#writing-anomaly

[sharpace]

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Super duper loving The Magnus Protocol. My little horror heart is so full.

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[nevertheless-moving]

unable to stop dwelling on the discworld trouser leg of time where, in the penultimate fight scene in Nightwatch, Carcer manages to kill teenage Sam Vimes.

Which means that the future that Duke Vimes came from can no longer exist, which means he can’t go home. Meanwhile you’ve got a bunch of history monks with stored up temporal energy, a prepared space outside of time, and the need to do some desperate damage control before the Auditors get involved. Death shows up, reality is unweaving, Sam is reading Carcer his discworld miranda rights because what else is he supposed to do.

and finally, with little other option, the monks de-age Sam so he fits the time period and send him back out into the fray.

(they didn't call it deageing of course. His memory is hazy, splintered during that terrible in between moment, They....took the time out of him? Sanded away the edges of his self for a terrible, workable fit? It...wasn't a good feeling.)

Just—damn. Sam Vimes having to live his whole crapsack life over again, but this time as his disillusioned-reillusioned, unwillingly-character-developed, noir-epic, Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes self. 

Younger (Older? He's never felt so Old, His steps so Childlike, reality twisting in his gut like one of Dibbler's pies) Sam Vimes walking around in a haze after the revolution. Desperate to go home, knowing he can’t. Wanting to drink. Knowing he can’t.

The whole precinct feels pity, he really took Keel’s death hard, hardly speaks except to do his job. Eventually he has to grit his teeth and start being present, because what else is there to do?

Resists the urge to drink until Colon takes the whole watch out to celebrate because -he’s going to be a father!

Come on Sammy, one drink won’t kill you— and after the first drink he’s cracking jokes and after the second hes smiling and after the third hes honestly the life of the party and sometime after that he’s crying about how he was going to be a father and my wife would be ashamed if she saw me drinking like this and— 

Oh shit, Did anyone else know he had a wife?? A PREGNANT wife??? What—aren’t you like 12—no you're 17 now aren't you but when did—

You guys n’ver met ’er—oh gods none if you ev’n know ‘er, is jus’ me...

What—when did you lose—

I lost her the same damn day I los’ ev’rythin else, whadya think...bleeding Carcer...the fuckin revolution...

So! That! Sam only vaguely remembers the night, but rumors travel faster than light on the disc, so by the next day the whole damn city knows about poor Sam brung low by the loss of his poor, tragic, pregnant wife, so young to be a widower, and the Seamstresses nod because they already knew, don’t ask them how, somethings you just have to know in that trade.

And his mother—I don’t know, sue me, I’m a time travel fiend but there’s something deeply intriguing about a man meeting his dead parent, who is somewhat younger than him, and stepping into the old relationship like a badly fitting thing that's supposed to fit well. She would know, right? How would she deal with her son’s impossible grief? Maybe she wouldn’t know—he spent most of the time out of the house, running with different street gangs, maybe he avoids her until she dies and lives with the guilt twice over. God, we don’t even know her name. There’s just so much narrative and emotional potential that I don’t even know where to start.

When he’s on duty, which is most time - it’s agonizing because at first he remembers cases, saves lives that would have been lost. But the more time passes, the hazier his memory because in the original timeline he was becoming an alcoholic. Fuck! A kid dies and he could have saved her if he hadn’t been such a drunk, if he had just remembered where the asshole lived, but it’s all a haze, and he wants to drown out his guilt, but that’s what caused this in the first place.

Good young Sammy, who spends his rare off-time in dusty libraries (and yes, the irony that he’s apparently Carrot now is not lost on him) reading gods-only-know.

It’s not like he can ask the wizards for help, cutthroat and vicious as they are now in the not-so-distant-past.

Good young Sam, who...talks to the Broken Drum’s pet Bouncer like he’s a real person and not a dumb rock? That’s a bit weird, but he’s a bit of a funny guy.

Good old Sam, who believed the testimony of the dwarf who said the humans were trying to rob him and let the dwarf go??

the PROBLEMS this man would cause, good grief. Can you imagine a moderately progressive middle aged man with some degree of begrudging diversity and equity training that he did, for all his sins, pay attention to, suddenly going back to like, 1990, going back just 30 years, and going...oh damn this is kind of fucked up, no man you can’t say that, holy shit.

Except Sam’s lived through even more rapidly shifting social moroes! There’s no seamstress guild, there’s no women allowed inside the university, there’s no black ribboner’s society. People hunted trolls for their teeth! But Sam can’t just unlearn everything, and he can’t shut up, and he has no real luck and anyway he would absolutely get himself (temporarily) fired.

FUCK. Sam has no idea what to do with that. None. Zero clue. Wanders around in a haze until that dwarf he saved from police brutality finds him and insists on repaying the debt. No, he insists, do you have any idea what debt means to a dwarf?

“Sort-of?” he replies hesitantly, and that honest admission of incomplete knowledge shows a hell of a lot more respect and understanding than any self proclaimed dwarf-expert ever did.

Gets a job as a surface man, hauling rocks into the city. It’s backbreaking work, but, in true Discworld fashion, it’s also one hell of a workout (again the irony of being Carrot is not lost him. he freezes for a minute while hauling a rock cart, when he remembers he's technically Lost Nobility too, in a strict sense, but someone curses at him in the street and he's comfortingly grounded)

And here is where this au slides into a SPECTACULAR romantic comedy, BEAR WITH ME. Because in his time on the Watch he’s already done noir, action adventure, war story, detective who dunnit, psychological horror, but guards guards only allowed him to be a romance protagonist in an extremely limited context.

Give me righteous, twenty-something-looking, can’t-say-he-doesn’t-have-style, young Sam Vimes, not an alcoholic,  being fed three square meals a day by his dwarven forced found family, hauling rocks. He is startled to find him bumping his head on a low hanging bar that he doesn’t think used to be there, eventually realizing that he’s an inch or two taller than he remembers. Huh. Guess all that bearhuggers really did stunt his growth.

Still doesn’t get what some of the looks from women he’s getting are about, sure, he’s dirty but so is everyone else. Fine, he took his shirt off, but it’s hot out, there’s far wrinklier than him hauling heavy loads, get a life. 

Happens to glance in the Ankh one day when it’s particularly slow and shiny and is startled to realize that he might be turning heads for a different reason. Oh. Right, not that he was ever a heartbreaker, but he did alright for himself... when he was a younger and his face hadn’t been broken so many times. Which...it isn't now.

Is mildly disturbed by the revelation.

Especially once things blow over at the precinct and what with high mortality rates, he ends up with getting hired again. The boys are delighted to have him back, nevermind that he’s an odd one, noone is ever quite in your corner like Vimsey, absence makes the heart fonder, no one else works that hard, and he’s not even competition for promotion. All around great guy, we should set him up with somebody and just, no.

It just keeps getting worse! He’s literate! He’s a feminist! He believes abuse victims! He’s got a tragic backstory! He’s unreasonably good in a fistfight! He’s kind to animals! Word gets around that there’s a good man on the watch and he’s just waiting for a good woman to come snap him up. The widower excuse doesn’t hold people off completely, and for some it’s its own sort-of appeal. 

Things REALLY become stressful after he rescues that carriage full of noblewoman.

What’s he supposed to do? Let them get robbed? Or worse? Chasing down and beating up 10 goons is as easy as beating up one, when they’re that stupid, getting separated like that, drunk and distracted, and he knows these streets better than anyone, really it’s nothing. And oh lord he’s Modest too.

I mean, they were genuinely greatful, as genuine as people like that are capable of being, the skill having grown rusty. And then there is something...magnetic about the man. An air of command.

So, soon enough you get Lady Marigold of Marigrave calling on Treckle Road for that gallant young officer who rescued them, she really needs to thank him. And Viscountess Elanor Thitzferal specifically requesting that he guard her at her next soiree. And Baroness Julieta van Shoeholten insisting that he come to her home while her husband’s away, for... manly protection.

Aaaah just zero sympathy from the guys. None. 'It’s become a competition, they’re just trying to see who can get me into bed first, it’s like I’m a piece of meat, you can’t send me sir, the Marquess greeted me in a nightee last time you made me go to—' and 'small gods Vimes are you even listening to yourself, shut the hell up'.

