#i need to find more. i need to torture you all. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vyzz-undercover · 1 day

Text

the voices have made this happen

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3)

(5,900ish words) (OUUGHHHHH)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink (obligatory)

•vaginal fingering

•oral (f receiving)

•mild possessive behaviour

•the consequences of ignoring important medical devices

•mentions of (hypothetical) torture

•tumblrs recurringly cancerous formatting

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im back on my bullshit after having to do overnights so as payment to the dark gods of whoring and degeneracy i humbly offer this taglist of sweet darling who've indulged my insanity: @the-raven-lady, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @bispecsual, @lemon-russ, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @egrets-not-regrets, @moodymisty, @sinistermojo, @justeverythingnothingelse, @pluvio-tea, @thevoidscreams, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist!!! if you wanna be tagged (or not) in the next let me know!!! also it may take me longer to do a part four to this namely because ive got more wageslaving ahead of me soon but alas i'll definitely have rowboat girlyman catch em. also maybe give cato some top. myehehehehe,,, AND THANK YOU FOR READING AS USUAL ILY ALL!!! :3

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Cato is just about leaving.

After having spent the better part of an hour discussing the predicted destruction pathway of a hive-fleet on the system's rim with his Father; it sends his balls into his throat when you nearly run into him in the chamber's huge archway.

It only takes a fraction of a second to catalogue your presence.

You're wearing the same utilitarian blue robe as you had been last week again.

Last week, when he'd been pounding you insensible on a lounge in the library—Cato promptly quashes the insidious memory, smothering down any sort of reaction. But there is a change in comparison to the dizzying reminder: there's a new addition to the reoccurring outfit.

You've brought a navy, high-collared turtleneck into the mix, layered below your lapels.

So, the efforts of his mouth hadn't gone unheeded, then.

Throne, if he's not smug, he's got no bloody clue what he is.

Cato steps aside and turns to allow you entrance first before his exit.

"Commander Sicarius," you lilt with a soft voice and a small downward tip of your chin, all while holding his gaze.

He's transfixed periodically at the honeyed sort of warmth in your eyes.

Despite himself, he lingers and greets you with a slow, "Lady Ambassador."

The left side of his mouth twitches upward in a half-aborted smirk that he quickly tries to mask as a stern, frown-nod combination.

You break the staring match and Cato's confident he's salvaged his slip-up without detection.

Or not—because oh, fuck—if he doesn't feel the burning focus of a Primarch's eyes boring a hole into the side of his head like a brand.

It only lasts an instant, but the second is an eternity to him.

Of course, you're oblivious to this subtle exchange—and promptly trot past him to his Father's vast desk.

"My Lord Primarch," you say with a curt little bow; and then Guilliman's attention is solely on you, his favourite little pet project. "I read the data-drives you instructed from the preceding article logging. I've arranged them back to the most recent mark counts."

You're looking for an empty spot to lay them on his table, but with all the meticulously arranged stacks, it's none too easy to find one.

"Perfect," the Primarch breaths, "Just on the side there is fine, don't worry."

Obligingly, you lay them atop a small mountain of paperwork.

"Do you need anything else of me, my Lord?" You chirp brightly, the tone of your voice so very painfully sweet—Cato is nearly overwhelmed fighting a pitched battle against the urge to run over, pick you up and shake you around suddenly.

Guilliman chuckles, waving one massive hand about vaguely, "You've done more than enough for me today, why don't we leave it at that for now, hm? Go on."

"Of course; thank you, and have a good evening, my Lord," You say, bow once more, and turn on your heel from the Primarch, and—and smile at Cato as you walk back towards the exit. That's—that's the first time you've smiled at him. His twin hearts lurch, slamming forward against the inside of his fused chest cavity. It's perfect abominable. You rotten temptress, he's—he's going to rectify that audacity later. Or now, if you're... possibly heading the same direction he is. Which is whatever direction you're going, purely by chance.

It's merely coincidence, he swears.

He's certainly not planning on hounding after you like a dog tailing a bitch in heat.

He's certainly not going to drag you into a side room the second he's sure no-one with a credible opinion's around.

He's certainly not going to indulge in anything heretical, like bending you bare over his knee for daring to taunt him.

Cato makes as if to fall in step behind you as you pass the threshold before him, but is quickly halted by his Father's curt, "I do not believe you have been dismissed, Cato."

He's never been subjected to such sinking dread quite so nonchalantly.

"Approach."

Cato complies stuffily, sparing a glance at your figure disappearing down the corridor before acquiescing. He's practically dragging his ceramite boots across the intricate rugs as he nears the Primarch's seated but colossal form.

Guilliman isn't looking at him, having had returned to notating a miscellaneous form.

The scritch-scratch of his gene-sire's preferred, yet archaic method of manually writing on the parchment is like someone grating a plate with a fork to his ears right now.

"You've gotten over your petty grievances regarding the Ambassador at last, I take it?" Guilliman asks, without looking up.

It is not Cato's duty to like or dislike. Nor is it to be biased without reason—his opinions are to be intellectual, not emotional. His duty is to assess, analyse and provide feedback, so that his Primarch can take it into account when making rulings and decisions.

Cato swallows around the proverbial hunk of drywall lodged in his throat and answers, "She has proven herself... useful, yes, sire."

Guilliman finally meets his eyes but says nothing for a short while. There's dark bags under his Primarch's eyes, and the deep, stern crease permanently between his dark blonde brows is a slight bit harsher, but the only thing Cato can parse out of the expression's intent is a vague sense of knowing. Because, insofar, he's thought himself quite adept at reading his Primarch; and rather well versed in deciphering the intricacies of his moods.

And right now, he feels like he's being read like an open manuscript.

The daunting prospect Cato's caught sinks it's teeth in his gullet. It's impossible, he's not left any room for suspicion, he's covered his tracks—there's no logical reason why he should be getting raked with such a look.

His gene-sire isn't a psyker nor omniscient, just impossibly intelligent—and so absurdly good at the mathematics of plotting and planning that it only appears superficially as if he is all-seeing. He can't possibly know what Cato has been doing—or rather, who he's been doing.

"It's about time," his Father hums abruptly, suddenly disinterested. "Now you're dismissed."

Cato nods, turns on his boot heel, and nigh bolts marches out the room. His proverbial tail definitely not between his legs.

The hall outside Guilliman's apartments is a central domed area that functions as a meeting area, where people go to one of six looming hallways. It's the bottom of a series of levels; and above, three echelons encircled by arcades and balustrades, framed on the exterior by engaged columns.

But the structure itself is immense and ancient, even by Imperial standards. One of the few still-original, unaltered parts of the great Gloriana-class warship's innards. It is doused in long swathes of red carpet and great standards of Magcraggian note, alongside glorious, heroic frescoes depicting Legiones Astartes in their thousands, crusading across the heavens with the Emperor their head.

Cato keeps his head down as he passes them, uneasy with guilt. Feeling as if their lenses are following him—intent on venturing into the lower layers to brood.

Several Astartes are hovering about amongst the personnel and serfs. The baselines look up at him in awe, and his Brothers nod in respect, but he pays them all no mind.

The furthest corridor beckons him, and so he goes; down the complex system of broad walks with high, barrel vault ceilings, mazing through the vessel's higher clearance reaches like arteries through a body.

Cato is seething, and self-admittedly itching to take a howler of a swing at the next thing that speaks to him.

He cuts down the southern channel and sees one of his subordinate Victrix Guard lingering in the middle of a groin vault intersection.

The younger Astartes is about to continue straight, yet he pauses.

Brother Marcellus meets Cato's eyes for a second, clearly notes his Commander's absolutely stinking mood from a hundred meters off; nods, swallows, takes a step backward—and changes direction to go left rather than pass him.

Cato's too pissed to even linger on the strangeness of the action.

Still, he doesn't rightly blame him.

Cato strides on, back straight, chin up—the red shawl pinned beneath his pauldrons swirling behind him.

His thoughts are eating at him the whole while.

He's sure his Primarch is just trying to innocently divine his sudden change of mind regarding you. There's no way his Father's aware of why. And yet, guilt is a big black wolf nipping at his ankles, making him hasten; and unease clouds about his heart. He's mortified, for lack of a better word.

The full implications of the situation are too enormous to be faced all at once; so he picks the smallest, most banal facet he can think of.

That being, you.

You, who he'll never see again if his Primarch finds out.

You, who's practically damned him without knowing it.

You, who he's now valiantly trying not to imagine in a hundred different circumstances where he gets away with it all. Each one more heretical than the last—it's like it was before he'd managed a hand on you: his body giving in to suffocating delusions, sleepless in his cot; lapping at whatever scant, lust-soaked morsels his mind offers up.

One of his favourites remains you scantily clad beneath a moonlit night sky, on the parapet of his ancestral fortress on the coastal edge of Perusia.

He likes to fantasise you like it there.

He suspects you would.

He knows just about all there is to know about you on paper, and wonders if you know much of Talassar. Or if you've read about Castra Tanagra. He assumes Guilliman would share the tale of that famed old battle with you as a part of your readings.

Each impossible reverie is a new shiny nail in his coffin, or dreadnaut—it depends where and how he dies, and if there's anything scrape up of him when he eventually goes down in a blaze of glory and duty, and honour.

If his Primarch catches him, there's going to be none of that.

He'll be struck from living record, like Titus had been. Cato would be lucky to get a little plaque in the deepest pits of the Fortress of Hera. Reduced to a whispered memory of his achievements passed solemnly between Captains, followed up with words of disappointment. Of waste. Until his memory dies with them and his deeds fade into obscurity, lost to any new brothers.

The fate that awaits you would somehow be worse. Cato was always going to die in war, as was his right—but you—you were not fashioned for such things. Yes, Guilliman enjoys you, but that fact won't save you. Just like it won't save Cato for all his usefulness. You'd be tried as a heretic, as a source of corruption upon the Legiones, and you'd be made to suffer; because torture ever comes before execution. You're so very soft weak in so very many ways. Your life lived in a gilded cage, without pain nor discomfort that extends further than grating professional grievances—he doesn't want to imagine the sound of you screaming, but he does.

He cannot stand the thought.

The sudden urge to barricade you in his chambers for permanent safe keeping is all-consuming.

It's suddenly all he can think about.

He has to find you.

The amount of serfs passing and parting to allow his passage thin out to nothing.

Even from the sterile confines of one of the many winding hallways, Cato abruptly swears he can hear the echoed rush of sandals—your sandals—reverberating off the floor.

He hadn't notice you following behind immediately because, damn it, he's spiralling thinking.

He chances a confrontation, and rounds about-face.

You stand there in the middle of the empty hallway like you've got a bolter aimed at you, frozen.

"Come here," he says, clipped.

You do not.

"Come here."

Again, no compliance.

"Do you pride yourself on being a idiot?" His voice is scathing now, taking a heavy step into your space and being met by you staying stock stiff, still. "Do you have any idea what that stunt of yours earlier might incur?"

"What?" You blink, finally animating. "I didn't do anything—"

"You know what you did," he hisses, accusatory. "You're hollow between the ears, but you're not blind."

Lips pursing tightly in mental deliberation, you make a fey noise of annoyance as a little frown graces your features, apparently not deigning to offer a comment back.

"Do you not understand that... this," he gesticulates between you both and his voice falls to a whisper. "This... is not common allowance?"

"It's not?"

Are you being intentionally dense at this point, or is it just second nature?

Cato raises a hand to knead the crease between his brows, "No."

"That explains a lot, actually," you say, seemingly without any real comprehension on the gravity of the matter. "I couldn't find any notes or references on it."

He's genuinely stunned, "Is that what you were doing when—"

"When I was rudely interrupted," you cut in, the comment is nigh a spat insult.

Cato isn't sure what to say to that sudden display of spine, and grumbles.

He surmises the optimal action is complete disregard.

Therefore, he has no problem turning on the heel of his sabatons and starting his pace on again.

"So... this isn't normal by Astartes standards?"

He's taken aback at your abrupt want for conversation after all that. Namely because it's atypical. You never attempted small talk with him. You never do anything but scurry off when he's accosted you for you flagrant overstepping—wait.

He feels as if the paradigm between you both has shifted again since the last time for some reason. More than last time, actually. More than you just simply having the audacity to backtalk him.

It's like some symptom of a deeper sickness rising to the surface.

It makes him unreasonably curious suspicious.

He wants to see just how much ground you'll give, so he plays along and answers, "Not as far as I am aware, no."

You hum, and immediately are at it again, posturing, "Surely you have heard of cases of it happening?"

"I have not," Cato says, and you hum in consideration.

You're satisfied at that information for a brief while, but then he remembers you cannot shut your mouth for more than five minutes, and purses his lips. He's already tiring of your incessant questioning.

"But you'd done it before?"

And that's just great.

You've expertly found an exposed nerve.

More kindling on the bonfire of him having an aneurysm before the cycle's end.

Cato can feel the hint of pressure behind his eyes as he begins increasing his walking speed. "I don't think that is a relevant question."

You haste to stay in step, "It definitely is."

"You ought to learn a civil fucking tongue when you're addressing me, woman," he bites out, nose crinkling into a sneer.

Unperturbed by his short-tempered comment, another thoughtful little 'hmm' slips out of you.

"So, to conclude... you where as inexperienced as I was at the start, and all those gloating insults back then were just projection?" You suddenly blurt out at rather impressive speed, like a politician possessed—before finishing with, "Sorry, 'all those gloating insults back then were just projection,' Commander Sicarius."

Cato grits his teeth and feels his eye twitch.

He stops, turns to look over his pauldron, and stares bloody murder.

He can't even imagine the idiocy in your brain that gave you the imprimatur to say that aloud.

But Throne, the sly little glint in your pretty eyes suddenly has his face thudding with heat.

Then you smile at him for the second time ever.

Cato bites back the urge to ogle you dumbly, and actually feels himself thicken in his body-glove in real time, because oh, fuck—his hind brain practically pelts him across the jaw with the mental pict of that sweet mouth lathing up the side of his cock.

Mentally unseated for a moment, his brows furrow; and he quickly turns away, applying himself entirely to the task of trudging down the stagings.

The silence is a breath of fresh air.

Even if he can still hear your laboured breathing a few steps back him from him. You're straining to keep up with his pace, and it's an excellent punishment for you. His heavy sabatons clank-clank-clank on the steel decking, and your little boots practically pitter-patter in contrast. It's a syncopated rhythm that he's absentmindedly trying to match—and when he lingers for a step he manages to even the beat out.

He hangs a left, and scales the wide stairs to the open intersection platform above two at a time; trying not to snort amusedly at the little groan you let out as you hurry up them behind him, heaving.

Cato realises abruptly that you're actually, really, seriously following him—and pretending you're not.

He makes a right at the top and then waits for you to fall in step.

And, pointedly, he then turns and doubles back around.

You stand there stupefied for a moment, before grumbling softly and continuing down the thoroughfare without him.

If his observation skills hold any weight, he heads straight into the nearest open room and waits for you to follow.

He doesn't activate the locking mechanism on the other side in on purpose when he strides in, and lets the sliding door close behind him.

This particular room is forgettable in its ubiquitousness, though unusual. He has no idea of it's actual intended purpose. It's fitted with screens and database terminals as if it's for debriefing purposes, but he has no real way of confirming. What he can catalogue is that there's wraparound surfaces littered with candles. A few strips of harsh lighting and scant furniture—a tallish counter and a few long benches. They're thankfully Astartes sized.

Which means he can sit down and pray for you to walk right into the metaphorical snare he's just laid.

Not a minute later, the door's sliding mechanism triggers and you scurry through—only to promptly go stiff.

You stare at him like a rat he's just found by lifting a crate.

The mechanism shuts automatically behind you and it apparently spooks you enough to jump a little.

"You're disgustingly predictable," he harrumphs, unimpressed.

A flush rises to your face as you scowl, "You're disgustingly predictable," you shoot back, echoing his words.

Of course, that audacity of yours leads to a short stalemate.

He huffs out a sigh as he concedes out of sheer frustration and says, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one."

You blink dumbly at him, "...what?"

"It's my locking code," he growls, and Throne, you must be acting stupid just to grate him; because there's no way your brain is so smooth as to not connect the dots. "It's for the door, moron."

A soft 'ohh' leaves you as you turn and step aside to the key pad fixed into the frame.

"Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," he's agonisingly forced to say once again.

"Three-nine-five-eight-eight-two-seven-one..." you mumble to yourself.

Cato hears an angry beep and suddenly wants to smash his head into a wall repeatedly.

Grinding his molars, he snarls, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," and then adds, "If I have to repeat that one more time, I'm going to throw you out of the nearest airlock."

And it seems the threat of violence works wonders, because you don't bungle the input this time.

Cato sighs, exasperated, and leans back against the lip of the table behind the bench.

He ought to start carrying around a correctional stun rod. Just for whenever you annoy him. If it's good enough for a Neophyte to suffer, it's good enough for you, he supposes.

Or it'll send you into a seizing fit.

He's not to sure of the maximum voltage a baseline can take without their singular, puny little heart giving out.

One disciplinary option scratched out, then.

