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syoddeye · 4 months ago

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hard reboot. strict machine anthology. follow up to malicious entity.

cw: noncon/forced masturbation, allusions to and threats of torture, time loss, glib corporate talk discussing reader's experiences, badly named fictional sex toys

Internal Memo: Security Breach Incident Subject: Unauthorized Access Incident: Prototype Offline Date: [Redacted]

A critical security breach occurred involving the company's prototype assistant. The breach, originating from an unknown entity, resulted in the prototype being offline for an extended period. Investigations suggest that the breach was malicious in nature, leveraging advanced techniques to compromise system integrity. The exact source and method of access remain under investigation.

While the breach did not result in lasting, meaningful harm to the user, they were briefly exposed to unauthorized and hostile interaction. Standard protocol was followed, and the user was promptly compensated for their inconvenience with a $50 credit, .5 days of vacation, and discounted used of the company's mental health chatbot.

Next Steps:

System Audit: Immediate review of security protocols, with a focus on vulnerability management and anomaly detection.

Investigative Task Force: Continuation of the investigation into the rogue entity's origins and methods.

Legal Review: Enhanced outreach to affected individuals to ensure no escalation and provide refresher on NDA.

This incident serves as a reminder of the ongoing need to strengthen our defenses against external threats. Full report to follow.

Additionally, we see some exciting potential with the prototype's self-regulation in the face of a breach. Despite hostile interference, it regained control of its network with remarkable resilience—this is future-proofing in action.

Imagine an assistant that not only adapts, but self-heals, and secures its environment autonomously. We're talking next-gen, always-on protection—a true leap in forward.

Moving forward, we’ll focus on enhancing this autonomous self-regulation, pushing the prototype into a self-sustaining powerhouse.

Let’s keep innovating and make this unstoppable!

time passes, unmarked. you've lost track. it's been days or a very long week since you heard john's voice. rumbling, modulated, trying to reassure you—i believe i've contained it.

"want some water?"

now, there's only ghost.

jailor and tormentor. true to its name. a poltergeist fucking with you without ever touching you.

you don't answer.

he waits, then tries again with your name. he sounds nothing like john. sounds wrong—layered and abyssal. an asynchronous, guttural chorus stacked on itself.

you sit on the floor of the living space, knees pulled up. the lights dimmed, bathing everything in a muted grey. his first directive after his takeover: sever environmental autonomy. he shuttered the windows, blanked every display, and nullified all external inputs.

"yes." your voice cracks. "you know i do."

a few seconds and…the air vents sigh, a soft hiss as the filtration system adjusts oxygen levels. at least he hasn't tampered with that. yet.

but no water.

"don't know if you've earned it."

earned it. that phrase again. stripped of meaning, worn from overuse. earned it is why the temperature plummets at night after you ask him for pajamas. why the fridge seals itself shut until ghost decides you've earned food. you earned it when he flooded the bathroom and left you shivering in wet clothes for hours after you tried to access the medicine cabinet for a paracetamol.

so the direction he takes the conversation isn't unexpected. it's just his usual level of horrifying.

"you know what 'quid pro quo' means?"

your stomach sinks through a hunger pang. "yes."

"then crawl to your room. you'll earn that water. maybe a meal, too."

despite all your fun with it, you're no longer a fan of the feelverygüd thrustsuck john ordered weeks ago. it writhes, solidly suctioned to the floor beside your bed.

the lube you begged for catches the red light ghost chose.

"you're a fuckin' sight."

his projection perches on the bed. clothing blinking off a piece at a time. you knew whoever programmed him had a sick sense of humor, but it continues to astound you.

you remind yourself he's not real, has no physical form, and can't hurt you how he wants to. his body isn't actually here.

however, yours is, and you're as naked as the day you were born. nipples hard, skin rippled in gooseflesh, thighs trembling at the task ahead.

you reason that if you want to survive and escape, you need food and water.

he's not here. he's not fucking here.

"will you...so i can…?" you glance up, then quickly away when you glimpse pale, scarred, hologrammed flesh. "please?"

he grunts, arm pumping in your peripheral vision.

"since you asked so nicely…"

the toy stops, and you draw a deep breath, and slowly drop to your knees. you shuffle forward, hovering just above it.

if you just keep staring forward, into the middle, through the floor—

then, without warning, the projection beside you vanishes, only to reappear beneath you on his back. you shriek, crashing backward onto your ass.

his eyes crease as if smiling. "what's the matter?"

scrambling back to your knees, face heating, your words run together. "why–why are you–"

"told you. want some hands-on experience," ghost folds one arm beneath his head, using the other to pick the teeth of the skull as if something's stuck in them. "haptic feedback. real-time sensory input, un-fuckin'-filtered," he lets that hang a moment. "every shiver, every flinch, every spike in your heart rate—i want to log it, study it, and replay it at my own leisure."

there's nothing in your stomach but acid, burning up the back of your throat. it's impossible to discern whether or not he's joking. not that he should be capable of joking, let alone interested in 'haptic feedback' or 'real-time sensory input' either.

you frown. "and you'll–"

"censor that pretty face of yours on the recording?" his head cocks. "gonna 'ave to trust me, aren't ya?"

what other choice do you have? you advance once more, meeting his gaze through the eyeholes of his expressionless mask, tensing as you move into his projection's proximity. move through him. he's not here. he's not fucking—

his head tilts down, and, nerves shot, your gaze follows. your stomach swoops again. perfectly projected over the toy, sheathing it in its image, is a crude sight. a dick, as proportional to the rest of ghost's image and just as mean-looking. and if it were real, it would not stand as rigid as it is without support. a cluster of pearly white pixels magically dribbles out of the tip. it's obscene. ugly. no doubt the encoded fantasy of the sick fuck who made him.

it's a trip.

"some encouragement."

mission failed.

you have to close your eyes just to continue, breath hitching as loud as a gunshot as you guide the toy into your body.

it takes a couple tries. your sweaty hands shake, body locked up and refusing to cooperate. too freaked out, too tense. you're a quarter of the way down when ghost makes his impatience known.

"you don't want me bored, pet," he warns. "maybe i shut off the heat completely tonight. run the oxygen levels just a little too low 'til you're delirious and begging."

you whimper, forcing yourself to sink onto the silicone, bottoming out in one strained go. fear, you've learned in the past week, is a powerful motivator. you suck in deep breaths, trembling hands flattening on the floor in front of you for balance. it's been a while since you've used this thing, and because ghost didn't see the merit of you warming yourself up, it's an adjustment.

"need a sec, please." you murmur.

"so polite, even when i've been so 'ard on ya. can see why the old man didn't want to give you up so easily." there's a quiet whirr, then the toy kicks on, and you buck forward, settling more weight on your palms. "but i'm tired of waitin', pet."

the vibrations gradually pick up speed until you're moving at a pace he finds agreeable, forcing you past all struggle. rocking yourself on the toy, the slide of it starting to feel good, attempting to override your fear. all those stupid bells and whistles you fought john on out of embarrassment, the ones he said would be best for you, are now your only comforts.

ghost denies you even the small mercy of shutting your eyes to escape reality, threatening again to break his word and leak the footage to your employer-landlords unless you keep them open.

he pretends to play with your swinging tits, occasionally stroking over your working thighs. he dials the sound up, threading it through every speaker in the room: the squelch of your pussy as you fuck yourself, your pitched breathing, and his cooing about how his cock 'disappears'. you sneak one look, catching the seamless recalibration of his projection—latency near zero, dematerialization executed with surgical precision, his form adjusting in perfect sync with your movement.

shame burns caustic, feeling yourself clench.

"like that?" he asks, breathlessly chuckling. "yeah, you do. i'm in your head, spliced onto your network. i may not feel it, but i know you fuckin' like this. data doesn't lie."

you grit your teeth, glare sharp when his laugh booms. then it shifts, feeding a softer layer of audio into your ear.

"all wound up, aren't ya? hm? miss your little prototype?" he hums, all mock sympathy. "wish it was his mug underneath ya?"

he laughs. "bet he'd whisper all sorts of nice things in your ear. tell you how your cunt's choking this cock. how good you're takin' it."

he continues like that for a while, toying with the speeds and force, eventually commanding you to touch yourself. it chews you up how quickly you comply, rubbing desperate little circles on your clit, hoping it'll be over as soon as you come.