Simultaneous to this, (again this is several years into the timeline) swamp dragon accessories come into style. Which means abandoned swamp dragons scrounging on the street. Vimes takes one back to his apartment, blows his paycheck on dragon medicine, and eventually, heart in his chest, brings it to the Ramkin estate. The sunshine orphanage doesn’t even exist yet and he’s just standing outside the gates like an idiot, what is he thinking. Turns around, but her carriage is pulling up and—

well. they meet. it's cute. he's never felt so young. he's never felt so old, too old for her, too poor—

and certainly her thoughts linger too long on the awkward, kindly, handsome young commoner, but is it any wonder she doesn't quite connect it to the stern, dangerous, sexy young guard the ladies seem to be in some quiet, cuthroat competition over?

i have this gorgeous, absurd scene in my head in which Vimes is strong armed into standing guard at some high society soiree and one of the pushiest ladies insists he dance with here, or, if he prefers, if he's not confident about his skills, he can dance with her in-private at her home and he’s like [grinding teeth, looking for a way out, seeinf one] “I would be honored to dance with you.”

Steps right into some ultra-complex dance with multiple partner swaps (she never thought he'd pick this one, devilishly intimidating to one not strictly trained, and you barely spend anytime with your first partner).

But he does alright. Better than alright, for a common man, sometimes misstepping but his hands and feet always end up where they need to be. Raises several eyebrows part way into the song because he's throuwing in some slightly scandalous, no innovative, extra lifts and twirls that wouldn't become fashionable for another decade or two. Who even is that guy? Some out of towner? No, no he's in a guards uniform...how very strange.

Gets to Sybll and she's used to embarrassment during these dances, she tries to get out of them when she can... but can't always. Men awkwardly skipping the lifts, or worse, trying and failing. But him — oh it's him, the one who helped little Erold, and looked at her like—like—well like she was someone beautiful. And he's doing it again, and he's strong and there's a quiet moment where she's in the air, they lock eyes, and the rest of the room melts away.

And then the partners change again, the moment ended.

Just...living throught it all again. To the left, a dance he almost knows the steps to, throwing others off balance with erratic moves , honest mistakes, and delibrate stepping on toes. Improvising. Ruining. Improving. Getting far, far too much attention.

Hes almost excited when the first assassains start coming after him. It's like a hobby.

Everyone tells him he should get a hobby.

Interactions with young vetinari...I don't have the energy to write it all down, the slow circling in on each other, both burning with the need to fix the city, save it, their city.

needless to say he ends up fired again, life under real threat after offending some high lord.

Conveniently enough he has an employment opportunity- bodyguard to fucking Vetinari on his 'grand sneer.' The bastard knows vimes isn't what he seems, though sam is pretty sure that he doesnt know the exacts.

Vetinari hypothesis:(the ghost of keel? Keels son, with some hereditary curse? Or a larger spirit of justice possessing a string of unrelated souls? He knows things he shouldn't- mind reader? Fortune teller? Havelock once arranged for a wizard to bump into him on the street, the magical fool gave an odd double look and then muttered something about destiny looping in on itself giving him a headache. Destiny? Lost noble? And hes far too familiar with sybyl, one of the few bearable noblewomen in this city. And his thoughts on guilds, when havelock can trip him into speaking... Most of all, if hes reading him at all correctly (for all the mystery hes not that hard to read, unless thats a very clever cover) then it seems that behind those dark haunted eyes is Respect. Loyalty. For vetinari. What an interesting man. A puzzling asset. An intriguing threat. )

Did I mention the timeline is changing, healing slowly around the place where it was torn? Healing enough around scars to perhaps get some flexibility back, with some painful stretches and...massaging of said scar tissue?

And hes heading to unresting uberwald, a place where a werewolf pack still hunts humans and, truely unrelated but perhaps equally exhausting, an eldritch spirit of vengeance just might be looking to stretch its legs in a hapless vessel?

Opening drabble Vimes Vetinari Meta (Unwell) Scene from the Uberwald Grand Sneer

[kodared]

✰ Stanford & Borrower/Anomaly Reader ✰

fears not enough they have to tear him apart.

Chapter 2/?

Wordcount: 2,684 / 4,741

➤ Summary Based on the borrowers of many universes! I hope you enjoy it, and if you don't know about borrowers, let me be your guide into a world I've loved since I was young. ✰Written because I saw the severe lack of borrower content in Gravity Falls fanfic, i hope you enjoy <3 ✰ - ★Updates irregularly! I write when I want ★ ★ - Also on AO3! - ★

You had spent the better half of that night scheming of ways actually to put your plan into motion. Sure the basic idea sounded easy enough, but you were only about 6 inches tall. His journal might even be taller than you. You tried not to let that thought bother you. 

You had even turned the string lights in your makeshift home on. If you were to think of ways to get the page you needed a comfortable space. You never liked sitting in the dark. 

The only sound in your room was your feet hitting the wooden plank you used as a floor while you paced in a circle. It had to be late at this point, and you could check and see if Ford was still awake, but you knew he’d still be up. 

Once he was enamored by something he stayed up studying, it felt weird for you to be that something, but here you were. 

If you were to take the page out of his journal, you needed something sharp to rip it out. Your needle wouldn’t work, it would take too long to rip the paper. You weren’t too keen on the idea of being caught by the scientist. 

You needed something more similar to a knife a human would use. You knew better than to think of making your own. You weren’t much of a blacksmith or crafter, you tinkered with a lot of things sure, but nothing extravagant. 

Finally getting bored of the scenery of your room, you decided that if you were going to brainstorm anything it would help to look around first. 

You clicked your string lights off and set off into the walls. Your hand fidgets with the needle on your hip anxiously. 

You always had a problem with twiddling with things. Your mother even had to put poison ivy on your nails once so you’d stop picking them and the skin around them. …You still had small scars but you tried not to pick them as bad. 

Absentmindedly walking the dark corridors of the inner walls wasn’t bad now and again. The cottage didn't have any mice, so you didn't have to worry about predators or bugs for that matter.

You wouldn’t have minded befriending a pill bug though, those little critters were always friendly as long as you had a treat for them. 

Your dreams of settling down with a bug friend though would have to wait. Reminding yourself why you came here, you finally felt along the wall for anything that could help. 

You were on the first floor. Meaning you were on the right track to the perfect spot to go looking for scraps the human wouldn’t miss. 

Not that it mattered if he noticed items going missing anymore, he already knew you were here. It was always best to avoid confrontation though.

Gently tapping on the wall as you went, you felt your body stiffening and halting right as you passed the humans room. 

If that was the noise you thought you heard, maybe the plan would be put in action sooner than expected. 

Halting in your tapping you gently pressed your body against the wall, hearing the faint whispers of a snore from beyond the wood. 

Deciding to bite the bullet you pressed harder, feeling the thin wood bend so you could peek. 

True to what you heard, you could see the human, Ford. Passed out at his desk, and even better, the Journal. 

Unguarded and open on his desk next to his hand. He must have been taking notes and fallen asleep. 

If there was any time to waste you weren’t going to be the one to waste it. Quickly pushing off the wall you took off towards the storage room he kept full of random items. 

Usually just rubbish of whatever he was working on at the time, sometimes wires, and more than often boxes full of who knows what. But that didn't matter, because you knew what you were after. 

Cramming yourself against the wall once more you operated quickly. Squeezing through the small crack made by pushing you landed on a box. Quickly you brought your sleeved arm up to stifle your coughing from the sheer amount of dust. 

Would it kill him to dust now and again or was he only interested in studying???

Pushing past your internal cussing you scanned the floor for what you came for to begin with. A small black screw lay on the floor exactly where you recognized it being. Still sharp at the end from disuse, overlooked on the floor for weeks. 

Bingo.

You jumped off of the box, ignoring the protests from your still sprained ankle as you speed walked over to the screw. 

Picking it up it felt cool in your hands. A comforting feeling in the stuffy and still dark room. The only light was from the moonlight that drifted from the window up high. 