But he can think of many, many more to make a model Ambassador out of you. The wonders of carefully applied violence are plentiful. A little roughing up never hurts, or at least, not for long. And fuck, do you need some lessons on proper manners. He could have you smacked into shape like a show pony in no time—even if it'd be more like teaching a grox to trot lateral movements. Then again, he also believes if he stuck a frag far enough up a Carnifex's ass, he could probably get it to play Regicide.

And then pointedly, he starts thinking about your ass.

Cato is so utterly lost on the tangent of hypotheticals that he's flabbergasted when a small mouth lands on his own.

He hadn't even been paying attention.

He hadn't even noticed you'd neared.

It feels like the breath has been knocked out him at the sheer unexpectedness of it.

The kiss is hasty, your eyes scrunched shut and cheeks flushed, scowling with focus.

All the while, his mind reels because Throne, the contact of his lips to yours doesn't really feel particularly profound aside from how soft your skin is—but the intention of it is the real reward.

Cato's genuinely infuriated when you pull away.

You blink owlishly at him, giving him a cautious look like you're trying to gauge his reaction.

There are a thousand things he wants to ask, to say, but the foremost among them is but one.

"Again," he huffs, lessening the distance between you just enough to invite you back.

And he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his station over you, but when you tentatively find a hold on his gorget to steady yourself to give him another kiss—those thoughts are all but erased from his mind. It's a curious weight off his shoulders to have you initiate and to show you want him in return, especially since it's as new to you as it is for him.

Nonetheless, he can't even imagine finding a reason to stop you, so he starts blindly mouthing; trying to coordinate around the fact he's so much larger than you.

The angle is difficult, but he's willing to follow your lead. Your body is even more fragile when he's in full armour. The risk of actually hurting you is realer than ever, but he can't help the desire to wrap an gauntlet around your waist and pull you closer to him. Thankfully, you let him when he urges you to, trembling hands flitting across his chestplate like you're unsure of what, exactly, you should be holding—and he catches the tiny line between your brows smoothing out as you risk a peek. Only for you to yelp, nervously wrenching yourself back in flustered surprise upon meeting his unwavering stare.

It's as if you expected something else.

He senses he's made a mistake of some kind.

Then he remembers from the motion-picts he's not supposed to keep glaring at you when kissing.

Regardless, he studies your face, memorising the lingering want still clearly there like his life depends on it.

He pulls you in and kisses you again, just because he can, this time brief and chaste. And then he goes for a third, fourth—fifth, each time slightly longer, until finally he rears back; and when he does you push up on your toes just a little, trying to chase him, but lose the nerve; although to Cato the reason for your faltering is, frankly, irrelevant. Because just like him, you lack the practical capacity to really know what next step you should take. Still, you look down at his armour, as if there's a latch to pull that magically undoes all his wargear.

He knows he's not going to get himself out of his armour in any reasonable way or amount of time.

There's no way he's getting the satisfaction of having you on him right now—but he still wants to keep you near.

He thinks he hears you ask for something, but he's too distracted to catch it in time.

"What?" Cato scowls, "What do you want now?"

It's clear you've been struck by your own embarrassment, strung up somewhere between shy and wanton, "I.. uh..."

"Spit it out," he rumbles.

You wince, hesitant as you mumble, "You, uh... i-in me."

Cato's brain skids to a halt. And it's the gall of that request alone that has him sweeping you up off the ground and spinning you around to sit in his lap.

It's obvious you're overwhelmed at being held to the formidably larger size of himself in full-plate. But as usual, you're yet to actively complain. Using his vambrace as a leg-bar to scoop under your thighs, he folds you in his grasp—your knees pressed to your chest as you're tucked back against his pauldron and chestplate.

The angle forces the hems of your robe aside, and he can see the underside curve of your ass; along with the plump mound of your vulva under the white of your small-clothes.

Cato's suddenly offended by their existence. You didn't wear any last time, so why now? The irritation of there being one more thing between you and him is enough justification to yank at them, tearing them loose—before throwing them aside.

You grumble sourly, which he chooses to ignore.

The palm of his gauntlet smooths across your hip, and you make a small hugg as you shiver, goose-bumps suddenly covering your exposed flesh.

Cato lets the pads graze closer and closer to your sex, content to watch you impatiently glare at his armoured fingers from between the gap of your thighs.

With little preamble, he's stuffing his middle in. You're already so wet it's practically a cake-walk. Your cunt swallows down each articulating segment of his armoured finger down to the knuckle. The fact he's going to have to personally scrub your slick out from between the joints, instead of a lowly serf, is infinitely worth the shrill whine he receives as tribute.

"Would that my wargear had a zipper," he breathes, and fuck, he grins behind the obscurity of his gorget at the mournful mewl that remark earns. "I'd have you on your knees sucking for all the cunted trouble you've caused me."

You're making a warp-awful attempt at keeping yourself together, high-strung as you evidently are. Little more than a minute of him pumping his finger in and out of you has you red-faced and panting. All it takes to get those heavy breaths of yours to change into proper whines is his large thumb-pad adjusting to rest on your clit, applying pressure. You jerk, reflexively trying to buck into every motion. Fighting and failing to withhold the stuffy little moans escaping you—trying to stave off the inevitable by scrambling at the thigh plating of his power armour with one hand and tugging at his couter with the other.

Some part of Cato wants to stop solely out of spite for you being so grating earlier, or some other stupid mercurial justification of his; but instead, he simply continues, letting you squirm on his fingers.

And squirm you do.

It's clear to him the tide of it all is becoming too much for you to resist. Your sandal'd feet kick out where he's got your legs secured, joining in on the struggling as it begins anew when his thumb starts circling. It's a good sign, so he adds his pointer into you to bolster the stretch, curling in; before letting his fingers fan out inside you, stretching rather than stabbing. Your hips try to stutter forward in time with the quick thrusting of his digits, broken whimpers resonating off the room's walls. He promptly stuffs down to the knuckle and curls them again—and you all but bleat his surname as you're dragged into a fast and apparently exhausting orgasm. Just knowing he's you got you beat has his erection ache where it's trapped under the suiting and plating of his navel.

Cato can't feel you clenching through all the layers separating his skin from yours, but he knows from experience that you're seizing in fits internally—tight little cunt trying to milk a load out of an Astartes cock that should've been stuffed in you.

Just to allow himself one last bit of smugness, he scissors his fingers; giving a final swirl for good measure.

The shivered sob is worth every possible future disciplinary action he'll receive.

He pulls his gauntlet away slowly, and the wet shlick of it leaving you is almost amusingly alike pulling a blade from sinew. It's a degenerate comparison, he knows, but it's true.

Nonetheless, he splays out his hand and swallows dryly, eyeing the sticky, clear liquid webbing out and thinning between each ridge of his gauntlet'd digits.

Suddenly focused entirely on the fluid on his fingers, he pulls his vambrace barring under your knees up away. Now limp, and without the support, you slide off his lap and onto the floor in a slow slump.

"Nn-ngh," You groan weakly, face-down, legs still juddering a little.

Seeing as you're preoccupied, Cato doesn't even dignify the concept of hesitation, and promptly jams his fingers in his mouth—lathing the aftermath of your orgasm from them. And Throne, the taste of your hormones make him groan. He's absolutely stunned, unsure of how to act. He's so fucking stupid, why didn't he do this earlier? He's practically drugged by the omophagic aftereffect—getting off on your second hand bliss. Some sort of fey feedback loop in his brain catalysing his next decision solely on instinct.

He clambers to the floor and gets to his knees guards, securing a mitt on your bared thigh to roll you onto your back.

Apparently boneless with afterglow, you're easy to manhandle.

You barely have the strength to do much more than crane your head up at him and whine as he arranges your thighs apart, settling on his front between them with a warp-awful clank; before lifting your legs up to rest onto either lip of his gorget.

You try to scud back on your ass suddenly, but are quickly halted when he holds you fast by the hip.

He raises a confused brow.

"I-Isn't—" you start, still gathering the scraps of your brain together so soon post-orgasm, "Isn't y-your saliva acid?"

Cato suddenly wants to cuff you on the ear, "Who the hell told you that?"

"M-Master Calgar," you mumble.

Oh, of course, the gossiping hen.

He's going to have words with the Lord Defender of Greater Ultramar the next time they meet—words like 'for fuck sakes, stop scaring the woman he's trying to eat out with talk of Betcher's gland, Marneus,' come to mind, but then Cato realises that doesn't sound like he's not fucking you, so he quickly settles on: 'stop dignifying the Ambassador's hundred-and-one insane questions.'

"Not Ultramarines," Cato manages not to snarl, "It's a vestigial organ in most of us."

Your voice is shaky as you parrot, "Most of us?"

"Yes," He grunts, and promptly buries his face in your cunt.

The disproportion in size is painfully apparent when he realises his whole damned tongue is able to drag a stripe up the entire splay of you with minimal effort.

The pitched gasp he wins out of you is pure sin, and he's on the brink of swooning; but then you're running your trap again.

"Please, d-don't tell me you're one that can spit acid—" you manage to warble, seemingly still stuck on the topic.

Cato sighs as he's forced to pull away from your vulva, "I think you're forgetting I had my tongue on your tonsils in the library."

"Th-that's different," you stammer. "That's not as sensitive."

A long, unimpressed deadpan paints itself on his face.

"So," he starts with a bated hiss, "And let me be perfectly clear in this—you believe your vagina is more susceptible to burns than your mouth?"

Your face transforms into a strange mix of embarrassed and angry.

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did," Cato grumbles.

"Did not," you huff.

"You—you just fucking did," he snaps, frustrated enough that he can feel one of the veins at his temple bulge. "The implication is obvious, you insufferable little whore."

You snort, but stay silent.

The argument appears, for all intents and purposes, to be finished.

"Did not," you say abruptly once more, pouting.

Cato's eyes roll back in his skull as he grits his teeth.

"Throne of Terra, if you don't drop the subject, acid in your cunt will be the least of your worries," he all but snarls, and that apparently quietens you enough that he can get back to lapping at you—the flat of his tongue running over your clit and earning a jolt.

He wraps his lips around the pink little nub and sucks. And that's all it apparently takes to make up for his amateur career in the practice.

You siphon down a sharp breath and let out a garbled cry, hips canting forward into his mouth—to which he obligingly stuffs his tongue into your slick entrance.

There's a satisfaction well beyond simple pleasure that swamps him at the way your thighs shake either side of his head. His own breath is hot about him, stuffy and dizzying; and the skin pressed against his cheeks is warm and smooth.

You're panting when he goes back to lapping over your clit, perching yourself up on a bent elbow and reaching out a hand.

Your fingers card through the messed brown hair atop his head. And he stiffens without realising—but he realises something: like this, the touch is ecstasy—pure, golden ecstasy. Every bit of higher thought in his head evaporates when you stroke him again.

A long, rumbling subvocal moan tears from him.

The infrasound vibration makes you buck weakly into his mouth again, teary eyed afore him as he adjusts his grip on you and crawls closer.

He's suddenly acutely aware that in this new, much more prone position, he's able to grind his body armour into his groin guard pressed on the floor. And as soon as the action bears results—namely a scorching burr of pleasure racing up his spine—he's deadset on rutting against the ground like a slavering beast.

He's frotting himself at a pace so rabid it'd cruel to subject your cunt to. It's brutal, and the harsh scraping sound of plasteel on steel only further proves that. It's just frantic lust—he's desperate.

It's complete insanity how close to finishing he is so quickly.

Not as close as you, though.

He can feel how your legs jump with each pass of his tongue; and then you're unraveling in front of his very eyes.

"I-I can't—I can't, S-Sicarius, I-I—" You ramble, dazed, trying to get away as he works you right through it, sobbing and oversensitive while he's rutting himself closer and closer to his own end.

It all comes to a head when your fingers dig into his hair, tugging—and his brain is overrun with static. A drawn out groan scathes from his maw as any sense of rhythm scatters like light through a prism. For a fraction of a second, the pleasure is serene.

Then it's abject agony, he feels—he feels like Roboute Guilliman himself has just taken a running start and kicked him in the balls.

"F-Fuck–ing—gh—" he chokes, vision swimming, straining against the tide of the torment. His back arches up, and he curls inward on himself; white-hot pain clocking his nervous system into overdrive. Every muscle in his abdomen is doused in acid. He's tolerated being shot, stabbed, burnt without so much as blinking—but this is an entirely new and entirely different sort of wound. It's like he's pissing promethium. It's—it's the catheter, he realises. He'd forgotten about the bloody catheter jammed up his cock.

Through the searing ordeal, he manages to force his armour's facilities to finally abide his impulses and dose him with a pain dampener.

And then everything's fine.

He opens eyes he wasn't aware he'd closed and finds your face has suddenly gotten far closer to his.

"S-Sicarius?" You stammer, and there's an honest panic in your voice. "Sicarius, p-please, please—a-are you okay?"

He realises he's on his back, and you're sitting beside him, half draped on his chestplate, frantically trying to figure out what's wrong with him to no avail.

You've leaned in so close he can feel your rushed breathing.

"I'm fine," Cato groans, and you sputter out a sigh.

"I-I don't know what happened, I-I—" you're still wildly confused and raving, and he inhales deeply; only to be greeted by the sour animal stink of fear practically dripping from you.

Cato rolls his tongue around inside his mouth and cringes knowingly at the foaming side-effect of the chem he'd self-administered, the acrid taste mixed with your slick is certainly not an ideal cocktail.

The sincerity of concern behind your reaction is baffling. He's not made of glass, for fuck sakes—and he's a bit pissy about the fact you'd actually fallen victim to the idea of him suffering some grievous injury so easily. But he supposes where there's a will of baseline overreaction, there's a way.

"You're acting like a child, woman. Pull yourself together," he sighs hoarsely, hoping the comment jars you out of your hysteria—or at the very least scares you off.

It does exactly neither, and you sidle in closer and rest your cheek on his jaw.

It’s an action so overwhelmingly horribly affectionate that it would’ve been a crime to not press into it with a lean of his head. Or, at least, that's the half-assed justification he tells himself.

Because he's loving enduring your attention, not seeking it; and therefore only humouring you when he lifts a hand and settles the wide splay of it on your flank as a comfort.

He shouldn't be, but he is.

#warhammer 40k x reader #warhammer 40k #reader insert #warhammer fanfic #cato sicarius #space marine x reader #cato sicarius x reader #writing #ultramarines #cato 'im going to kill the next person i fucking see' sicarius #*squeaky noise*#ambassador 'omg hiiiii'#FUCKKK #anyways #roboute guilliman #i am so fucking sorry you have to deal with this shit baby girl #also LMFAO I DO THINK CALGAR LOOOOVES A GOOD BITCHING SESSION

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scribere-flores · 2 days

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Sabo x Reader

~Just as a hypothetical question~

Part 5. Other Parts Word count: 3,8k words Short summary: Reader is preparing her escape, slowly losing it over her confusing feelings. Sabo is in his stalker era. AN: Dear God, I don't know what took over me when writing this. Let me begin with saying I don't condone stalking irl, this is just a silly self-indulgent fic. There is also mentions of a knife at one point, more as a joke, but it's there. Still nothing graphic. Smut will come in the next one, which will also be the last part. Thank you for reading!💕

MDNI 18+

(This man is way too pretty for his own good)

___

Almost three days had passed since Y/N became aware of Sabo’s true identity. And of the real threat he posed to her. He was dangerous, not just because he probably could crush her windpipe with little to no effort.

No, the real reason Sabo was so dangerous was because of his goddamn charm. Always helpful, always making her flustered. Always making her laugh against her will. It was still impossible for her to keep it together when she was near him.

He was playing a sick, sadistic game with her feelings. He wanted to kill her for god sake! And, even though those horrid facts were clear to her, Y/N’s heart still wanted to jump out of her chest every time she saw him.

And that was probably saying more about how messed up she was. Desperately clinging to the first person that ever showed her concern, even though she knew it was fake. Pathetic.

She kept having this one recurring dream. Being alone in a dark room, until the door suddenly opens, and Sabo walks with a smug grin on his face.

He stands behind her, places her wrists behind her back, and then proceeds to let his hands travel all over her body. Cold leather from his gloves caressing her skin as he presses soft kisses down her neck and back.

His movements growing more impatient as he takes a strong grip around her hair, pulling her against him. Then, just before the dream ends, his other hand snakes around her neck, cutting the air from entering her lungs.

And it excites her! Y/N always wakes up feeling hot and tingly after that dream, which means that something must be seriously wrong with her.

The man wants to kill her and she gets excited by the thought of him choking her?! That can’t be normal, it just can’t.

Besides her internal crises that she still had the hots for her future potential murderer, everything else was going as planned.

After spending a half-day crying over the fact that the handsome, cruel man had tricked her just for his own pleasure, Y/N finally pulled herself together and started planning her escape. She was not willingly staying in this cursed base just to later be dragged to the execution stand.

So she had made a list, things she needed to secure her safety once she left. All the things she had spent the last few days gathering. Things that now were securely kept in a bag in her closet.

She had also visited the small library more than once, reading every book on wilderness survival she could find. Memorizing pictures of what plants were safe to eat and which ones she should avoid. It wouldn’t exactly be ideal if she ran away from torture and her own murder, just to then die of food poisoning.

Y/N had done all these things, and she was painfully aware of the fact that she had been watched.

