stares him down. “Nagito, anyone at this camp would agree you’re good-looking. And I know you’re just saying that shit about me being a Reserve Course because you’re spiraling a little bit.” Ah. He looks at the ground. “Hey, it’s fine. We kinda talked about this, remember? I know we’re friends.”

He doesn’t reply. How could he? To be read so easily…

A warm hand grabs his shoulder. His gaze immediately whips to Hajime's face. “D-don’t think too much about this." A flustered Hajime spits out. "Let’s just go. We’re going around and enjoying this damn festival together.”

How is Hajime Hinata real?

“Is this your way of getting a date, Hajime?” He says playfully instead. “You could have just asked, you know. I’m sure Chiaki- or anyone else really- would not have declined.”

Hajime gives a raised eyebrow at the mention of Chiaki, but doesn’t seem to press it. Instead, he goes, “I’d rather be here with you, to be honest. I said it already, but it’s nice to have you out here. I might as well enjoy it while I can.”

Nagito shuts up at that. While judging Hajime the whole time, his face isn't any better, probably looking crimson at this point.

“And you dropped this.” Hajime waves the green balloon dog that ended up in his hands. The Ultimate blinks, surprised he had let go of it. However, the wind picks it out of Hajime’s hand and starts carrying it on its currents.

“Shit!” Hajime exclaims. He jumps, but it flies out of his reach.

“Fuck! I’m sorry Nagito, I didn’t mean to lose it.”

He easily waves it off with a chuckle. “No, it’s alright. Besides, you could always make another one.”

“I mean, honestly, this was pretty fun." Hajime admits, "I wouldn’t mind doing it again…”

And Hajime trails off, and he knows exactly why, considering he’s leaned in in that cutesy way he’s seen girls in dramas do. He smirks at Hajime’s bewildered face. While amused, he backs off, as if it was merely an accidental brush.

He sends him an innocent smile. Olive eyes narrow in response, but they face forward again in silent acceptance. It would be quite impressive, if Hajime’s face wasn’t flushed.

“There’s a restaurant here. You’re coming with me.”

He nods happily.

Things could always be worse because of my luck, but for some reason I feel like, perhaps, I'll be okay. But can I hope? Do I dare hope?

Nothing hurts more than hope getting crushed.

…But maybe…

Maybe this is worth it.

[queenburd]

I'm still writing TSP fics! I've been primarily writing Parable Actors ficlets that are confined to the discord server, but I've been thinking about classic TSP stuff, so here is a piece about how the Narrator's memories work.

Takes place in TSP HD, after lotus eaters and the flashback that's seen in in-game motivation, part 1. It also uses the pause feature that is mentioned in pause. None of these are necessary reading, but if you like my writing and want to see how Stanley and the Narrator have gotten to this point, then I would appreciate if you checked them out!

CW for an incomplete Zending run.

|.|.|.|

“Stanley, please,” the Narrator says, voice weak, “let’s go back to the other room. Please?”

Stanley swallows, looking up at the stairs. He shakes his head.

“You don’t have to do this, you know you don’t.”

He sits on the first landing, looking at his shoes where they rest on the steps.

The Narrator promised he would reset.

“I will! I will reset, soon, as soon as I’m ready, like we agreed!”

Stanley grimaces and gets to his feet. He ascends a flight and the fellow groans in frustration.

“Please, Stanley! I just wanted to be in there a little longer, you said I could—!”

He fell into the trap again.

It’s hit or miss, with the starry room. The Narrator is still trying to find his own sense of empowerment. The peace the room affords him can become addicting, drawing him in and in and in. It quiets his mind like nothing else does, and he’s loathe to leave it.

But sometimes, he can manage it. Sometimes, he can take his fill, then sigh happily and reset the game, refreshed and renewed, and ready to do and be more. Sometimes he can free himself of the siren song, stop eating the lotus flowers, and continue sailing, as Odysseus did.

This is not one of those times.

Stanley doesn’t want to do this! He doesn’t like it—doesn’t like putting himself or the voice through this experience. He finds no power in it, not like others might, nor does he find catharsis. Yet he has little choice—he has no other way to free them from this ending. There’s no other way out.

“There is! Please, just listen to me, just go back and we’ll relax and then I’ll reset!”

It won’t. He knows that. It wants to believe it will, but deep down, the voice knows.

Stanley makes it to the top landing, and steps off.

“No no no no no!”

The Narrator’s voice breaks as he makes impact. Stanley gasps as he pulls himself off the ground. There’s no blood—some pain, but no centered to any point of him. It’s diffused through all of him.

Still hurts like a bitch. He’s limping to the steps again, noticeably slower, when the Narrator says, frantic, “I’ll reset, I’ll reset, I’m resetting, I’m—“

THEENDISNEVERTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDISLOADING

Stanley braces his palms on the edge of his desk, and thinks in the same moment the Narrator speaks:

[ "Pause." ]

He inhales sharply, and then relaxes into his office chair. The Narrator lets him sit quietly, gathering his thoughts, before the fellow speaks.

“Stanley? Is everything okay?”

He lifts a hand in a seesaw gesture, and lets it fall into his lap.

What does the Narrator remember?

The response he gets is a thoughtful hum, noticeably without distress. “Let me see—if I recall correctly, we went through the red door in the warehouse, yes?”

Stanley nods. The Narrator continues calmly.

“Well, then I must have managed to reset without issue.”

All at once, Stanley feels very tired.

“Oh. I didn’t manage it, did I?”

On his part, the fellow seems at least politely apologetic. And, really, Stanley doesn’t hold it against him, that he can’t remember, nor that he struggles with the issue every time. It’s why he’s not even angry, or upset, about this. He’s just… tired. Resigned, perhaps.

The voice sighs gently. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He offers the memory.

“No, please; in your own words, if you don’t mind. I’d rather not force you to relive it.”

That’s generous, he thinks. He can oblige.

They went through the red door. They were in the room with the lights for a while. The Narrator stopped talking to Stanley, and didn’t respond when Stanley asked to reset. So Stanley had left.

He had gone to the stairwell.

“Yes, I think—yes,” the voice interrupts. “I had tried to tell you to go back, but you did end up falling before I finally forced a reset. Oh, Stanley, I am sorry,” it says, with real sorrow.

It—remembered?

“Yes, though not without prompting, I’m afraid.”

How? It hadn’t remembered before, what had changed?

“I—um—oh, look.”

Stanley’s monitor display—changes.

The black screen disappears, instead displaying a desktop, with task bar and icons. As he watches, the folder icon is clicked, quickly opening a window that displays more folders.

“Now, this is simply a visual metaphor, you understand, yes? Imagine, perhaps, my mind is the computer, and the files inside house all the different bits of me. However, I am also the person navigating the computer. Are you with me so far?”

Stanley presses his hands together and rests his elbows on the desk, then his chin on his hands. He was… kind of following.

“Now, imagine every memory is a file. Every run is located somewhere in the computer, you see? All my scripts, every word I have said and every thought I have had, it’s here, somewhere.”

Then why does he not remember certain things?

“Stanley I am getting to that, you’ve always been so terribly impatient,” the voice huffs at him, eliciting an eyeroll. “Honestly, you wouldn’t know good set-up and pay off if it bit you in the arse thirty minutes from now, after I’ve foreshadowed it.”

Yap yap yap. He frees one of his hands to open and close it like a talking mouth.

“Oh for God’s—no, no,” the Narrator interrupts sharply. “I will not get irritated, I will not become distracted, I am going to explain this because this is important.”

He inhales deeply, and exhales slowly, and as he does Stanley sits back again, focusing once more on his screen. Curiously, he moves his mouse and double-clicks on a folder.

More folders, and a collection of files with names that were just a garble of letters and numbers.

He clicks a folder.

More folders, and a collection of files with names that were just a garble of letters and numbers.

He clicks a folder.

More folders—

Oh.

“Yes,” the Narrator says, “You see? I simply don’t know where the memory is. I need guidance. I need to know where to look.”

Stanley sits back.

“Mind you, it’s not a perfect metaphor. Sometimes I do have an idea of where to start, a path or—“

An Adventure Line™️, his mind adds unhelpfully.

“A-hah, not, not quite. But you see, when you give me the starting point, you can lead me to the correct file, do you see?”

Kind of, yes. The thing is, Stanley didn’t understand computers too well, so some of the metaphor didn’t make a lot of sense.

“Alright, let’s try a different example. Let’s take the office, for an example. Let’s say we have the office, with its many halls and doors, and behind a door, somewhere, is the memory. The problem is, I’m not sure which door. But say you know the building, so you can wind through the halls and lead me to the correct door, and I just need to open it.”

Okay. So…. The Narrator’s memories were lost, but not gone. If Stan gave him context, he could get to the memory himself?

“I do believe that’s the case! It is, I think, a matter of experimentation to confirm my theory, but I do believe the fact that you and I have a rapport now is what makes this even possible. Could you imagine, if we hadn’t come to a sort of truce, what would have happened? Why, I probably wouldn’t even know there was a missing memory to even search for!”

Stanley’s mouth curls down. Yeah. He could imagine.

“…oh.”

The single utteration feels heavy. There is a long pause.

Then;

“I—I can’t recall if I’ve said it before, how grateful I am to you, Stanley. I—I know we’ve had our differences—“

Issues. Fights. Desperate bids for control—

“—yes, thank you, your point has been made; but I… appreciate that we’ve been able to come to an accord and tried to, to bury the hatchet, so to speak. I… I know I would be far worse off, if you hadn’t… been willing to compromise.”

Stanley crosses his arms, feeling a little off-balance. He imagines getting all that out was absolute hell.

“Honestly?” The Narrator sighs. “Not at all. I really—I really don’t know what I would do without you.”

His eyes fall. The voice asks, a bit hesitant.

“Are we okay? Is this too much?”

Stanley rubs an eye. It… it is a bit much, he thinks. He’s recovering from a bit of a rough reset, and new information, and this still growing connection they have is something he doesn’t know how to talk about, sometimes. It isn’t the first time the Narrator has apologized or thanked him, and their bond isn’t a new one at this point, but there’s still a part of him that doesn’t like looking at the hurt before it. It still feels raw. Maybe because of the ending they just experienced, but still.

“I see. Well,” the voice starts, feigning nonchalance, “I’m ready to go whenever you are, but if you need to pause for a little longer, then I’ll leave you to it for a bit, shall I?”