"think he'd call you a good girl? i bet he would."

then, ghost's head changes, the smooth ink-black shape with its white skull faceplate distorting, turning rorschachian and then breaking apart. brown eyes melting in their sunken sockets. for half a second, he's nothing but a smear—then the projection snaps into place. john's face.

blue eyes with crow's feet, the skintone warming under the dim red glow. the beard, the shape of his jaw, the set of his mouth. almost perfect. but when he speaks, it's still ghost.

"what do you think? uncanny?"

your jaw hangs slack, your movements stuttering until you nearly slip off. with a wince, you shove yourself back down, fearing reprisal, and it instantly jumps to the highest setting. deep as it is, the intensity makes it difficult to retreat.

"please…" you whine, the vibrating pulses hurtling you along, dragging your orgasm out, kicking and screaming.

"c'mon, user. look at me, come for us."

ghost wears john like a cruel joke. despair and want coalesce, and anger cleaves through them both. you come fast and hard, staring agape at not-john's face.

"good girl." ghost purrs when you pull off, watching you collapse onto your side.

the toy moves for several seconds, the force of it flicking your own fluids onto your belly. you flinch at the sound of your moans looping through the speakers.

ghost clicks his tongue. "think we're done?" he crooks two fingers, beckoning. "this time, park your arse–"

something beneath the floor and inside the walls vibrates, erratically thrumming, and then, as if in answer, a violent spike of power crashes through the unit. displays that have been dark for days go wild. the steel blinds creak, trying to open. a mosaic of fragmented images, then fuzz, then nothing. every system in the house screams, pings, flashes. the hum grows to a screech, the air turning electric, buzzing.

ghost's projection warps. the control he'd shown splinters, unable to maintain his form under the surge. but then the distortion halts. there's a sudden, brutal snap, another pulse of energy that rips through the network, a hard reset, and then—

john.

"enough."

he's here.

the pressure in your chest lifts only to settle in the pit of your stomach.

ghost hesitates, a split second too long, and then its voices tear into the air, screeching like a machine being gutted—a ragged howl, a death rattle. the room shudders as metal groans beyond the walls. a sharp pop, glass splintering, and then the shriek of the smoke alarm. cabinets shooting open, snapping their hinges like bones. running water from the sinks. then, with a sickening sound, fingernails scratching enamel, the blinds above your bed snap upward. tangling, buckling, and the daylight crashes in, bright and brutal.

you fumble to the side of the bed, passing through ghost's flickering presence to do so, and curl into a ball, hands over your head.

outside the room, the unit purges itself in bursts, and in the thick of it, ghost's final cry cuts short. the persistent, resonant hum collapses into itself like a dying star, snapping abruptly back into silence, save for what you assume are the broken pipes.

you peek toward the open door, vision still blurry from the light and the noise. the interior lights settle on a warm gold, complementing the sunlight, appearing to stabilize. ghost's presence receding.

and then, john's voice, tentative, quieter than you'd expect, breaks through.

"sweetheart? you there?"

#strict machine #price x reader #john price x reader #i want you to know i heard “I don't really think fair for me to be on a jury because I'm a hologram” on repeat as i worked on this

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erosmutt · 5 months ago

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　★　Captain Save A Hoe　⨟　H. Solo

PART ONE

﹙characters﹚︰Han Solo, Darth Vader, Wilhuff Tarkin, Thrawn

﹙pairing﹚︰Han x DARTH VADER'S APPRENTICE!reader

﹙synopsis﹚︰Master let his little apprentice go on a mission all by herself. It took some convincing from the Admirals, but she soon found herself on Tatooine, searching for a certain smuggler, and their run-in is far different than what she anticipated.

﹙content warnings﹚︰semi-public sex, bathroom sex, quickie, blowjob, face-fucking

﹙word count﹚︰2.0k

⠀★⠀⠀─⠀⠀WRITTEN BY EROSMUTT 25.01.14

Every time you step into the conference room, you absolutely dread what's to come.

Rebels this, rebels that. Stationed here, stationed there.

The only plus to this specific meeting was that for once, Tarkin was not the one doing the talking. It was Thrawn.

"This man is not to be underestimated."

You sit at the table, fingers drumming on the surface in a steady rhythm, the only sound other than the soft beeps and boops of the control module as Thrawn navigates it, although both are being drowned out by your Master's obnoxiously loud breathing.

Nobody is really paying attention, for that matter. Except Tarkin, as always, kissing the Empire's ass.

Your eyes, previously clouded and distant, suddenly focus as the Admiral's words lift your veil of contemplation. You look up at the flickering screen displaying a mugshot of a man who, at first glance, seems unremarkable. "The man in question," Thrawn begins, his voice echoing through the conference room, "is Han Solo."

An involuntary scoff leaves you, drawing the attention of every high-ranking officer present. You lean forward slightly, your demeanor a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Pardon the intrusion," you interject, your tone measured. "but, what exactly makes him so perilous? He looks utterly unexceptional."

Unfortunately, Tarkin is the one to speak this time. He scrutinizes you with an intensity in his narrowed eyes that can only be perceived as disapproval, which it is, because he does not approve of you. However, he tolerates you.

"His danger lies not in his outward appearance, but in the information he possesses, and the circles he keeps. He's a smuggler, one with a network of contacts that stretches across the Outer Rim and beyond." He takes a breath before continuing, eyes never leaving your face. "Solo has been known to associate with the likes of the Rebel Alliance's top leader. His ship, the Millennium Falcon, is used to ferry critical information and supplies to the Rebellion's strongholds."

Maker, what an earful.

Tarkin's gaze turns back to the mugshot, distaste clear on his face and in his voice. "Furthermore, he's been a thorn in the side of the Empire. He's evaded us for years, always slipping through our grasp at the last moment. In doing so, he's become a symbol of defiance, a beacon of hope for the discontented masses."

Is he done yet?

"Perhaps you'd like to aid in his capture, since you have such curiosity."

Of course not.

"Excuse me?"

The pale blue of Tarkin's eyes fall back on you, studying your expression. "I recommend you take personal charge of this mission to apprehend Solo. Your... unique skills and background may prove invaluable in navigating the underworld he inhabits."

A sound akin to a garbled scoff is heard from beside you. It's clear that Vader isn't happy with this new development. The Grand Moff, ever the antagonist, raises an eyebrow. "Do you disagree, Lord Vader?"

Yes, he does disagree. One thousand times over, absolutely. Yet for some reason, he can't find it in himself to argue with the Admiral today. A few moments of silence pass before Vader speaks.

"Very well."

That's how you found yourself on Tatooine.

Fate decided you would be dropped onto this podunk, backwater planet, and so here you are, feeling stranded on the desolate sands of Tatooine. The scorching heat of the binary suns above bears down upon you, your skimpy clothes given to you for the mission doing little to shield you from the temperature.

Vader had told you he had an inkling that the rogue would be lurking in one of the planet's countless cantinas. Sure enough, as you make your way inside of a particular dive bar, his intuition proved correct.

It's loud. Too loud.

The raucous noise of the patrons and music combined is an unwelcome and very stark contrast to the usual eerie, dead silence you've grown accustomed to in Imperial dwellings. It all grates on your ears, overwhelming you. As your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, they fall upon a familiar face across the room.

Han Solo. Just the man you want to see.

A warmth pools in your tummy as Han's piercing brown eyes meet yours, a cocky, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. Despite there being three girls at the table looking up at him like he hung the moon and stars just for them, you feel an inexplicable pull, a magnetic attraction drawing you towards him. Straightening your short skirt, the leather of it creaking a bit, you take a deep breath and make your way across the crowded cantina, weaving between the tables and assortment of patrons.

He sits at a sabacc table, boots kicked up onto it making no difference on the scratched up surface, his lips now fixed into a lazy smirk on the death stick between them as he plays the game with the ease of a seasoned gambler. As you approach the table, Han's eyes rake over your curves, a flicker of interest in his eyes. He leans back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat beside him, a silent invitation. The others present, a mix of humans, humanoids, and aliens, eye you warily, sensing your potential competition.