Sabo was always near, following her like some curious cat, trying to figure out what the mouse he was hunting was doing. She was the mouse in this scenario, and it was starting to get on her last nerve.

He looked amused the entire time too, huge grin on his face, probably getting some twisted sense of pleasure from watching her from afar. It was annoying, and Y/N was pretty sure stalking counted as a crime. But so was trying to overthrow the World Government, so Sabo might just not care that he was breaking the law.

It didn’t matter anyways, she had already gathered everything she needed and her planned escape was happening tomorrow.

She was currently pacing back and forth in her room, trying to figure out if she had forgotten about something.

Who was she kidding, she most definitely had.

She hadn’t stepped foot outside the castle gates her entire life before two weeks ago, and now she was planning to survive out in the wilderness all by herself. It was a recipe for disaster.

But if the choice was between dying of hypothermia in freedom, or in the hands of the Revolutionary Army and her handsome tormentor, Y/N would choose freezing cold freedom everyday of the week.

Suddenly, her dark thoughts were interrupted by a knock on her door.

“Jane Doe, you in there?” An obnoxious, honey-sweet voice could be heard on the other side.

Hate that stupid nickname.

He seriously needed to stop doing this. For the last couple of mornings, at the same time everyday, Sabo had knocked on her door, asking if she was there.

And Y/N never answered, pretending that she wasn’t in the room. He usually stayed outside for a few minutes before he left, which was probably going to be the case today too.

She heard Sabo let out a deep sigh.

“I don’t know if you’re there, but I’m coming in.” He stated, like he wasn’t about to invade the last personal space she had at this godforsaken base.

Goddamnit… She had locked the door, right?

No, this wasn’t the time to take any chances, she needed to hide. Who knew what god awful thing he would do to her if he found her.

Y/N quickly scanned the room for a hiding spot. Under the bed was too obvious, even she knew that. As her eyes landed on the small built-in closet, she heard the doorknob starting to turn. She didn’t have the time to be picky, she needed to hide, now!

Just as she had slid the closet shut, the bedroom door flew open. The small wooden planks of the closet door barely gave her any vision of the room, but the gap was wide enough to see Sabo mindlessly walk in. Not a care in the world, like he belonged in there.

‘He wishes.’ Y/N thought as she rolled her eyes.

Then she noticed that he was looking at the closet, straight at her, with a serious look that spelled nothing but trouble. She could swear that her heart was trying to crack her ribcage open by how hard it was beating.

She put her hands over her mouth, careful to not make a sound, as Sabo’s eyes lingered on her hiding spot for a few more seconds. Then an amused grin spread over his face, before he turned around and started to look around her room.

Dear God, that had been a close call.

“Are you hiding from me, Angel?” Sabo chuckled, bending down to look under the bed.

Since his blatant fake confession he had called her that from time to time. Some new way to play tricks on her mind for sure. And Y/N always berated herself when she heard it, because it made her stupid heart flutter every time.

Seriously, what was wrong with her?

Besides studying up on how to survive on her own, she had read a few books on psychology during her visits to the library. In those she had learned about this thing called *Stockholm Syndrome*, basically when a captive believes they are in love with their capturer.

And Y/N had let out a sigh of relief when she read that. It explained every warm feeling she had for the man that she was 95% sure wanted to chop her head off in front of a crowd. The other 5%, well… that was the dumb sliver of hope that still lingered in the back of her mind.

A sliver of hope that she consciously ignored. She wasn’t in her right mind, she had been manipulated by that handsome devil, and the strange thoughts she had about him couldn’t be trusted.

She had to stick to what she knew, and that was that Revolutionaries hated Nobles with a burning passion. At least, that had to be the case when the revolutionary in question was their Second in Command.

The closet walls were starting to feel cramped as she continued to watch Sabo mindlessly prance around her bedroom. He picked up her pillow, brought it to his face and let out a low groan as he took a deep inhale through his nose, making Y/N really question the man’s sanity. Was he trying to memorize her scent in case he had to hunt her down?

What was he? A goddamn bloodhound or something?

She let out a quiet scoff when he put the pillow back, seeing a satisfied look on his face. She shouldn't have done that.

His eyes zeroed in on her again, a wicked smile spreading over his lips, making Y/N forget how to breathe.

A shiver went down her spine as she watched Sabo move closer, stopping right outside the closet. He was so close she could feel him towering over her through the door.

“Are you in here, Angel? Please answer if you are.”

Dear God, please don’t open it.

Someone was apparently listening to her prayer, since he abruptly turned around, when Y/N was just seconds from passing out due to the lack of air in her lungs.

“Bummer, guess she’s not here then.” Sabo said in a monotone voice, putting his hand to his cheek in a dramatic manner.

He started to walk towards the door. She couldn’t believe it, she was actually going to get through this without being found.

Then, Sabo stopped in the middle of his step, right as he walked by her dresser. He carefully opened the top draw, which wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all.

“Hmm… I might as well since I’m already here.” He snickered as he took something out and stuffed it in his pocket, quickly leaving the room right after.

As soon as the bedroom door closed, Y/N fell out of the closet and landed on the floor. Too shocked from what she just had witnessed.

“Did- did he just steal my underwear?” She whispered to herself, as she felt a warm flush spread over her face.

Was Sabo a pervert?

Because that would explain sooo much. She laid on the floor, pondering on her theory for a few moments, before she rolled over on her back and let out a weird, nervous laugh.

“Yes, definitely a pervert… Just gonna add that to the list of reasons why he needs to be avoided at all cost.” Y/N concluded, questioning how she had gotten herself in this situation to begin with.

___

So fucking angelic.

There was no other way of describing her. Even though she had actively been avoiding him for the past few days and making him watch her from afar.

But Sabo could forgive that. She was obviously planning something, and the most optimistic part of himself had convinced him that it was going to be a surprise.

He didn’t know what kind of surprise yet, but he looked forward to it. A little too much in fact.

He had watched his Angel gather all sorts of things, swiping snacks from the pantry when she thought no one was looking. Snatching blankets and other fabrics from the laundry, candles and matches from the storage.

All things that were needed for a romantic date.

Sabo still wasn’t sure why she needed all the tools she stole from the supply closet, nor did he understand what she was going to use a tarp for.

But he almost lost his shit yesterday when he saw her sneak a rope into her bag. If his, quite frankly, dirty mind was right and she wanted him to tie her up with it, he might have to marry her on the spot.

The knife however, that was still a bit concerning… But hey, he was willing to try out whatever she had in mind at least once.

No matter what she was doing, these past few days had convinced him.

She had continued to play their little game, even though the rules had changed a bit. AND, she was planning a romantic surprise for him. That girl understood him so well.

She liked him, maybe just as much as he liked her, if that even was possible.

Sabo knew his obsession was starting to get a little out of hand. Or in all honesty, “a little” would be an understatement.

He knew that what he was doing wasn’t exactly normal. Watching her go about her day, keeping tabs on where she was, at what time in the morning she was leaving her bedroom and when she usually returned. Putting it in a more brutal way, he was stalking her.

God- that girl brought out dark things in him he wasn’t even aware were there before. Last night he spent at least two hours convincing himself that, sneaking into her room through her window while she was sleeping, wasn’t a good idea.

It wasn’t, he knew that. No matter how much that girl had messed with his moral compass, he knew that it would be crossing a line.

But he just wanted to hear the sweet voice he had been deprived of hearing for the last few days, even if it was her yelling at him to get out.

That’s why he went to see her this morning, to talk to her. Not about anything special, he just wanted to see her pretty mouth move, until his mind was filled with nothing but the sweet sound of her voice.

Sabo knew she had been in there, observation haki really becoming handy in these kinds of situations. But she hid in her closet when he stepped into her room.

And if she wanted to play Hide and Seek, who was he to deprive her of that fun?

Plus, he had gotten a little prize for playing along.

Still, things had started to become a little boring for him.

At first, it had been exciting seeing her turn a corner every time he was near. Watching her look over her shoulder to see if he was there. It was twisted- but fuck- just knowing she was constantly thinking about him brought him so much joy.

Even if she was doing it in an attempt to avoid him, Sabo couldn’t be mad about it. She was obviously still trying to muster up the courage to face him after his blatant confession.

It was cute.

He had imagined her confessing her feelings for him so many times at this point. Nervous stutters leaving her mouth, a flustered blush spreading over her face.

God- Just the thought made him want to do unspeakable things to that poor girl.

And in any normal case, Sabo was nothing but patient. With her however, not so much.

Like previously stated, watching her had been fun for a while. But he was done with just watching now, he wanted to be with her. Being close to her, talking to her, teasing her. Seeing her smile, laugh or just resting peacefully on his chest.

So, at this moment he was in the library, hiding behind a bookshelf and going over his options on how to best approach her.

Jane Doe was sitting at a table a bit further away, reading a book in peace. Looking absolutely angelic.

Besides the two of them, the rest of the room was empty. And dammit, if there hadn’t been so many unresolved issues that needed to be sorted out first, he would probably pin her to that table right this moment.

Hitching that cute, little skirt up over her hips as he left kisses up and down her gorgeous legs. Teasing her to the brink of insanity until she begged him to touch her. Eating her out like a man starved for food-

Yeah, that was definitely not happening yet.

The second best option was to go over there, trying to make her flustered enough to at least blush. Which shouldn’t be too hard to achieve.

So Sabo did just that, walking over with a statement that was suggestive enough in mind. He stopped right behind her chair, bending down close to her ear, feeling a bit amused when he saw her flinch.

“You know, I had this dream last night- and fuck- your hands felt so soft against my skin. Like an Angel touching my very soul.” He said in a low voice, blowing a puff of hot air against her neck.

It was true, he really dreamt that last night. He had been kinda pissed off when he woke, not wanting the wonderful dream to end.

And he knew how much his little nickname affected her, she was so bad at hiding her true feelings.

“Dear God, why?” The girl asked under her breath, making Sabo chuckle as he walked over to the other side of the table, sitting down across from her.

“Why? Cause you’re cute, and funny, and ignoring me. So you’re obviously my type.” He stated, watching her mindlessly turn to the next page in her book.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” She answered, looking up at him for the first time.

“Perfect.” Sabo sighed, getting completely lost in her eyes.

He barely had the chance to catch the pretty blush that spread over her face, before she turned her head down.

But it was there, he saw it, and it made his chest fill with pride. No matter how hard she tried to ignore him, he could still make her flustered anytime he wanted to.

“Are you bothered by me being here?” He asked, giving her a teasing smile.

“Yes. I want to be alone.” She said curtly in response, not paying him more attention than necessary.

It was selfish, and probably a bit dumb. But Sabo wanted her attention to be on him, and not on some stupid book. What was so interesting about it anyways, for her to not look at him? He was way more interesting-

God, he really needed to seek professional help, didn't he? He was jealous over a fucking book.

“What are you reading anyway?” He scoffed, failing to keep his displeasure in.

“None of your business.” She snapped back, voice deprived of any warmth.

Shit, was she annoyed? That couldn’t be good…

“Why are you so snappy today?” Sabo asked, needing to know if all of it was just in his head.

“I’m not.” She bit out, jaw visibly clenching.

If it was one thing Sabo took pride in, it was that he was good at reading people. But not this girl apparently, making her an exception in yet another way.

He must have fucked up big during the last couple of days for her to be this mad with him. Was it the stalking? Had he taken it too far?

“Yes you are. Did I do something to make you upset? I’ll try to fix it if you tell me.” He said, trying to reach for her hand, but she quickly moved it away.

“I said I’m not. Just drop it.”

Was this their first fight?

Sabo might not have been in any real long term relationship before, but he wanted this to work. He needed this to work, because he wasn’t sure if he could recover from being rejected by her.

He knew that communication was important in any healthy relationship, so her avoiding the topic wasn’t going to cut it.

“I will drop it, if you tell me what’s wrong. I don’t want you to be angry at me and-”

“Can you just back the fuck off and leave me alone?” She said with an irritated tone, looking up at him with fire in her eyes.

Oh fuck, she’s mad mad.

She swore… she actually swore. That was a word Sabo thought he never would hear leave his Angel's beautiful mouth.

Was this about the underwear? He knew she had been hiding in the closet when he “borrowed” them, but he didn’t think she would be this angry about it.

“Is this about what I took from your room? Because I was going to give-”

“IT’S NOT ABOUT THE FUCKING UNDERWEAR!”

“Okay, so I must have done something else then… I'm sorry?” He said, feeling his heart sink to his stomach.

She didn’t say anything more. She just let out a frustrated groan as she slammed the book shut, leaving it on the table and walked away. Leaving him alone with nothing but his own thoughts.

Goddamnit!

He messed up, this was not how he wanted things to go. Had he been wrong the entire time? Had she actually been mad at him, and was that the reason she avoided him to begin with? Had they not just been playing their usual silly game?

Fuck, maybe had he come on too strong three days ago. He did choke her, so it wouldn’t be surprising if that was the reason. But she said she liked it, right?

Sabo was about to go crazy, trying to figure out what he did wrong, when his eyes landed on the green cover of the book she had been reading.

He picked it up, curiosity getting the better of him.

“ *Outdoor Survival for Beginners*- what the actual?” He flipped through the pages, as something clicked in his brain. “Shit-”

Jane Doe was planning on running away…

It all made sense now. Why she avoided him, why she had gathered all those different things. Why she had been so defensive just moments ago.

(Why she hadn’t told him she liked him too.)

She was leaving, and she didn’t want anything left behind. It made sense, he would do the same thing if he knew he was leaving. It was plain cruel to confess your feelings to someone, just to be gone a few days later.

That’s why he had confessed to her. He wasn’t exactly planning on leaving her anytime soon, and he wanted her to know that.

Still, the only thing that didn’t make sense was her reason. Why would she want to run away?

She liked it here, Sabo saw how happy she looked whenever she helped around the base. How well she got along with Koala. How peaceful she had looked that morning when she slept on his chest.

In fact, why was she even hiding her identity to begin with? He hadn’t thought about it more than in passing, his mind usually being too preoccupied with holding his urges back around her.

Something wasn’t right…

“I might have to speed some things up.” Determination took over him.

Her plan was batshit crazy to begin with. She couldn’t even cook, how the fuck was she going to survive alone in the woods? She would die, hungry, freezing and alone, within a couple of days.

Sabo couldn’t stand the thought of losing someone he cared for again. Not after Ace-

No. This wasn’t the time to dwell on that.

He had a few very urgent house calls to make.

___

Tag list: @nymeriiiia

#one piece fanfiction #sabo x reader #x reader #sabo smut #one piece smut #fanfic #sabo #revolutionary sabo

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 8 hours

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The Dark Lord

Summary: The reader gets caught stealing from the infamous Dark Lord Winchester. Instead of killing her though, he offers her a job for some reason...

Pairing: Dark Lord!Dean x employee!reader

Word Count: 2,500ish

Warnings: language, briefly mentioned torture/killing

A/N: Think of this as a slightly magical AU set in the present day. I might pick this up again if there seems to be interest in more!...

________

“I don’t care what the hell you do to me, I’m not-” You cut yourself off when a blonde woman in her thirties and sky high heels held out a cup of hot coffee. “Is that…espresso?”

“It’s a roasted blend from Guatemala, boss is big on it lately. He’s so boring and never let’s me give him anything but straight black but I like to serve all our guests something nice.” She set the cup in your hand, an artisanal drawing of a W set in the center. “It has notes of hazelnut and caramel.”

“Thank you?” you said, her eyes lighting up. “Is this…poisoned?”

Her face fell so fast you felt awful for the way tears prickled her eyes. “Everyone always asks that. It’s just nice coffee.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, taking a sip and smiling. “It’s lovely.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled, turning to leave the dark room you were sat in.

“It really is good coffee.” She perked up a little, nodding once. “It’s just…I couldn’t help but ask.”

You held up your chained hands, the woman giving a sad smile. “Dark Lord Winchester is really the sweetest man I’ve ever met. I have no idea why everyone that he has come in his office thinks he’s going to kill them.”

“He kills people all the time…over nothing…” you said. She laughed and your stomach dropped.

“Oh no, Lord Winchester doesn’t do that! I’ve never seen him kill a soul that didn’t deserve it. Well, maybe a few but I seriously doubt he’ll kill you! He doesn’t tend to kill women as often, just a little torture. I’m sure you’ll be fine!” You withered into your seat when she left.

At least you had good coffee before your demise.

You jumped when the door crashed open, hot coffee spilling over yourself. It dripped down your shirt and soaked into your jeans, your skin stinging when a blur passed your periphery. You swallowed thickly as a man in a black bomber jacket, dark gray t shirt and black jeans walked in front of you. He crossed his muscular arms as he leaned back against the desk, peering down at you.

He looked like he wanted to kill you. Or fuck you. Or both.

“Hi, Dark Lord Winchester,” you squeaked out. He bent at his hips, leaning down, watching you slump down even further. “Oh fuck, just kill me now.”

“Not yet,” he hummed, straightening with a hard set jaw. He looked down his nose at you, making you feel like an ant under his mighty six foot one muscular frame. “My security caught you stealing from one of my warehouses. I’m told it was a prescription drug.”

“Yes, Lord Winchester,” you said quietly. You looked at your wet clothes, waiting for him to drag you down to his dungeon and rip you apart.