His screen closes the folders window, but it does not return to the black input display. The voice quiets, not gone, he thinks, but giving him space to think and decompress. It makes no argument, at least, when he double-clicks on the cards icon on his desktop. It lets him play Solitaire in peace.

He doesn’t keep it waiting. He exits the office, hops out the window, and lets it serenade him with a new, silly song. He thinks it is grateful.

It’s getting better. The Narrator is making strides with every run. There are stumbles, in the path, certainly—the last run is an example of one—but each time he gets a little better.

And Stanley is proud of him. And Stanley doesn’t know what he would do without the Narrator, either. Despite everything, he’s—glad. That they have each other. That they’re trying.

That they’re friends.

He’s glad.

[x-v4mp3y3lin3r-x]

An Archive of One's Own: A Dramatic Essay on Fanfic, New Beginnings, and The Original "Proshippers"

warning: there's going to be talk of "problematic" things, smut, etc, but nothing graphic. this is fandom meta.

If you've been using AO3 for a while then, whether you realize it or not, there's a chance you've come across a user named astolat. With over 500 fics in dozens of fandoms, I'd be more surprised if you hadn't run across at least one of her fics.

Wait, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself! First, let me set the scene: It's 2007. In the past 7 years there have been a slew of authors and publishing companies suing fanfiction authors, suing fanfic archives, and demanding that fans stop "violating copyright" by posting fanfiction. Fanfiction.net is a common target, and in 2002 the site cedes to the demands in the hopes of saving their own ass, promptly banning and removing all NC-17 works from the site without notifying authors. There's a list of authors who request than any fics based on their works are permanently deleted. That list still exists on Fanfiction.net's guidelines page to this day.

This isn't the only form of censorship that's swept the fannish community. Fandom-specific fic communities (either with custom domains like the Harry Potter fansite FictionAlley, or hosted on sites like Livejournal, Dreamwidth, even Mibba) and multifandom fanfiction archive sites (Fanfiction.net, SlashFanfiction.com, FANlib, FanDomination) each have their own guidelines, with certain groups outright banning "slash," aka male/male works, or "femslash," aka female/female works. Some groups allow smut, and some groups take a vehement stance against the perversity. A few sites take a stand against RPF/Real Person Fiction; One site, FanDomination, even gets a cease & desist letter from a baseball player over a fic, which scares FanDomination and Fanfiction.net into banning RPF.

So the conversations arise: How do we create a space where people are free to post the fanfic that they want, and readers are free to enjoy it, without fear of harassment? A conversation starts brewing on Dreamwidth.

But first, enter: Chris Williams, Craig Singer, and David Williams, with a 3 million dollar investment in a writing site that would become FANlib— A commercial, multifandom fic-publishing platform where Intellectual Property holders could license their Property to the site, legally allowing fans to post fanfiction for the IP that FANlib has licensing deals with. On May 18th (barely one day after Astolat's "An Archive of One's Own") 2007, their site launches thanks to investment backing and a licensing deal with the show The L Word.

Right after the FANlib annoncement, Livejournal user Casperanza posts, "Dear Fandom: Can You Stop Saying that?" A rant about about the long-winded fandom discourse on the legality of fanfic, a direct response to FANlib's concept of 'legal fanfiction.'

"I keep hearing fans say that they themselves think fanfiction is an illegal/infringing activity, and I don't think that it is. There's been no legal ruling that says that it is (and in fact, quite the opposite: whenever unauthorized literary rewrites or retellings have gone to court, they've been declared transformative, and these were for-profit works, not even our not-for-profit pleasure zone.) I think when/if fanfiction goes to court--if it ever does, which I don't think it will--it will be declared to be transformative."

One comment on that post, from user Lamardeuse, reads:

"I'm so glad to have you on my flist to keep me up to date with the latest trends in fandom, because I totally missed the memo on this FanLib thing. And my god, ‶The launch of FanLib.com represents the coming of age of fan fiction, or "fanfic."″ Give me an effing break - wow, now we can finally achieve puberty because male-dominated corporate America has figured out a way to line their pockets through fanfic! I can feel myself finally becoming a woman."

Fans aren't happy with the commercialization of fic— they firmly believe that fic is not a job to earn money off of, and that the non-profit status of fic is what keeps it legal. They don't like that these corporate tech bros are attempting to rebrand fanfic as appealing to IP Holders, the people that were suing fanfic authors not even 5 years ago.

FANlib launches, and a year later it closes after being purchased by Disney and shut down. Many people shared their commentary on the closure, including Laura Hale/Partly_bouncy (who worked for FANlib briefly, and wrote an expose a year after the site opened) and Stewardess, who said,

""FanLib does not think of itself as a fanfiction archive." Then what is FanLib? A naked advertising agency wearing a fanfiction archive suit? Yes."

It's clear by this point (March 2008) that fans, even the ones who have been involved in the conversations about the Archive of Our Own, are skeptical of fanfiction archives at best, and utterly vicious towards them at worst. So why did they embrace AO3?

May 17th, 2007, Astolat posts a blog to Dreamwidth and Livejournal, titled "An Archive of One's Own."

She lays the terms out clear: Fans need an archive that doesn't exploit their work, doesn't censor them, and has a clear legal standing.

"I think the necessary features would include:

The fans quickly assembled. Experienced coders began giving advice on how to build the site, ideas for features to implement, discussions on whether the site should host ads, how the tagging and warnings system should function. People were quick to bring up Fanfiction.net as an example of how multifandom archives tend to be crushed under the weight of their own "success." In that comment, user Caitie expresses the need for some kind of broad content warning to stand between minors and adult fics, which would grow to become the iconic consent dialogue that the Archive is known for today.

This blog by Xenacryst compiles those conversations and a few others.

When asked how she intended to find a userbase, Astolat responded,

"if we build it we will come Like I said to harriet_spy above talking about ff.net -- I do think in this case, if *WE* build it, *WE* will come. FF.net was bad in a whole host of ways even before they banned adult material (great way to BAN ADULTS, and drive the quality downward) -- bad searching, overwhelming signal to noise ratio, no real philosophy or connection to the community. (ff.net is ALSO run for advertising -- I suspect by now they are absolutely making a profit, although I find them less obnoxious than the fanlib people because they didn't deliberately start out that way.) They don't know how to make it a place where most of us want to be, and so of course they end up with the people who can't find something better."

One of the main points made by Astolat during these early conversations was that women should be represented in this archive. A lot of this group supported the idea of making a fanfic space that was suited towards women, since FANlib and Fanfiction.net were both run by men. User Aesvir commented,

"Definitely a cool idea. I'm not much of a feminist, but seeing a group of men try to take over what has been a comfort zone for women to express themselves is really disgusting. I don't know any coding, but would love to have a Paypal subscription!"

When user Tienriu asked how Astolat intended to broach the concept of "chan," a term describing writings of underage sex, and the different laws in each country, Astolat responded,

"I don't like chan myself. But in a way, that makes me more rather than less leery of tossing it -- because a lot of times we are happy to find excuses to block out the stuff we don't like, even when there is not all that compelling a legal argument. I don't know the law even in the US on it, and so can't really talk about that specifically in the absence of good concrete data (no offense -- but I am by default always skeptical about being cited fragments of horror-story test cases. I would want to see the text of the law and the actual decision, and ideally have it explained to me by a knowledgable lawyer). Hypothetically, it is certainly possible that investigation (which I am all for having done) would show that this one particular category added so much additional legal jeopardy that it was not worth the risk of hosting it. However, we have to keep in mind that there are also many legality arguments to be made against many other categories (RPF, nc-17, etc), if we consider all the countries where readers may be located. Also we would have to figure out just what the legal boundaries of the disproportionately risky category was -- I think of chan as "adult-minor" relationships; there is also the question of stories about kids having relationships among themselves, the distinction between older/younger kids, explicit stories vs. G/PG rated ones etc. On a practical level, the archive would want to ask authors to extensively label their stories anyway, for searching/sorting purposes, so it would be easy to create searches where individual users could avoid seeing any particular category of stories that might be illegal in their own country. It would also be good if people could set preferences in their profile so they automatically weren't shown stories of any particular types they just didn't want to see at all (hey, maybe we can get rid of pairing wars while we are at it! we can only dream *g*). The archive and the nonprofit running it clearly should be set up in a country with less restrictive laws, and which does not make site owners liable for content posted by users."

The rules of the site have started to become clearer: On the Archive, no one will be subjected to censorship based on one person's "ick."

There's even a thread started about how the categories/warnings (taxonomy) should be implemented. Some users dislike the idea of being forced to restrain their works to pre-defined labels. Astolat responds,

"I don't see why we can't have both! A fluid tagging system layered on top of a fixed taxonomy would imo be ideal and provide a lot of this added flexibility. I do think that for an archive on this scale, a base-level fixed taxonomy is critical for ensuring readers can get to a manageable base set of stories to consider reading. Imperfect, yes, but it's like democracy: the worst system except for all the others. I would suggest having "caveat lector" and "deliberately uncategorized" options in this taxonomy, so people could choose to keep their stories out of the categories. Readers can then choose whether they want to see those stories listed, based on whether they are in a sort of casual browsing frame of mind or whether they are looking for something very specific"

Thus setting the grounds for the current Archive tagging/warning system, where there are canonical (filterable) tags and warnings that authors can choose to use, the option to write custom warnings and tags, or the option to forgo warnings and tags altogether— Such is every user's right, defined by the Archive Terms of Service.

How did the other multifandom archives react to this display of fannish community?

Well, one of the FanDomination founders decided to throw his 2 unwanted cents into the ring. I'm not going to bore you with his whole rant, because he's a wildly misogynistic bully, and because he spends most of the comment talking about shit that doesn't matter. But here's an excerpt anyways:

"Why does a fic reader/writer need to be on thier board at all? Do they have an investment in the operation? Also, why would there HAVE to be a female on the board? That seems pretty sexist to me to REQUIRE one to be 'legitimate'. Are you saying that males are incapable of truly understanding the nature and intricacies of fandom? Sounds like a bunch of feminazi horseshit to me. -The Great Me of the Saturn Necklace, Jim."

.... Yeah. Okay, Jim.

Safe to say the other archives are a little jealous, and the project of AO3 hasn't even begun yet.