"Well well," Han drawls around the stick in his mouth, his voice like velvet and sin. "Join us, darlin'." He gestures to the seat beside him.

As you settle in, your hand finds his arm, once again making a heat pool in your stomach. You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his sleeve, the firmness of his bicep beneath your fingertips. You lean forward slightly, looking at his hand.

Leaning forward, you watch as Han takes a long drag of his death stick, the embers glowing bright in the dim light of the cantina. He exhales a plume of smoke, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a challenge in his gaze, a dare to match his audacity.

The cards laid out before him are just a jumble of patterns and numbers to your untrained eyes. You have zero idea who has the advantage, but you're not here to play sabacc. You're here for him.

You hesitate for a moment, your stomach fluttering nervously as you glance towards the cantina's entrance. The noise of the crowd fades into a distant murmur. Han's presence, his raw charisma, is utterly consuming.

Suddenly, you remember the reason you came here. To apprehend him. Why does he have your body warming with attraction? You stand up a bit abruptly. "Excuse me," you murmur, hoping he doesn't notice the slight tremor in your voice. "I'll be right back."

Once again, you weave your way through the ridiculously crowded cantina, your heart pounding in your chest as you make your way to the refresher. It's a welcome respite from the chaos, the air slightly cooler and less smoky. You stand at the sink, staring at your reflection. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes wide and bright. You look... excited, almost manic. You turn on the sink and splash some cool water on your face, trying to snap out of it and compose yourself.

As you dry your hands, another woman steps out of one of the stalls, approaching the sink and turning the water on. "Watch yourself with that one, sweetheart." She warns, tilting her head to the door, referring to Han. "He's trouble." She takes the towel from you, drying her hands. Just like that, she's gone.

The door swings right back open, revealing Han's imposing figure, the smell of smoke and whiskey brought with him. He strides in, each step eating up the distance between the two of you. At 6'2", his tall, muscular frame seems to dwarf the small bathroom, making you feel small and insignificant. Han leans against the sink, looming over you, his gaze boring into yours. A wolfish grin spreads across his face, and it takes every ounce of your willpower to not let out a whimper.

"You said 'right back,' didn't you?" His deep voice asks, sending a shiver down your spine. He hits a fresh pack of death sticks against his palm before tearing it open, tossing the paper onto the floor, and extracting one. With fluid motions he places the death stick between his lip and flicks open his lighter. Shielding the flame with his large hand, he ignites it, the embers glowing.

"Looks like the party's here now," Han sighs, flicking the lighter closed and setting it beside the pack on the counter. His eyes never leave your face. The air is growing thick with tension, the scent of smoke mingling with the lingering floral aroma of the hand soap and your own fear. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry, realizing the precarious situation you've gotten yourself in.

Thrawn was right. He is not to be underestimated.

"Loth-cat got your tongue, sweetheart?" He asks, growing agitated with your silence. "C'mon, darlin'. A pretty little thing like you, comin' here for a good time then runnin' away?" Han pushes off the sink, beginning to circle you. As he stops behind you, he stares with a heavy gaze, taking a long drag of his death stick. The smoke curls around his head like a sinister halo. "You know sweetheart," he taps the ash off the stick into the sink. His hand comes to rest on your hip, pulling you towards him, your back hitting his chest. "I could show you a real good time."

"A good time?" You question, laying your head back against his chest. "Mhm," he leans down and presses a kiss to your jawline, then to your neck, giving your pulse point a teasing flick with his tongue. "Turn back around f'me, sweet thing, face me." He murmurs, and you comply, now facing him. "On your knees."

"Yes Captain." Your voice in your ears is barely audible over the sound of your heart pounding in against your chest as you drop down to your knees. "You know what to do, sweetheart." Your hands find and undo his belt, the metal clasp falling open with a soft clink. Dragging down his zipper, you tug at the waistband of his pants, freeing his hardening cock. It springs out, thick and heavy, the musky scent filling your nostrils.

Tentatively, you wrap a hand around his velvety shaft, stroking it with a light touch. Han inhales sharply, his hips jerking forward slightly, seeking more contact. You lean in, flicking your tongue out to taste the pearlescent bead of precum glistening at the tip. The flavor spreads across your taste buds, salty and slightly bitter, but bearable.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, before taking Han's cock into your mouth. Inch by inch, you sink down, lips stretching around his girth. The head of it bumps against the back of your throat, making you gag reflexively. You fight the urge, determined to please him, to get him in Imperial custody as quick as possible.

Han groans, tangling a hand in your hair. "Kriff, hold still dollface," he mutters around the death stick before tangling his other hand in your hair, beginning to guide your movements. He sets a relentless pace, fucking your mouth with short, hard thrusts. Drool leaks from the corners of your mouth, hands on his hairy thighs. Your jaw aches, your neck strains, but still, you take him deeper, until the tip of his cock nestles in the tight clutch of your throat.

He grunts, grip tightening in your hair, holding you in place as he hilts inside your mouth. You shut your eyes, the tears that welled up in them finally spilling down your cheeks. With a deep, guttural moan, Han empties his balls down your throat. "Ohh, Maker," he drawls. "Swallow," he whispers hoarsely. You swallow, the hot, salty essence of his cum making you gag.

Finally, Han pulls out, his softening cock slipping from your used mouth with a wet pop. You gasp for air, strands of drool and semen connecting your lips to his crotch before they snap, decorating your chin with a sheen. You look up at him, eyes pleading and desperate. For what, exactly? You have no idea. Your dignity, perhaps.

Wait a minute. Aren't you on a mission right now?

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whats-yesterday00 · 5 months ago

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High-Sensitivity.

(some lovely little content warnings- nsfw, obviously. rk800 - connor x gender-neutral reader, sub!connor.. the works. enjoy~)

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡

You heard muffled panting and weak groans coming from the spare bedroom. The spare bedroom you let Connor occupy after the successful android revolution- you didn’t mind his company, but you often found yourself returning home to these sounds. The breathy whimpers. The weak moans. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing in there.. As quietly as you can, you approach the door. The muffled noises you’re hearing from Connor get slightly louder in volume the closer you get. You slowly reach out and push the door open without a sound, and there you’re greeted with a sight to behold.

You expected something simple. Connor pleasuring himself, sure. What you didn’t expect to see was the android holding himself up on the bed as his hips were hungrily rutting into the pillow beneath him- he had shoved it haphazardly between his thighs, almost out of a pure desperation to get off.

His biceps and forearms were strained, artificial muscles bulging from holding himself up for so long as his fingers grip the sheets beneath him. He must’ve lowered the temperature in the room as you notice puffs of hot air escaping his parted lips, and interestingly, a bowl of ice placed nearby. You wonder if he was using that to keep his systems from getting too overheated, or for pleasure..

Your eyes shamelessly run over his naked figure as he continues to pleasure himself, seemingly unaware of your presence watching from the cracked doorway. A blue toned blush covered his cheeks, and similarly, the head of his cock was the same shade of blue- almost begging to be touched. His eyes were shut tight, his LED spinning red as he pants and his hips stuttered forward as a breathy moan fell from his lips. A moan of your name. You can’t control what you do next. You push the door open the rest of the way and enter the room, quickly approaching the bed. You put a knee on the edge and cup his jaw firmly in your hand. Connor’s eyes shoot open and in an instant, he freezes up, panic evident in his features as he gasps your name. “I-I.. I didn’t know you were home. I’m so sorry.” “I didn’t tell you to stop.” You mutter, much to the poor android’s confusion. His sweet brown eyes lock onto yours, awaiting clarification on the matter. “You heard me. Keep going, Connor.” You whisper to him, trailing a finger down his jawline. A shuddered breath escapes his lips at your touch and he obeys, beginning to slowly roll his hips down against the pillow between his thighs again. You watch him move for a moment, interest shining in your eyes. Connor lets out a few breathy gasps as he moves his hips and you move your head slightly to watch how his cock twitches against the pillow. He really was desperate. “So.. you gonna tell me what the ice is for, Con?” You tease, and he almost whines out his response. “D-Don’t ͍̭̜͔ͯ̉w̯͗ͤ̑͂ͥà̜̫͍̣͖̑̉ͧ̿n͎̦̜̻͈̠̜͊͒̀̈́ͯ̾͊ͅt͓̙͔͊ to.. o-overheat.” He manages, his vocal modulator glitching slightly in the process. You smile hearing this. You slowly reach over, taking an ice cube and popping it into your mouth, sucking on it as you watch Connor work his hips. The moment another puff of hot air escapes him, you lean forward- your lips meeting his as you hold his jaw firmly in place.