Sometimes you wondered if your family was still okay in the woods. If sometimes when you looked at the moon, they where looking at it too. 

You began the long trek back to the humans room, debating whether or not it would be worth it to go back through the walls or just walk on foot. 

Eventually, you decided to just go back through the vent. Climbing back up the box and weaseling your way into the wall would be too much work. Plus the vents usually were easy enough to navigate. 

You used the screw to pry the grate up ever so slightly before using your hands to pull it up the rest of the way. Your wrist also protesting from where you fell on it. You seriously needed to take better care of yourself once this was all over. 

Dropping down into the vents you made sure to pull the grate shut behind you before crawling through the cramped space. Even for you, it was a bit uncomfortable but the cold on your stomach was oddly comforting. 

You oddly preferred a cold room over a warm one, even better if you had a warm piece of cloth. Even as a kid you much liked it better in the early months of fall than in the middle of summer. 

Finally, you could hear the humans' faint snoring from above you, confirming the vents were a pretty straightforward path to his room. 

Taking a deep breath you pushed the grate up. Timing it with his deep snores to make sure he stayed fast asleep.

Clambering up into the open space you could see Ford sleeping at his desk still. His body was uncomfortably curled around and resting on his desk. 

You were no fool. You made sure to plan an escape route just in case he did wake up, quickly scanning the room you could see a small hole in the floorboard. Probably made by the natural cut of the wood, but perfect for you to drop into at a moment's notice. 

You then looked at his desk. Trying to figure out a safe way to travel up it without your fishhook and thread. When something caught your eye. 

The bastard had kept your fishhook. There it lay on his workspace, just barely discernable from your angle on the floor as it glinted in the moonlight. Almost as if it was taunting you. 

Suddenly all the nerves you had were ebbing away into frustration. Who gave him the right to keep your things. You worked hard on getting the proper supplies, and he never noticed. So what gave him the right to pocket it like he made it? 

You made quick work of walking across the floor and getting your footing on the desk leg. The unpolished wood was rough enough to support your hands and feet as you climbed. 

If you could get your fishhook back on top of taking the page you would be ecstatic. Then you could move without worry and find a new place to move into. This would all be behind you and you could talk about it like it was all some bad dream. 

Now was a time for the present though as you neared the top of his desk. You had almost forgotten the human was resting just beside you, frightening yourself as you pulled yourself onto the desk and saw his arm right next to you. 

…You almost forgot how large this guy was. 

He was tall by human standards, you saw him standing next to his assistant before. 

Pushing down your curiosity you peeled your eyes away from the human. 

Quickly scooping up the fishhook and thread that was so rightfully yours. You took one more glance at him to make sure he was asleep. 

By human standards he was attractive. Hell, even by borrower standards he was mildly satisfying. You weren't one of those borrowers who actively sought out humans, but you could admit when someone was pleasing to the eyes. 

He had short brown hair that slightly curled at the ends. His glasses were now crooked with how he pressed his face on top of his arm as a makeshift pillow. You allowed your eyes to scan over him a bit longer. 

Taking in his outfit as well, a simple brown sweater with a collared shirt poking from above it. His usual trenchcoat was hung on the chair he sat on. 

His hands rested on top of his forearms, which- 

… Don't humans usually only have five fingers? 

You could've sworn they had only five. Raising your own you looked back and forth at it. 

You remembered your mother mentioning humans were genetically very similar to borrowers. The only difference is the height, which should mean he would have only five fingers. Not the six he seemed to have on both hands. 

You were getting sidetracked. Soon you wouldn't even be living with this weird scientist, so why did it matter if he had an extra finger? 

Finally focusing on what you came for, you turned your attention to the journal. That cursed, stupid, red journal. The cause of all your anxiety for the past few days. 

He's lucky you're not just burning the entire thing. You weren't above arson, but you didn't want to kill him if the fire got too big. Despite how much you loathed humans. 

You walked over to the journal and skimmed over the page it was open to. To no one's shock, it was open on the page you despised the most. 

Over the top of the pristine white paper was the name he had given you and your species. 

‘Parva persona’. Whatever that meant you didn't care. 

Below it was a crude sketch of what you could only assume was your shadowy figure slinking off into the wall. You thought you dressed better than that in all honesty. He could have atleast drawn you in detail. 

Whatever. Didnt matter as long as the page was gone. He could always rewrite it but you doubt he would remember everything. 

And the more that was lost to time the better in your opinion. 

You placed your foot on the page to hold it down as you positioned the screw at the top of the page. Pressing your whole body weight on it as you dragged it down, it worked beautifully. Leaving a messy tear in its wake. 

You almost forgot about the snoring behind you. 

Until it stopped. 

About halfway through slicing into the cursed paper you heard it. The slight intake of breath. The stutter was all you needed to whip around just in time to catch the human sitting up slightly. 

His eyes were wide as he looked down at you, the holds of sleep still gripping him tightly as he moved sluggishly. 

Screw the page. You dropped the screw and took off to the side of the desk. Already planning on using the hook to drop off the desk and disappear back into the walls before promptly packing your bags and going back to your parents. 

As you were about to drop your hook and use it to swing off the desk, you felt the warmth of his hand on your back once more before those damned fingers curled around your entire being. 

The human wasnt speaking yet but you didn't want to wait to hear him. Thrashing as hard as you could you tried desperately to grab your needle on your hip, but his hand was quick to squish your arms to your sides. 

The dizzying feeling of being lifted off the desk was the next thing you felt. You felt nauseous at the mental image of being manhandled. 

The human was stunned into silence as you screwed your eyes shut, still desperately kicking at his pinkie that held your thighs down. His thumb pressed against your neck and shoulders, almost as if he was examining you. 

Finally, you opened your eyes, and you wished you hadnt. His other hand held his glasses up, pressing them firmly against the bridge of his nose, as if he was afraid he wasnt seeing right. 

His hair messily framed his face as his mouth hung open just a bit. Clearly in awe at what he was seeing. Your heart hammered quickly against your chest as you feared you might die from shock and horror. 

You were stuck. Trapped by a scientist. The most dangerous human to exist to your kind. 

His grip tightened ever so slightly as he tilted you to the left, looking at the items you had on your hip as he lifted his middle finger. Your thighs and shoulder are still pinned to his palm. 

His palm was uncomfortably warm against your back. You hated the feeling of his skin against your clothes. Absentmindedly he used his other hand to poke at the needle on your hip. You contemplated trying to bite him. 

Your blood was rushing past your ears as the effects of vertigo hit your body in full swing once more as he moved. His head tilted to look somewhere beside the desk before you heard him rummaging. 

It was a wonder you weren't passed out at this point as his hand swayed. The motion was natural to him, but entirely foreign to the small sentient being he held in the palm of his hand. 

His eyes focused back on your form as you felt him press something against your side, it was cold and plastic. 

Craning your neck you could see him pressing what appeared to be a ruler to your side. His thumb pressed against your shoulder moving to press against your neck as he held you straight. 

“...6 and a half inches.. That should be impossible..” 

His voice boomed in your ears as you felt the beginnings of a headache nagging at the back of your eyes. In all reality, he was probably whispering. It didn't matter though combined with the closeness he held you at. 

His thumb was beginning to press a bit too hard into your neck and you saw spots forming in your vision. Your body kicked up in squirms as you desperately tried to squeeze in another full breath of air. 

He was quick to notice as he moved his thumb back to your shoulder. 

“Sorry!- I didn't realize, maybe I could..” 

He sat down the ruler before taking a few quick notes. Your vision cleared as you sucked in precious oxygen again. 

Your vision was just starting to clear fully as your brain caught up with his rummaging. He was once again rifling beside his desk. When you saw him pull a jar up into your vision you felt your blood run cold. 

You did not want to be put in a jar. Going into a jar meant transporting you. Which meant you where going down into that lab. 

   “Stop!-” 

The frantic words left your mouth before you could stop them, and you felt the human practically completely freeze. His calculating eyes pierced into your very soul as you felt him grip you ever so slightly tighter.  “You can talk!”