Instead a cell phone was tossed in your lap. You scrunched up your face and gazed up at him, Lord Winchester still staring you down.

“Uh, is this my last call or something?” you asked. He breathed deeply, looking over your head.

“Two options. Option one. I will kill you for stealing from me.”

“I’d like to hear option two,” you said quickly, Lord Winchester glaring at you.

“Option two. You work for me. I need an assistant and perhaps I’ll find you valuable enough to keep you alive long term.”

“Option two,” you said, nodding your head. He stood up straight and hummed.

“I thought so. You’re dismissed,” he said. You glanced down at your cuffs, Lord Winchester ignoring you. He walked around behind his desk and sat, glancing at his computer. “Do not make me ask again.”

You scurried out of the chair, grasping the empty mug in one hand, cellphone in the other.

“Y/L/N.” You froze, back to him. Fuck, he’d changed his mind. He was just toying with you. He was going to- “Get up to speed this afternoon. I expect you here to start eight am sharp.”

“Yes, Lord Winchester.” Quickly you left, pulling the door shut behind you. You let out a sigh, your overly friendly coffee bearing companion rushing around the corner with a smile. “I told you he wouldn’t kill you! Boss made me promise not to tell. I’m Donna by the way. Deputy Head of Security. I volunteered to be your new hire buddy!”

You blinked slowly at the blonde, tilting your head, her eyes drifting downward in alarm. “Oh no, you’ve burned yourself! Let’s get you out of those cuffs, to the infirmary and into a fresh change of clothes. Lord Winchester wants to go through all of your HR paperwork today and a brief tour before sending you home.”

“I uh,” you put a hand against your head, shaking it out. “Why did he give me a job and not kill me?”

“He must like you. Normally he kills people or tortures them or makes them pay him back with hefty interest. Oh!” She pulled out a thin envelope from her back pocket, handing it to you. “This is your offer letter. It’s not really an offer, more of you have to accept or you die sort of thing but he wanted to make sure you got this.”

You felt like you were in a strange dream as you tore it open, slowly walking by Donna’s side down a hallway. “So Michael is our staff doctor. He’ll check your arms-”

You nearly fell when you’d read the salary on the offer letter. Donna caught your waist, alarm written all over her face. “Oh my god. I’m calling for-”

You shoved the paper in her face, taping the bolded line. “Is this a joke? He’s paying me this much?”

Donna laughed, urging you to walk forward again.

“Six figures? Six figures?!” you screeched, Donna shaking her head. “What-”

“Working for Lord Winchester is lucrative but…there’s an expectation of discretion. I mean, he is the Dark Lord of the land. It’s not the sort of job you want to slack off at.”

“Wonderful.”

It was late, well into the evening, when you’d finished with your tour. You were in the lobby of Lord Winchester’s fortress, rubbing your eyes. Michael had given you a pair of scrubs to change into while your stained clothes were sent to the launder. Thankfully he’d deemed your skin only irritated from the hot coffee, not burned. Most of the day had been in HR, Donna sitting in to help guide you through your options.

Options like free healthcare. A pension. On-site housing. As his assistant, or “Personal Executive to The Dark Lord” as your title in the payroll system stated, you were expected to live in the fortress and move in this weekend. All covered and utilities paid for by the company.

A chef that cooked all your meals, if you were so inclined. Shuttle services to and from school in town with a tutor available after school to help with homework. A grand library for kids to study in and for the adults to further their own educational studies if they chose. There was even an inter-company softball league that got quite competitive.

Dark Lord Winchester on paper was the best fucking boss in the world.

A throat cleared behind you, making you jump and drop the stack of papers in your hands. You spun around, Dark Lord Winchester standing there.

“Sorry, sir,” you said, kneeling down, attempting to pick up the papers as quickly as possible. To your surprise, he dropped to one knee, leaning his body and grabbing a folder that had your company credit card inside. He held it out to you, deep green eyes watching you as you hesitated to take it.

“If you’re going to work for me, you can’t be scared shitless all the time.” You snatched the folder, his eyes raising briefly before he stood tall. He held out a hand, your own eyes wide. “This is where you put your hand in mine and I help you stand up.”

You swallowed, doing as told, his strong arm effortlessly pulling you up.

“Look at that. You touched me and didn’t turn to dust,” he chuckled. You only stared, Lord Winchester looking over your head. “Let me make something clear to you. I treat my employees extremely well. In return, I expect their best work and their loyalty. If you show up to work and do a good job, there is no reason to fear me.”

“How do I know I’m doing a good job?” you whispered. He looked down to you, pursing his lips.

“You’re the damn Executive Assistant to The Dark Lord. You ask a question, you do it with confidence. Ask correctly and I’ll answer.”

“How will I know I’m doing my job well?” you said, holding his gaze this time.

“Any woman that would risk stealing from the Dark Lord, knowing very well what I do to thieves, to get medicine for their kid brother? That is the kind of woman that I know will do spectacular in this job.”

You parted your lips, Dark Lord Winchester glancing at them before looking away. “How do you-”

“I know lots of things.” He checked the dark rolex on his wrist, frowning. “It’s late. I’ll drive you home myself. Wait on the front steps.”

You watched him go down a different hallway, your head going a million miles an hour.

What the fuck was happening?

You stepped outside and five minutes later, an older black Impala, very nicely taken care of, pulled up, Dark Lord Winchester behind the wheel. You slid in the passenger seat, a wonderful aroma in the air. He drove you home in silence save for the soft rock music playing through the speakers.

Your face burned when he drove that beautiful car through your less than glamorous neighborhood and as soon as he pulled to a stop in front of your very small rental, you were getting out.

“Y/L/N,” he chided. You stopped halfway, Lord Winchester reaching into the backseat and pulling over the back a large white bag. “For you and your brother. Dinner and his medication for a few months. Michael will be able to refill it when it’s up and can schedule a physical with him to check if his treatment needs to alter. Please apologize to your brother from me. He’s likely frightened being alone judging by the way every light is on inside.”

You shook your head, your lip tugging up. He narrowed his eyes as your smirk grew. “What is that look for?”

“Dark Lord Winchester my ass. You’re a good person, aren’t you?” He scoffed. “Nah, I’m starting to see this for what it is. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you’re nice deep down.”

“I’m not nice,” he growled. You took the bag from his hand, softening your smile. “Do not think I’m kind.”

“Oh, of course not,” you said, holding up the bag. You got out, closing the door behind you. But you bent down, leaning into the open window. “Thank you. He…his asthma’s been getting worse lately. This will really help us. All of it will help.”

He was quiet, looking out at the dark road. “A car will pick you up at 7:30. Movers will come by Saturday morning to pack up your things.”

“Goodnight, Lord Winchester,” you said, stepping back.

“It’s Dean,” he said, revving the engine, making your heart race. He took off, your chest still thumping when you went inside.

“Kyle! I’m home with dinner!” You called. Kyle came rushing out of the hallway, a blanket pulled over his head. “I’m so sorry I’m late, buddy. Did you get scared?”

“No,” said the twelve year old, doing an awful job of hiding his relief. “What’s for dinner?”

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you find out for us?” You handed him the bag, Kyle rushing back to the kitchen with it. “How was school?”

“Fine.” He said nothing more as you entered, pleasantly surprised to find a balanced dinner of chicken, vegetables and some sweet potatoes inside. “Is this take out?”

“No. I uh, got a new job today,” you said, opening the box that had his medicine inside. “Hey. Got you a refill.”

“What’s your new job?” he asked, taking a plate from you and scooting into his spot at the small two seater table.

“I uh…work for Dark Lord Winchester. We’re, uh, moving on Saturday to live at the fortress. You’ll have your own room and there’s some other kids that live there too for you to play with. He uh, actually wanted me to tell you how sorry he was for keeping me late tonight.”

“Really? Cool.” You rolled your eyes. “Does he actually wear a skull mask and a black cloak?”

“No,” you laughed. “He looks very normal. Maybe you’ll get to meet him someday.”

“Cool,” he said again, frowning when you pointed at his untouched vegetables. “Y/N-“

“Eat them or Dark Lord Winchester won’t be happy…” you chided, Kyle shrinking down into his seat, reluctantly taking a bite, a flash of surprise on his face.

“These are way better than when you make them!” He started to scarf down the brussels sprouts as you sighed.

“I’m not dead and you’re eating veggies for once. I’ll take that as a win for today.”

The Next Morning

“Good morning, Lord Winchester,” you said as you rose from your desk outside his office on the far end of the second floor, dressed in skinny jeans, a bright yellow sleeveless blouse and an oversized blazer. Dean looked you up and down, his eyebrows raising. “HR said the dress code-“

“If I wanted everyone to wear suits, I’d have everyone wear them. Your outfit is fine. You’re probably not going to wear heels with the running around you’ll do,” he said, entering his office, waving for you to follow after. His legs looked long in the dark denim that clung to his thighs. He wore a white long sleeve Henley shirt with a navy button up over top, sleeves rolled up his forearms. “If you would stop staring at me could we get started?”

Your face flushed as you sat in the chair opposite his desk, Dean sitting with a groan and greedily sucking down a cup of coffee.

“So your job is to make my life easier,” he said, opening his laptop, frowning at it. “I get a lot of…requests from my department heads. I need you to be a buffer between me and them for the day to day. I also need you to handle pop ups and act as a sounding board for myself.”

“HR went over the expectations with me,” you said, Dean grunting as he drank more coffee again.

“Great. I need you to start with brainstorming ideas for how to rescue my brother from Crowley. We’ll meet after lunch to discuss.”

“King of The Dark Lands Crowley?” Dean hummed. “Isn’t he…”

“A demon? Oh yeah,” he said, giving you a barely there smile. “Shouldn’t be a problem for a little thief like you.”

________

A/N: Interested in more? Let me know with a comment!

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luviwon · 2 days

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sunwon part 3!;

https://x.com/softintimacy/status/1766363140248227962?s=46&t=JKdJxEDuTIIP-VMsMMu2JA

jungwon was reveling in this, your helpless moans against the door while sunoo could only imagine what it felt like to be ruining your cunt right now. all those times sunoo scurried off to torture himself, shoddily hiding his hard on as soon as he'd see jungwon brought you home, the stares during occasional times jungwon would catch him humping against objects you'd touched, finding your personal items scattered in his room. jungwon got off to it all, to knowing someone else so close to you both wants to have his way with you, to know that by fucking you until you can't walk, sunoo will have spent himself dry by merely listening. so jungwon backed away, making you jolt and arch your back, craving his body heat, clenching around his fullness, before he quickly started playing with your asshole, his thumb giving you equally brief relief and preparation while he soothed you with words spoken loud enough for sunoo to hear over your moans

https://x.com/notf0rchiidx/status/1815291622411682134?s=46&t=JKdJxEDuTIIP-VMsMMu2JA

"you stretch for me so good... do you want me to stuff your ass next? is that why you can take my fingers so deep?" jungwon slapping your ass made you jolt and moan again, before sliding his cock out of your worn out cunt and tracing it around your asshole instead, peppering it with chaste kisses from his dickhead only to slide it in, taunting you "are you having a hard time? are you going to take it all in, show off how much of me you can take?" and then pushing in further, and it'd feel like every hole on your body was made for him, the first coherent thought you'd had since he started, that quickly turned into mush the deeper he went

https://x.com/nsfwfk/status/1782250001625711070?s=46&t=JKdJxEDuTIIP-VMsMMu2JA

and it'd be accompanied by sunoo having a painful realization it's all far from over, his already overstimulated cock hurting, limit reached an orgasm ago, trying his best to ignore how badly he knows he'd like to cum for the last time tonight, wanting to take this as far as you can take it despite being a voyeur to your pleasure filled torture no matter how desperately he wanted to be delivering it to you himself; the right to cum to your sweet and needy moans knowing how full of cum you must be being all too enticing for him to ever consider quitting, not now, not when you're so close. when would he ever get another opportunity like this? it's not like you were his, it's not like you were meant to be shared amongst them. as far as he knew, the luxury of getting to have his way with your cunt belonged to someone capable of asking you, of having the willingness to take it. and he was ready for it, he wanted it more than anything. but that wasn't happening any time soon... at least, he thought.

that was when jungwon spoke up again, his words cutting through your moans and going straight to sunoo's ears; "you like this? you like having both your holes stuffed, like a slut?" instructing you to answer his questions using your body, to shake your hips and bounce your own ass against his cock, ignore how loudly your body is pounding on sunoo's door, ignore how overstimulated you are, instead focus on how your audience is cumming for you, how good you need to be now that it's not only for your wonie, you need to make sure sunoo can cum too, because it's only fair. "you like that he can hear you? i can't tell if you're moaning because it feels good or if it's for him anymore. answer me." his tone would imply he has no idea how cruelly he's treating your body, his cum coating both your holes as you hold onto the door frame and forget how to speak, how to think, sunoo no longer hiding his own moans hearing what jungwon said. it felt like he read his mind, filling you up, mumbling to himself "yes, yes, yes" while mindlessly rutting into his hand, his eyes rolling back after jungwon slaps your ass again and you come back enough to reply to his inquiries with a desperate "yes" of your own. "yes, you like this? yes, you like both of your holes stuffed? yes, you are a slut? yes, you like that sunoo can hear you? yes, you want to cum for sunoo too?" a filthy, all too knowing smirk adorned on his face. all you could get out were repeated mixes of "yes" and moans as you cum once again, jungwon leaning in to kiss you, sucking on your tongue, drool dressing both of your mouths while you feel him cum inside of you with a satisfied groan with his lips pressed against yours, sweaty skin slapping skin, hot cum decorating your holes and the back of your thighs, and sunoo moaning alongside you, clearly finished in his room again, a new unspoken agreement between the three of you dawning on him while he catches his breath, sitting in his chair a silent and sweaty mess, nothing to be heard but panting on either side of the door. that is, until jungwon bends down and spreads you open, his cum spilling out of you

https://x.com/y0urbabysakura/status/1776352924135829596?s=46&t=JKdJxEDuTIIP-VMsMMu2JA

in true wonie fashion, he'd playfully tease you with a spank "you're spilling! tsk tsk, you were supposed to save that for sunoo, you know." before walking away chuckling, off to clean himself up in the bathroom while you keep twitching against the door, feeling empty but but bliss of of the orgasm carrying you afloat, wetness dripping down your legs and collecting in the shallow little puddle beneath your feet, knowing you should go and clean yourself up before anyone else makes a surprise appearance, clit twitching and hole gaping as you remember what you admitted to when you hear sunoo begin to shuffle in his room, likely on his way out here at any moment, and here you were, naked and covered in cum, leaning against his door. you gather yourself and make your way to jungwon's room to at least wipe yourself off. sunoo waits until he hears jungwon's door open and close again after listening to your sticky feet lightly tread through the halls, finally opening his door to b-line for the second bathroom, the mess covering his body feeling better than ever but the soreness warranting a good shower to bring the high down. the last thing he needed was to find himself stuck in that chair, getting off to thoughts of you again, after he's gotten all the confirmation he needs that fucking you until you're a sobbing mess is very much in order. he'd save it up for you, make sure the first load he gives you was so big that you'd be leaking his cum for weeks, and if you ran out then he'd just fill you up again, jungwon wouldn't be able to fuck you again without fucking sunoo's cum further into you in the process. that is, until he actually opens the door, and looks down at the creamy, gleaming mess on the floor in front of his feet. the mess made from your fluids, on a platter in the shape of the hard wooden floor of his apartment. it takes all his willpower not to immediately consider getting on his knees and lapping it up. it takes more of his willpower to ignore how his cock twitched at the thought. "shit-" he breath hitched. he walked over it and went to the bathroom, making a mental note to start his plan of "saving" his next load for you after this

MDNI ‼️‼️‼️

1st link

2nd link

3rd link (the way he s going faster and deeper??? i need this so fucking much please jungwon don’t think too much about it and just give it to me)

4th link

——————-

i don’t think there was any hotter part than when jungwon kept asking the questions…”yes you are a slut? yes you like sunoo hearing you” like yeah i do…it’s incredibly feeding all of my needs i love this so fucking much. and sunoo doing all that to himself hearing us against the door? baby don’t be shy, give us a show as well <3

i also need a continuation??? let’s switch the roles too, i really have to see how jungwon will react as the audience to sunoo fucking the shit out of me, you know…the best of both worlds.

babez i’m so desperate now your writing was so good that’s the only thing i have on my mind now… i need to be filled up by both of them at once 🤍

#enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen smut #enhypen hard #sunoo hard hours #sunoo hard thoughts #sunoo smut #enhypen sunoo #kim sunoo #sunoo x reader #sunoo link #sunoo x you #enha sunoo #enhypen links

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unreliable-narrator-2845 · 5 hours

Text

massive info dump abt an au im working on below ( +art)

some doodles from an au im working on w/ some friends... it's kind of a riff off of both the portal swap au and mr bill pines au... essentially, the brothers are swapped from the beginning - stanley is seen as the smart, successful one, and ford a bit of an outcast black sheep of the family, seen as bad luck because of his extra fingers. stanley is the good, normal one, the one with all the people skills, and ford is the 'brute' slacker, and seen as far more stupid than he really is. stanley is the one who invented the perpetual motion machine - and ford destroys it on purpose out of frustration and jealousy, and is the one that gets kicked out.