In 2009 the Archive entered open beta, welcoming all kinds of fans. By the time closed beta ended and open beta started, they'd amassed 668 fandoms; Some created during the closed beta include Supernatural, Bandom, American Idol RPF, Stargate, and Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

As an Adam Lambert fan of the past decade, I'm most interested in the American Idol RPF section of the site, because as of February 2010, there were 369 American Idol RPF fics on the site, and 201 fics on the site tagged with Adam, which was over 100 more fics than any other character in the American Idol RPF category besides Kris Allen with 165 fics. Kris and Adam's pairing tag had 175 uses. Astolat herself has written 40 Kradam fics, some of which I happen to enjoy.

But it just goes to show that Astolat was right: "If we build it, we will come." The Archive had no issue finding users seeking refuge from censorship and banning, and RPF communities were no exception. There were 286 My Chemical Romance fanfics as of that same time, and thousands upon thousands of fics for bigger fandoms like Stargate and Harry Potter. 409 Harry Potter fics were tagged as M/M, more than any other relationship category, and a truly astounding number considering the Harry Potter fandom's history of censoring slash shippers.

The most popular Supernatural pairing at the time? Wincest. There were over 240 Dean/Sam fics, and a meager 64 Destiel (Dean/Cas) fics, in comparison. It's not particularly shocking if you know that Astolat herself wrote about Wincest a lot.

Back in modern day, fandom spaces are once again overrun with 'concerns' of "degeneracy," leading some naive fandomgoers to beg or demand that the Archive get rid of the maximum content inclusivity— the reason the Archive of Our Own was even created, the principles that it has stood on since it was merely a thought in Astolat's head— and instead acquiesce to censorship, in the manner of Moms for Liberty.

This is not an essay to argue the morality of fiction. This is an essay about why the Archive was created. What the Archive of Our Own stands for is an effort to create a place by readers, for readers, where authors wouldn't have their fics and accounts deleted just because the moderators spontaneously decided to change the site rules, and where the site could curate a legal team to defend itself and it's users from unjust cease & desist letters.

I have no conclusion for this part, but I'm going to curb myself here, because this is already so long. Maybe I'll do a part 2 later, so I can cover the more recent years? We'll see.

disclaimer: I volunteer for the AO3/OTW, but my opinions are solely my own. I am not speaking on behalf of the org. [I'm obligated to disclose this.]

[fleet-off]

Menagerie [4]

(previous parts: 0 | 1 | 2 | 3)

The vet mentioned that rats like company. A day after the pet supply store, Vegas stalks into the kitchen with Pete faithfully in tow and sets two more rat carriers on the counter. He’s evading eye contact, which is a shame because Pete looks majorly in love with him.

Macau peers through the carriers’ plastic slats and glimpses whiskers and hairless tails. “Two rats? Is it my birthday?”

Vegas snorts. “Only if you want rat cake for your birthday dinner. No, we’re just…celebrating.”

“The final stitches are out,” Pete says, eyes gleaming. “Doc’s very impressed with his progress.”

“I’m cleared for baths again.”

Macau groans. “We don’t have a housekeeper, please don’t clog the drain with your long-ass rose-petal soaks.”

“I’ll do worse than that,” Vegas threatens, and—Macau can’t remember the last time he sounded so genuinely cheerful.

“Jerk.” He knocks gently against his brother’s shoulder. “Glad you’re getting better, bro.”

Vegas ruffles his hair and drops a kiss on his head. “Me too,” he says. “Me too.”

One of the rats crouches in the back corner of its carrier, sniffing at the air. The other is investigating the gaps in the wire-grated door. Vegas pokes his finger into the carrier, and the creature at once approaches and takes his finger in its tiny paws. It noses at it—hesitates, weighing options in its little rat brain—and begins to nibble at the tip.

“He likes you,” Pete murmurs.

A vague smile softens Vegas’s face. “D’you know, Macau was a biter when he first got his baby teeth,” he says. “Little menace mauled anything he could fit in his mouth. Bit our uncle’s mole once, right in the middle of a visit.”

The story is worn from over-telling, but it seems fresh to Pete. He stifles a snicker—like wanting to laugh is secret, somehow. “What did he do?”

“Couldn’t do anything, could he? Getting upset with the baby is a bad look.” Vegas wiggles his finger. The rat adjusts its grip and keeps chewing on him. “He just had to stand there with that goonish dad-smile stuck to his face and pretend to be indulgent while Ma coaxed Macau off. He made the funniest fucking wheeze.”

“And Ma freaked out, but Ba nearly laughed his ass off,” Macau recites.

“He wasn’t upset?”

“He was proud. Said it meant Macau would grow up strong.”

This one’s a fighter.

Macau grimaces. When he was twelve—when their father forgot his presence and even Vegas had less time for him than before—he’d clung to that old story. A born fighter, he’d thought. Born to crush that filthy family between my teeth. The rest of them just couldn’t see it yet.

“When did Ba get anything right,” he says now. In the open air of the kitchen with their father dead in the ground, it only aches a little.

Vegas’s eyebrows draw together; his mouth catches on his instinctive response. “Ba,” he says. “Well. He wasn’t always wrong.”

…Which is the funniest shit he could say, standing here with his healing wounds and his awkward half-smiling boyfriend a step too close and a rat gnawing happily on his finger—and fuck Ba, honestly, for never seeing everything he got wrong about Vegas—but Macau’s not fighter enough to argue.

“Hia, you’re going to need new stitches if you keep letting that rat bite you,” he says instead.

Vegas’s expression eases. “He’s fine. He’s not doing it to hurt, he’s just curious or hungry. Baby hedgehogs are the same. Get the—Pete?”

“Snack sticks,” Pete says, having already fished them from the bag under his arm.

Vegas takes three. “Here. Offer one to the other little guy, see if it’ll help him settle in. And Macau—for the one in your room.”

“The OG rat.”

“The—fuck it, the OG rat.”

“Ojirat?” Pete cocks his head. “Is that what we’re calling him?”

Vegas’s arm jerks mid-handoff. Macau misses his snack stick. It hits the floor—some seeds scatter—Pete’s already bending to help, but Macau ducks into a crouch before he can. “It’s fine, phi, my bad. Uh, we’re not calling him anything, I don’t think. Don’t…” He tries to sweep the loose seeds into his palm. The tacky honey sticks to the floor and to his hands.

“Is that what we’re calling him,” he hears Vegas repeat, tone indecipherable. His nails tap against the counter.

Macau is glad to be low to the ground, and then ashamed for it. Vegas isn’t going to— “You don’t have to sweat the names, p’Pete,” he says. “It’s just a pet.”

Vegas…laughs. High and a little hiccuping, which means it’s genuine. “You know that’s a Ba thing too,” he says.

Macau’s ears burn. “Oh,” he says stupidly. His thumb crushes one of the seeds into the floor. He’s making a mess. “I always figured it was a you thing.”

More specifically—a who cares what it’s called, it’s just going to die anyway thing. One of the things you rip up and hide under your pillow after, waking the next morning to find smears of half-formed names in crayon on the pillowcase. Macau’s always been good for a mess and not much more.

The stain a name leaves seems suddenly more permanent than crayons or the honey residue on Macau’s palms. Sticky, solid. Macau’s fingers itch for it. “It’s confusing with three,” he blurts. “It’s confusing, if we don’t name them.”

He raises his eyes to his brother, whose gaze is tightly focused on his fearless, mouthy little rat. “Macau,” he says. Lets out a long breath and turns to face him. “Fuck’s sake, it’s my mess. Get off the floor, toss that stick and come take another one—I’ll handle the rest. Pete, pass the paper towels?”

So Macau rises, and washes his hands, and a wet paper towel picks up the honey residue and seeds in seconds, and—some things aren’t a big deal at all, actually. Which is. Cool.

“Side question,” Macau says once his brother is on his feet again, “If I wanted to get you to clean my room for me too…”

“Oh, fuck off.” Vegas offers him a fresh snack stick. He’s breathing a little harder, favoring his right side, but he waves off Pete’s hand with his teeth bared in a grin. “No housekeepers, we sort our own damn messes. Right?”

“Yeah.”

Pete nudges his hip against Vegas’s. “Names?” he asks.

“Names,” Vegas agrees.

(to be continued)

[batbirdies]

As some other have mentioned, with ao3 still down, I’m happy to send some of my fics to people if you wish. I’ll probably try to post some of my one shots here later today.

[kitkatt0430]

Talk Shop Tuesday: What's one goal that you're working towards and what steps are you taking to try to achieve that goal? Why is this goal something you want to achieve? <3 -@fieldsofview

So my main goal this year is to have fewer Works In progress - both on the small level of unpublished fics/chapters and the bigger level of chaptered fics/series.

This is to a.) clean up my WiP folder(s) on my computer, try to move stuff that's been sitting there for a long time into the done pile and b.) to close out some of my unfinished works on Ao3 so that I can celebrate them being done!!! Or at least having made progress on them, which is still worth celebrating. I've got a number of WiPs right now and a strong desire to cut down on them, so that's why I set this goal.

The new Arrow Redux series that I started this year has actually been in service of this goal despite technically being a new series on Ao3. It's a WiP that's been sitting in my folders for several years now so it's been good to actually not only make progress on it but to be three fics in posting-wise with a bit written for the fourth fic. This is one that I had a lot of scattered notes for in addition to random scenes written for it (though not all actually work anymore) but it's definitely nice to get that sense of accomplishment at finishing pieces of this series instead of the "meh" feeling of closing the document unfinished once more.

It is admittedly a bit of a vague goal in many ways since I'm not specifying specific WiPs and series, but sometimes if I push too hard on one thing then I wind up burning out fast because I'm trying too hard. But considering I finally got the third part of Thaw completed (thus finally closing out the series) and made progress on two other open series, I think I'm doing pretty good at achieving my overall goal for the year.

Steps I'm taking towards this goal are

trying not to start new WiPs that I know I can't finish in a week or two which I've been surprisingly successful at

I don't open my fic files with the goal of completing them, just at adding to them. Often if I approach it with the 'i just want a little progress, don't have to finish yet' attitude then I wind up getting back into the groove of things more easily after re-reading what's there so far. And then it does wind up finished after all.

I do want to make progress on my older unfinished fics/series the most, so I'm also re-reading what I have so far. It's the best way to remind myself of what happened and where it's been headed... and sometimes also to realize that maybe it needs to move in a new direction. Once I've refreshed myself on what's there, it's a lot easier to move forward on what isn't.