-- --- - - - --

Hope you enjoyed!! Will ford be nicer next chapter? Who knows!! I sure dont!!! ✰ Let me know if you enjoyed in the comments!!! I love reading them :)!!! Feel free to send me any asks in my askbox if you want as well! ✰

╱|、♡ (` - 7 |、⁻〵 じしˍ,)ノ

[trubblegumm]

I hope this doesn't change things,

but I know it will.

Are you scared? Worried? Excited? Did I meet your expectations, now that you know where I came from?

Aren't you glad it was me, and not you?

You're scared of me, and I'm scared for the future.

I hope this doesn't change things.

[multiversal-pudding]

I still wonder…

Like. Seb’s document said he broke out while he was being transported

where was he being transported *to?*

Were they just changing where he was contained in the Blacksite? Doubtful given he was still given free enough reign to work on equipment during that time- he probably could’ve just moved himself, maybe with guards

Was he going to another site entirely? It’s implied Urbanshade has multiple sites even if Hadal is one of the main ones-

Were they going to sell him off? I mean- Urbanshade has a history of putting anomalies up for auction, both the Limited Time Imaginary Friend document and the Abstract Art files mention them selling off anomalies they don’t have a use for that aren’t something worth Neutralizing (or the other way around, too useless to sell), we know there’s other companies out there who’d probably have Use for a giant mutant- likely things that wouldn’t be good for him either like some kind of military use/Rich Weirdo Collector type stuff also

Did he even know? He waited 10 years to enact his plan- was it just the first chance he got, or did something happen?

[wolveria]

The Anomaly Archives - Reality #003

AU of The Raven's Hymn

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Sex pollen, non-consensual drugging, dubious consent, noncon, mutual noncon, cold!049

AO3

SCP-049 was a wonderful subject to work with.

You didn’t really work with him, as such. You watched him perform his mysterious surgeries, scribbling in his leatherbound journal as you observed from the security of the room adjacent. He was fastidious, intelligent, and above all, polite. At least, when you gave him instructions through the intercom, he obeyed with a pleasant, “Very well, Doctor.”

You weren’t a doctor, but you didn’t correct him. He knew of your credentials from when you’d introduced yourself roughly a month ago. 049 was a new SCP in your rotation, and he was a nice change. You already had so much new data to work with, as something had sparked the SCP from his lethargic state soon after you assumed your new station.

Logic would dictate you were the introduced variable that stirred him from his dormancy, but you doubted it. A new researcher was... well, nothing new. As far as you could tell, you simply had good timing.

Still, the anomaly paid close attention to your presence. The glass was mirrored—so you’d been told, you’d never been inside the chamber itself—but the way he gazed at it, straight to where you sat before the monitors, left you feeling exposed.

Despite the unsettling attention, your hard work paid off. Just on the other side of the door was the anomaly, currently being restrained and secured in the interview room. Dr. Puli had finally acknowledged your progress and allowed the interview, despite his reservations.

You didn’t understand his hesitancy. SCP-049 was a relatively tame anomaly, and your new methods had helped placate him further. Sure, he wasn’t technically allowed any human subjects, but no one would miss the corpses from the morgue. They were tagged to be destroyed, and it would have been a waste of resources.

“Are you ready?”

You jumped, nearly spilling your mostly empty cup of coffee. They must have upped the caffeine concentration; you’d been jittery all morning after taking your first sip, sweat dotting your forehead as your skin prickled with heat. You reminded yourself to cut back the next morning.

“I am,” you said to your boss where he stood beside you, facing the interview room. There was a second door to the right that led to the observation room.

“Good. Because I, uh... won’t be able to sit in on this one, unfortunately.”

You eyed his apologetic smile, spotting the frustration underneath.

“Oh? Why not?”

“We have a couple of humanoid transfers and I’ve been asked to oversee it.” Dr. Puli glanced toward the two doors, releasing a breath. “But I know you’ll do well. And if anything goes wrong—not that it will—you’ll have all the help you need. Our new Site Director will be observing, and he wants things to go smoothly.”

You nearly choked on the coffee you’d brought to your lips.

“The Site Director is here?”

“Yes, he... asked to sit on it. It sounded like he was impressed with your progress. No one else has been able to get the anomaly to engage, let alone cooperate.”

You gave a nervous smile. At least no one seemed to be mad about those bodies you designated for 049’s use. Still, the news put a damper on your excitement. Dr. Puli wouldn’t say what happened to the last Site Director, and no one else would speak about him either. Your interactions with Leahy had been sparse and rare, but you hadn’t had a problem with him.

But his replacement, Site Director Johannson, was another story. He was an older man, perhaps in his 60s judging by the white hair, but there was nothing grandfatherly about him. When he looked at you, you got the sense he wasn’t seeing you at all.

Your assessment of him didn’t improve after you’d been requested to wear a very specific ensemble for this interview. No one had asked you to wear a skirt before, and you felt like progress had been set back a good 50 years.

A radio chirped to your left, belonging to one of the guards where it was clipped to his vest. He clicked on the microphone and spoke to his counterparts inside.

“You’re clear,” he informed you, though his head remained stiffly forward.

“Wish me luck.”

You handed Dr. Puli your empty coffee cup when he held out his hand for it.

“You don’t need it, but... good luck.”

He gave you one last smile and stepped away, your two escort guards moving at your back. It was overkill, in your opinion, but you wouldn’t wave off the extra security. You didn’t plan to make the same mistake your predecessors did, underestimating what 049 was capable of simply because of his disarming presence.

There was nothing very disarming about the SCP waiting inside. The door slid back to reveal the dark form sitting at the table, his shoulders hunched, and his head bowed. His mask lifted upwards so quickly it was almost a jerk, his eyes focused on you like a large hawk spotting a mouse in a meadow.

You frowned at the unusual behavior but continued forward, your tablet held against your chest as you entered the interview room. The Class III Humanoid Restriction Harness was in place, two extender bars connecting the collar around his neck to the grips of the two guards who flanked him. Even sitting down with his wrists shackled to the table, they weren’t taking any chances.

Typically, you would be at ease in the SCP’s presence, but something had clearly agitated him. You assumed the guards had been rougher than necessary, leaving the poor entity ruffled and misused.

You sat at the table opposite of 049, laid the tablet flat on the table, and gave him a reassuring smile.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions today. Is it okay if I record this interview?”

The SCP stared at you, but his grey eyes seemed fixed on the wall behind you.

“SCP-049?”

“I would not suggest making a record of what is about to transpire, but I fear that decision is outside your control.”

It was your turn to stare. His words were low, grinding in his throat as if it was difficult to speak, and his gaze was on you, too sharp and jagged.

“SCP-049, are you feeling all right?”

One of the guards behind you clicked his radio, but you heard nothing else, indicating he had switched to his headset. Behind the glass, the weight of stares were heavy on you, a reminder that your position was on the line.

There was a crinkle of chains as 049’s folded hands shifted on the table.

“Are you?”

The question brought you up short. The way it was presented was fairly neutral, but this level of stubbornness was unlike him.

“SCP-049, if you are unwilling to cooperate for this interview, then you will be escorted back to your cell.”

“No. I will not.”

He leaned forward, chains pulled taut at the movement.

“Neither you nor I will be leaving this room. Not, I suspect, for a while.”

You opened your mouth to ask him what the hell was wrong with him, and then fell into shocked silence as the two guards at his flank unhooked the extender bars. Without explanation, all of the guards turned away, opened the doors on their respective sides of the room, and walked out.

All you could do was watch, frozen until the room was emptied of all but you and the SCP.

You leapt from your chair, tablet forgotten as you swiped your keycard in front of the reader. It didn’t so much as beep. You pounded on the door, calm professionalism forgotten as panic crawled up your throat.

You went to the mirrored observation window next, banging your hand against the surface so hard it wobbled, and then you stared at your reflection. Your forehead was beaded with sweat, your hair already damp, and heat sufficed your skin.

“You are feeling the effects.”

You met 049’s reflected gaze in the mirror.

“Of what?”

His head tilted, as of the answer was obvious.

“Of what they have given us both.”

Your mind immediately backtracked to earlier that morning and the unusually bitter coffee some tech had handed you before the interview. You’d heard of things like this happening before, mostly through sensationalized rumors after someone disappeared, but you never thought it would happen to you.