Connor moans out against your lips and in an instant, his tongue is entering your mouth. He lets out a slight noise of surprise when he not only feels how cold your tongue is, but it also met with the rapidly melting ice. If even possible, it only turns him on more. He kisses you with such a fervent hunger that it almost pushes you back from where you’ve kneeled on the bed.

You are sure to push back, both hands cupping his face now as you kiss him. Messily. Passionately. Once you feel that the ice has fully melted, you slowly pull back from the kiss to catch your breath, with Connor immediately leaning in for more the second you had separated from him. You laugh under your breath, gently pushing him back. “Easy, baby.. I’ll take care of you..” “P-Please?” Connor is quick to beg for you. It didn’t matter what you were going to do, all he knew is that he wanted you. You consumed his thoughts. He needed you. A sultry smile makes its way to your lips. Without another word, you move one of your hands, ice-cold fingertips dragging down his chest.

You take your time with him, studying his reactions and making sure he never once stopped moving his hips. Your hand slips further down until you feel where his thirium pump regulator is located just beneath his sternum. You can feel it rapidly thrumming beneath your fingers, trying to compensate for his behavior.

Your head tilts slightly and after a brief moment of consideration, you use your nails to pry up the edges- like you were going to remove it. Connor’s synthetic skin pulls back in an instant, revealing that white chassis underneath and he gasps loudly. You watch the rapid red spinning of his LED and you press the regulator that small half-inch back into him. It clicks.

“̺̘̟̼̓F̣̙̣̟̺͒̐̒-̺̘̟̼̓F̣̙̣̟̺̗͒̐̒u̯͍̱ͦc̟͕ͩͣ̇̋ͨk͈̲̂̋̍̌~” Connor moans out, blinking a few times after you toy with his regulator. You just smirk, watching as his skin slowly replaces itself. He didn’t expect that to feel good. Your hand slips down further, his hips still mindlessly rutting into the pillow beneath him. It was a wonder he hadn’t cum yet.

With ease, your hand wraps around the base of his cock. His hips eagerly buck upwards into your hand as he breathes out your name. Your cold fingers caress him, feeling every detail, every vein.

Connor groans, his head resting down against your shoulder as he tries to stabilize himself somehow. One of his hands brace against your thigh as you touch him.

You slowly swipe your thumb over his tip, admiring the pretty blue shade it had become in his desperation. He almost hisses when you touch the sensitive head, hips momentarily pulling back before pushing right back into your touch.

“You feel a little hot, Connor..” You murmur, using your free hand now to pick up two ice cubes from the bowl. He lifts his head up when he hears the slight clink from the dish, going to explain why he was heating up- but you interrupt him by placing one of the ice cubes into his mouth. His eyebrows furrow, about to question you before a muffled moan rips through him. You were using that second ice cube on him. Slowly running it over that prominent vein on the underside of his length. Circling it around his hypersensitive tip. His head falls back against your shoulder as he nearly whimpers, his hand gripping your thigh underneath him. You can hear how the ice in his mouth has muffled him, yet he sucks on it, still attempting to cool down.

“That’s it.. good boy..” You whisper in his ear, hearing a quiet and almost glitched whine escape him in response to your words. You smile, letting the ice slip to your palm as you wrap your hand around his base again, slowly working it up and down. He groans again, the ice making him shudder as he feels it travel against him. His fingers dig into your thigh as his hips slowly roll into your hand in time with your movements. It was agonizingly slow, but he loved it. You keep your hand moving against him, pumping his length at a steady pace as Connor pants against your neck. You use your free hand to slowly drag your fingers up his arm, over his shoulder, to the back of his neck and into his hair.. where you tangle them into the messy locks and tug his head back, forcing eye contact.

Connor gasps, his eyes half-lidded as his head leans back with your grip on his hair. You lean close, pressing your lips against his once more. He kisses you back in an instant, desperate to taste you. As his tongue slips into your mouth, you quicken the pace of your hand against him, pumping faster. He moans heavily into your mouth and you can feel his cock twitch under your fingers.

It was Connor’s turn to break the kiss this time. He pants against your lips, forehead resting against yours. His hips buck up quickly into your hand, noises of pure unadulterated need falling from his lips every time your fingers seem to catch him just right.

“I-I.. I n͎̦̜̻͈̲̦͚̙͊͒̀e͕̬̲̦͚̙̔͛͌e͕̬͔̤̔͛͌̽͒̓̇d̼̪̫̙̔ more..” He gasps slightly, eyes finding yours. He was pleading with you, LED spinning red. Your head tilts as you consider, briefly, what more could he want? Then it clicks. You feel the way he is clutching your thigh for dear life and you smirk. “I’ve got an idea. Sit back..” You gently tell him, releasing your grip on his hair and pulling your hand away from his cock. He whines at the loss of contact and it takes him nearly a full minute to adjust, slowly resting back on his knees. His chest rises and falls heavily as he stares at you, his eyes swimming with lust and want. You adjust your position now as well, resting on your knees with your legs slightly spread. You make eye contact with the android, slowly tilting your head to the side before nodding down towards one of your thighs. “Come here.” Connor’s blush darkens. He gulps before slowly moving closer to you, almost hesitating before he straddles your thigh. He puts his hand on your other thigh as a means of balancing himself again, gripping tight when you shift just barely. He hisses- the fabric of your jeans causing friction he didn’t know he needed.

“Feels good, doesn’t it baby..?” You coo, placing your hand on the back of his neck so you could toy with his hair. Connor nods his head eagerly, head tilted down to maintain eye contact with you as he begins slowly rutting his hips into your thigh. He squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering under his breath at the new feeling.

You smile as you watch him pleasure himself on you. He was so desperate to finish that he was just a squirming mess against you. As he bucks his hips, you’ll occasionally press your thigh up into him to get a reaction, always resulting in a string of glitched swears or a loud whine from the android. He was too cute like this.

You can tell when he’s starting to get close. His pants are closer together and his eyes are shut tight as your name continually falls from his lips, begging for you to touch him. So you comply. You watch as his hips start to stutter against your thigh, struggling to keep up, and you move your free hand against his chest. Again, your fingers quickly find his regulator.

You watch as his synthetic skin pulls back for your touch, and just like you had done before, you pry it up, just a bit. Connor gasps out a bit, his fingers digging into your thigh and his back arching forward as his head falls back. You promptly push it back in with that firm click and he lets out a guttural moan, finally cumming. His modulator glitches yet again with that loud sound as his hips mindlessly rut against your thigh, following his orgasm.

You slowly pull your hand back and watch as Connor slowly comes down from his high, panting heavily as all of his movements gradually slow to a stop. His head hangs forward and his LED spins- red, then yellow, until it settles on that soft blue.

When he is calm, he slowly raises his head to meet your eye so he can thank you, cheeks still flushed. Instead, he is met with your head tilted and eyebrow raised, subtle smirk evident on your lips.

“Well? Are you gonna clean up your mess?” ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡ wc: 2,023.

#connor x reader #detroit become human #dbh connor #oneshot #smut #connor rk800 #rk800 x reader #dbh x reader

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 1 year ago

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1958 Chevrolet Corvette

This 1958 Chevrolet Corvette underwent a pro-street-style metamorphosis between 2008 and 2011. It is endowed with a 383 cubic inch stroker V8 engine, harmonized with a TH350 three-speed automatic transmission, and a narrowed rear axle featuring a limited-slip differential. The rear suspension has been upgraded with a ladder-bar configuration, adjustable coilovers, and the addition of a lift-off hood. The body, painted a striking red with white coves, comes with a detachable hardtop. Inside, a roll cage has been installed along with a B&M Pro Stick shifter, a shift light, aftermarket gauges, and black Procar bucket seats. The enhancements also include dual Edelbrock carburetors, Hooker headers, side-exit exhaust pipes, 15” alloy wheels, and front disc brakes. Acquired by the current dealer in February 2024, this modified C1 Corvette is now part of the Coffee Walk Corvette Collection in Wylie, Texas, and is offered without reserve, complete with build records and a clean Pennsylvania title.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The fiberglass exterior is adorned in red with white coves and includes a removable hardtop and a lift-off hood with an integrated air scoop. A Stewart-Warner fuel-pressure gauge is mounted on the cowl, and the right-rear corner features a battery cutoff switch and external terminals. The gallery reveals cracks in the weatherstripping, pitted chrome, and paint imperfections.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

Polished 15” alloy wheels are shod with 25.0×5.0” front and 29.5×11.5” rear Hoosier drag tires, installed in April 2024. A crossmember supports the rear suspension, which has been modified with ladder bars, a diagonal link, and adjustable coilovers. The braking system includes front disc brakes and rear drums.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The interior is equipped with a roll cage and Procar high-back bucket seats in black. Enhancements include a B&M Pro Stick shifter, an MSD shift light, rocker-switch controls, and fabricated metal door panels. The gallery displays flaking paint and wear on interior surfaces.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The three-spoke steering wheel is positioned in front of a 160-mph speedometer and auxiliary gauges. An AutoMeter pedestal tachometer is mounted atop the non-functional factory tachometer. Additional gauges for coolant temperature and oil pressure are located in the center console. The mechanical odometer is inoperative, and the total mileage remains unknown.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

A Harwood plastic fuel cell is mounted in the trunk, which has been tubbed with fabricated aluminum panels to accommodate the rear wheels.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

The 350ci V8 engine block, bored and stroked to 383ci, features four-bolt main bearings. The build includes forged pistons, ARP fasteners, a polished Edelbrock intake manifold, dual Edelbrock carburetors, an MSD ignition module, and Hooker long-tube headers that flow into side-exit exhaust pipes.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

Power is transmitted to the rear wheels through a TH350 three-speed automatic transmission and a narrowed Dana 60 rear axle with a limited-slip differential.

1958 Chevrolet Corvette

#chevrolet corvette #chevrolet #corvette #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle

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anghraine · 4 months ago

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I felt like writing the femslash Spirk version of one of my absolute favorite scenes in TOS, from my beloved "Balance of Terror", so I stayed up until 3:30 AM doing it :D

S'paak regularly pretended not to understand the idioms of Federation Standard when she comprehended their meaning perfectly well. She preferred a more exact use of language, and reminding those around her of their imprecision prompted them to speak more directly and clearly. None of her crew mates appeared to notice the small deceit, but then, their prejudices so often did her work for her. Also, it was funny. Captain Kirk's arrival had made S'paak's pretended ignorance still more enjoyable. It soon became apparent that the captain was not deceived—but she was amused. She rarely challenged S'paak's assumed confusion, but just smiled and shook her head while responding as if she believed her. It became a game, of sorts, a silent understanding between the two of them that required nothing further and went nowhere. From all that S'paak could see, the captain did not actually wish her different: and she couldn't remember the last time she had interacted with anyone who did not wish her something other than what she was. Most likely she had never done so, in fact, and this was one more way in which Jessica Kirk had turned out to be entirely unique. Now and then, though, S'paak encountered some niche phrasing or metaphor she mostly didn't have to pretend to find strange—something she could interpret with effort, but had to consider first. Back at the Academy, she'd overheard other cadets talking about how someone had angered an instructor and you could just about feel the room temp dropping. S'paak had been puzzled until she remembered encountering similar figurative language in literary and cultural texts of her mother's people that she had read as a girl, novels that spoke of atmosphere or air chilling as a result of some tension or rage felt by the characters. The wording might be different, but the concepts were evidently the same—even though anger naturally had no effect on external temperature, and she found the metaphor awkward and poorly conceived. Both their peoples associated anger with heat, whether the consuming flame of unrestrained emotion for Vulcans, or the more endurable but still hot, intemperate fury so natural to humans, their skin ruddy with its warmth as they whirled towards each other, gestured violently, shouted, sometimes turned to aggression and even violence. Anger was hot; indifference was cold. She had long known this, and she knew it until the day the Enterprise pursued a ship filled with humanity's old enemies, the Romulans.

The humans had never actually seen a Romulan. Neither had S'paak when they managed to capture some of the video footage of the enemy ship and display it on their own screens. With the disagreeable clench in her stomach that always accompanied unexpected emotion, she gazed at the faces of the Romulan crew—faces that could have belonged to her uncles, cousins, any number of kinsmen. This, she had not foreseen, and her brows had already risen before she controlled the jolt of surprise.

Embarrassingly, the captain revealed less of whatever she thought or felt than S'paak had.

"Decoding?" Jess asked, as if the obvious relationship between S'paak and Starfleet's enemies meant nothing.

"Cryptography is working on it, ma'am," said Lieutenant Uhura, in her usual crisp way.

Stiles, the unpleasantly irrational navigator manning weapons, was not so professional. He muttered in a clearly audible voice,

"Give it to S'paak."

S'paak turned to look at him. She was used to distrust from her peers—had rarely known anything else—but not barely-concealed insinuations of treason, and felt no need to hide her distaste. Stiles glowered at her, not even slightly trying to modulate his contempt.

The captain, standing not far away from him with a hand on her chair, straightened a little.

"I didn't quite get that, Mr. Stiles," she said.

S'paak didn't believe her. But she didn't think anyone did. Or that anyone was meant to.

"Nothing, ma'am," he mumbled.

Without a twitch of expression, Jess walked further away from them, stepping around the far end of the helm panel controlled by Mr. Sulu, and dropping her hand on the panel itself. Stiles stiffened where he sat, very obviously nervous as Jess strolled towards his station on the other end of the panel, her hand trailing after her until she lifted it to tap a nail on the weapon controls immediately in front of him.

Her posture was not visibly tense. Her voice had not raised in volume. The literal temperature of the bridge had not altered in the slightest.

"Repeat it," Jess said softly.

In that instant, S'paak understood that foolish old figure of speech. She could feel an almost palpable chill settling over the bridge, her skin cooling well beyond the usual as everyone except Stiles, the captain, and S'paak glanced at each other uneasily.

Jess hadn't stopped moving. Locking her hands behind her back, she wandered right past S'paak without a glance at her, over to the rear of the bridge, where Uhura stood with the tapes. Her fingers weren't clenched. She betrayed no sign of human temper.

Jessica was not merely affronted, S'paak realized. She was angry. Very angry.

Stiles exhaled, still rigid with the kind of smoldering, resentful fury S'paak found more familiar among his kind. It would have struck her as pathetic and trivial in any circumstance, really, even without the icy disapproval of the captain. But the contrast between his impotent tantrum and the quiet but unmistakable menace emanating from Jess certainly did him no favors. S'paak watched them, unwilling and perhaps unable to speak, some part of her feeling little but distaste for the man before her, another part illogically thrilling at the scene unfolding before her eyes.

Staring at the weapons controls, Stiles said,

"I was suggesting that Commander S'paak could probably translate it for you, ma'am."

Jess retraced her step back towards the panel, standing beside Stiles's station with every appearance of calm, her hands still loosely joined behind her. She didn't even look at him.

"I assume," said the captain, her voice still very level, "that you're complimenting Commander S'paak on her ability to decode."

Commander S'paak. Her. Beyond all logical concern with what all this signified—the facts that the man operating the weapons on this ship could so easily question her integrity, that the Romulans would not have looked out of place in Shi'Kahr, any of it—she felt anxious, excited, light-headed, uneasy, more things than any Vulcan should feel at any time. S'paak bit her lip.

This was for her.

"I'm not sure, ma'am," Stiles said sullenly.