[harumiura]

silly little scene from a silly little thing i wrote................

[lexsssu]

Fan (Dante)

TAGS: Dante/F!reader, lactation kink, pregnancy kink, breeding, smut, drabble Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

Iɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴜsʙᴀɴᴅ ғɪɴᴅs ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴏᴡ ᴏғ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀʜᴏᴏᴅ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀʟʏ ɪʀʀᴇsɪsᴛɪʙʟᴇ.

“Mmmmm…can’t keep my hands to myself when you look so sexy waddling around like that, babe. ”

Dante never really thought about having kids, nor did he ever think he’d have a kink for MILFs. But of course, life did love proving him wrong time and time again, especially when it served him a positive pregnancy test from his lover. Safe to say that he finally pulled out the ring he’d long been planning on presenting you, unwilling to not take responsibility for the two most precious things in his life.

“Never been into MILFs, but if it’s you? Consider me your number one fan~”

The devil hunter’s big, rough hands palmed at your hefty tits through the fabric of the shirt you’d appropriated from his side of the closet, pinching your puffy nipples and groaning when droplets of milk moistened the cloth. 

Having heightened demon sense was normally a blessing, especially in his profession, but being able to smell your intoxicating scent that emanated from both your cunt and milk-filled tits regularly tested his self-restraint as your pregnancy progressed.

“I’m sure you won’t mind if I have a ‘lil taste, right? Don’t worry, I won’t leave you thirsty either…”

With your arms wrapped around his neck, his own lips busy sloppily slurping at your left breast while his hand played with the other, and your pussy stuffed full with his cock, there is no place Dante would rather be.

[tup-ika-5385]

Summary:

Taking a nervous breath, Tup approached the hangar bay, gearbag slung over his shoulder, all packed for his new mission. Recently, Captain Rex recommended him as a potential ARC candidate, which had him nearly vibrating in excitement. However, he didn’t have as much experience as some of the other applicants, so he’s been assigned a mission, a trial run of sorts, to see how he’d do fighting alongside someone outside the 501st. All this to explain Tup’s anxious anticipation as he approached the Omicron-class shuttle currently parked in the Resolute’s main hangar.

Chapter 2 Summary:

After some stakeout bonding time between the Bad Batch and Tup, tensions rise when one member goes missing.

Chapter 2:

“So, Tech,” Tup asked, breaking the awkward silence that had settled since Hunter left a few minutes ago. “How do you guys typically organize in a standard attack formation? Most configurations I know start with five troopers, so I’m just trying to figure out where I should slot in if this comes down to a firefight.” He wisely didn’t ask about why they were a group of four, or even if they were from the same batch; he figured it’d be a touchy subject.

Wrecker interrupted with a laugh. “Ha, standard formation! Dunno if you noticed, but we’re not very standard ourselves!” He chuckled.

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Tup sent Wrecker a grin; the larger trooper reminded him a little bit of Hardcase. If he were here, they would’ve gotten along like a ship on fire.

Adjusting his goggles, Tech nodded at Wrecker’s statement. “Wrecker is correct; as a Commando squadron, our attack formations vary significantly from standard. Instead, we use a series of plans, numbered one through 99, having memorized our positions and responses… well, most of us, that is.”

At this, Wrecker gave a sheepish grin. “Was never really much for studying; but if I’ve done it once, I can do it again pretty easily, so Hunter’ll usually just say “Like that time on Felucia” or something. That, or I can just smash ‘em to pieces!” 

Tup nodded in understanding, making sure to keep an eye on their objective, “Makes sense. One of my brothers in the 501st is like that. Sometimes he has trouble paying attention during our mission briefings, so the Captain would usually send him a quick written comm afterwards, summarizing the main objectives. He’s saved my life more than a few times. A good vod, quick on his feet.” 

Wrecker grinned, “Sounds like my kind of Reg!”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what is a “reg”?” Tup tilted his head questioningly. Earlier when Crosshair had called him that, he’d been sure he meant it as an insult, but he wasn’t getting the same vibe from Wrecker now.

“Means regular clone, ya know, without modifications and stuff.” Wrecker explained, shrugging.

Tup stifled a laugh, not wanting to come off as rude. “Heh. Most brothers I know would be hard-pressed to call anyone in the 501st regular.”  

“How come?” Wrecker asked.

Tup shrugged, “Probably partially because of our General. Skywalker’s a bit of a loose canon, compared to most jedi, and a lot of the larger battalions kinda imitate the styles of their generals. Plus, Captain Rex is always looking for free-thinkers when he recruits on Kamino, which gets us a pretty interesting mix of vode.” 

Humming in understanding, Tech spoke up. “Perhaps that is why Commander Cody suggested a joint mission. We don’t usually associate with other battalions, but GAR command has been looking to… adjust the leadership structures associated with Commando squads recently. It’s likely that he thought we’d have more luck finding cohesion with less… regular regs.” He considered, thinking to himself.

Giving another shrug, Tup looked back out the window. The Bad Batch was a little rough around the edges, but given what he’d seen so far, he wouldn’t mind working with them again. The group fell into silence again, this time a little more comfortably. Wrecker had taken’s Hunter’s place as the second lookout, aided somewhat by the infrared setting on his prosthetic eye, so Tup spent a few minutes listening to Tech as he explained a few of their more basic plans, sending them to Tup’s comm in case they became relevant.

Peering through his scopes again, Tup let out an excited noise. “There’s a lothcat!”

‘What? Where?!” Wrecker asked, sharing his excitement.

“Over there, on the edge of the supply field!”

Looking through his own pair of scopes, Wrecker grinned. “Aww, look at the little guy, takin’ a nap in the sun! Kinda looks like Crosshair on our mission to Ord Cestus.” 

Tup chuckled at the mental image, noticing the black and white coloring and permanent grumpy expression on its sleeping face.

All of a sudden, Tech’s comm chirped, like Crosshair had been summoned. Tech answered it with a look of confusion. “This is Tech, what’s your status, Crosshair?”

Crosshair’s gruff voice sounded annoyed as he asked, “When’s Hunter going to get his lazy shebs over here? I’ve been waiting for nearly 20 minutes.” 

Like a switch had been flipped, Tech’s form straightened nearly hard enough to snap. Tapping intently at his datapad, he scanned the security footage for his brother. “Hunter left right after we called you. He should have been there fifteen minutes ago.”

“Maybe he got lost?” Wrecker suggested, looking nervous.

Tech shook his head, “Unlikely. Hunter’s modifications give him awareness of a planet’s magnetic poles, meaning he is always aware of his cardinal directions.” 

“Well, let’s go looking for him!” Wrecker said, standing up, barely remembering his flimsy civvie disguise. The rest of the group quickly followed. Crosshair met them in the middle, taking the lead; without Hunter, his enhanced vision made him the best tracker they had. 

“There’s signs of a scuffle, here.” He pointed out disturbed dirt, noticing two pretty clear imprints where Hunter’s hands had been pressed into the ground, but they looked different, intentional. 

“Tech. What’s that symbol mean?” He asked their resident genius. Outside of ARC sign, Hunter and Tech had come up with their own shorthand for various status updates, and that’s likely what Hunter was trying to communicate when he got taken.

Tech leaned closer, adjusting his goggles to get a better look. “This one means ‘Enemy off radar,’ and this one… ‘Extreme caution, pursue objective at a distance.’” Of the three of them, Tech was usually the best at keeping his cool in stressful situations, Wrecker and Crosshair could be loose-cannons, but his forehead creased in worry as he tried to decipher the message. 

“Enemy off-radar? What’s that supposed to mean?” Tup asked, and Crosshair shrugged.

With a sudden intake of air, Tech had a realization. “He didn’t sense them coming." Tech's hands gestured wildly as he explained, becoming more animated. "Hunter’s enhancements grant him an awareness of everything within a kilometer of his surroundings, sometimes more. Sneaking up on him should not have been possible without some sort of experimental technology. Perhaps that’s how the medical supplies keep getting stolen!” 

“What about the second one then?” Crosshair asked, expression terse. 

“Well, objective could mean our mission objective, to discover who has been stealing the medical supplies. Hunter being taken implies that we were likely being watched, and if I am correct…” Tech paused, taking out his datapad again to look at the camera feed of the hangar where the supplies should be. “As I suspected, our opponent utilized our distraction to escape with the supplies once again.”

Wrecker let out a grunt of frustration, slamming a fist into a nearby wall. “So all this was for nothin’?”

“Hardly,” Tech said, glancing furtively around the alleyway. “But before I can say more, we should head back to the Marauder. It’s not far from here.”

_________________

Back at the Havoc Marauder, the Bad Batch plus Tup gathered around the holo-table. 

“Alright, what was so important that we had to wait until we were at the ship?” Crosshair griped, jaw tight with worry. 

“I just need to check the Marauder’s surveillance systems to confirm my hypothesis.” Tech said, not pausing to talk. After a moment, he made an affirmative noise before turning back to the rest of the group.

“I had noticed, when looking at the feed of the missing supplies, a strange anomaly that wasn’t visible before, that disappeared during the time that Hunter went missing. Using the Marauder’s systems, I was able to pinpoint the time the anomaly first started, as well as a general location. Using this information, as well as that from the locators Crosshair tagged the supplies approximately six hours ago, I was able to determine a likely location for Hunter. Thankfully, it appears they were not monitoring us when we first arrived, so only some of them were detected,” Tech said, adjusting his goggles.

“Locators?” Tup asked at the same time that Wrecker asked, “How do ya’ know that Hunter’s going to be there?” 

“The second symbol,” Tech brought up a holopic of the signs Hunter had left in the dirt. “‘Extreme Caution; Pursue objective at a distance.’ Hunter obviously had reason to believe that his pursuers were the ones who had taken the supplies, and that our methods to locate them would aid in our efforts to find him. I am a little concerned about this first part, though… especially given Hunter’s likely location.”

“Well, where is he, already?” Wrecker groaned. 

“Given what we know, this is the most likely location. Three of the trackers were likely discovered and removed in-transit, but the last one continued here.” He pointed to their map.

Crosshair jutted his chin proudly with a smirk, glad to finally have an objective. “They always stop looking after three.”