You and the SCP were caught in an experiment, exposed to an unknown chemical, and the results would be documented.

049 must have glimpsed it in your eyes, the hollow dread eating away the pit of your stomach. The SCP yanked through his chains, the links scattering across the floor like spilled jewels from a broken necklace. He rose to his feet, broad shoulders blocking out the light behind him, his beaked mask dipped as his gaze burned through you.

You bolted to the far corner of the room, but the entity was right on your heels. He grabbed a fistful of your coat, yanked you backwards, and slammed you sideways into the closest wall. Your scream was choked off from the hand wrapped around your neck.

Your struggles to escape were as fruitless as a bird slapping its wings against the side of its cage, his fingers as unyielding as the bars. He glared down at you with that same predatory focus, and you were so terrified of what he would do that your mind took several long moments to catch up.

049 gripped you with direct skin-to-skin contact, and you were still alive. That shouldn’t be possible. No one understood why his touch was lethal, or if he had control of it. Perhaps this answered that question.

But his eyes narrowed and searched your face, as if he too was stumped by the situation. You weren’t given a moment of reprieve; 049 pulled you way from the wall, readjusting his hold so it was on the nape of your neck, and he shoved you down onto the interview table, bent over its edge.

An animal noise was ripped out of you as he followed you down, his torso pressed against your back, his metallic, rasping words in your ear.

“You have been betrayed, Doctor,” he said low enough that only you could hear. “Though I do not believe you were sent in here to die by my hand. After all, what would be the purpose of dosing you if the expectation was for this experiment to be done on a corpse. Of course, these charlatans conduct nonsensical and disturbed tests and call it science; I would not be surprised if necrophilia was on the agenda.”

His tone was almost conversational, as if you weren’t trembling and gasping in his grip, the gazelle trapped under the lion. You winced as he leaned closer, belatedly remembering he couldn’t actually bite.

“They must already know you are… special. This does not bode well for you.”

You agreed with that—none of this looked good. Had you done something to piss off someone up the ladder? Or was this Johannson getting rid of Leahy’s hires to make room for his own?

You supposed it didn’t matter, you were here now, and your only real focus was on trying to ignore the ache between your legs, made worse the longer he leaned on your back. You pressed your forehead against the cold metal of the table with a desperate attempt to remain still, but your body was traitorous, swayed by the drug that had been slipped in your coffee.

049 let out a strained breath as you lifted your hips and rubbed against him, desperate for friction through the thick fabric of your skirt. You’d never worn a damn skirt to work before, had never been required to, and now, you were almost grateful for it. Every second that passed made your skin burn hotter, and you whined low in your throat. You would do anything to make it stop.

049 released his hold on your neck; he no longer needed to worry about you running. His hands trailed along your sides, the touch curious, and when he reached the hem of your skirt and pushed it up to your hips, you arched your back in anticipation. You were aware of the mirrored observation window, but it was a thought at the back of your mind, nowhere near as important as the promise of relief.

The SCP surprised you by flipping you over, your back now flat against the table as he loomed over you. He reached under your skirt and pushed your underwear to the side, his fingers sinking deep inside with one smooth motion.

The back of your head banged against the table as you bucked against his hand, and your legs naturally found their way around his hips. He plunged deeper, his fingers squeezed between your tight walls, and when his thumb found your clit you lost the sense you had left.

“Please,” you begged for something you weren’t sure he had. Previous researchers hadn’t found evidence of any sort of genitalia, but they hadn’t exactly been looking. Even if all he had were his fingers, you didn’t care. You just needed something. Anything.

But he removed his fingers, kept your underwear pulled to the side, and something unmistakably phallic prodded your cunt.

You pressed your heels against the small of his back, the head of his cock breaching you not enough, and he snarled in response. Fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, he hauled your hips off the table and slid inside you with a single thrust.

There was no air in your lungs to scream with, and honestly, oxygen didn’t seem a priority when it felt like he was going to split you in half. You didn’t know if it was the drugs or the fact you were dripping wet, but it didn’t hurt—in fact, it only ached when he stopped moving.

You sensed a similar restlessness from him, even as he paused to take a breath, he couldn’t hold still, his hips rubbing against yours. Your fingers dug into the thick fabric of his arms as he held your hips at an angle, beyond words and even thoughts at this point.

049 pulled back only a couple of inches before thrusting in again, as if he couldn’t bear to not be buried in your heat. Your fingers increased their grip, and 049 gave an irritated growl at your impatience, snapping his hips forward in answer. You let go of him, pleasantly boneless as he decided to stop testing the new sensations and started to fuck you in earnest. He thrust forward in the same movement of pulling you to him, like you were a thing he was using to chase his own pleasure.

You throbbed around his cock at the idea of being used like his personal toy, and you weren’t sure you could blame it on the drugs.

049 changed his angle, laying almost flat on top of you as he hitched your legs around his waist. Your hips were on the table again as his pace slowed, but the deeper thrusts hit a spot that wound you tighter with each hit.

Your breath staggered and small whimpers escaped. Able to remain silent for most of it, you couldn’t now as you gripped him like a vice.

A litany of French expletives spilled out of him, and the harsh sounding vowels and the loss of control behind them shot straight to your gut. You wrapped your arms around his chest and clung to his back, desperate for something to hold onto, and then you crashed over the edge.

You buried your face in his shoulder and gave a wordless cry, scratching your nails into his thick hide. And still 049 continued to thrust, fucking you as you continued to throb. Something large and warm pressed against your entrance, and you didn’t know what it was, only that you wanted it inside you.

049 hissed and grabbed your thighs, forcing you still when you tried to push back against the barrier, and then he groaned and shuddered. He remained inside you for a moment before he abruptly pulled out, come spilling onto you in thick, white ropes.

The remainder spilled onto the floor as he aimed downward away from you, and you caught sight of the bulbous knot at the base of his cock before he covered himself with his outer robes.

The SCP was trying to catch his breath, and you were doing the same, your thoughts still fuzzy and distant, as if a part of you didn’t want to go back to reality yet. But 049’s eyes were focused and clear, and to your surprise, gazed at you with regret.

“I… did attempt to avoid ejaculation inside you, but I fear I may not have fully succeeded.”

His attention drifted to the door, and at the reminder, you pulled down your skirt and winced at the mess between your legs.

“Why?” you asked as you sat up and tried to collect what was left of your dignity. There wasn’t much to find. “What’s it matter at this point.”

049 turned his focus back on you, his eyes grim.

“Your Foundation may lack humanity, but everything they do is with the intention of an outcome. And what, pray tell, is the outcome one would wish when breeding two assets?”

Two assets? Breeding?

“That’s not… not what this is.” You shook your head. “You’re wrong.”

049 rose to his full height, dwarfing you where you sat on the edge of the table.

“I rarely am.”

He reached forward and took you by the chin. Though it was a gentle gesture, you still trembled at the touch, and the unreadable coldness of his pale eyes.

“And if I’m correct, then we’ll be seeing much more of each other.”

“N-no. This has to be a mistake.” You didn’t believe the words even as you said them, and tears collected unwillingly at the corners of your eyes. “Doctor Puli wouldn’t let them—”

“He would, and he has.”

049 released you and leaned in, so close his mask brushed your neck.

“You’re one of us now, my dear.”

You closed your eyes and the tears spilled down your cheeks. 049’s arms went around your shoulders, and you were too tired to fight it, and you leaned into the embrace. The muffled footfalls of guards outside the door signaled you wouldn’t be alone for much longer, and 049 tightened his grip.

Possessive.

Next Entry

[punkeropercyjackson]

Constant wild sex with no strings attached couldn't fix Jason Todd.Lego sets,daily neapolitan food,goth themed noise cancelling headphones and killing authority figures who abuse autistic kids could though

[herearedragons]

tag the oc that's most likely to get stuck in a time loop and what kind of time loop it would be

[melit0n]

EUCLID ANALYSIS.

Told you guys it was coming, didn't I? I apologise that this has taken a bit longer than expected, my mental health hit me like a bullet train, but I do hope it's sufficient.

Part one -> You're already here!