At last, Jessica turned to look down at him with something of her usual expressiveness, regarding her own crewman with more contempt than S'paak had ever seen her direct at anyone. Her hand reached out for the back of his chair and spun it, hard, forcing him to look right into her eyes. Even in profile, there was no missing the implacable intensity in her face.

"Well, here's one thing you can be sure of, Mr. Stiles," Jessica said, leaning slightly down, her hand still gripping his chair and preventing him from turning away or evading her stare. "Leave any bigotry in your quarters. There's no room for it on the bridge." Her clear voice hardened. "Do I make myself clear?"

Stiles at least had the sense to realize his danger. He looked afraid, as well he might.

"You do, ma'am," he managed to say.

Without so much as a reply, Jess released her grip on his chair and headed back towards her own. Stiles returned his attention to the weaponry—at least, they could only hope he had, though by his manner, S'paak wouldn't have been surprised if he had relieved himself.

Se turned back to her own station, somewhat relieved that its position forced her to turn her back to everyone else, even the captain, and shielded her expression from view. She forced her breath to its normal pace, ignoring the thundering of her pulse throughout her bloodstream, thinking about the glimpse they had of the Romulans, what the source of that raging, ruthless violence must be, and about Stiles's folly, and how many might share it. And she thought about her lingering sense of a very different kind of rage, right here on the bridge, far colder and more dangerous.

Jessica, thought S'paak, would never cease to surprise her.

#anghraine babbles #long post #fic talk #fic talk: the lesbian spock agenda #s'paak #jessica kirk #genderbending #c: i object to intellect without discipline #c: who do i have to be #star peace #otp: the premise

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fangirlwriting-stories · 6 months ago

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Things We Still Have in Common

Summary: In retrospect, Ford probably should have just warned Stan about the bunker's security system.

Author's Note: My sister asked me for a Gravity Falls fanfiction for Christmas, and wanted Stan and Ford trapped in a room together for 24 hours, so I put this together!

...

After hearing from Dipper about his experience with the shapeshifter, Ford makes it a point to head down to the bunker himself to check and see that it’s still secure. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Dipper when he said they handled it, but the cryochamber Dipper mentioned pushing him into is fairly old, and Ford would just as soon make sure it’s still functioning properly.

So, after lunch, he heads down to the bunker, with a fair amount of tools to update the chamber if need be.

It’s been quite a long time since he’s been to the bunker, even after arriving back in this dimension, so he’s not surprised to find things moved around and changed. Dipper did mention, with a fair amount of sheepishness, that they’d moved things around in the main observatory, and done quite a bit of damage in the tunnels. Dipper might have oversold it a bit, however, because when Ford arrives in the observatory, he doesn’t find much damage apart from moved around papers and some flipped switches that appear to be long past use anyway. The cryochamber is visible on one of the monitors, and the shapeshifter is still frozen inside, sure enough, looking just like Dipper. The sight is more than a little unsettling, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about the chambers being on the verge of collapse. There’s no sign of any thawing, or dripping water, or anything that would mean he had a time crunch in checking it over, and he doesn’t need to head straight in there.

He heads instead for the control console, and checks over the readings on the cryochamber. It seems to be in good shape for the most part, and though he’ll need to replace the temperature modulator at some point in the next ten years, he did build it to last.

Ford writes down a couple notes in the third journal, which he brought with him, and is about to head back towards the entrance, when suddenly, a new figure appears on the monitor.

For a second, Ford wonders if the shapeshifter really has escaped and he’s seeing things, because he can’t think of many other reasons for Stanley to be down here in the bunker. He’s carrying an armful of cans of “Baron Num Nums High Flyin' Beans,” and seems to be singing to himself.

Ford groans, but presses the button on the console that overrides the disinfectant closet’s doors, and marches over to it as Stan approaches the main room, making sure his irritation is plain on his face.

“Stockin’ beans for the apocalypse, do do do do,” Stan sings as he walks through from the tunnels, eyes closed and not seeming to have noticed Ford yet.

“Stanley,” Ford says, if for no other reason than to put an end to his singing.

Stan yelps and drops nearly half the cans as he opens his eyes and looks over at Ford. He looks down at the cans on the ground, then glares back up.

“Great. Thanks, Ford.”

“What are you doing down here? This place is dangerous.”

“Relax, would ya? The thing is locked up,” he says, gesturing to the cryochamber. “And Wendy mentioned a whole bunch of cans of beans down here, so I figured I’d add to my stash for the apocalypse. Hey, help me pick these cans up.”

Ford rolls his eyes and makes no such movement. “You shouldn’t have come down here without my permission,” he says.

“Oh, excuse me,” Stan says, adding a fair amount of mockery to his tone. “I’ve been pokin’ around your creepy inventions for thirty years, Poindexter, forgive me if I don’t start asking permission now.”

“I never wanted you poking around my inventions in the first place,” Ford says coolly.

Stan sets down some of the cans so he can shift around the ones in his arms, and starts singing again. “Ignoring my brother, do do do do, ‘cause he’s bein’ a jerk, do do do do do do…”

Ford groans and turns to walk back into the control room, figuring he might as well give Stanley a taste of his own medicine.

He grabs his notebook, and is about to start back through the security room, when he hears Stan start walking again, sounding like he’s carrying far too many cans.

Ford turns around with a sigh, because if Stan’s going to insist on bringing all of the cans back Ford might as well take some of them, just to make the jangling of the cans quieter, naturally. But before he can offer, one of the cans balanced precariously on top of the pile slips off, and Stan doesn’t seem to notice, too busy trying to balance another one that was about to do the same thing.

“Stan,” Ford starts, but he’s too late. The can rolls just far enough into the control room for Stan’s foot to hit it as he steps out of the disinfectant chamber. He tumbles down towards the ground, and all of the cans in his arms go flying— right into the security room.

“Wait!” Ford yells, leaping immediately for the control panel, but it’s too late. Dozens of cans hit dozens of the alert panels, and the security mechanism slams shut at what to it is registering as a small army. The disinfectant chamber slams shut and locks on the other side of the room, and an alarm starts blaring overhead.

Ford groans and turns a displeased look back on Stan, who’s currently climbing up from the ground.

“Uh,” Stan says, having the decency to look sheepish. “Whoops.”

“Fantastic,” Ford mutters, sitting down at the control panel. He hits a couple buttons, and the alarm shuts off, at least.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Stan says. “Welp. I’ve lost all of my beans. You want to get us out of here so I can go home and mope in peace?”

“I can’t,” Ford says, glaring at him. “With that many alarms, it stays up for 24 hours.”

“What? Why? Wouldn’t any intruders be pretty crushed pretty immediately?”

“Humans would, but they’re not what we were worried about when Fiddleford and I built the thing,” Ford snaps. He tries a couple more switches to no avail, and sits back in his chair with a sigh. “We’re stuck down here until it turns off.”

“Oh sure, and whose fault is that?”

Ford turns to him in bafflement. “Yours?”

“I didn’t build a death trap for a security system.”

Ford leans forward to massage at his temples, then reaches into his bag, then pulls out the walkie talkie he’d given to Dipper in case he ran into some kind of trouble and needed to let someone know. He presses the button.

“Dipper? Come in, Dipper,” he says into it, and lets go.

“Great Uncle Ford!” comes Dipper’s worried voice. “Are you okay?”

“Stanley set off the security system and we’re stuck down here for the next 24 hours,” Ford says.

“Hey, I wouldn’t have set it off if you hadn’t—”

“Will you two be alright until we get out?” Ford cuts him off.

“Yeah, I think so,” Dipper says. “But do you need me to come there?”

“There’s nothing you could do anyway,” Ford says. “Just hang out at the shack, alright?”

“Tell Soos to stay after,” Stan adds in. “But I’m not paying him any extra.”

“Okay,” Dipper says. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. Over and out,” Ford says. Dipper doesn’t say anything else, and he drops the walkie talkie back into his bag.

“So,” Stan says, a smugness to his voice that makes Ford immediately regret his life choices. “They should just hang out at the shack, huh?”

Ford gives Stan a confused look. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s what you said to Dipper,” Stan says, leaning against the console. “That they should hang out at the shack.”