ford goes down the path of crime, like stan did, but he's a little more, uh... intense about it. he can't go off of people skills, he's gotta bring actual stuff to the table, so he travels to weirdness pockets (smaller than gravity falls) and basically turns the whole criminal underground on its head by his uncanny ability to harness this stuff. people do not like him, but he's VERY useful, so he gets to live in constant fear of whether people doing deals with him are going to leave him alone after or kill him after, since he can't tell which is which.

unlike stanley, who i think would absolutely hesitate to actually do severe physical violence (past beating people up) even while during his homeless years, i think ford wouldn't hesitate as much. ford has absolutely killed people. he will kill again.

how i see it going down is that bill, doing his usual dealings and such, has one of his hosts killed by ford while he's in it after ford witnesses a crime. he goes "haha! oh shit! a witness!" and then gets his neck fucking snapped the moment he advances on him. bill is Not Particularly Pleased, until he actually gets into ford's dreams, and is... impressed.

i am a simp for bill being a simp - in this au bill doesn't bother manipulating him, he wants this rugged badass to be his husband NOW. when they make a deal, ford writes a paper contract that they regularly update. bill and ford have a very mutual deal, to say the least, and they get married - and ford is the one to take his last name, since he cut contact with the family who kicked him out, so he's mr. stanford cipher (which i think is a good au name?). stanley is the one w/ the middle name filbrick in this au btw.

behind the eye scar: ford got into some shit with the cartel. this happens after his and bill's marriage, but what bill can do is limited w/o being physically present, so he has to watch in horror as they torture ford as he tries to find a way to get his husband out. this is the inciting incident that makes him particularly antsy about getting a portal up and going.

meanwhile stanley in gravity falls comes across an interesting cave...

trivia:

bill could minorly heal the eye, but only so much. the eye is now permanently bill's, or at least in his coloration. ford keeps it closed, but it opens fully when bill is fully possessing him. their contract details that bill can come and go only with ford's explicit permission. they often have a half-possession going, where bill can enhance ford and take only mild control, if any at all.

ford has 4 depictions of bill across his body, all tats. he has lots of vague triangle tattoos also, and the portal shape on his back. bill is fond of possessing the depiction on his throat, which he can move around as he pleases

bill's priorities during the initial writing of the contract were extremely funny. ford was trying to figure out the exact details of mind access, body access, etc, and bill was just gushing about "WE NEED RINGS!!!" and "i get to take you on 4 dates before i propose hehe"

stanley went to BMU and was dormmates w/ fiddleford. they are covertly (not legally) married (because 1980s) and went to gravity falls together. stanley and ford both have an interest in cryptozoology in this. ford avoids gravity falls like the plague because he knows stanley would probably be there

^^ addition to the above: stanley's full name is Stanley Filbrick Pines-McGucket, though he is only Pines-McGucket informally

stanley also still has his mullet. sue me. also he has glasses because he needs them and he's a nerdy science guy in this one

i really enjoy the pre-portal 1980s part of the timeline. can you tell. there's so much potential here. i am frothing at the mouth.

anyways............................................. more content soon. repurposed an old empty sideblog to maybe dedicate to this au/gf content. we shall see.

#gravity falls au #my art #stanford pines #ford pines #billford #fiddlestan #stanley pines #stan pines #bill cipher #mr. stanford cipher au

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the-martyrfication-of-the-matron · 2 days

Text

So... SKs...

I need to talk about my positioning on the Zenix/Vylad/Malik Death thing too because i may have changed that opinion a teeny bit with a tiny bit of speculation... but i digress. that'll be another post, i'm just warning you that the yap travelling circus is coming to your city

anyways

SKs!

tw, this is discussions about SKs, and so will be talking about themes involving death, torture, and manipulation.

Lore about Sks really becomes defined after Laur becomes one, because he's a major character and it really makes sense that way, but we do get a lot of lore even before he becomes a recurring character, really. Especially through Zenix and the storylines adjacent to him. I really do think that Sk lore was peaking when Zenix was one of the major antagonists for the series, because it was just very interesting to have to explore that he was experiencing it away from the main storyline, and Aphmau would have to make an active effort to understand and build that knowledge, and even as she is starting to know more she is still kind of in denial that he is capable of the things he is doing.

And this becomes especially interesting that she is learning this through other people, when we compare it to what Zenix himself says about being a Shadow knight.

SKs have been around since episode one, maybe not in the way they were later developed to be, but the idea of this little band of antagonists that follow 'The King' and want lords dead, and are stunting villages, and we don't really know why except for monarchism. And as we build upon our knowledge over the episodes we find out they don't live in an active monarchy, but that the King is some supernatural force, and that the little band of villains are too, and they're trying to bring him back.

And then we get, in episode 31/32, that not all SKs are guards, and they don't only kill lords. Of course, the baker is only a knight in training, but the idea remains. The following of the King is ideological, they don't only recruit guards off of some need for the bond between lords and guards, they will recruit whoever is willing to do what they want, kill who needs to be killed.

In fact, the first time we ever really get the guard/lord talk in regards to Shadowknights is in episode 35, by Zenix. Zenix seems to have this idea that Guards and Lords are intrinsically connected, that the life of one is dependant of the death of the other, and there is always this idea that guards are expendable and so they are the ones to die and the lords live. However, if the guards kill the lords instead, they become the King's loyal servants, blessed with power, with immortality.

He cannot be killed like when he was human.

This is the origin of the idea that Sks are not only immortal, but have to kill the one they love most to transform into that immortal state. And it's not exactly what he's saying. He's saying that guards are always expected to die for their lords, but then the King tells them 'hey you kill your lord, i'll let you live forever' and then they're like 'oh neat' and kill their lords to gain that immortality and power.

I understand how this little rant of his later turned into that lore, but i think the implications here are much more interesting. Again, he says 'No one can touch me! No one can kill me like when i was human' and whilst you can take that to mean that he is no longer mortal, it also kind of reads like he has been killed or at least severely harmed before before... which has been implied by Azura earlier on, and sort of himself in the same conversation, where he says 'Garroth told you... didn't he? How he found me?' 'I wasn't in such good shape then either.' What this all overall implies upon SK lore is that the King preys upon victims to find followers, he takes those who have been victimised before, and he offers them the chance to not have to suffer that way again, they just have to do as he tells them to.

It's not some urge they cannot shake off, it's not this feeling deep inside of them that they cannot remove. They have been hurt they have been offered to not have to never be hurt again. It's a choice, through and through, but in the same way it isn't. It's not this primal hunger for blood, so much as a scrabbling for survival, it's fear, and desperation, it's a needing to not suffer through that trauma again and so they say yes. They say yes, because they will do these awful things because it's better to do bad to others than them do bad to you.

Later lore has them do these things because Shad has taken their bodies, and brought them back, changed their memories and given them the urge and the want to kill. He preys on victims because he can only turn those in his clutches into Knights. Earlier lore has him turning people by ideology, he is preying on those who he knows are already vulnerable, he is not limited by scope of domain, but merely by how convincing he can be. And that is terrifying.

Guards aren't killing lords because they need to kill who matters most to them, because they can't stop themselves no matter how much they try.

they're doing it because he told them to.

#maybe everyone already knew this stuff but noticing this all on my rewatch was CRAZY #aphmau #aphverse #aphblr

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scribbles97 · 1 day

Text

The Nightmare Come True - Part 3

TW: POW, Torture Scott's POV 1 | Part 1 | Scott's POV 2 | Part 2 | Scott's POV 3 Thanks @loopstagirl for the support and inspiration!

Scott had thanked him.

Scott had thanked him and it had made the Dog Tags in Jeff’s pocket feel all the heavier.

“You found me.”

It had sounded like the kid had never doubted him, and Jeff’s gut had started to refute the statement before he had consciously thought about it.

Scott, I …

Wouldn’t have stopped until I did.

I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.

Or, perhaps the most truthful of all,

I didn’t.

Because Colonel Jeff Tracy had not found Captain Scott Tracy. Instead, his son had been presented to him as a pawn in the game between one country and the rest of the world. It had been Hugh and Kyrano that had worked their magic and found exactly where Scott had been held.

Hell, it had even been Kyrano that had found him in the cells when Jeff hadn’t heard his own son’s cries for help.

The nightmare that had woken Scott in a panic and sent all manner of alarms blaring, were proof most of all.

Jeff hadn’t saved his son.

He had spent six months trying, and failing, to find him. He had stood by as others had taken action and done all the heavy lifting for him. He had done nothing whilst all that time Scott had been fighting.

“What’s that look for?”

Jeff looked up from where he had perched on the arm of the chair Scott had fallen asleep in, Val’s whisper breaking into his thoughts.

“He thinks I saved him, Val.” He murmured back, his hand absently brushing over Scott’s still too short hair, “He thanked me.”

Val eyed him for a long moment before hopping up onto the empty bed, her eyes assessing both he and Scott in a way Jeff had long since come used to. She’d speak when she’d decided what needed to be said, once she’d gotten a full picture of what was happening and the mindset of those involved. It was a skill she used to her full advantage and had seen her rise through the ranks of the Air Force right on Jeff’s tail.

“The nurses won’t be impressed when they find him out of bed.” She watched him, leaning forward like it was a secret Jeff hadn’t already known the moment Scott had forced himself upright.

“He needed to move,” He fired back, ready to defend as he had done when the same nurses had tried to force an oxygen mask over Scott’s face, “to not feel trapped.”

He’d known even before he had asked that he wouldn’t have stopped Scott, even if he had wanted to. His son had always wanted to move, had hated confinement of any sort even when he had been tiny. Lucy had always laughed, insisted that he had gotten it from Jeff himself, and had known that he would inevitably follow his father to the sky where the only limit was the horizon.

Being bound to a bed, barely able to stay awake, had always felt like …

“You helped him?” Val asked, raising an eyebrow that held no real heat.

Jeff straightened, prickling at the insinuation he couldn’t quite see, “I was hardly gonna leave him to struggle on his own.”

Because he had done that once, and even to that day he was seeing the reminders of that very mistake.

Scott hadn’t wanted help, had been determined to push through and manage on his own even when he was exhausted and hurting. Jeff had partly fallen back on his Colonel Voice to get the Captain to listen, and it had twisted something deep in his gut that it had come to that.

He knew the way Scott had leaned into him after he had thrown up had been subconscious, and definitely something he wouldn’t have done had he been more awake. It was for the same reason that Scott hadn’t actively called out for Jeff, except for in his nightmares.

A much younger Scott had needed his father, and he hadn’t been there, so at some point the kid had stopped asking for him.

Jeff had come back to his son’s though, and had sworn every day that he would be there for them. He would pick them up when they fell, guide them when they were lost, hold them together when they fell apart.

Alan had just been young enough to still ask for him.

Gordon had his moments, but had followed an example set by his older brothers.

Virgil had always been his mother’s son, and whilst he would ask for Jeff, he knew his mother had always been the parent he had called for first.

John wasn’t like the others, had always needed someone to see when he needed help rather than simply ask for it.

Scott had once been like Virgil, except the oldest had been his father’s son where Virgil had been his mother’s. When Jeff had fallen into his grief, Scott had fallen to not wanting to ask for help. Ever since had had come to his senses, Jeff had been watching and doing his best to give his son what he needed.

“You’re protecting him.” Val stated softly, the smallest of smiles playing on her lips.

Jeff looked down again, Scott’s face slack in dreamless sleep, peaceful.

He’d do anything to keep his son feeling that at peace, but he knew he couldn’t stop the nightmares that would come eventually.

“I didn’t protect him from them, nobody protected him.” He whispered, “He saved his crew, and he saved himself, I just turned up to pull him outta there.”

“Maybe.” Val nodded slowly, “or maybe you turned up right when he needed you to.”

Jeff frowned across to her, “What do you mean?”

Her look was soft as she sighed, “They train us hard for what happens in prison, tell us what to do, what to say. There’s no training for this though, is there? For what comes after.”

He knew she was right, there was no guidebook or protocol for what Scott was going through. There was no command that his son could follow to make it better.

Unless…

He felt sick at the thought, not confident that Scott was really ready for it.

Command was something he could do though, something Jeff had seen him demonstrate a handful of times since he had woken up. He had found his voice again, rooted deep and found the stubbornness that ran strong in his genes to get himself from the bed to the chair. There was still something more needed though, something to get him to see exactly how strong he had been through everything.

“Tomorrow,” He swallowed, “I’ll talk to him about a debrief.”

If Val was surprised by his statement, she hid it well.

“I can’t get you in on it.” She stated with a heavy sigh, “But if he agrees, I’ll find a way for you to listen in.”

Jeff wasn’t sure he was ready for that, to hear exactly what Scott had gone through without being at his side to support him through the memories. He trusted Val though, knew she had stood up for the rest of the squadron, and knew that she would do the same if not more for the man sleeping at Jeff’s side.

Slipping off the bed, she crossed the room to squeeze his shoulder with a silent nod before leaving them as quietly as she had come.

***

The nurses hadn’t passed comment when they had come to check on Scott, and Jeff said nothing in return as he scratched gently at his son’s scalp and thought about how stiff he would be when he did eventually wake. He deserved peace, the chance to rest undisturbed for as long as his mind would allow him.

Jeff’s phone buzzing in his pocket startled him as he hurried to answer it before it woke Scott.

“Virgil.” He hissed, glancing down to Scott, grateful to see him undisturbed despite the blue-tinged hologram lighting up the room.

His middle son looked firstly shocked and then guilty across the miles, “Sorry Dad, I just-- is that… Scott?”

Jeff realized too late that Scott would have been in the frame and immediately shifted the field to hide the eldest away from his younger brother’s eyes.

“He’s sleeping.” He murmured, “He’s still recovering.”

Virgil nodded quickly, eyes still clearly shocked at whatever he had picked up on of his eldest brother’s state.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have-- I just--”

Jeff straightened, already heightened senses picking up on the tone and immediately knowing the root of why his son had called. He glanced to the clock on the wall, a digital thing that showed the date in big bold numbers beneath the time. A quick mental calculation reminded him that Virgil had a recital that day, a solo he had been practicing since before Scott had been gone.

They had both voiced hope that he would be home to see it.

“What is it, son?” He asked softly, “Can your Grandmother still make it today?”

Virgil nodded quickly, glancing away from the phone before looking back again, “Yeah, Grandma’s still coming.”

His voice didn’t hold its usual enthusiasm in anticipation of playing for his family.

“I know you hoped he’d be home for this.” Jeff murmured, his free hand scratching over Scott’s scalp again, “We all did.”

Virgil looked away again, someone out of field calling him, “I… it’s my turn for final rehearsal.”

Jeff smiled softly, understanding without the words needing to be asked, “I’m sure we could stay on the line whilst you play.”

Virgil’s face lit up, his eyes losing most of the worry that had settled there at the sight of his big brother, “You can? Ms Graham said it was fine but Grandma sid the doctors might--”

Jeff waved him off, quickly assuring him that the doctors could say all they wished. Scott had always encouraged Virgil to play, he was certain to appreciate the soft melodies even in his sleep.

Or not, if the hand that reached to Jeff’s leg was of any indication.

He glanced down as Virgil placed the phone on the corner of the piano, noting how Scott’s eyes were still rested closed even as he yawned. Reaching down, he rested his free hand over his son’s, unsurprised when Scott moved his hand to grip the best he could in response.

Awake, listening, but not ready to face his brother was the summary Jeff came to as Virgil began to play.

He wasn’t sure when Scott’s body had tensed against him, but as the music floated through the speaker of his phone, Jeff noticed as slowly each part of Scott fully relaxed. Muscles that he was certain must have been tense for months, softened and lengthened as the melody flowed over them. The splinted fingers that had tried to curl around Jeff’s hand loosened until they were no longer holding on but resting lightly against Jeff’s palm. His eyes were open but distant, focussed somewhere in the middle of the floor but not really seeing the room they were in as the notes wrapped them in something soothing and calm.

They perhaps could have sat like that forever, at peace with the music that had once been Lucy’s. Every song had it’s end though, and all too soon Virgil was looking back to the hologram with a smile much softer than the one he had given earlier.

“Night Scott, night Dad.” He murmured softly before hanging up without another word.

Jeff smiled to himself as he repocketed his phone, glancing down to Scott with a raised eyebrow, “How about we get you into bed? You’ll feel it tomorrow if you sleep here all night.”

Scott grunted as he shifted upright, clearly already feeling it after the few hours he had been sat in the chair. His eyes darted across the room to the bed, his jaw tensing as he gauged the distance he had to move.

For a brief moment, Jeff thought he would need to convince his son to accept help once more, but right as he was about to step in front of him, Scott turned and held out his arms.

“Easy does it, right?” Jeff had asked through his surprise, stepping up and supporting Scott’s weight just as he had done so earlier.

Together they had shuffled back to the bed, Scott’s weight shifting more and more on to Jeff the further they got. Not that he minded, hell, Jeff would carry his son across that room a thousand times if it made things better.

“Dad?” Scott slurred as he sunk back into the pillows.

“Yes, kiddo?”

“Tell Aunt Val you can lis’en.”