Part two -> Line by line analysis part 1

Part three -> Line by line analysis part 2

Part four -> Musical/intrumental notes

Part five -> The Night in Sleep Token

Part six -> Conclusion

Please note this is a general analysis. Although I do go into theories, both my own and others, this is just general thoughts. Also note when I speak of Vessel, I mean Vessel as a character, not the person, unless I specifically state so.

Tagline: @rilllvri @a-s-levynn @fivewholeminutes @euclidsvessel @tonguetyd @moonchild-in-blue @kkarmatic @branches-in-a-flood

+ Some people were worried about spam liking/reblogging the last time I did one of these big analysis posts, and I want to say please don't worry about that! I get happy when I see the same users pop up liking and reblogging my work, because it means you're interested in this enough to go through the whole thing. Feel completely free to add your own thoughts, correct any errors I've made etc. As per usual, my DMs are completely open to anybody wanting to discuss ST <3

Let's start off with the basics. ‘Euclid’ is the anglicised version of the Greek name Eukleídes (Εὐκλείδης), mainly known via the ancient Greek mathematician Euclid of Alexandria, who is seen as the ‘father of geometry’, and most famous for his work on symmetry. Its general definition is something or someone who is renowned and or glorious (A) and the lesser known definition is something that is a copy of the same (B) (taken from Euclid’s ideas on symmetry), which we’ll come back to in a bit.

However, there is another Euclid in history that we’ll be referencing; Euclid of Megara. This Euclid, similar to our mathematician, was an ancient Greek Socratic (having been a pupil of Socrates) philosopher. I’ll be taking part of a text out of his Wikipedia article since his ideas have been explained thoroughly there.

(we'll be coming back to him soon)

First off, this is an incredibly interesting choice of name for a song. Outside of someone's maths and philosophy class, this name doesn't exist to most, so the fact it's been chosen at all is intriguing.

Vessel has shown time and time again he enjoys sometimes elaborate references in his art, an example being chemistry and biology in TPWBYT (most notable would probably be ‘Telomeres’), so, I think it would be easy to say that, whether it be a reference to Euclid the Mathematician or Euclid the philosopher, that said reference is understood and intended by Vessel.

So, let's start with our mathematician, shall we?

What I find interesting about Euclid of Alexandria is that his life and existence outside of his work on geometry is almost completely unknown. There's almost nothing known of him, as a person, other than where he spent half of his career (Alexandria; Egypt, hence his title), where he may have studied (Platonic academy) and a general idea of when he lived (around 300BC). What is known about this insanely famous man who created the foundations of symmetry is incredibly barebones. People take Euclid at face value for his work, just like Vessel (both as an artist, and a character).

Further, we, as listeners, don't have much of an understanding of who Vessel is other than being a mouthpiece of a deity known as Sleep, someone once human now grasping at the threads of humanity and someone sharing some of his struggles in life (both with Sleep and unknown people). Like Euclid, he is barebones, we take him at face value; a vessel. He is both a mouthpiece for Sleep, a mouthpiece for his own emotions (obviously) and a mouthpiece for us. His experiences transcend being just his, due to his anonymity, therefore allowing us to connect and express our own experiences. It's music for the sake of music; expression.

Now, having talked through Euclid as a person, it's time to talk about Euclid and his symmetry. Symmetry in shapes is 'reflections, rotations, translations, and combinations of these basic operations. Under an isometric transformation, a geometric object is said to be symmetric if, after transformation, the object is indistinguishable from the object before the transformation- a copy of the same’. So, of course, this means shapes like squares, rectangles, parallelograms and circles. Circles are a representation of infinity, wholeness, unity and loops. What does Euclid do? Loop itself (starts and ends with B major, which also happens to be the same chord that TNDNBTG starts with), and loops the three albums together, musically and lyrically.

Now, onto Euclid of Megara.

Euclid was born in Megara, Athens and was a follower of Socrates (sneaking into Athens to hear him speak, and he was also present during his death). He is most known for his philosophy that good is the knowledge of simply being and that the opposite of good does not exist, aka evil. The Good is described to be a perfect, eternal, and changeless Form, existing outside space and time. A form of Heaven without a God.

This idea could be linked lore-wise with Sleep Token; Sleep could, in a way, be The Good literally. Bliss. Further, with the idea that there is no actual opposite of good, then how can anything be bad? How can Sleep, as a deity, have bad intentions if there is no actual evil?

So far, with these two notable figures in mind, we can perceive Euclid as one of two ways (and there are more ways to come). Euclid can be seen as quite literally being a form of symmetry; a parallel that Vessel lays his life on because it brings all of the produced albums, all of his stories, together. Or, we can think of Euclid as Vessel. This brings me to @euclidsvessel's post on their theory on Euclid; what if Euclid was Vessel’s name before he became a vessel?

The theory that Euclid could be Vessel’s old name is not only extremely insightful, but very plausible as well. They explained their points very well in their original post, and I don't want to repeat what they’ve already said, so I do implore you to go read that! It's not detrimental to needing to understand this post, but I highly recommend it. Despite this, I am here to both support their argument and bring my own comparison. Take a look at the cover art for Euclid:

Let me repeat the lesser-known definition of Euclid; a copy of the same. A clone. A replacement. Held in the right hand is the decapitated head of Vessel's old (2nd gen.) mask. Specifically, the one that covers his mouth; the version that relinquishes the most amount of humanity. The album art is a representation of change portrayed in a symbolically gory way. Beheading, depending on the era you’re working from, symbolises both vengeance as well as a form of purification. By cutting off the head, you remove any ‘unholy’ thoughts. It's also among one of the most horrific and humiliating ways of killing someone (since it was typically done publicly, and sometimes the heads were placed on spikes of battlements as a warning).

Furthermore, there's a theory that's popped up a couple of times, lore-wise, that Vessel is not the first person to be turned into a vessel of Sleep, and he certainly won't be the last. So, considering the literal album art illustrates a replacement of Vessel, I’d say that theory is pretty much confirmed. In conclusion, the album art can either be interpreted as how Vessel will eventually be discarded and replaced by another vessel, or how Vessel himself will change, for better or for worse; clawing out of his own skin to become “someone new”.

So, to compare the idea of Euclid being Vessel’s old name, and to create the third perception of what or rather, who, Euclid is, what if Euclid will be the eventual replacement for Vessel?

[ant1quarian]

Imagine being some eldritchian anomaly (the classic "monster under your bed" sorta thing) and you simp like all hell for Sans and one day he's like

"damn. wish i didn't have to work my sentry job today." and 'miraculously' papyrus comments cheerfully on how he's been at his post all day and how proud he is

when sans was . never there

( it was you )

and the favours start out small but slowly and progressively get more and more until he finally meets you one day and you're. kinda just a guy taller than he is, with slightly-too-sharp teeth, slightly-too-long ears, and slightly-too-slitted pupils with irises that seem to glow faintly

heheheh . spite anomaly fallen for the silly skelle guy and hopelessly devoted

[droctaviolovecraft]

I'm starting a new SCP style project.

For who wants to participate creating their own anomalies

[buildoblivionthenwewilltalk]

five should have been paired with susan in the five doctors send tweet

[loccorocco]

Updated Alone in the 60-Kilometer Zone on AO3.

Chapter 4: Assisant

Bonus Chapter: Short comics and art

Nothing new, just uploaded these on AO3 as well

[hcnnibal]

https://www.tumblr.com/otherwindow/757009057352761344?source=share

okay u got me there

[orphyd]

I saw it in my dreams, this place. Nestled in the fogged-up cradle of my unconscious And blurred at the edges every morning When my eyes hit the light. In my own voice In my own mind It beckons me. Not with treats Nor riches, nor promises But with a single, stern warning. “Do not follow the dog...”

[wolveria]

The Anomaly Archives - Reality #001

AU of The Raven's Hymn

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Explicit sexual content, dubious consent, sex pollen

AO3

With infinite universes come infinite possibilities. But even within the threads of innumerable choices, there are… patterns. Threads that will interweave time and again, with no discernible rhyme or reason.

Some call it fate. Others, providence. Humans call it the law of Large Numbers, and that is close enough for what I attempt to convey to the record.