“Indeed,” Tech nodded. “However, I’m not able to pull up any surveillance camera for Hunter’s location, and from what I can tell, the warehouse has some unusual modifications, almost like it’s prepared for an incursion.”

“Let’s go then. We’ve wasted enough time.” Crosshair slid his rifle out from behind him, nearly out the door before Tup spoke. 

“Crosshair, wait. We have no idea what we’re up against. We should at least try and do some recon first.”

Crosshair’s nails dug into his palms; body screaming for action. They needed to save Hunter now! And instead of going where they were needed, he had to stand around and explain his reasoning to some stupid reg? The idea of anyone other than Hunter giving him orders already made Crosshair vehemently angry, let alone a kriffing adiik they’d only met a day ago!

Standing in the doorway to the main cabin of the marauder, Tup’s sympathetic tone felt like a patronizing slap in the face. “Crosshair, I know you want to help Hunter, but we need to make a plan. We can’t just go charging in there. You heard what Tech said; we have no idea what we’re walking into; it’d be jareor. Suicide.”

He pushed past Tup with more force than necessary, glaring ice-cold daggers at him. “If you disagree with it, shove off and go back to the 501st. We don’t need you dragging us down.” He snapped bitterly, smacking away Tup’s careful hand. 

Tup straightened defensively, refusing to take this lying down. Crosshair could get his whole team killed if they went in blindly. “Whether you need me or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m here, and I’m here to help. So if you’ve got a problem, di’kut, don’t take it out on me!”

Softer, he continued. “We’ll get Hunter back, but not like this… we’ll do some surveillance, maybe even call reinforcements, if we need them.”

Turning back around, Crosshair’s shoulders were tight as a cord as he adjusted the toothpick in his mouth, voice hardening to hide the shard of helplessness in his chest. “And why shouldn’t I take it out on you?” He asked casually. “Because it’ll hurt your feelings? Because it’s not fair? Because you think you’re worth something, you ARC wannabe?”

He faced Tup now, shoving him as he spat out a toothpick, broken in his anger. “Let me tell you something, reg ,” he sneered. “You and your opinions aren’t worth a kriff . You think you’re an individual? That you’ve got something to contribute? We’re clones, products, replaceable to the last gene; Even our squad, Clone Force 99, could be wiped clean on a whim if it suited the GAR. To anyone outside of this room, Hunter’s as good as worthless, just like the rest of us, and I’m not waiting for nat-borns to sift through their kriff while he bleeds out in some cell!” 

Crosshair knew better than to hope for reinforcements; Clone Force 99 was on their own, just like they always were. One friendly reg wasn’t going to change that.

As Crosshair hissed the word “product,” images of Umbara came up in Tup’s mind. Sense memory came unbidden, and something inside Tup snapped. “You think I don’t already know that?!” 

“I-If any of us were worth something, battles like Teth, Kamino, Umbara wouldn’t have turned into complete FUBAR’s, and my batcher wouldn’t still wake up screaming, thinking he’d been taken away for doing the right thing! I figured all that out long before you got here, but getting yourself killed isn’t going to help Hunter!” 

He refused to let his eyes tear up like they wanted to, focusing on his anger rather than the crushing helplessness he always felt when a brother was taken from him. 

A small warning bell went off in Crosshair’s mind, alerting him to the fact that he’d overstepped. He wanted to ignore it, kriff he really did, but at some point during their argument, Tup’s hair had come undone and seeing another flash of brokenness in a face so similar to Hunter’s was something he couldn’t do, not right now.

So with a put-upon sigh, Crosshair extended an olive branch in the only way he knew how. He turned to Tup, no longer angry and attacking, and asked, “What did you have in mind?”

Chapter 1 Link: Here

[softly-potter]

Yall ever see a gif of a character that makes you physically react and you have to do breathing exercises to not absolutely lose your mind

[samiferboy]

yall liked this so here it is again for any followers who haven't seen it yet <3

flicker back

inspired by @metztlilix's post:

anyway yeah huge fan of the hc Sam killed himself multiple times and Lucifer kept bringing him back in s5 I also think we should have gotten some scenes of Lucifer cradling Sam like a child in a pool of blood and gore while whispering “it’ll never end.” plus more hallucination-coercions of trying to get him to say yes but like in a toxic manipulative way coated in sugar. yk.

Rating: Mature Warnings: SUICIDE like lots of suicide, blood, mild gore Pairing: Samifer (sort of, lowkey) Other tags: s5e3: free to be you and me, heaven, dreams/memories, persuasion, attempted manipulation Word count: 4,200

"I'll just bring you back." Lucifer makes good on a promise. Then he does it again. And again. And again.

(please be nice to me im literally so anxious LOLLL kms)

Sam comes to with a jolt. He's breathing heavily, like he'd just been running, but there's no danger. He's laying in a field, staring up at the sky, sunny and freckled with clouds. Perfect temperature. No flies or mosquitos. Songbirds twittering in the trees surrounding the grass.

His heart calms down after about thirty seconds of nothing. Tentatively, he plants his hands on the ground and heaves himself to his feet.

In front of him is a path, a dirt path spotted with stones and roots and patches of grass. He glances around, searching for clues; surely there had to be something going on. He had no memory of getting here, after all. No memory at all, actually, except for…

His face falls. Blood. No escape. No reprieve. That was the last thing in his head.

I'm dreaming, he decides. At least this was a nice dream, a comedown after a night of pain. With that in his head, he walks down the path, enjoying the summer day. He picks out a few memorable bird songs, eyes some grasshoppers crak-crak-ing across the field, and just…relaxes.

He walks through the field, then into a forest. More birds chirp and squirrels chatter. A chipmunk runs across his path, stops and eyes him, then approaches him. Childlike joy spreads across his face and he kneels to look closer at the animal, but doesn't dare to reach out for it. The chipmunk bobs its little head, blinking at him, getting barely a foot away from him, but when he shifts, it runs off, chittering as it leaves.

Smiling, Sam stands back up. But then his smile fades; any minute now, Dean and Dad are gonna yell for him to catch up so they can hunt the -

He freezes. Dean and Dad are here?

Then he realizes that this isn't just a dream, it's a memory. It all floods back to him, being a child hunting through the woods with his father and brother on the trail of some monster, how he got distracted by all the animals, his delight when a chipmunk took interest in him. He couldn't have been any older than eight or nine.

Bushes rustle ahead of him and he stands, preparing for John to start lecturing him about getting distracted and falling behind and aren't you taking this seriously, you know it's dangerous, but it's not John who walks out. No, Sam's never seen this man before in his life, but he approaches Sam with a kind of patient, rueful smile.

"Good, it didn't take me long to find you," he says. "I'm just naturally drawn to you. I can sense you, sort of, at least up here. Now, come on, I am not welcome around these parts."

"Uh…who are you?" Sam asks cautiously, stepping backwards, patting for a gun and finding nothing.

The man tilts his head. "You don't…? Ah, must be a side effect." He looks sad, regretful. "We know each other, Sam. I know you very well, in fact. I need you to come with me."

"Come with you where? Are you an angel? What do you want?" Sam asks, retreating further. Something about the man reverberates power in the same way angels did, but there was something different about him. Something…cold.

"I am," he says. "And I'm taking you back to Earth."

"Back to - but then - where -"

The man seizes his arm, and then everything turns to black.

****

Blood everywhere. Blood all over Sam's face, it's in his eyes, in his mouth. Blood on the floor around his head, blood on his hands. Its stink sits heavy in his nose and he coughs, exhaling as if that could push it out, and he heaves himself up to a sitting position. He holds a hand to his nose and touches wet, hot blood, but there's no pain. No pain at all, actually. Something slimy and wet is on his forehead and he flicks it off; it lands on the floor in front of him and it's pink and wrinkly and fleshy, almost like -

Sam grabs his head - his hair is matted with blood, but there are no wounds. Not even a scar. Nothing but the slimy bits of brain littering his scalp to indicate he'd ever been hurt. He wipes them off, his stomach churning.

For another moment, he remembers nothing, but then it comes back to him with the force of an oncoming train.

Lucifer.

Terror grips his heart. The fallen angel had just sat there on his bed after pretending to be Jess - fuck, he had held her and kissed her cheek and knowing it was Lucifer made him want to chew the skin of his lips off - and told him very straightforwardly that there was no way out. He would say yes. He will. It's inevitable.

"No," Sam says aloud, as if the angel is there in the empty motel room. "No, I won't."

There's a gun lying on the floor next to him. If he hadn't known before, he certainly knew now that he had just killed himself, that he had gone to heaven, that Lucifer had dragged him back. Just like he promised.

Was it easy, he wondered. Had it been a struggle, or was going to heaven as an angel just as simple as flying into the sky? Lucifer had said it didn't take him long to find him, that they were drawn to each other, sick sick sick, did that mean there was no escape?

Maybe if I run, if I get there and run as fast as I can. But how can I get myself to…?

Sam chews on his nails. I didn't remember Lucifer. But I remembered last night. Maybe if I wait another night, when I die, I'll remember him, and I'll remember to run.

With that grim vow in his head, he crawls into bed and tries to fall asleep, finally does sometime in the dead of night.

****

24 hours later. Sam had laid low, just gone to a grocery store to get some food and coffee, then sat in the motel room trying to think of what to do. How can I kill myself properly was such a darkly humorous idea that had suddenly become his goal. He can't just bring me back forever. I have to run somewhere he won't find me.

He decides to try a few experiments just in case he doesn't remember. In the dream, he had woken wearing the same clothing he'd died in, so he writes "RUN" on a piece of paper and stuffs it in his pocket. He does the same to another piece he plans to keep in his mouth. Just in case dead Sam doesn't remember Lucifer, he writes "DON'T TRUST THE BLOND MAN" on a third piece of paper.

Lastly, he screws a silencer onto the barrel of his gun; didn't want to alert other people in the motel, after all. It was a miracle nobody had moved his body the night before.

He pops the paper into his mouth, tries to get as little saliva on it as possible, then holds the gun to his head. His hand trembles and he thinks about Dean.

He fires.

****

Sam wakes up in a bedroom with a funny feeling in his mouth, but when he feels around with his tongue, there's nothing there. Must not've had enough water before bed.

"Sam! Time for school!" Dad yells from downstairs. Sam brightens and swings his legs out of bed; he liked this school. His teacher was really nice, he had a few friends, and he was getting really good grades. Every night he prayed that Dad would be okay just staying here forever.