By the time Jeff had interpreted just what Scott meant, the kid was asleep.

***

Val had brought the Generals with her the next afternoon after a more lucid Scott had agreed to the debrief. She had stood at the door as the pair had introduced themselves and then asked Jeff to leave the room.

He would never forgive the United States Air Force for what had followed when Scott had gripped onto his sleeve and stated in no uncertain terms that he wished for his father to stay. For a brief moment, Jeff had been assured that Scott would be fine as a flicker of the self-confident son shone through in the face of his superiors.

Those superiors had instantly extinguished the flame.

There had been no gentle reminders, or soft explanations, no understanding or care for what the airman in the bed had been through whilst they had sat in their ivory towers. Without hesitation, one had barked a sharp reminder across the room,

“You’ll do well to remember who’s in charge here, Captain.”

Scott had instantly cowered, turning away from the authority figures and looking to Jeff with the same fear that he had found him with back in the cells. The hand that Jeff had taken in his own had been clammy and had shook as he held on to it tight.

“Son, you listen to me,” He had told him, ignoring the pair at his back, “I’ll be right down the hall. You tell them everything that happened, and as soon as you’re done I’ll be right back here.”

It had taken a long moment before Scott had nodded and released Jeff’s arm enough for him to leave.

As soon as he was out the door, he had shoved in the earbud Val had slipped to him and hurried to the office down the hall she had cleared for him.

There he had listened, barely breathing, as Scott had recounted every detail of the six months he had been gone.

From departing for the mission, to being shot down.

From being helped by the villagers they were meant to be saving, to being captured.

From being thrown in a cell with the rest of his squad, to fighting to protect them when their captors had come to interrogate them.

It had all been almost robotic, Jeff could tell his son had slipped and fallen back to the Air Man he had been six months ago. There was no emotion there, the Generals didn’t have an interest in how their people felt, just one simple fact after another.

“Your squadron told us--”

“You debriefed my people without me?” Scott cut in, “Sir, protocol dictates that any debrief should be--”

“You were unavailable, Captain.” Val told him gently, “Protocol was followed given the circumstance.”

“Your squadron described to us how you protected them.” One General continued, as if there hadn’t been an interruption, “Did you not trust them, Captain?”

Scott’s voice held the same flicker it had earlier as he responded, “I trust them all with my life, Sir.”

“So why take the beatings in their place?”

Anger curdled in Jeff’s own stomach, it had not been as simple as beatings, even he knew that much. The animals had tortured Scott and his squad, first for information and then, he imagined, just because they could.

“It was torture, Sir.” Scott’s voice held an edge to it, sharp and dangerous, “I wasn’t going to let my people suffer more than they needed to, not if I could help it.”

“Your squad say you bartered with your captors, is that correct?”

“I bartered to protect them.”

“Yet it wasn’t enough, was it, Captain? You still lost half your team.”

There was a long pause, a quiet shuffling and a soft murmur of assurance from Val before Scott responded.

“I failed my people, Sir.”

Jeff bowed his head, screwing his eyes shut to force his own tears away. Scott had failed nobody, he had done his best to protect his people in any way he had been able. He had stayed strong and fought, Jeff had seen how fiercely Scott protected his own, had been called to the principal's office over fights caused by bullies too many times to count.

“Why did they separate you?”

“Sir?”

“Your squad told us that just before their rescue, your captors split you from a group cell to individual cells. Why was this?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“So, in all your bartering, they never gave you anything?”

“They stayed away from my people.” Scott answered, his voice wavering, “They hurt me instead of them.”

“But they didn’t, did they Captain? They still hurt your comrades, didn’t they?”

Jeff felt his heart drop, the insinuation hitting him square in the chest.

“Not as badly as they could have, Sir.”

“What are you insinuating, General?” Val’s voice held as much ire as Jeff felt.

“We find it awfully convenient that the Captain is reported to have bartered with the guards and was then hidden away when the extraction team arrived.”

Jeff slammed his fist on the desk, sending pens scattering across the floor as he half stood from the seat he had taken. How dare they imply that Scott had betrayed his country! They hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen the scars or the nightmares, hadn’t heard their son scream their name like they couldn’t hear him.

“You want to know where I was when they came?”

Scott’s anger had always burned hot and fast, explosive against anyone that stood against him. It was something he had gotten from Jeff himself, a trait he had tried and failed to move him away from.

Up the hallway, in a hospital bed, unable to stand for himself, Scott’s anger burned equally as hot but in a far more dangerous way. There hadn’t been any quiver in his question, each word had come as clear as the one before, his tone low and blunt. Anyone that had known the boy’s mother would have heard her as Jeff did in that question, and they would have known that whatever came next was far more dangerous than an explosion.

“Please, enlighten us, Captain.”

Scott’s breaths turned ragged for a moment, anger and panic mixing briefly before a long breath was drawn in.

“They put me in Solitary. To the right of the room where I was found, there was a concealed entrance, a room five by five.”

Jeff felt sick as he remembered the screams for help he had heard over the phone, and he knew.

“They took me there three times, General, and they left me there for weeks. Did my team tell you that? Did they tell you how they all thought I was dead the first time because I was gone for so long? Did they tell you how I couldn’t stand for a fortnight after they let me out? Did they tell you how I came back covered in my own filth because the guards thought it would remind me what sort of pig I was?”

Jeff was torn between pride and anger, between needing to listen and needing to stop. He’d had ideas, had made assumptions about everything his son must have been through, but he wasn’t sure any of them had quite matched the reality he was hearing as Scott ranted.

“I was in there when they were saved! And I came out thinking they were dead and that I’d failed them all. That was when I gave up. That was when they could have killed me and I wouldn’t have cared.”

Jeff found himself gripping the desk to keep himself seated, his stomach churning enough that he thought about reaching for the waste bin. Scott had given up, had been ready to let them win. If Kyrano hadn’t have found him when he did…

“I think your people should be checking for that hidden room, General.” Val’s voice was the cool balm Jeff needed to hear, “That and the Squadron’s statements should be confirmation enough of Captain Tracy’s loyalty to the Force.”

Jeff didn’t wait for her text to confirm it was clear for him to return. He didn’t acknowledge the Generals as he passed them in the hallway. He didn’t stop for anything or anyone until his arms were wrapped around his son.

Scott clung to him in return, a raw sob breaking free the moment that Val left them alone.

“I’ve got you kiddo.” He murmured into his hair, “You’ve been so strong, I’m so proud. You didn’t fail, you saved Jen and Gary and Sienna, you did good Scott. You’re so brave.”

His son’s tears weren’t like the ones that came before, they lacked the shaking grip that had come with fear and memories of terror that had been haunting him since he had woken up.

His sobs were raw, his grip solid and sure against Jeff’s back, like he had finally realized that his father wasn’t going anywhere without him. He wasn’t sure if it was relief, anger, or something else that fueled them, but it was something.

He held on and kept repeating the soothing mantra until the sobs subsided into long aching breaths and Scott pulled back, clearly spent.

“Dad?” He murmured, eyes drifting as Jeff repositioned himself to take hold of his hand.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

HIs eyes flickered to him, brow furrowing as he spoke, “I lied to them.”

Jeff leant closer, holding on to Scott’s hand with both of his, “To who?”

“The Generals. Told ‘em I didn’t care. I did though, I wanted to come home, wanted to see the boys, and wanted to see you. Then you found me.”

He pulled Scott back to his chest, hugging him tightly as his own tears broke free and ran down into his son’s hair.

#thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #thunderbirds 2015 #jeff tracy #scribbles writes #thunderbirds #TW: POW #tw: torture #loopstagirl #thunderbirds fanfiction

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jo-harrington · 22 hours

Text

Chuck (Eddie Munson)

Summary: It's just a regular closing shift at Benny's. Easy peasy. Nothing bad could possibly happen.

Word Count: 3.5k

Characters: Eddie, Jeff, Benny Hammond

Themes/Warnings: Boys will be boys, friendship, smutty intrusive thoughts, Masturbation(?), Food Fucking, Eddie has an unspecified romantic partner (could be Steve, could be Reader, could be anyone that's not what this story is about), Song Fic, What's a Little Psychological Torture Between Friends…

Note: You know what? In true unhinged fashion, I had to write this for @courtingchaos on her birthday and not only that but give her some credit here. This was born from us being stuck in a car on Lake Shore Drive, hangry and a little slap happy, on the way to Navy Pier after I witnessed something that was probably very similar (in the most innocuous way) at a suburban Burger King.

Meg, you are my life. My world. You are my Cheese. Burger. And this one's for you. Happy Birthday.

Thank you AGAIN to @dr-aculaaa for the beta and @deathbecomesthem for some of the diner lingo. Disclaimer that I never worked at a diner so this is probably horribly inaccurate...but just suspend your sense of disbelief if you have.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

If anyone wants to get the full effect of this fic, you need to put Mr. Roboto on repeat for the duration of your time reading.

---

5:55PM

Jeff stared at the clock as he wiped down the counter.

Every tick of the second hand had him gritting his teeth a little more, enough where he should probably worry that he was gonna crack a tooth. All because Eddie was late for his closing shift.

Their closing shift.

And not just late, late again. For the third time in as many days they worked together.

If he even showed up.

Now Jeff wasn't one to complain. Shit, Eddie was the one to suggest that he apply at Benny's in the first place and put a good word in for his best friend.

Ben was getting a little older and wanted to enjoy what was left of his youth while he still had it, instead of solely being stuck behind his grill for the rest of his life. An extra waitress on the weekends, an extra line cook during the week, and the business ran smoothly, even when he decided to take a day off.

And Eddie was pretty much employee of the month, knowing all of the regulars orders like the back of his hand.

Until Jeff started getting scheduled alongside him.

Until Eddie started going on dates, and started "going steady" with someone.

Until Eddie started playing hooky to go and suck face and god knows what else while parked up at the quarry.

Jeff let his fist slam against the counter as another minute ticked away, only for the bell of the door to chime and Eddie walk in, shrugging his apron on and shedding his leather jacket in a flustered rush.

"Sorry I'm late," he said with an easy smile on kiss-swollen lips. Jeff rolled his eyes at the sight and at the apology. "Oh come on, I promise I'll be on time tomorrow. Scout's honor." Eddie crossed his finger over his heart.

"You weren't a scout," Jeff retorted.

"Hey now," Eddie teased, starting in on one of his typical Munson-isms that usually ended up in forgiveness or forgetfulness. "I actually was. For one day before some snot-nosed kid pushed me over and I accidentally said fuck. Then they asked me to leave. But once a scout, always a scout."

Jeff hummed and turned on his heel to push back into the kitchen and start prepping for the dinner rush.

The thing was...they worked really well together. They had a good routine of noting what tasks needed to be done throughout the night. It's not like the diner was ever that busy on weeknights and Benny had been doing it alone for years, but it was nice to have someone you got along with at work.

Well it was nice...when they were there. It was nice when your work buddy was actually reliable and helped you out, which made Jeff feel bad because Eddie was his friend, his best friend. But Jeff could let Eddie's luck and charisma let him slide through his responsibilities.

So Eddie was about to find out what kind of hell it was when you were in the weeds alone.

---

Jeff had gone out to take an order when the phone rang.

Eddie grabbed the receiver with a quick "yello'" only to get a familiar voice rasping on the other end.

"Can I speak to Jeffrey please?" came the reply from someone dramatically sounding like Edith Bunker.

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Gareth, I know it's you," he sighed.

"No, this is Jeff's grandma," the younger boy kept up the ruse, snickering a little at the end. "I need to talk to him."

Eddie let his head roll back on his shoulders as he heard the stifled giggling of his friend over the line, and then he peeked his head out of the passthrough.

"Jeff!" he called out. "Your grandma's calling."

Jeff donned an exaggerated and fake look of concern; he jogged across the diner and grabbed the receiver from Eddie's hand.

"Hello?" he answered and Eddie watched as his expressions got more animated, as did his voice. "Grandma? Oh no, what happened...an accident? You need help? You need me to leave work and come home right away?"

"What?!" Eddie shrieked and reached out to snatch the receiver back from Jeff's hand. He placed it against his ear but only heard Gareth laughing and then the ring tone. He was about to ask Jeff what the hell was going on, only to find him pulling his apron over his head. "Come on now, where do you think you're going?"

"I've gotta leave," Jeff shook his head frantically. "It's my grandma, she's in the hospital, I've gotta go."

"Jeff, come on."

"There's no one else to take care of her."

"Seriously. Quit it."

"You'll be ok by yourself tonight right?" Jeff ignored everything Eddie said and looked at him expectantly as he dug his hand in his pockets for his car keys.

For a moment, Eddie felt the panic rise within him; he figured Jeff was a little upset that he bailed the past few nights but...seriously it wasn't anything that Jeff couldn't handle.

Was his friend really that mad?

"Listen I'm sorry I bailed on work a few times this week," he apologized, but Jeff just shook his head and pulled out a roll of quarters.

Then another.

And the panic Eddie had faded into curiosity, then realization.

No, Jeff wasn't mad; he was annoyed.

"Hey listen, it's just for tonight so I can check on my grandma, you'll be ok," Jeff explained as he walked over to the old jukebox in the corner of the dining room. He began loading the old machine up with quarters and punching buttons in rapid succession. "I'll even make it up to you. You can have all the tips in the tip jar from before you got here earlier and I'll put on some music that you'll like. Hey look, Ben took your advice and updated this a little.

"He even has your favorite Ed," Jeff glanced over his shoulder. "Styx."

Eddie groaned in loathing this time, thinking of the power ballads and synthesizer nightmares he was about to endure because his friend was gonna get back at him.

The Grand Illusion. Or worse Paradise Theater.

The records inside of the machine shifted as they queued up tracks for the next however-long Jeff had paid for.

"Don't do this Jeff," Eddie pleaded as his friend grabbed his jacket from the coatrack by the door. "I'll never skip work again. I promise. Just stay."

"But my grandma needs me Eddie..." he whined and then winked at Eddie before running out the door. "Have fun."

Eddie sighed and accepted defeat as the door shut and Jeff was gone, all while the sparkly synthesized voice began amidst electronic fanfare...

Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto...

---

7PM

You know what? It didn't start out that bad.

"You're wondering who I am," Eddie sang along and bopped to the beat as he flipped burgers on the flat top. "Secret, secret, I've got a secret."

He had food to cook and orders to take and he fell right back into the routine of those short staffed nights when Benny started to realize how much he valued his personal time, but right before Jeff was hired.

It would be fine.

And there was a little musical accompaniment? Even better.

He figured that he might start loading the machine up with quarters before his shifts from now on, instead leaving it up to the chance of the customers.

"Machine or Mannequin?" He did a little spin. "Secret secret, I've got a secret."

Eddie hadn't even realized that the song that started out the night--Mr. Roboto--repeated itself until he got back to the kitchen, and then it repeated again.

And again.

He had to admit it was growing on him though. Like a cancer, but still growing. So he either needed to adapt or it would kill him. The lyrics were catchy, he could dance to it a little, and there was a good beat that he could almost headbang to if he tried.

It wasn't even that he hated Styx, he just hated what Styx stood for. Mainstream popular music. It was commercial and sanitized. Yeah Babe wasn't that bad of a song. And neither was this one. Shit...if he really thought about it, was the band even really that popular? They were underdogs, and he always rooted for an underdog.

"With parts made in Japan," he sang into his spatula and slapped slices of cheese onto his patties for dramatic effect. "I am thee modern man!"

---

8PM

So if you see me, acting strangely, don't be surprised.

There was a little bell at the pass that got hit whenever an order was up.

Of course, with Eddie being the only one working it didn’t need to get hit.

Still, every time Eddie passed it, he just had to tap his hand on the bell along with whatever verse or instrumental was playing.

I’m a man who needed someone and somewhere to hide.

It wasn’t getting to him.

No. Not at all.

It was just a graduation from him playing air guitar with a broom and drumming on the counter with spoons.

Ding ding ding ding ding, ding ding ding ding ding.

Eddie tapped at the bell with both hands at the crescendo and then went to the walk-in to scream.

Nothing to worry about.

---

9PM

I’ve come to help you with your problems, so we can be free.

“Hey can you change the song at all? This one’s been repeating for a while.”

Eddie smiled tightly at the guy at the head of the long rectangular table and then dropped the blue plate special down in front of him with a clatter.

“It’s broken,” he explained, not wanting to get into it.

Several customers had asked already; it was getting as annoying as people who said they were tipping with kindness. Obviously if he could get another song on the jukebox, he would.

How many fucking quarters had Jeff put in there?

“Could you unplug it? Plug it back in again?”

He’d thought of that too.

But wasn’t it just his luck that they lived in the do-it-yourself amateur handyman Midwest…and the damn thing was wired into the wall itself.

And he really didn’t want to cut the line and have to explain to Benny how an electrical fire burnt down his diner.

“You know what?” Eddie took a slow, calming breath. “This is actually…my favorite song." There was a disbelieving blink. "A-and it’s my birthday.”

The withering look he received made him second guess burning down the place; it actually didn’t seem so bad after all. He could deal with Benny.

I’m just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control. Beyond my control. We all need control.

---

10PM

I am the modern man, who hides behind a mask…

Eddie wore his Freak label proudly.