The purpose of this record is to document the threads that curve toward one specific individual. To what end, the Editors will determine. I am simply an observer.

That is what I tell myself.

--The [REDACTED] Wandsman of [REDACTED]

The opening of the outer doors brought his head up, alert and poised for his cruel captors to make an appearance. He had grown agitated, pacing in front of the observation screen, not knowing what had befallen her. His dear assistant, taken away in chains to once again be submitted to the senseless whims of brutish men.

The Doctor did not fare well, his chest a boundless void with each passing moment of her absence. He missed her sweet presence, the comfort that came with it, her touch soothing the machinations of his restless mind.

Of course, that same touch could also light a spark in him, setting the fatwood ablaze, and it took all of his considerable will to smother the flames before they spread beyond his control.

It was a different sort of fire that consumed him now, rage curling around his heart as his assistant was carelessly shoved into the chamber. She caught herself on the autopsy table and leaned her weight against it as her legs seemed unable to steady beneath her.

Her bare legs. The grey medical tights she usually wore were missing, leaving her only in the white smock.

Possession, a creature with liquid fire for blood and flame-kissed metal for claws, a beast that demanded retribution on any who had dared touch her. It raged within his dark form, but he held it at bay for her sake.

The Doctor was at her side in an instant, and the ravenous beast was temporarily sated as he caught hold of her shoulders. She appeared weak, or fatigued, and he feared she would collapse from the way she trembled.

Despite her clumsy gait, she stepped into the circle of his arms and held him, her grip strong with desperation. The Doctor blinked. It was not unusual for her to return in such a state, affected to a degree that left her on the edge of ruin.

But this seemed... different. Unfamiliar, the way she pushed her face into his neck, breathing in deep as if to catch his scent, her fingers pressing divots into his back. Her body crowded him, restless, pressed flat against his surface and straining to be closer.

Deep within, something flickered to life.

“…Doctor Reid?”

He hadn’t intended her name to come out as a breathless rasp, but he was caught off-foot, not entirely sure how to approach this novel situation. This close to her, surrounded by her familiar fragrance, there was an underlying chemical he didn’t recognize.

Alarm jostled his thoughts. He might not know the compound, but he could sense its nature, a hormone intended to affect mammals in a particular way.

His assistant didn’t answer him with words; she slipped a leg between his, attempting to straddle his thigh, a precarious position while they still stood. She wasn’t deterred, holding him tighter as she rocked against his hip.

The Doctor’s mind struggled to assess the situation correctly, but his body responded with a haste that outpaced his good sense. Heat licked up his abdomen and his member stirred, threatening to expand out of its sheath with the sudden blood flow.

He jerked back, forced to catch her when she nearly spilled to the floor.

 “Assistant, please.” He held her firm but kept a modest distance between them. “I need to know what was done to you. Do you remember?”

She licked her lips, pupils blown as she tried to focus on his face. And she did try, he knew from the dip in her brow and her confused frown.

“Y-yes. A gas. They m-made me inhale it. I tried n-not to breathe, but...”

“I understand,” he said, soft. Despite the irritating reactions of his body, his heart ached for yet another indignity she was forced to endure. “Your predicament is through no fault of your own. I will attempt to provide aid. If you could please tell me your symptoms, I shall try to find a remedy that—”

“No!” She shook her head, words choked, eyes wide. “He said n-not to. Leahy. He said no... no antidotes. Nothing f-from your bag.”

His eyes narrowed, venomous barbs curling around his chest as they always did when he was reminded of the Site Director’s existence. The Doctor would love nothing more than to adorn a pair of gloves and wrap his fingers around the man’s neck. He would not wish his suffering to end too swiftly, after all.

“What is the purpose of this drug?”

His assistant shook her head again, discomfort and unease lining her features. She squirmed against his grip, sweat beading on her forehead below her hairline.

“He didn’t say. They just... gave it to me. Nothing happened, at first. And then as they were bringing me back—”

She released a noise, her legs rubbing together as she avoided his gaze.

“Please,” he gently said, “tell me what you are experiencing. If only so we may relieve the symptoms—”

Another noise from her, this one pained, and she wrenched from his hands, surprising him with her strength. She slipped within the confines of his hold and crushed her body against his, gripping his robes as if she were drowning.

“Hot,” she gasped into his shoulder. “Too much. Need it to stop. Need—”

While he reeled from her sudden proximity, she grabbed his hand and shoved it under her smock, forcing him to cup her. The shocking heat was the first thing he noticed, the second, how she was soaked through her undergarments, wetting his fingers with barely a touch.

He had lived a long life, longer than even he could remember, and never once in his great existence could he recall a time when his mind simply... stopped. Nothing passed through it except a soft sort of buzz, like one of those televisions that no longer received a signal.

The noise she made was unholy, sinful as she rubbed herself on his hand. Her face was against his collar, pressed into the loose fabric that encircled his throat. His skin had always been muted to sensations, a barrier between him and the outside world, but he could feel every heated breath she exhaled, ever scratch of her nails and the slick essence leaking from her.

His assistant was dwarfed in comparison to him, yet she pushed him, forced him in retreat to the inner chamber, all the while her lips explored his neck, guiding his fingers for the relief she sought. There was only a thin barrier of cotton between her flesh and his, and it would take so little effort to pull that barrier aside and gift her with exactly what she needed.

If this event had occurred earlier in their partnership, the Doctor would like to believe he would not be the empty-headed fool he currently was. He would have much more restraint, in control of his own faculties, and he would put a stop to this entire affair.

As it was, he remained frozen as she backed him all the way to the desk, his hips pinned against the edge as they could retreat no further.

She pulled his hand away from her slick heat. Any return to his senses that might have happened were thwarted as she dropped to her knees, her fingers searching, exploring for something at the joining of his legs.

A strained, choking noise left him. She could not possibly know about—

“I’m sorry.”

Her apology came out like a prayer, hushed and desperate for salvation.

“I’m sorry I’m sorryimsorry—”

She found the opening of his internal sheath, her fingers sliding within the slit, and stroked just within as if to coax him out.

It was more than effective. His member pushed through the opening, and he braced his hands against the desk behind him—the air had left him as she took him in her hands. She stroked him, her eyes wide, filled with such desire that he could hardly believe he was the target of such carnal attention.

Lacking any hesitation, her lips parted, and she took him into her mouth, swallowing him down in one smooth motion.

The sharp, visceral warmth of her enveloping him left him without a voice. The metal desk creaked in protest as he gripped it tight; he knew he would leave permanent dents into its surface.

The Doctor could focus on nothing else than the sweet ache she was pulling out of him, laving him with her tongue and sucking as much of his length as she could.

It was... too much, too pleasurable to be real, and yet too wonderful to be a dream. He wouldn’t say he lacked for imagination, but even his mind couldn’t have envisioned the endless landscape of pleasure her mouth provided.

She pulled back just enough to lick the glans, groaning low in her throat, lapping up the lubricating fluid that leaked from its tip. It was an image that would be forever burned into his mind, branded into the depths of his molecules and atoms.

His fingers found their way into her hair, holding the strands that had loosened from her ponytail, what remained of it. The contrast of the soft mane to the rough hide of his gloves snapped him out of his syrupy haze.

“Assistant.”

His voice came out in a croak, unsteady. She didn’t seem to hear him.

He tried again, voicing her title in a bid for her attention, and this time, he knew she was ignoring him.

“Assistant,” he snapped, and she paused long enough for him to take her by the shoulders and pull her to her feet. Her dazed expression was cut through with a look of annoyance at being interrupted from her goal.

The Doctor sighed. He would not think about how that combination of annoyance and desire-heaviness in her eyes was a heady combination.

“It is you who needs relief,” he said. “Not I.”

An arguable point with his phallus hard as steel and pressed against her stomach, but this was not about what his traitorous body wanted.

She seemed to think over his appeal, but her frown of consideration was growing hazy again. His own focus was nearly shattered as her hand wrapped around his length, squeezing and attempting to finish what her mouth couldn’t.

He held her motionless with his own hand over hers, his phallus still in her grip, a compromise since she was determined to not let go.