Then he looks down; he didn't remember wearing jeans to bed.

Dream, he thinks. Then it comes back to him. Heaven. Lucifer.

Run.

In a flash, he's sprinting out of the room, down the hall, down the stairs, and outside of the house. The road he runs out onto stretches through the neighborhood, but then disappears into trees. He bolts towards them, his feet pounding on the concrete, and when he gets there, he nearly crashes into some huge redwoods.

Right, that time we were hunting a hide-behind in the state park, he remembers. But he doesn't let himself get lost in memories, just follows the path, running. Miraculously - but it does make sense - he doesn't get tired, so he just keeps running. On and on and on, deeper and deeper into the forest.

Just when he thinks he's made it, he's escaped, he's well and truly dead, he runs around a tree and smack into Lucifer, knocking them both over.

"There you are," Lucifer says from the ground, looking at Sam with an unbearable fondness. "You really tried to get away this time."

Sam scrambles away. "Get - get away from me, I'll never say yes to you," he spits out.

Lucifer sighs. "You will," he says. "And you need to be in your body for that. Now, come on."

Sam gets to his feet and bolts again, but he's only been running for a few seconds before Lucifer appears in front of him and grabs his wrist. "I'm sorry, Sam, but I have to do this," Lucifer says, and the world dissolves.

Sam's eyes shoot open and he sits up. His face is coated in blood and bits of skull and brain again, and he wipes it all off his nose and lips and eyelids and forehead. Dammit, he thinks, but he's determined. He will fucking make it happen. Maybe Lucifer will just get too tired of bringing him back, too annoyed, if it's too much of a hassle. Or maybe, just maybe, if he does enough damage to his body, Lucifer won't be able to shove his soul back into it.

This time, he aims the gun right above his pounding heart, waits a beat, and fires.

****

Brrring!

Jostled and bumped by other kids, Sam leaves school clutching his books to his chest. He's halfway to the school bus when he remembers that he's a grown adult and he's in heaven. He drops the books and bolts.

He runs down the street, turns a corner, runs down another, then the street fades into a gravel pathway through the woods. He keeps running, the gravel crunching under his shoes. The gravel path seems to stretch on for miles, so eventually he just turns to the left and starts bushwhacking through the forest, stepping over rocks and sticks, shoving his way through gaps in roots, avoiding prickly plants and poison oak, darting through the undergrowth.

Wings flutter. "Really, Sam?" Lucifer's there, mildly annoyed. "You know, it's not a piece of cake, getting to heaven. There are a lot of angels who really don't want me here."

"You won't have me," Sam says.

Lucifer just rolls his eyes and grabs Sam's arm, and they both fall into darkness.

****

"Look at you. What a mess."

Sam stirs, blinking. There's still blood on his face, and now it's completely soaked his shirt, gray stained with deep, thick red. The gun is gone. Blood has pooled around him on the floor.

A hand combs through his hair and strokes his jawline. "I told you I'd bring you back, Sam. That doesn't mean I wanted to."

Sam tries to get away, but there's an arm around his stomach holding him in place. It's…comforting, actually, he feels comfortable, and it's sickening. All of his instincts say to relax in Lucifer's arms, let him touch his face and hold him, and all of his instincts are wrong.

Lucifer's head rests on his, on his bloody hair. Chin, lips brush his head. This isn't a dream.

"How - how did you g-get here?" Sam croaks.

"You broke your ribs when you shot yourself," Lucifer says. "It broke that sigil Castiel put there. Don't worry, I recreated it, leaving myself out, of course. It was quite rude of him to keep me away from you, but we don't want company."

Sam's heart pumps new blood through his veins, old blood drying on him, sticky and lukewarm, and he itches to take his shirt off, but he can't move his arms very far. Lucifer adjusts his grip and - there's the gun, just off to the right.

"Let me go," he says, knowing Lucifer will refuse.

"You might try to hurt yourself again if I do," Lucifer says. "I can't let you. It breaks my heart, Sam. You'd really rather die - kill yourself - than be with me?"

He genuinely sounds sad, and it fills Sam with anger. "I'd kill myself a thousand times before I'd let you in," Sam snarls.

Lucifer doesn't respond for a while, just strokes his hair. Finally, he says, "It…wouldn't be how you think of it, Sam. You wouldn't be delegated to some tiny corner of your own head. I wouldn't dominate you, force you out, we'll be together inside of you. I'll let you see your brother and your friends, even let you out sometimes so you can talk to them as you. I'll give you everything you want, Sam. What else can I say?" He really truly sounds desperate, even sad.

Sam in- and exhales a deep breath. "No," he says. "Never."

Lucifer's grip had slackened in his little speech. In a flash, Sam reaches out, grabs the gun, aims at his own head, and pulls the trigger.

****

"Sam, this is getting ridiculous."

Sam blinks and rolls over, looking up. He was in bed, comfortable, cozy, with snow falling outside and Dean snoring in the room across from him. But Lucifer stands over him, arms crossed, not pleased.

"You're being quite selfish," Lucifer says. "Heaven drudges up an awful lot of bad memories for me. In case you've forgotten my tragic backstory, my Father and brother forced me into an isolation torture prison for millennia after said brother beat me in a fight. I'm not exactly thrilled to be here."

Sam sits up in bed and scoots away from Lucifer, staring at him. "How - how'd you get here so f -"

"I was with your soul when it departed," Lucifer says patiently. "I was able to follow it. Now, come on, can you promise you won't kill yourself again?"

"No. Just - just leave me here," Sam says, desperation leaking into his voice. "Just let me be dead. I should have died years ago, I should have died before anybody could die because of me. Just let me go. Let me stay here."

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I can only possess you if you're alive in your body," Lucifer says, sounding genuinely regretful. "I'll give you the peace you want, I promise, when we're together. I can create any world you want in your head for you to enjoy, if you want one. I could pull out your happiest memory, make a whole world just about it. Would you like that?"

Sam's stomach turns over; he didn't know one could feel nauseated in heaven. "I'll never be yours," he snaps.

Lucifer sighs and says, "Why don't we talk about this in a more tangible location." He touches Sam's face and the setting dissipates.

****

The whole room smells like blood. Sam raises a hand to wipe some off of his face but his hand is already sticky and red. Dried blood flakes off his wrist, his dry lips, his elbows. His head rests against something soft, and a hand is comfortably rubbing circles onto his hip, another running through his hair.

"You're so beautiful," Lucifer murmurs, enraptured. "Every time I heal you, I see it more and more."

Sam swallows.

"It hurts my feelings, really," Lucifer admits. "I don't know what else to offer you, Sam."

"Nothing," Sam says, his voice shot. "Nothing will get me to say yes to you." He looks around for his gun and doesn't see it. Maybe Lucifer took it away from him. "I told you, I'd kill myself a thousand times. This is my body. I decide what it does."

"It's our body," Lucifer corrects him gently. "You were made for me, just as I was made for you. You were holding onto it for me - for us - and I certainly appreciate how you've taken care of it. But…it's fate, Sam. You're going to say yes to me. Right now we're just counting down the minutes."

Sam's eyes dart around, still looking for the gun. But he has one other option, if he can't find it. "I won't," is all he can say.

"You will. The sooner you accept that, and the sooner you stop killing yourself, the sooner we can just move on from this whole mess," Lucifer says. "Please, Sam. I have a heart now, and you're breaking it. Just let me take care of you, or this will never end."

Sam wipes some blood that threatened to drip into his eyes. "Then it'll never end," he says, and shoves his pocketknife into his neck.

****

"Come on, you and Dad drink it, let me try," Sam urges.

Dean, eighteen and finally looking it, wiggles the beer bottle just out of reach. It's a bright sunny day and they're sitting on a few beach towels halfway up a sand dune. "No way, Sammy, Dad'll kill me if he finds out I let you drink. You're underage."

"So are you!"

"Only by three years. And hey, I can vote and buy cigarettes and join the army, I should be able to drink, too," Dean says, and drinks from the bottle. "You know?"

Sam folds his arms. "Well, if you're not gonna let me try it, can you at least not drink in front of me?"

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it, looking sly. "You know what? You can have it. But," he adds at Sam's victorious expression, "you have to drink the whole thing."

Sam scoffs; he's seen Dean and Dad knock back half a bottle at once before, and Dean didn't even tell him to chug it, he can totally drink the whole thing. Dean hands him the bottle and he takes an eager swig - and chokes.

"Yuck!" Sam gags, spitting. "That's gross! How can you drink that stuff?"

"Hey, what'd I tell you? You have to drink the whole bottle," says Dean, snickering. "That's the rule."

"But it's disgusting!"

"I knew you'd hate it, that's why I didn't give it to you," Dean says with a grin. "Finish the bottle, party animal. But, uh, if Dad asks, I did not give it to you."

Sam shoots Dean a scowl, then takes another drink of the beer and sticks his tongue out. "I'm gonna tell Dad you told me to drink the whole bottle."

"Then I'll tell Dad about that magazine you think I don't know about."

Sam's eyes go wide and he turns beet red. "B - y - th - but - the - you - no, no, no, you can't -"

"Whoa, relax, relax, I'm kidding," Dean says quickly, holding up his hands. "It's fine, I was checkin' out Playboy when I was fourteen. But, uh. Look, it's fine by me if you swing that way. Nothing wrong with it. And I really don't think Dad would care, either, he had a buddy in the army who was kind of a fruit, he told me."

Sam stares at him, relief flooding him from head to toe. "You - you really don't care that I…"

Dean shakes his head. "Nope. S' not like it's hurting anyone." He reaches out and ruffles Sam's hair. "But I'd, uh, keep it quiet outside of the two of us, you know? Lotta folks aren't cool about that sort of thing."

Sam nods firmly. "I know. I haven't told anyone," he says, and smiles. "Thanks, Dean."

"Yup. Gimme that." Dean snatches the beer bottle from Sam's hand and takes a long drink, then hands it back to him. "Rest is for you. You wanna swim?"

"Yeah!"

They take off their shirts and run down the steep sand dune, nearly falling on top of each other, and run right into the ocean. It's colder than they thought and both boys are immediately complaining about the temperature. Dean shoves Sam's head under for a few seconds, so when Sam resurfaces, gasping, he splashes a ton of water at Dean, who yelps and splashes Sam right back. After a minute, Sam heads back to shore, giving Dean the finger when he calls him a pussy, and begins the climb back up the sand dune.