He accepted it, everyone else accepted it.

But maybe this music was getting to him a little bit as he started noticing of the different inanimate objects around Benny’s that he could potentially fuck.

That was a level of Freak that he really hadn’t embraced yet.

So no one else can see my true identity!

Well, it was sort of always there simmering beneath the surface. He had been a horny teenager and was now a horny young man. There was always a question about what objects he could stick his dick into.

But he’d tried to curb that curiosity after the pool noodle incident.

Now though…he was far enough gone that things were starting to appeal to him again. And it scared him a little bit for those thoughts to pop up during work.

Not enough to stop though.

Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto. Domo. Domo.

First it was a bagel with the perfect hole.

Actually, was it even the music causing this? How dare that bagel look so damn fuckable. Cream cheese wouldn’t be the best lube, he had to admit. But he didn’t mind trying. Unfortunately that bagel was needed for someone’s sober-up sandwich.

Then there was a hole in the vinyl of one of the booths. He stared at it every time he brought out an order or bussed a table. Eventually he couldn’t help himself and he lightly ran two fingers over it and then plunged them inside the hole, like a lover would, only to find the edges were jagged and rough…and he was disappointed that it wouldn’t be the most pleasurable experience.

He wasn’t one to say no to a little bit of teeth when getting his dick sucked but that wasn’t what he was looking for right now.

At one point he even considered fucking the jukebox itself. Get it to shut up once and for all.

The logistics weren’t right.

Where would he even put his cock? Just rub the head of him along the coin slot while he jerked off? Pass.

His depravity needed to be put on hold though, because as he was in the walk-in trying to cut a channel into a head of iceberg that might be the perfect fit for him, he spotted a tub of hamburger with a label in Benny’s chicken scratch saying “discard” with the date.

He froze and let his thoughts swirl before he shook his head and put the iceberg down. He slammed his hand against his forehead as though that would make his internal monologue right itself.

Because what the hell was he doing?

Regardless of the absolute torture he was enduring, he was still at work and had a job to do.

Why was he trying to fuck a head of lettuce? Or fingering a hole in a booth. No, he was absolutely losing his mind, he needed to control himself, he needed to get back to work.

He was about to exit the walk-in when he glanced back at the tub.

“Can't forget that tonight,” he muttered to himself as a reminder.

Then back into the kitchen he went.

Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto. Domo. Domo.

---

11PM

“Thank you very much Mr. Roboto,” Eddie muttered as he dropped maraschino cherries into milkshakes. His voice was ragged, desperate. Pleading. “For doing the job nobody wants to.”

“Thank you very much Mr. Roboto,” he deadpanned as he numbly swept the floor. “For helping me escape when I needed to.”

Thank you.

I wanna thank you.

Please thank you.

Thank you thank you.

“Thank you,” Eddie smiled, as the joy finally die inside of his body as he rang out the last customers. But it was rapidly born once again as he waved goodbye. “Thank you thank you!”

---

12AM

The doors were locked, the lights in the dining room closed.

And Eddie stood in the kitchen with a lit cigarette in his mouth as he concentrated on the task at hand.

The problem was plain to see. Too much technology. The jukebox still played out on the floor.

Machines to save our lives? No. Machines dehumanize.

He shouldn’t be fucking the jukebox or a head of lettuce or a bagel. No. He needed something warm and malleable.

Living.

Or well…close enough.

It was the perfect idea! Instead of taking it right to the dumpster, he’d taken the tub of ground chuck out of the walk-in and let it get to room temp at the end of his shift, and now he was standing there molding it into the right shape.

He was ready and aching after palming himself in anticipation. He’d meticulously wrapped his hard cock in plastic wrap, for lack of a better option. He needed this.

He deserved this.

Why hadn’t he ever thought of this before?

The time has come at last…

He put out the cigarette in the meat then lined up with the channel he'd crafted. He hissed as he sunk in—synthesized angels sung all around him, guitars strumming in harmony—and finally felt relief for the first time all night.

Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret.

His hips rocked in time with the beat, driving deeper and deeper. He felt the slightest bit of cold when he finally bottomed out, the center of the Chuck not entirely at room temp yet. It was an unexpected thrill and he shuddered as pleasure shot through him.

He let his head fall back and he laughed with the feeling, laughed uncontrollably, and the sound echoed through the diner, forever scarring the walls with wicked glee.

To throw away this mask.

It was strange, fucking what was essentially a mass of viscous sludge. Not bad, just strange. Not entirely wet but not dry either. Maybe it was perfect actually, something he never knew he needed. Just for him. A little slice of cheese...er, heaven...just for him.

Especially when he formed meat to suit his desires as it shifted.

That feral grin stayed on his lips as he worked himself to completion, as he pumped mercilessly.

Secret, secret, I’ve got a secret.

And somewhere in all of the hubbub, Eddie came to the conclusion that although it wasn’t perfect, he could get used to it if he had to.

Because he had to.

He'd be stuck here forever, lost in Dennis DeYoung's vocal prison until the end of time.

Now everyone can see my true identity.

He thrust harder and faster, panting and kneading and clenching until all he knew was the meat and secret secrets and his own depravity as he spiraled downwards further into insanity.

I'm Kilroy.

He felt it coming.

Kilroy.

Cumming.

Kilroy.

It exploded out of him with those last few emphasized beats of the synthesizer. He felt the cling wrap bulge with his spend, felt the tingles along his spine and through his limbs as his orgasm shot through his body.

He leaned over, satiated, until his nose brushed the meat in sensuous exhaustion.

Kilroy.

He could hear his pulse in his ears, along with a buzzing din of tinnitus, and the ticking of a clock out in the dining room.

But where he expected the beginning of the next round of torture, Eddie only heard silence.

He breathed heavy, broken breaths. Gulps of air that felt like too much oxygen and not enough at the same time. He felt lightheaded.

It was over.

His punishment finally over.

He closed his eyes and thanked whatever God or Demon gifted him with this boon, and then his eyes shot open and he stood straight up as he stared at the mess he made.

"Fuck."

---

The Next Day, 5PM

Jeff felt like the cat that ate the cream when he drove to work the following day.

He felt a little bad about what he’d done to Eddie, and he had all the intention to make it back to Benny’s around 7 or 8, but Gareth had convinced him not to.

“Come on,” he’d told Jeff. “You know Eddie’s gonna get a good laugh out of it.”

“Yeah! Besides,” Dave interjected. “Shame on him for leaving you up shit’s creek so much. Hopefully this’ll teach him a lesson.”

And Jeff agreed with them.

He and Eddie were friends but that didn’t mean Eddie could walk all over him.

He was glad to see the van parked in Benny’s lot when he arrived for his shift, and as far as he could tell, everything was normal when he walked in.

Ben was at the grill and Eddie at the counter.

Actually, everything looked better than normal. Everything in the diner looked squeaky clean and under the smells of cooked food, there was a tinge of the disinfectant they used to deep clean.

“You must’ve had the slowest night ever if you did a deep clean of the place,” Jeff clapped a hand on Eddie’s back and noticed that Eddie stiffened under his touch. “What time did all those quarters run out?”

Eddie laughed nervously and scratched the back of his neck.

“Little after midnight,” he chuckled. “And it was fine. But, uh, now I know better than to fuck with you again.”

“Yeah you’re on time today, you beat me here!”

Eddie grabbed his arm as he passed and then leaned in close, voice pleading and desperate.

“I’ll never be late again, won’t be a no show, but please…don’t ever subject me to that hell again. Please.”

"Scout's honor," Jeff cackled.

Upon Eddie’s look of relief, Jeff headed back to get himself settled.

He chatted with Benny for a second before the older man left for the night. But as he went to the walk-in to get more onions to chop, he noticed something.

“Hey Ed!” He called out through the pass and Eddie turned. “Thanks for tossing that ground chuck! Or…Domo arigato I guess heh.”

He turned back to the task at hand, so he didn’t notice all the color drain from Eddie’s face.

#eddie munson #stranger things fic #Eddie Munson fic #Eddie Munson smut #tw: food fucking

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bloopitynoot · 2 days

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Reading SVSSS: Chapter 13

For those who don't know, I am reading SVSSS for the first time and sharing my thoughts!

If you have not read it, there will be spoilers! Consider this a warning.

Also- if you want to follow along, I am aiming to post updates daily. You can find all the posts in the tag bloopitynoot reads SVSSS. You can also check out the intro post for context on my read.

I'm here! Finally posting yesterday's read.

Last night I was watching critical role and making flower crowns for the ren faire today and I totally lost track of time. But I did read earlier and I have the notes!

Anyways; no tea- I slammed this coke zero. The flower crowns ended up being real cute though.

Here we go; last chapter of book 2!

I'm already nervous :( this chapter is titled coercion. Coercion of who?

Well. Shen Qingqiu arrives and the mountain is already under siege- solid start. p283

This is less a reflection on this current chapter and more a thought about the longevity of this character; but I feel like Luo Binghe is going to inevitably perish. The reckless abandon in which he approaches anything Shizun adjacent is going to end this man. Like in this chapter- fully just tells everyone he's of demonic heritage- 0 fucks, no care for his own life now or in the future. Sure, he's powerful as hell but like eventually he has to sleep. p284

Oh gosh. Both Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge are in a bad way AND they are in the same room as Luo Binghe. p285

Okay but to be fair, when it comes to the body of Shen Qingqiu I am on the side of the sect here. Like bare minimum even if this man supposedly committed all the crimes (he didnt and they do know this) he still deserves to have proper death rites. Luo Binghe did do some unhinged things. pp 286-287

RIP Shang Qinghua LOL everyone knows you are an opportunist with nary a loyal bone in your body. Congrats on your entire sect knowing now p288

OOP. the audacity of Luo Binghe to Liu Qingge "ah! The loser I defeated" I mean not wrong but you dont have to be a dick about it. p289 Luo Binghe is so cocky!

and here we have SQQ inserting himself into mortally dangerous situations that he could have walked away from. The self sacrificing he has been doing this entire book (intentional or not) is so wild. This man cannot do anything in a stealthy way- everything dramatic and loud and at the centre of attention. p290

WAIT! "caught you shizun" p290 He did know! I had a suspicion!

What did you expect SQQ ofc he meant to draw you out. He could have tracked you but he lost the ability to do so with the other demon. p293

as an aside I am now wondering how this is going to work out. The Zhuzhi-Lang can also torture and track him at a distance- this is going to be a later problem for SQQ and Luo Binghe no doubt

oh poor buddy "you're not a fool...I am" p293

ooooooo. "didn't my sweetness make shizun oh-so happy?" p294. that's not even it oh no so much emotional damage

Also Shang Qinghua exposed again with the mushroom info p294

I am on SQQ's side with this one. How can the sect be mad about him not going there right away when he was kind of underground and also had to relearn how to move his own body p295

I am annoyed at Liu Qingge and I think, maybe, unjustifiably. I feel like his character is complicated and eventually I want to read a character study or two about him for more insight. What prompted this is: he is both acknowledging that SQQ is doing something utterly selfless for the sect but also pissed that he's doing it at all. Like- is it him feeling inadequate? Or is it how he feels about SQQ or the sect? idk- I will continue to think about him. p297

Luo Binghe was not satisfied with mushroom-zun he also wants the original body?? p299

RIP all of SQQ's dignity and his mental health "I've already submitted to you" p299 his word choice though LOL

His body is missing?!?!?!?!?!? p300

what a cliffhanger! Now I need to know who stole his corpse! If it ends up being 2 SQQ's OR that Luo Binghe's dad is using SQQ's original body I am done done LOL.

We finished book 2!

Thank you to those who have been reading along- this has truly been so fun! I appreciate all the comments and clarifications; they have been helpful and have been making this reading process super engaging. Getting to chat about the thing I am enjoying with others who also love The Thing has been a solid highlight of my days!

#bloopitynoot reads svsss #svsss spoilers #mxtx svsss #svsss #scum villian self saving system #scum villain

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xxsksxxx · 2 days

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Almost Heaven

Summary:

Mulder’s attempt to find more exciting cases to investigate while stuck in the bullpen turns into another weekend trip to the forest.

Meanwhile, Scully is faced with a tempting offer that could change both her future and their lives.

This story is complete, and I’m going to post one chapter a day.

AO3 | Back to the Beginning | @today-in-fic

Chapter 11: Almost Heaven

Washington, D.C. Scully’s apartment Sunday, November 29th, 1998, 9:05 pm

Scully raised her arm and checked her watch for what must’ve been the tenth time in the last hour. With a sigh, she got up from the couch and turned the TV off. It was no use anyway. She’d tried reading, she’d tried cleaning, and she’d even gone through her closet, finally putting all the summer clothes in a suitcase and storing them in her basement. The movie she hadn’t been paying any attention to was just the last straw. Nothing made her stop thinking about calling Mulder.

Just call him, she thought, exasperated with herself. You dropped a bomb on him in the car earlier. You might as well call him now instead of waiting for your usual bedtime conversation.

She’d tried all day to not succumb to the temptation to pick up the phone. If she wanted to keep being in Mulder’s life, things needed to change. She’d drive herself crazy if she kept up being caught in the middle between her hopes and reality. He was her best friend, the person she wanted to find truths with and uncover lies. But she had to learn how to accept that what she felt wasn’t the way he thought about her. He needed her in his life as his touchstone—and she wanted him as her romantic partner. And if she didn’t want to end up getting hurt, she needed to get back to treating him like a friend and not like a potential lover.

The thought that they would never be what she had hoped for only a few days ago, pierced her heart, and she swallowed. I’m not a lovesick teenager. I’m going to be alright, she assured herself. They’d been friends for years, and she had loved their relationship. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be able to be just as happy if things went back to the way they had been.

She checked her watch again and shook her head at herself. This was getting ridiculous, she was torturing herself for no reason.

With determent steps, Scully walked towards her phone and carried the portable to her living room window, looking outside. The parked cars lining the street were illuminated by the streetlamps, the wet roofs from the earlier November rain reflecting the light like sparkling stars.

For a second, she thought one of the cars looked like Mulder’s and squinted her eyes, trying to check if she could find her partner. You’re losing your mind, Dana, she thought. Stop seeing him everywhere and just call him already. You’re starting to see ghosts!

With a deep sigh, she pressed speed dial 1 and listened to the phone connect. Mulder picked up after the second ring.

“Hello?” he asked, his voice tense. She had been right, Mulder had probably been agonizing all afternoon about their conversation, and she closed her eyes against the sudden realization that she was the cause of his anguish. I should’ve called him right away, she thought guiltily.

“Mulder, it’s me,” she replied quietly, suddenly as anxious as Mulder, even though she didn’t know why.

“Hey, Scully, everything ok?” he asked immediately, and she kept her tone light.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I know this is not our usual time to call. I hope I’m not interrupting whatever you’re doing?”

“No, no, you’re not interrupting. I was just thinking about the case. You were right. The gunmen couldn’t find anything more on the sighting. It turns out Mr. Murphy is kind of known for having seen—,” he trailed off. “Phenomena.” She could hear the defeat in his voice and wished he was sitting in front of her now so she could touch him. With a shake of her head, she ruthlessly squashed that thought. This was exactly what had gotten her into trouble this weekend. He was her friend. Friends didn’t want to stroke each other’s hair, hug and hold each other, kiss, and touch each other’s bodies. With an internal sigh, she admitted to herself that she had still a long way to go before she was truly going to be in a place where she would be ok with just being Mulder’s friend.

She realized she’d been quiet for a while and focused back on Mulder’s breathing coming through the line.

“I’m sorry, Mulder,” she said seriously. Mulder grunted in acknowledgment, both knowing that there wasn’t much to say about the case anymore.

“So, what have you been up to? Did you have a good rest of the day?” he asked tightly, fishing for any information he could about what she was going to do. She heard a crack through the line and realized that he was eating sunflower seeds.

“Not much, did some chores, did a bit of reading. Pretty uneventful.”

“Did the medical journals have any new interesting mutants?” he joked, and she felt warmth spread through her, happy that he knew her this well.

“Nothing that would be considered an X-File, I’m afraid,” she joked back, feeling the tension slowly dissipate. It was going to be alright, she decided.

The crack of another sunflower seed being snapped open came through the line, and she smiled.

“I made a decision, Mulder,” she said calmly, reminding herself why she had called. “I’m not going to take the job offer.”

Mulder didn’t reply, and she felt the urge to fill the silence with an explanation. “I thought about it and tried to imagine what it would be like. And I realized that I couldn't even imagine it.”

She gripped the phone tighter, feeling her sweaty hand slip on the receiver, uncomfortable to be this open about her feelings. “And I thought about everything we’ve experienced, Mulder. All the things I still want to find, the questions I want answers to.” She took a deep breath and soldiered on. “We’ve got things to get done, Mulder. And I don’t want to do it without you either—not even temporarily,” she finished quietly.

There was a long pause, and finally, she could hear Mulder let out a long breath. “I’m glad, Scully,” he said earnestly, and Scully closed her eyes.

“Well, I’ll let you go then, Mulder,” she breathed, the relief making her nearly dizzy. She waited a moment for his reply, but when it didn’t come, she added a soft ’Good night’ and hung up the phone.

Scully placed the receiver back in its place on the side table and made her way into her bathroom, preparing to get ready for bed. She was exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the last few days.