“What would you like me to use?” he asked, voice gentle compared to his firm grip on her. “My fingers?”

He didn’t often think about his mask, nor what past researchers had told him in regard to it—that he had a human mouth trapped under the chitinous material. But for the first time, he cursed his lack of access to it.

The thought of putting his mouth on her was… was…

She shook her head, regret and a shadow of embarrassment on her features.

“That… that won’t be deep enough.”

Ah. So, that’s what she needed but was too ashamed to ask for, even now in a state of drug-induced need.

He lowered his head, close to hers so it would give the semblance of privacy, even if it was simply an illusion.

“The bed would be more… comfortable.”

It was her own comfort and dignity that concerned him, and he would not take her on the floor or over the desk like some… some animal, but he couldn’t deny he ached for her, the evidence caught between her fingers.

Her expression would have been sweet under other circumstances, the shyness mixed with intoxicating desire. But that was based in a lovely fantasy. The reality was a darker, crueler portrait.

She nodded, her reluctance no barrier between her and the demands of the chemical. She released him, finally, and he covered himself in his robes in what amounted to a pointless display of modesty.

The Doctor led her over to the bed, though he needn’t have. She pressed close to him, as if any degree of separation might give their captors reason to intervene and take her away. He held her just as close; he would not allow them to interrupt her relief, though he’d already concluded this was the point to their new experiment.

Once they reached the bed, he hovered close but didn’t proceed further. He was… on unfamiliar grounds, and she must have sensed it, because she quietly said, “Lie down.”

He would have obeyed any instruction she gave when delivered in that strained, husky tone. Raze the facility to rubble, flay his own hide with his scalpel. Lie atop a bed and allow her to use him however she wanted.

However she needed. He had to remind himself the true purpose of this. Her actions were not under her own volition, no matter the extraneous attention, or how genuine the ache in each touch. This was a means to an end, and he would gladly be her instrument.

His back barely hit the covers before she was astride him, yanking his robes aside. She must have removed her undergarments when he had briefly turned away, because her bare skin was scorching in his lap. Her flesh hot, slick, as she ground against the curve of his shaft.

His hands automatically went to her hips, seeking something to hold, an excuse to touch her. She still wore her smock, though the hem had bunched around her thighs, and he didn’t know why he did it—he pulled the material higher, his fingers stretched wide across her bare skin now on display.

The Doctor might not know the finer points of coitus, but his assistant seemed to know exactly what she wanted. With a lift of her hips, she held his phallus in one hand and pressed the tip against her, and without so much as a word, she slid down.

He could scarcely breathe, the tight flesh of her swallowing him from root to stem, and even with the ample lubrication, the strain on her face indicated discomfort.

He tightened his hold on her hips to dissuade her from doing this too quickly, but she growled through her teeth and pushed downward, hard, the force smacking their hips together, and he swore he saw constellations.

She did it again, and again, until she found a steady rhythm, though it was shaky and desperate, a reminder that this was not some spontaneous tryst. She focused on her task with dogged determination, and he was simply trying to remember his own name.

He closed his eyes and surrendered to the feel of her around him, everywhere, leaving no space between them in a way he’d only dreamt of. And even his dreams hadn’t come close, a cheap, laughable copy compared to the genuine article.

Almost… genuine. Close enough that if he kept his eyes shut and let his mind wander, he could imagine the white sterile walls were replaced with something woody, organic. Natural, in a way this place never would be, and she could be free in a way she never was.

From the slow tightening of her walls to the ragged pace of her breathing, he guessed she was close to reaching her peak but was having difficulty achieving it. He wasn’t sure if he should expedite the process or draw it out, a question of what would rid this cursed chemical from her system more efficiently.

But when she hunched forward, face screwed in concentration as a soft sob left her lips, he made this decision.

The Doctor had made himself a passive participant, to let her use him how she wished. The alternative would be to take her how he wanted, with a force that would leave their relationship forever ruined, unable to hide his actions behind the mantle of helpful concern.

So, he must be forgiven this indulgence. After all, she did need his assistance.

With a firm hold of her hips, he thrust upward, and at the same moment, pressed his thumb into the sensitive nub that had been neglected thus far.

His assistant arched forward, holding herself up by hands on either side of his head, bracing as he took control of her pleasure. With a few thrusts aimed at the inner surfaces she hadn’t been able to reach, accompanied by the movements of his thumb, she toppled over the edge.

Or more succinctly, she crashed. Now entirely folded over him, she dug her fingers into his shoulders, choked cries escaping her as she throbbed around him.

His own control was lost as a strange sensation expanded at the base of his phallus, and he was almost too late to realize what it was. The bulge was halfway inside her before he managed to slip it out, seconds away from unintentionally trapping her around him.

The extra pressure against her entrance had elicited another weak cry, and she ground down on his hips, as if she wanted it—and he spilled into her, unable to stop or pull away until it was far too late.

Not that his actions would have wrought him much; her thighs were vices around his waist, and he suspected even if he’d tried to redirect his orgasm elsewhere, she would have successfully intervened.

When the Doctor’s head cleared enough that it wasn’t filled with pleasant static, he found his arms had naturally sought their way around her, one hand on her back while the other was in her hair.

She hadn’t moved, and by the soft, almost-sobs she made, he knew something was very wrong. He gently stroked her hair, unsure of what else to do. He certainly wasn’t going to move her.

“Doctor Reid?”

She flinched. No, not a promising sign at all.

“I’m… sorry,” she finally whimpered.

He frowned, or his version of it.

“I’m so… so sorry.”

It was then he felt the moisture dripping into the collar of his hood.

“Oh,” he breathed out, both relieved and horrified. He’d begun to fear he’d been too rough, harmed her in his eagerness, but this wasn’t a preferable alternative. “Dear one, you have nothing to apologize for.”

She curled around him tighter, a dejected sob leaving her throat, this one unable to be hidden.

Carefully, he lifted her, only far enough to tuck her against his side. The sensation of sliding out of her was an interesting one, as if he were raw, oversensitive. He would prefer to clean the mess, but he wouldn’t dare leave her now, not when she was on the edge of trembling apart.

“This was not your fault,” he pressed. “You are not to blame. They are.”

She shook her head, another quiet sob mangled as she tried to choke it down. Even now, she fought to hide weakness, vulnerability. He understood this was who she was, burying every sign that she was in pain, and he would not begrudge her that. He simply… wished he could spare her this silent suffering, take her to a place where she would never feel the need to hide.

But that was the entire problem. They weren’t elsewhere.

He lifted the blanket to cover them both, giving her privacy from the unwanted voyeurs as well as warmth for her shivering limbs. An effective strategy, as she huddled close, her face against his chest as if she sought to be shielded against the world.

The Doctor would fill that role to the best of his abilities. He was uncertain what waited them now this line had been crossed. He doubted it would stop at a single test. Whatever the intended result—and he could take a damn good guess what it was—he could only hope they would not expand the experiment to include other subjects.

He had no interest in being used as a stud, and if they even considered turning his assistant into some kind of broodmare….

With the Doctor’s teeth trapped behind his mask, he could only grind them in spirit, but grind them he did. Putting in place the catalyst that would usher the facility’s downfall was becoming more and more appealing.

But his assistant fidgeted, moved closer, as if sensing the dark turn of his thoughts. He brushed them aside, for now, and focused on her. Threading his fingers through her hair, a rumble would sometimes vibrate in his chest, involuntary and unfamiliar, but it seemed to comfort her.

A new ache took residence within him. Her pain was because she thought she had taken advantage of him. The truth was quite the opposite: he had indulged where he should have remained distant, clinical, appropriate. Instead, he had made the fatal mistake of allowing himself, but for a moment, to pretend.

And now, they both suffered, for very different reasons.

He struggled with the words that would encompass his thoughts, aware that nothing would make this right. In the end, he touched the side of his mask against her hair and whispered, “Je suis de tout cœur avec toi.”

She shivered, as if it was a spell cast over her, but she didn’t ask what it meant. She simply held on.

The Doctor returned the gesture in kind. For now, there was nothing else to be done, two souls whose only shelter was each other against the impending storm. And there would be a storm. The Doctor would make sure of that.

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