Up at the top, Sam is hot again, and he flops down onto the beach towel, dripping water everywhere. He dries off his hands and grabs for his backpack, searching for a book, but -

Why do his hands look so weird? They look…old.

"Are you having fun?"

Sam jolts and turns around. In a heartbeat, he's twenty-five, not fourteen, and he recognizes the man who sits down next to him.

"I can do this, you know," Lucifer says, gesturing at the beach. "I can let you live in your best memories when we're in your body together. I didn't realize your brother accepting you was such a big moment…but it makes sense."

Sam is silent - mad at Lucifer, hating how his angel can just watch his memories like this, but also…

He wiggles his toes in the sand. It feels so real.

"I would have this, with you?" he asks.

Lucifer's eyes brighten. "You could live through any memory for as long as you want, Sam," he promises. "You can relive any happy moment. I could make new ones, too. You could live in them and forget about everything else."

Sam thinks about blood and pain and Dean's disappointed face and the death and destruction he had brought - Lucifer had brought. He thinks about this day at the beach, so many years ago now. He thinks about every other moment in his life he loved. He thinks, guiltily, that it really would be nice to just…forget. Forget about all of it. Lose himself in this.

"Can I take you back now?" Lucifer asks gently. "Can we talk?"

Sam nods, and the beach fades.

****

The stink of blood seems to have permanently lodged itself in Sam's nose. It's all he can smell. He moves his hand and touches a pool of the stuff. He remembers, in flickers, drinking his own blood when he was at his most desperate. Wonders how it tastes now.

Lucifer holds him, cradles him. "I cleaned you up this time," he says, brushing hair out of Sam's face; indeed, it's no longer matted with blood. "I wanted to see your face. I want to see you smile again, like you did in that memory."

Sam's mouth is a straight line. He's sure his pocket knife is gone along with the gun.

"I have one more thing to show you," Lucifer says, stroking Sam's jaw, down to his neck, hovering over his chest. "I can give this to you, too."

Sam gasps - this was brand new. Sheer ecstasy, sheer bliss, runs through every vein and artery, lighting up his body. He feels like he's floating, powerful jolts of concentrated joy sending currents up and down his limbs, culminating in the pit of his stomach, like - fuck. He flushes, suddenly hot, suddenly very very turned on, squirming as the feeling settles deep within, as Lucifer's touch turns him inside out.

It feels like it's over as soon as it begins, and he's left panting in Lucifer's lap, hoping and praying he isn't hard. Lucifer is still touching his hair, touching his face, hand on his chest straying down to his stomach, pushing up his shirt, touching his hot skin. "It can all be yours," Lucifer murmurs. "I could give you this whenever you want."

It's getting harder and harder to keep saying no. The promise of relief, of solace, of pleasure, it's overwhelming. Sam arches his back, craning for - something, wanting something.

"That's it, Sam," says Lucifer softly. "Put an end to this. Say yes to me."

Sam remembers why he killed himself in the first place.

He remembers how he got here.

He remembers that first meeting, all of Lucifer's poison.

He touches the blood on the ground.

"No," he says. "Always no. Always."

Lucifer's hands on him clench, then ease. "We'll see about that," he says quietly, sadly, and presses a kiss to Sam's forehead. Then, with the flap of giant wings, he's gone.

Sam exhales. Finally alone. And there - his gun, his pocket knife, all just out of reach from where Lucifer had been holding him.

He picks them up, looks between them. He could do it. He could do it again. Again and again and again. And Lucifer would bring him back every single time.

There was no way out.

-------------------------

if u enjoyed this give it a like and/or a rb tysm <3333

[imwritingthefout]

after session hangout

basically you fall in love with the dm of your campaign in college: Ford pines, smut ensues

This is crossposted to ao3 so if you wanna go read it there, here’s the link:

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Waking up each day to the same old ceiling was starting to bore you. 

Ever since moving out of your parents house for college you felt like a stranger in the dorm you now called ‘home’, and It didn't help that you refused to decorate it. 

Getting out of your plain old bed, you stand up and push away the blinds with a tug, the light from the early morning sun blinding you temporarily. You glance down at your clock; 6:30am, thursday. The time isn't the part that excites you though, it's the day. Today is the day you look forward to all week: Dd&md day! 

You go to get ready for your morning class, excited for what the future of today may hold. You love dd&md, its been your favourite game since you were a child -even though you had no one to play it with back then, you got creative (no goat was harmed in your past attempts at playing the game).

Your classes went by in a blur. Of course you were taking notes and whatnot, it was important to pay attention! But in secret, you were drawing your character all over the side of your notebook and thinking of strategies on how to defeat the next dungeon your dm set up for you.

And then there was your dm. 

One of the many reasons you adored thursdays was because you got to play dd&md of course, but other than that there was another big reason you liked thursdays.

To put it plainly: your dm, Stanford Pines was Hot. like, capital H Hot. you couldn't get over his warm brown eyes that sparkled with passion whenever he detailed the characters he was playing. His hands that moved with his every word, adding to the description of the imaginary world he was building. God you wanted to feel those hands on you. What would they feel like, intertwined with your own, on your hips while he-

You decided to stop that train of thought. As much as you liked him, you also respected him enough to know that he would probably never feel that way towards you, and you shouldn't fantasise about him like that (even though it was hard not to).

And though he was Hot, that wasn't the only reason you liked him. You liked him because he was smart, compassionate, funny and so very cute.

What can you say? You had a thing for nerds.

As your last class of the day finished finished up, you quickly packed up your things and rushed to the old building next to the dorms that housed your favourite room in the whole campus: the old meeting room you guys used to house your dd&md sessions! 

The room wasn't glorious, it was just an old meeting room that's been out of use for years. But to you, that room was the home of your imagination. It held a special place in your heart, and you were sure it was the same for the rest of your party.

Speaking of which, you saw Fiddleford approach you down the old hallway, little puffs of dust kicking up with each of his steps. “Hey Fidds! You ready for today’s session?” you yelled to him slightly as he approached. “Ready as I'll ever be! You won't believe what I have planned in order to kick that sorcerer's butt!” he gave your shoulder a weak punch and opened the door with his key.

Usually, the old building was out of commission. But since Fiddleford knew a guy who works as campus security and convinced him to give him the key, you had full access to the building to do whatever you pleased. Of course for you, anything just means playing dd&md, not causing a mess and cleaning up after yourselves as much as possible in order to not inconvenience anyone. You knew that other people your age would throw huge parties and wreck the place, but you weren't that kind of person, really. You just liked having a quiet place to play your games and hang out with your friends. Fiddleford was like that too, that's how he got the key in the first place; because his friend trusted him not to mess up the place.

As you walked inside, you saw the table set out just how you guys left it last week: the long rectangular table set up in the middle of the room, with seven chairs set out all around the table, one for each player and one for your dm. A whiteboard behind the dm’s seat that shows the map of the fantasy world you are currently in the middle of exploring, and cork board on another wall with a bunch of graph paper pinned to it.

You walk around the table, taking your regular seat across from Fiddleford. “So what do you think Ford's planning for this session?” you ask Fidds. This is your usual routine: get to the building early, wait for Fidds and ask him if he has any intel for the session since his roommate is Ford. “like usual, i can’t tell you, it'll ruin the fun!” Fidds exclaimed, although the grin on his face told you he likes this familiar back and forth. 

You eased into a casual conversation from there, talking about your days as you waited for everyone else. You liked coming early because then you had more time to talk with Fidds and, of course, with Ford.

You met Fidds on the first day of the semester, when you sat next to each other in the freshman orientation presentation, and hit it off from there. you became friends rather quickly, bonding over the fact that you were both far away from home with no friends in town. You decided to help him move into his dorm after the presentation, and that's when you met Ford.

At first, you were a bit speechless at the guy in front of you. His outfit was the usual scholar's outfit of a white button up shirt with a brown vest on top, but then he was wearing jeans in order to look more ‘casual’ as he put it. His hair was neat and tidy and his glasses framed his face perfectly, at least in your opinion. You introduced yourself awkwardly, and once he introduced himself as Stanford Pines, a parapsychology major with aspirations for 12 phd’s in the next five years, you knew you were in over your head. You can't have a crush on a super-genius! What if he turns out to be an arrogant asshole? But you couldn't help developing feelings for him as you got closer. He wasn't just a super-genius, he was also kind and compassionate, understanding and just a good friend. That's when you decided to just stay friends with Ford, you couldn't afford to lose such a good friend.

Speaking of which, the man himself comes into the room, holding a stack of books detailing the rules and monsters of dd&md, a satin sack full of dice and his dm screen. You can barely see his face behind all of the things he's carrying, and immediately you jump up to help him carry everything. He silently thanks you for the help and starts setting his stuff up while you go back to your seat. “Hey guys, how've you been since last week?” Ford asks you two. “Oh i've been well, you know. Dealing with you every day can be challenging but I manage somehow” Fidds says dramatically and you stifle a giggle. Ford gives Fidds a death glare before turning to you “and how are you?” he asks with a smile that makes your knees weak. “I'm good!” you proclaim a little too loudly and cough to hide your blush “yes i'm good, just the usual classes and such” you say in a normal voice (or at least what you hope is a normal voice, it doesn't help that Fidds looks at you cheekily, already knowing your secret crush on his roomate) “how have you been?” you ask him. 

“Just the usual: doing homework, studying and building up today’s session” you catch on to the last part as a potential way to continue the conversation. “Well, what do you have planned for today?”. “Oh come on now, it wouldn't be fun to just spoil the game for you, would it?” he says and points to you to emphasise his point. “You can't even give us an outline? Something?” you pout a little and Ford gives in “fine… I may have something up my sleeve for today, and I can guarantee you won't see it coming this time! That's all I'm going to say for now though” he jabs his finger at you, trying to seem angry that you caught onto his plans last time, but his little smile gives him away. 

Soon your other party members start filing in and you all start the session. 

It goes as usual, you all mess around for a bit before getting serious. You can confidently say you saw the twist Ford put in this session coming, it was obvious how the wizard was actually a party member’s son, they had so many similarities! After another successful session, everyone leaves for their respective houses, leaving you, Fidds and Ford alone in the room to clean up.