Scully was just brushing her teeth and pulling the jar with her nighttime cream from her cabinet, a headband holding her hair back when a soft knock sounded on her front door, and she turned in surprise.

She hardly got unexpected visitors. At least not the ones that knocked, she thought wryly. The only one who ever dropped by this late was—Mulder. Of course. But how could that be? She’d been on the phone with him only ten minutes ago. There was no way he could’ve driven over here in that short amount of time.

She hurried over to the door, and after a brief check through her door viewer, she pulled it open. “Mulder?”

Mulder pushed past her without looking at her, and she closed the door behind him, turning around in surprise. “How did you get here so fast? Did something happen?”

“I was sitting in my car when you called, trying to get up the nerve to come up here,” he explained, starting to pace her living room. She leaned back against the doorjamb, watching him, her brow furrowed.

He suddenly stopped and turned to her, his eyes brimming with emotion. “Why, Scully?” he asked. “I don’t understand. Why did you even have to make a choice?” He pushed his hair back with his fingers and shook his head. “I just don’t get it. You’ve been the one who’s told me that we shouldn’t give up. That we would get the X-Files back if we played our cards right. And Skinner makes one job offer, and you’re doubting everything?” He looked at her with wide, questioning eyes, and she turned her own eyes to the floor.

How could she explain to him that it wasn’t just about that? She did believe they’d get the X-Files back, but she had felt like that was no longer enough. Not anymore. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, struggling for the right words. How could she explain that she had tricked herself into believing she could have it all this weekend—that she had wanted what Dana dreamed of when she was sitting alone on her sofa on lonely Saturday nights? But that was completely on her. How could he have known? “I don’t know, Mulder. I guess—I guess I just felt—like I wanted something else.”

Mulder watched her wordlessly for a moment. “I thought I had made it clear. Back in my hallway a few months ago,” he began, and her eyes flew up to his. “Not just your importance to the X-Files—but also to me. Personally.” His eyes didn’t shy away from hers, and she could see his anguish. “I thought you felt it too.”

Scully’s eyes searched his face for what he was talking about. Of course, she remembered the hallway and everything that nearly happened there. How could she forget? “Felt what too?”

“Oh, come on, Scully. If I remember correctly, you wanted that kiss just as much as I did. Because if you didn’t, let me tell you, you were sure sending mixed signals!” He put his hands on his hips, his body language a clear challenge.

“Yes, Mulder. Yes, I wanted to kiss you. But what does that have to do with this? Why are you here?”

“I just want to understand! How can you even think about walking away from this, from us after everything—after what I told you—” His voice trailed off, and for a moment Scully could see the young boy he must’ve been. His eyes were huge and sad, and despite his confrontational words, she could still hear the vulnerability in his voice.

She took a step forward and placed her hand on his chest, looking up at him. “I wanted that kiss very much, Mulder. But I just don’t understand you sometimes.”

He leaned closer, almost as if he wanted to make sure he wouldn’t miss a word of what she was saying, and that gave her the courage to go on. “Why did you invite me to come along to West Virginia this weekend?”

“Because the gunmen had found Mr. Murphy’s message on an internet site and his memories of the Mothman seemed accurate,” he explained slowly, clearly still not getting where she was going with this.

Scully nodded, her thoughts confirmed. He’d never intended anything personal to happen during the weekend.

Mulder was still watching her, his eyes darting between hers. But he kept silent, so she tried a different route to make him understand. “Mulder, why did you brush me off last night, when I came over to your motel room?” She searched his face, trying to see the truth in his reaction. But Mulder looked utterly confused.

“Brush you off? What do you mean?”

“When I came over to your room, Mulder, when I asked you if you wanted to take a break, spend time together, go out to dinner, maybe go to the movies?” She realized her voice had started to get an edge to it and took a deep breath to calm herself down. This was not Mulder’s fault, she reminded herself. Just because she had thought he’d finally made a move to turn their almost kiss into a getaway weekend with hopefully a real kiss or two, didn’t mean that’s what had been on his mind.

Mulder’s eyes softened, and he brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Because I thought we could maybe spend some time together, looking for that Mothman. Reconnect. Remember how much fun we had when we were investigating these cases? How you’d call me crazy—and then go on a boat with me anyway to find Big Blue?” he smiled sadly. “I wanted to see you smile, and have some fun for a change, instead of all the shit details we’re stuck with every day now.” He placed his palm against the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheek, almost tenderly. “Remember when we were in that cemetery in Bellefleur, Oregon? Our first case? The way you were shaking from the cold and the rain, your lips were blue. And yet you were so excited,” he smiled affectionately at her. “And your laugh. Despite it all, you laughed like you were the happiest person on the planet.” Mulder shook his head and took a deep breath. “Something changed for me that day, Scully. I knew I never wanted to ever do this alone again—and I wanted to have that this weekend. I didn’t want it to end, keep investigating until we were laughing about this case like we did back then.”

He let his arm drop and took a step back. “I guess that’s why I asked you if you wanted to come along. I just wanted to spend the weekend with you. Make you smile, do something exciting together, and maybe even show you a Mothman.”

Scully snorted, and Mulder laughed, reaching over and taking her hand in his. “That’s what I don’t get. You seemed to look forward to the weekend as much as I did. But then something changed. And it seems to be about—,” he paused, looking at her uncertainly, “not being in the mood for pizza?”

Scully just shook her head, squeezed his hand, and pulled him over to her sofa. They sat down together, never letting go of each other’s hands. “It’s not about pizza, Mulder. I guess we didn’t have such different ideas about the weekend after all. I wanted to spend time with you as well. And that Mothman did sound interesting—at least until it started to rain, and I was freezing—in the wrong clothes,” she explained, and Mulder looked chagrined.

“I should’ve told you that you would need hiking gear, shouldn’t I have?” He grimaced, and Scully nodded but didn’t reply. That wasn’t the point she wanted to make, though. “Why didn’t you want me to touch you?” she asked quietly, and Mulder’s brows drew in confusion.

“Didn’t want you—. Scully, what are you talking about?” He grabbed her other hand as well and pulled her closer, their faces only inches apart. “I don’t understand. And I really, really want to. When did I say I did not want you to touch me?”

“When I wanted to see if you’d gotten hurt. You moved away from me so fast, you’d think I’d burned you.” She bent her head down, ashamed of her neediness. She felt like a child, getting rejected over wanting a hug.

Mulder let go of her hand and put his fingers under her chin, lifting her face back to his. “Scully look at me.” When her eyes met his, she could feel them fill with tears, and she swallowed, trying not to let them spill over. This whole emotional roller coaster of a weekend was catching up with her at that moment. “There is never any time when I would not want you to touch me. Trust me on that,” Mulder said earnestly. “The reason I moved away was because I did hit my head pretty hard in the forest, and I didn’t want you to make me go to a hospital to get checked for a concussion.” He gave her a crooked smile.

Scully stared at him in disbelief. “Mulder—,” she started, but he put his finger against her lips to silence her and then bent his head down. “Scully, would you mind checking my head? I think I hit it pretty hard yesterday,” he said quietly, but his voice trembled slightly.

Scully stared at him until a slow smile broke out over her face. She placed her hand on his shoulder and kneeled next to him on the sofa, tenderly brushing her fingers through his hair, carefully inspecting the bump. She gave the back of his neck a little scratch while she was at it, and he raised his face to her, only inches away. Scully let her hands glide to his face, cradling it between her palms. “Your head seems to be fine, Mulder. Although—,” she whispered, but before she could finish whatever she had meant to say, he leaned in and softly covered her lips with his.

With a moan, she pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Mulder didn’t waste any time and lifted her off the couch and into his lap. She felt her heart thunder in her ears and straddled his legs, gripping his hair with both of her hands. He moaned into her mouth and pressed her hips closer to his, jerking against her. This was what she had been hoping for all weekend. It’s still the weekend, her mind filled in helpfully, and she ruthlessly squashed the thought down, far too busy trying to get another moan like the one before out of Mulder.

She felt his hand sneaking under her sweater, stroking up her back, and a wave of heat coursed through him. Scully pulled back slightly, trying to catch her breath while Mulder reached out to pull her in for another kiss, but she put her hand against his chest, softly stopping him from moving in again.

“That’s why, Mulder. That’s what I thought I could never have.” She gave him a soft kiss on his upper lip and followed it with a nibble on his lower lip. “I wasn’t sure if I could keep going day after day, knowing that you didn’t feel for me what I feel for you.”

Mulder leaned his forehead against Scully’s. “You’ll never have to wonder about that again, Scully. Not as long as I’m alive.” He leaned in for another kiss, and she could feel his smile against her lips. Before he could deepen the kiss again, she got off of his lap and held out her hand to him. “Why don’t we move this to the bedroom, Mulder? I feel like we’ve done enough talking.”

Mulder didn’t need to be told twice.

#xfiles #xf fanfic #dana scully #mulder and scully #fox mulder #msr #I Wrote This #Almost Heaven

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lord-squiggletits · 7 months

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I think the key component to my personal reading of post-Delphi Pharma is that he's trying to be a horrible person on purpose. Not "on purpose" in the way that people have free will to exercise their own choices, but in that Pharma's "mad doctor" persona is a performance he puts on to deliberately embrace how much everyone else hates him. Basically, if people already think you're a "bad Autobot" and a horrible doctor who just kills his patients for fun, why try to prove otherwise to people who have already made up their minds about you? Just fully embrace the fact that people see you as an asshole. Don't try to change their minds. Don't plead for their forgiveness or understanding. Just stop caring. If you're going to be remembered as a monster, you might as well be a memorable monster, and eke as much pleasure and hedonism as you can out of it before karma catches up to you and you inevitably crash and burn.

I mean, I guess you could just go the route of "Oh, Pharma was always a fucked up creepy guy and Delphi was just him taking the mask off," but I really don't like that interpretation because, for one, it feels really wrong to take a character like Pharma becoming evil under duress and going, "Oh well clearly he did the things he did because he was evil all along," as if somehow Pharma breaking under blackmail/torture/threat of horrible death was a sign of him having poor moral character. As opposed to, you know, suffering under the very real threat of horrible death for himself and everyone he cares about while being manipulated by a guy who specializes in psychological torture.

The second reason is that it just doesn't make sense to write Pharma as having been evil all along. I mean...

Occam's Razor says that the best argument is the one with the simplest explanation. Doesn't it make way more sense to take Pharma's appearances in flashbacks, his friendship with Ratchet, his stunning medical accomplishments, and the few we see of him speaking kindly/sympathetically (or in the least charitable interpretation, at least professionally) towards his patients and conclude "This guy was just a normal person, if exceptionally talented." Taking all of these flashback appearances at face value and assuming Pharma was being genuine/honest is a way simpler and more logical explanation than trying to argue that Pharma for the past 4 million years was just faking being a good doctor/person. I mean, it's possible within the realm of headcanon, but the fact is Pharma's appearances in the story are so brief that there simply wasn't room in the story for there to be some sort of secret conspiracy/hidden manipulation behind why Pharma acted the way he did in the past.

I just can't help but look at things like Pharma's friendship with Ratchet (himself a good person and usually a fine judge of character) and the fact that even post-Delphi, pretty much every single mention of Pharma comes with some mention of "He was a good doctor for most of his life" or "He was making major headways in research [before he started killing patients]" which implies that even the Autobots themselves see Pharma's villainy as a recent turn in his life compared to how for "most of his life" he "used to be" a good doctor.

And although Pharma doesn't know this, we as the readers (and even other characters like Rung) know about Aequitas technology and the fact that it actually works, so... if Pharma really was an unrepentant murderer, why couldn't he get through the forcefield too? The Aequitas forcefield doesn't require that a person be completely morally pure and free of wrongdoing or else how could Tyrest get through, just that they feel a sense of inner peace and lack feelings of guilt. Pharma has murdered and tortured people by this point, and put on quite a campy and theatrical show of how much he sees it as a fun game, so why then can he not get through?

It circles back to my headcanon at the start of this post that the "mad doctor" persona is just that-- a persona. Delphi/post-Delphi Pharma's laughing madman personality is just so far removed from every flashback we saw of him and everything we can infer based on how other people see/saw him before that, to me, the mad doctor act is (at least in large part, if not fully) a persona that Pharma puts on to put his villainy in the forefront.

To avoid an overly simplistic/ableist take, I don't think Tarn tortured Pharma into turning crazy. To me, it's more like the constant pressure of death by horrific torture, the feeling of martyrdom as Pharma kept secret that he was the only one standing between Delphi and annihilation, the physical isolation of Messatine as well as the emotional separation from Ratchet, being forced to violate his medical oaths (pretty much the only thing Pharma's entire life has been about), etc. All of that combined traumatized Pharma to the point that the only way he could avoid cracking was to just stop caring about all of it. Because at least then, even if he's still murdering patients to save Delphi from a group of sadistic freaks, Pharma doesn't have to feel guilty and sick about doing it. As opposed to the alternatives, which were probably either going off the deep end and killing himself to escape, or confessing to what he did and getting jailed for it.

In that light, Pharma becoming a mad doctor makes sense. It avoids the bad writing tropes of "oh this character who was good his entire life was actually just evil and really good at hiding it" as well as "oh he got tortured and went crazy that's why he's so random and silly and killing people, he's crazy" and instead frames Pharma's evil as something he was forced into, to the point where in order to avoid a full psychological breakdown and keep defending Delphi, he just had to stop caring about the sanctity of life or about what other people might think of him.

Then, of course, the actual Delphi episode happens, and Pharma's own lifelong best friend Ratchet basically spits in his face and sees him as nothing more than a crazy murderer who went rogue from being a good Autobot. Then Pharma gets his hands cut off and left to die on Messatine. At that point, Pharma has not only been mentally/emotionally broken into losing his feelings of compassion, he's received the message loud and clear: He is alone. Everyone hates him. Not even his own best friend likes him any more. No one even cared enough about him to check if he actually died or not. He will only ever be remembered as a doctor who went insane and killed his patients.

So in the light of 1. Having all of your redeeming qualities be squeezed out of you one by one for the sake of survival and 2. Having your reputation and all of your positive relationships be destroyed and 3. People only know/care about you as "that doctor who became evil and killed his patients" rather than the millions of years of good service that came before.

What else is there to do but internalize the fact that you'll forever be seen as a monster and a freak, and embrace it? People already see you as a murderer for that blackmail deal you did, so why not become an actual murderer and just start killing people on a whim? People already see you as an irredeemable monster who puts a stain on the Autobot name, so why beg for their forgiveness when you could just shun them back? You've already become a murderer, a traitor, and a horrible doctor, so what's a few more evil acts added to the pile? It's not like anyone will ever forgive you or love you ever again.

Why care? Why try to hold on to your principles of compassion, kindness, medical ethics, when an entire lifetime of being a good person did nothing to save you from blackmail and then abandonment? Why put yourself through the emotional agony of feeling lonely, guilty, miserable, when you could just... stop caring, and not hurt any more?

#squiggposting #pharma apologism #i'm sure the doylist reason for the writing is just that pharma was a designated villain #so since he's a villain and 'crazy' it's fine for everyone even the good guys to treat him like complete trash #i just think from a watsonian perspective taking a sympathetic approach is way more interesting and logically consistent #what i mean is like. from a meta perspective one of the best ways to show that a character is super evil and not worth saving #is when even the good guy heroes. the ones who are supposed to be kind and compassionate and wise. see him as dirt #and this is also kind of a necessity in most plots bc TF is the kind of series that just needs action villains and long-term antagonists #so not every villain is written or has a plot to be made redeemable. and pharma is one of these bc he's not important or a legacy character #so from a doylist (meta) perspective you could read the autobots' disregard of pharma as a sign of #'this guy is not meant to have your sympathy as a reader. pay no attention to him'#but from a watsonian (in universe) perspective it paints a miserable picture of pharma being utterly forsaken by the ppl he served alongsid #and like yeah i'm super autistic about pharma so of course i view him with sympathy but like #the idea of being a loyal and good person for years only to be subjected to a Torment Nexus of #being blackmailed into breaking all of the oaths you held sacred. under threat of you and all your comrades dying horrible torturous deaths #then when your comrades find out about it they focus solely on the 'harvesting organs' and not on the 'blackmail' part #and then you get literally left for dead by your comrades and best friend hating your guts #and then you get rescued by a guy who uses you as a test subject for his evil machine #this is a fucking nightmare scenario like pharma could hardly be suffering more if the author TRIED to make him suffer #and for me it's like. the evil pharma did can't be decontextualized to what drove him to that. as well as the question of like #how easily ppl can write someone off as evil and turn a blind eye to (or even find satisfaction in) their suffering bc theyre evil #and either brought it on themselves or it's just karma paying a visit #like. i feel like if pharma WERE a shitty doctor and a terrible person his whole life then the delphi situation would feel like karma #but the way it's written and the lore retroactively put in makes it feel more pharma getting thrown in a torture carousel #and THEN becoming evil. but then being treated as if he was always evil or was some sort of bad apple #bc like i'm not opposed to LOLing when a villain gets a karmic torture/death related to the wrongs they committed #but in pharma's case it feels less like karma and more like endless torture + being abandoned by ppl who should have been more loyal

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