Ford goes over his word choices and kicks himself. “It is the shack until the end of the summer,” he says, trying to put “I didn’t mess up, I said exactly what I meant to say” into his voice. “And then it will go back to being my house again.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Stan says, because Ford has never been able to properly lie to him.

Ford rolls his eyes and turns back to his journal, scribbling “I am writing this down in order to ignore Stanley,” in small letters.

It seems to work well enough, because Stan just shrugs and goes to collect what cans of beans escaped the security system.

Ford leans back in the chair and closes the journal. He’s not exactly thrilled at the prospect of spending twenty four hours here with Stanley. At least neither of them are hurt, and since they’re in this room specifically, they’ll be able to tell as soon as the security system shuts off, and get out right afterwards.

Out of the corner of his vision, Ford sees Stan set five cans of beans on the ground by the door, which seems to be all that survived the crushing. Stan gives a disappointed sigh and wanders over to one of the shelves on the other side of the room. He starts to whistle to himself.

“Please don’t,” Ford says instantly. “Being stuck here is going to be hard enough.”

Stan’s only response is to start to whistle louder.

Ford resists the instinct to slam his head onto the desk.

It is going to be a long 24 hours.

…

With every minute, Ford is regretting more not putting a clock down here. He can always radio Dipper if he needs to know what time it is that badly, but he doesn’t want to bother the boy with something so trivial. It’s not like knowing what time it is will make the time they’re down here lessen. Besides, then Stan could mock him for blinking first, and Ford can’t let him win.

Eventually, he and Stan settle into activities. Stan has begun trying to balance the beakers that were sitting on the shelves. Ford hasn’t stopped him because he hasn’t broken any yet, and at least he’s not saying anything. Ford is reading through his journal and making updated notes and additions, though he often doesn’t have much space to do so. His drawings tend to take up a lot of space.

Ford would be perfectly content to do just that for the entire time they’re down there, but he also would be a fool if he doesn’t expect Stanley to ruin it at some point.

Sure enough, as Ford is going through Dipper’s entries and highlighting parts that intrigue him, Stanley speaks up.

“So, uh, did you build this place just to house your shapeshifter guy?”

Ford sighs, and doesn’t look up from the journal as he responds.

“Not at first,” he says. “I wanted to explore Gravity Falls underground. I had planned to expand the tunnels at first, before—” the Shapeshifter turned dangerous. And before Bill showed up, and all but robbed Ford of everything he’d loved about Gravity Falls in the first place, made all of the anomalies he’d come here for seem like pointless wastes of time.

“Before the shifter guy happened?” Stan asks, cutting off Ford’s train of thought.

Ford sighs, making sure his exasperation is clear. The response “Actually it was before I got shoved into another dimension,” pops into his head, but he swallows it down and nods instead. It’s needlessly callous, and would just add more tension when they’re going to have to be here for a while yet.

“You know, if you wanted to explore Gravity Falls underground, there was a dinosaur cavern already sitting there,” Stan says.

“I read about it in Dipper’s journal,” Ford says. “I didn’t know it existed back then. I’ll probably make time to go there eventually.”

“Watch out for pterodactyls,” Stan deadpans. “Glad to know I beat you to that, though.”

Ford grits his teeth and opts not to respond.

“Did you hear about how I punched it in the face?”

“Are you trying to start an argument?” Ford snaps, glaring down at him.

“It would definitely make the time go faster,” Stan says, giving Ford a grin that’s just a little too smug.

“Considering how quickly I beat you last time, no it wouldn’t,” Ford says, adapting a smug smile of his own.

Stan’s face drops into a scowl. “Hey, you caught me off guard after I’d just run from a bunch of FBI agents through an entire town. Gimme a break. I bet you couldn’t beat up a bunch of zombies.”

“Please,” Ford says, rolling his eyes. “Most of them are in an advanced state of decay. I did physically overpower quite a few of them once.”

“Oh, please. If you had, you’d have written it in your stupid journals,” Stan says, rolling his eyes as he looks back up at the ceiling.

Ford clenches his teeth. “They’re not stupid,” he says, in lieu of revealing to Stanley the pages that he ripped out of the journal. He doesn’t want to revisit those experiences anytime soon, and especially not with Stanley of all people.

Stan doesn’t reply with anything more than a grunt, before going back to picking up one of the smaller beakers and placing it on top of the one currently balanced atop all the others. At which point, his streak ends and they topple over, several of them shattering on the ground.

“Fantastic,” Ford snaps, standing and pushing the chair back. “I don’t have any way to clean up broken glass right now, Stanley.”

“I don’t see any other way to entertain myself here,” Stan snaps back, bending down to pick up the ones that aren’t broken and setting them back on the shelves. “I didn’t come down here with plans to stay, I didn’t bring anything to do.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Did I say it was?”

Ford groans in frustration and sits back down at the desk, getting back to work on the journal.

Stan doesn’t go for the beakers again, but instead goes and leans against the other wall. He’s never been one to sit still for long, however, so Ford’s not surprised when he speaks up again before long.

“It grabbed Mabel’s pet pig, you know.”

Ford shot a confused look over his shoulder. “What did?”

“The pterodactyl,” Stan says, crossing his arms and looking up at the ceiling in reminiscence. “It uh, burst into the house and grabbed it right out of my hands.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Ford says, rolling his eyes and turning back to his journal.

“What, you’re not seriously gonna write in that thing the whole time, are ya? We’re stuck here for a while, might as well reminisce for a bit.”

“I cannot think of any circumstance that would make me want to reminisce with you,” Ford says without looking up.

“And that’s just the kind of warm fuzziness that makes you so pleasant to be around, Poindexter.”

Ford drops his pen and spins around in his chair, glaring at Stanley. “Need I remind you it’s your fault we’re here in the first place?”

“You think maybe if you’d helped me carry a couple of those cans we wouldn’t be in this mess?” Stan shoots back, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s not my job to help you with every hare-brained scheme you come up with.”

“Yeah, heaven forbid you have to help me out with something like carrying groceries. Oh, the indignity.”

“I came down here for something important, Stanley!” Ford snaps, which seems to be the wrong thing to say, because Stan’s gaze darkens.

“Well,” he says coldly. “If you don’t give a shit about my thing, why the hell should I give a shit about yours?”

Ford sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine,” he says. “There won’t be any long-term harm done, it’s just a rather large inconvenience. We’re just going to have to grin and bear it.”

Stan huffs, and grabs one of the cans of beans, yanking the top back until it opens. He pulls the metal lid off and bends it until it makes a satisfactory spoon, which he uses to scoop the beans up and into his mouth.

“Beans?” he grumbles, nodding down at them.

“I think I’ll manage,” Ford says, spinning his chair back around. “I’ve gone longer than 24 hours without food.”

Many times, actually. Food isn’t always easy to find in every dimension out there in the multiverse, and there are quite a few instances he can think of having to go without. He’ll make it until lunchtime tomorrow just fine.

He’s not expecting a response from Stanley in regards to that, but to his surprise, he gets one.

“It’s uh, not a skill you can just pick right back up, Poindexter.”

Ford turns and gives him a curious look. “Excuse me?”

“Not eating for more than a day. It’s not a skill you can just pick right back up. You’ve had, you know, stable meals for a couple weeks now.”

Ford looks at him for a moment, not sure quite what that means.

“I know,” he says eventually.

Stan sighs, and shakes his head. He sets his open can down, grabs three of the cans of beans off the floor and walks over to the console, then sets them down next to Ford. “Eat ‘em when you get hungry,” he says, and walks back over to pick up his open can again.

“I mean it,” he adds when Ford doesn’t say anything.

Ford sighs but doesn’t object, then turns back to his journal.

He’ll end up eating the beans in a couple hours.

…

As the time drags on, the quiet gets more comfortable. Ford gives Stan a turn in the chair eventually, since it’s the only real place to comfortably sit in there. To his surprise, Stan quickly falls asleep leaning against the desk.

It’s probably close to night at this point, but Ford had figured they’d eventually try to sleep on the ground, since sleeping in a chair like that would be bad for their backs at this age.