“I can't believe you saw that coming again! I swear you're like a sorcerer in real life” Ford chuckles and Fidds adds “that would also explain how you get here before me every time! I swear I ran to get here today and you still beat me here!” “well what can i say guys? I'm just magical in every way!” you strike a silly but confident pose as Ford and Fidds laugh at your antics. “Oh shoot! I promised my friend i’d go on a blind date today, could you guys lock up this time? Ford you can just give me the keys tomorrow morning if i get lucky” Fidds winks and Ford rolls his eyes “alright, we get it, you can go”. Fidds leaves the keys on the desk and almost sprints out of the room.

You and Ford clean up the mess on the desk in silence before Ford decides to break it “how do you keep predicting my twists anyways? I swear it was supposed to come out of nowhere but you're too smart” you blush a little at the compliment “thank you, i guess i’m just good at guessing twists. But you do make it kind of easy. I mean, a secret relative of someone close? It’s kind of a cliche don't you think?” he pulls at the collar of his button up shirt and you can immediately tell something is wrong.

“Yeah.. I guess it is kind of cliche, but it's what fits the character, don't you think?” he says with a guilty tone. “Ford, what's wrong? I feel like you're hiding something” you get close enough to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder “you can tell me anything, i wont judge” you add, trying to coax him into telling you what's wrong.

“Well… I guess I brought the secret relative from my own life because… well… I have a twin brother….” the sentence doesn’t completely shock you, but it is still somewhat of a surprise “why do you never mention him? Did something happen between you two?” he chuckles a bit before saying “still as perceptive as ever, huh?” you blush a bit as he continues, looking out into the middle distance in thought

“Me and my brother were really close when we were young, we would do everything together. But as time went on, we grew apart. He didn't like the fact that I wanted to go away to a fancy college, especially because he knew he couldn't follow me there. I was working on a machine to impress the college, but on the day of the showing it stopped working. My own brother sabotaged my future. We had a big falling out over it and that’s why I'm here instead….” you empathised with Ford, but you couldn't help but question some things about his story.

“I know it must have been hard to deal with the fact you lost your ticket to the college of your dreams, but do you really believe your brother would sabotage you? If he loves you, wouldn't he want to support you? Maybe it was an accident and he didn't mean to destroy your project?” Ford looks lost in thought again before replying “i… it's foolish but i never thought of it that way…” he looks at you with thankfulness in his eyes and you can't help but smile up at him “you should maybe sort this out with him? Talk to him about what actually happened and if he meant to hurt you?” 

“God you're right… Thank you! This changes everything! I'm so glad I could just kiss you!” 

….

It takes him a second to realise what he said and blush at the thought of actually kissing you. You just stare at him dumbly for a second until your brain processes what he said.

He wants to kiss you?

Well this took a turn for the better.

“Do you really mean that?” you ask him with hope in your eyes

“Well… yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t i? Look at you” he finds that it's suddenly very important you understand how much he wants to kiss you. “Wow… i- i didn't know you felt the same…” you say softly and look down. He says your name and puts his hand on your cheek and lifts up your face to meet his eyes “i like you. More than as a friend. Would you… let me kiss you?” he looks at you nervously for a moment before you close the gap between you two and kiss him yourself.

The kiss feels electrifying. As your soft lips meet his you put your arms around his neck to pull him closer. You realise he smells exactly how you thought he would; of old books and aftershave. His hands find your waist and rub gentle circles with his thumbs into your skin. You pull away after a little and touch your forehead with his “you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that” you whisper gently.

“Me too” and he goes back to kissing you, this time he takes the lead. You tighten yourself around him until your chests meet, his hands move down to your hips and he pulls you onto his lap in one swoop. You gently bite his lip as he groans into your open lips. He then moves down to kiss from your jaw to your neck, leaving the occasional love bite. You sigh at his bites until he gets to your collarbones. “Do you…. Want to do this?” he breathes the question against your skin, the feeling of him against you makes you shudder. “Yes. im sure”. He straightens up from excitement and goes back to kissing you collarbone, now more eager than ever as his hands travel past the hem of your shirt and up to your bra. Meanwhile your hands go down to feel him underneath you.

“Someone is excited” you smirk as he breaths heavily against you. 

“Very” his response falls heavy against you as he unclasps your bra (with only a little bit of a struggle) and his hands move to massage your breasts. You moan as he pinches your nipples in between his fingers. You lower your head to bite at his shoulder to stifle another moan from falling out of your lips- “No” he says and moves his shoulder to get you to stop muffling your sounds. “I want to hear you”. The thought of him wanting to hear you like this makes you blush and sends a bolt of pleasure down your spine. “Y-yes’’ 

You intend to start massaging him through his pants but he beats you to it, moving his hand down into your pants. You help him take off your pants and underwear (with a lot of struggle because of your position) and he suddenly picks you up and places you on the table. The cold desk underneath you only adds to the pleasure as he caresses your side before moving his hand down to finally touch you. 

His hand caresses your folds and feels how wet you are, and you moan from the feeling of his thick fingers on your sensitive skin. “Damn, you feel so good” he whimpers at how you feel before kissing your breasts and plunging his index finger inside you. “A-ah~” you sigh as he moves his hand so his thumb is circling your clit. 

He continues pumping his finger inside of you for a second before adding a second one and speeding up the pace. If he continues like this you wont last long. Almost as if he can hear your thoughts, he stops and goes down onto his knees, his face in front of your core. “Can I please taste you?” he asks innocently, as if his request isn't the most dirty thing you've heard him say. Thinking about it makes you even more aroused -if that's even possible at this point- and you hastily agree.

Not even a second after he sees you nod does he jump into your pussy, his tongue plunging into you and licking you from the inside. His nose bumps into your clit as he moves to taste and lick you even more. Your breath hitches and you moan loudly as he begins sucking at your clit, toying and teasing it with his tongue. “Please F-Ford” you manage to say in between moans. He groans against you and the vibrations send a wave of pleasure through you.

He suddenly brings his fingers back into you, curling them just right, hitting that spongy spot inside you that sends you over the edge. 

You briefly hear him let out a broken “Fu-uck” as your orgasm ripples through you in waves. Ford helps you ride out your high as he continues fingering you and licking at your clit. You have to push him off of you as it becomes too overstimulating

You try to pull him up to his knees, but he seems embarrassed by something. He looks up at you with his chin and nose glistening from your wetness, a guilty smile on his lips and his glasses fogged up and crooked. You then look down and notice it. A wet spot against his jeans

oh.

He got off on pleasuring you. He turned into a mess from just tasting you, feeling you on his lips and fingers. “That's the hottest thing i've ever seen” you say suddenly and lean down to kiss him passionately. He pulls away “really? You think so?” he looks at you in shock. “Yes! Now let me kiss you” you bring him up and kiss him passionately. He takes the hint, grabs at your hips and grunts. You can feel him already hardening again so you pull at his belt and pull down his pants and underwear. You softly grab him and start moving your hand up and down as he whimpers against your lips. You bring up your hand and spit onto it in order to create less friction when touching him.

“Please Ford- fuck me” you moan into his ear and he leans his head back in pleasure. “But i don't have-” you cut him off “there's some condoms in the front pocket of my bag, please” you emphasise your point by giving his cock another stroke. This seems to fuel him on to run to your bag and get the condom. He opens the packet and rolls it onto his member. He rubs his cock against your folds to collect your juices and as his head rubs against your oversensitive clit you moan. “Please put it inside” you hold onto his shoulders as he follows your request and pushes his tip in slowly.

He slowly pushes himself inside you until he's bottomed out inside you and you both groan. You move your hips experimentally and he whimpers at the feeling of you around him. He slowly starts to pull out and then thrusts back in with a moan of your name. You dig your fingers into the soft skin of his shoulders as he continues thrusting inside of you slowly. 

He continues gently until you decide to whisper in his ear something that changes his attitude completely “harder- please~”. He understands the message and suddenly picks you up and flips you around -while still inside of you- and bends you over the table. You moan at the sudden change of positions but you have no time to get used to it as he starts thrusting into you at a killer pace. He moves his hips sharply into you, with an almost mechanical pace as he pushes your chest onto the table with his broad torso. You can't help the sounds you let out each time he hits that deep spot inside of you. He grunts into your ear at each thrust and it makes your eyes water from all the pleasure.

You're suddenly pushed over the edge for the second time when he wraps his hand around your body and starts playing with you clit. You scream his name as you cum around his cock. His pace stutters a bit and he curses in your ear as he cums too for the second time.

He slowly eases you both down with some gentler thrusts and then exits out of you with a sensual pop. 

You lay down for a little while with your ass out before you gather some strength to get up. As soon as you do, your legs start to shake and Ford catches you in his arms and chuckles a bit with pride. “So…. did you like that?”  

You dead-pan him and say “no. i didn't like that. Of course I liked that you doofus!” he laughs a bit and kisses you again. “I just wanted to make sure!” he says against your lips. You giggle and pull him even closer “well, i enjoyed that a lot” you give him a small peck on the nose and then pull away to put your clothes back on. He disposes of the condom and goes to put on his pants but pauses. “I can't go out with a wet spot on my pants…. What should I do?” he looks terrified at the thought of walking around campus like that.

“Don't worry, i always carry an extra sweatshirt around in case the ac is too much in class” you laugh as he looks at you like you just saved his life “you are an angel!” he comes up to you and kisses you again before going back to putting on his pants. You hand him the sweatshirt and he ties it around his waist in order to hide the evidence of what happened.

He then comes up to you and hugs you. “You know i meant what i said, right? About liking you” you blush and then respond “i meant what i said too”

“Then can this not be a one time thing? I want to -if you’d want of course, there's no pressure if you don't want to do anything more than what happened today but-” you cut him off to spare him from rambling even more “i’d like to go on a date with you, Ford. i want to go out with you and be with you” he sighs with relief. “Great! Are you free tomorrow?” you check your calendar “yeah i should be- do you want to meet up?” 

“I would love that” he kisses your forehead before picking up your bag and the keys to the room.

You go out but as Ford locks the door, he realises something.

“Why do you have condoms in your bag?”

You immediately flush a deep red as you remember the fact that after first meeting him, your horney brain convinced you to put some condoms in your bag. ‘Just in case something happens’ you thought to yourself

“No reason” you yelp out and pull at his bicep so he continues walking and change the subject.

He chuckles at your antics but goes along with you.

He’ll just have to ask another time.