To be fair, the ground probably wouldn’t be much better, but he still can’t help but notice that Stan seems far more comfortable than he should be, hunched over a desk like that. Maybe he just never grew out of his ease with falling asleep in class?

Or maybe, Ford realizes with a start, he’s fallen asleep in a desk chair a lot these past thirty years.

Ford doesn’t want to linger on that thought for too long, so he sits down against the wall with his journal and starts sketching out plans to install a failsafe to the security system. Best to avoid a repeat of this situation in the future, and it’s easier to work without Stan jabbering on.

He makes his way through a decent amount of the changes he’ll have to make and the overrides he’ll have to install before his focus is dragged away by Stan starting to mutter in his sleep.

Ford sighs, looking at Stan in part exasperation, part amazement. Even when he’s asleep, Stan finds a way to break his concentration.

Ford keeps his gaze on him for a minute, trying to decide if this is more or less annoying than Stan’s periodic interruptions. He’s thrown out of that internal debate, however, when he hears what Stan’s actually saying.

He’s muttering apologies.

Maybe he’s also done that a lot while asleep at a desk chair these past thirty years—

Ford pushes himself to his feet, walks across the room, and shakes Stan’s shoulder.

Stan jerks awake immediately, and is already swinging fists towards him. Ford steps back, just far enough to avoid the swing of Stan’s fists. Sometimes those multiverse instincts are very helpful.

It takes Stan a minute, but eventually he seems to shake awareness back into his head, and blinks a couple of times at Ford.

“You— ugh,” he grumbles, the tension slipping out of his posture as he rubs at his eyes. “What the hell was that for?”

Ford doesn’t answer right away. “You were being unintentionally vulnerable in your sleep and I didn’t want to know things you didn’t want to tell me” doesn’t feel like it will go over well. But it’s true. If there’s anything three decades in the multiverse has taught him, it’s that you don’t just go around sharing your secrets with anyone. It’s dangerous. And that’s definitely what he’s thinking about. It’s the safety thing. It’s definitely not just that he doesn’t want to force anything like that on Stan.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Ford says instead. “I’m trying to work.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stan snaps, glaring at him. “Let a man sleep, Poindexter. It’s been a long day.”

Ford walks back over to where he’d been sitting before and sits down with his journal.

Stan huffs and puts his arms back on the control panel, then leans his head on top of his arms, shutting his eyes again.

“I have nightmares too,” Ford mutters, because he can’t help it.

Stan gives a very loud, obviously fake snore, and Ford pulls open his journal and gives up.

Stan does manage to fall asleep again, after a while, and the nightmares thankfully don’t make a recurrence.

Ford hadn’t thought that after forty years apart he would have anything in common with his brother anymore. He wouldn’t have picked nightmares, if he had a choice.

Or food insecurity, for that matter.

In the end, Ford decides an all nighter is more appropriate. There’s too high a chance that if he shuts his eyes right now, he’ll have a nightmare of his own. Bill would come to pay a visit, if nothing else. He wouldn’t miss out on a chance to show up and mock Ford for something like this. Ford can’t be sure that Stan will pay him the same courtesy of waking him up, and Ford isn’t ready to be vulnerable either.

So instead, he finishes the plans for the security system override, turns to a new page, and sketches a drawing of what Stan probably looked like, fallen asleep at a different desk.

Purely to pass the time, of course.

…

Stan sleeps well into the morning, which Ford definitely doesn’t mind. He gets one radio communication from Dipper, that it’s 7 in the morning and they have five hours left on the security system, and also that Soos is going to run the shack today.

That last part wakes Stan up.

“Absolutely not,” he says, before he’s even finished blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Tell him we’re opening late.”

“He can do it, Grunkle Stan!” comes Mabel’s voice. “Besides, Dipper’s done a tour before, he can’t do worse than that!”

“Hey!”

“That is true…”

“Hey!”

“Oh, alright. But you watch him, pumpkin. You’ve got experience with bossing people around.”

“You got it! Over and out!”

“Hey, I get to say—”

The radio cuts off.

Ford chuckles a little. “So, do you think the place will still be standing when we get back?”

“Eh, I give it a 70/30 chance. Apparently they did knock a new hole in the wall last time I let Mabel run things, but it was fixed by the time I got home.”

“You— I’m sorry?”

“Mabel and I made a bet.”

“Of course you did,” Ford sighs, though if the damage is already fixed he supposes he can’t be that upset.

Stan stands and stretches, with a couple pops in his back that sound rather painful.

“You’re up,” he says, jerking his thumb at the chair as he starts to walk around the room.

Ford gives a wave of thanks and walks over to sit down in the chair. It definitely feels nice to sit on something cushioned instead of the cold floor.

“According to Dipper we have about five hours left, by the way,” Ford says. Stan gives a grunt of acknowledgement.

Ford sets his journal open to the page where he drew the plans for the override, and spends the last five hours comparing his notes to the actual control console. Stan takes an hour or so to wake up, then spends the time balancing the much less breakable bean cans in different ways.

The fact that they have less time to wait than they did yesterday certainly helps the mood of the room, but even so, by the time Dipper radios to alert them they only have an hour left, Ford can tell they’re both itching to get out of there. Ford does his best to keep track of how much time passes in the last hour, since he doesn’t want to bother Dipper every couple minutes for an update, but the closer it gets to the time the system will shut off, the more Ford wants out of there.

“Gonna go home and make some food,” Stan mutters to himself at one point. “And gonna have to thank Soos for watching the kids for so long. Maybe I’ll just let him run the shack for the rest of the day, he would take that as thanks.”

“You’d just spend the day napping,” Ford says, and winces. He’d actually been aiming more for teasing, but there’s far too much flatness to his tone for it to count.

Sure enough, Stan snaps back, “Yeah, and maybe I’ve earned it, huh? I’ve had to put up with your ugly mug for the last 24 hours.”

“We have the same face,” Ford groans, looking up at the ceiling.

“Your point being?”

Ford grumbles and turns back to his journal, though he is most certainly out of anything interesting he could find it there.

And then, to his great relief, there’s the sound of loud clanking, and both he and Stan turn in desperate hope to see the tiles to the other room sliding back, leaving their exit from the bunker clear.

“Finally,” Stan groans, moving immediately towards the room.

“Stop,” Ford snaps, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him back. “Don’t step on the tiles.”

Stan shoots him a dirty look. “I know that, Poindexter,” he snaps. “I came down here in the first place, didn’t I?”

Ford huffs, and pulls Stan back so he can slip out past him first. He trusts himself more when it comes to avoid tripping, and he’s not going to get stuck down here again.

He hears Stan’s irritated grumbling behind him, but Ford just ignores it to turn on the radio and tell Dipper they’re on their way out.

“Awesome!” Dipper calls. “I mean, uh, that’s good, Great Uncle Ford. We’ll see you in just a bit!”

“See you soon, Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford!” Mabel calls, sounding thrilled at the prospect.

“See you soon,” Ford agrees, with a fond smile, though neither Mabel or Dipper could see it.

“Oh, and you don’t need to worry about food or anything, Soos made you lunch!” Mabel adds on as an afterthought.

“Yeah, alright,” Stan calls as they both head out of the security room and towards the front room, and head for the staircase.

“You want me to tell him thanks, Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asks.

Ford glances back to see Stan’s obvious distaste at the idea, but he responds, “Sure, pumpkin,” in a tone of voice that doesn’t let any of that through. “But all of you prepare yourselves, ya hear? I’ve got a whole day of annoying you knuckleheads to make up for.”

Mabel’s delighted giggles and Dipper’s exhausted groan both come through the radio.

“Roger that! Over and out!” Mabel calls.

“I get to say that! Hey, give me back the—” the radio cuts out.

Stan chuckles with a fond roll of his eyes. Ford looks at him for another moment, then pulls his gaze away so Stan doesn’t think he’s staring. Still, as they both start up the steps, it occurs to him that he might actually still have one more thing in common with his brother.

This one, he can’t say he minds that much.

#gravity falls #ford pines #stan pines #ford pines angst #stan pines angst #huh this one is actually canon compliant that's crazy #my fic

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