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blindmagdalena · 1 year ago

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Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language. “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols.

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression..

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think.

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away.

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns.

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe.

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

#i have no self control ENJOYYYYY #praise me it's shocking i finished this so quickly #although it's not really finished bc i'm stretching it into 3 parts but #couldn't help myself i needed him to be a little weirdo #next chapter is already started tho and shouldn't take long!#ALSO I MADE THIS GIF #i'm so happy lol #my writing #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #homelander #plus size reader

1K notes · View notes

rorydrawsandwrites · 8 days ago

Note

hows it going: a space to talk about whatever you want, if you want

To clarify: you have just given me a Yapping Permit. I will use this irresponsibly and with reckless abandon

Time to talk about Firkász/Scribbles in the Puzzlevision arc 🎉

(Reminder that there is plenty of lore I simply do not know at all, may be forgetting something important I should know at any given moment, and in general just get silly and self-indulgent with it. If I'm missing crucial details though lmk gently)

In all honesty I still have no idea how their acquaintanceship. Starts. Like I could tell you about the middle and the ending (which I will) but when it comes to how these two buffoons would initially get close enough to enable all that comes next my mind just blanks for now. I'm not. Even really sure what Puzzles had been doing before all this. I've guessed he'd been attempting to get famous on his own, no mind control and kidnappings involved yet? But kept failing and being turned down because he "just doesn't have what it takes", amplifying his desperation to prove people wrong

Once fate (a.k.a the meddling of my grubby little hands) does somehow bring them together I can see a sort of connection forming naturally because they're both long-suffering creatives who highly value The Art of it and wish to be recognized for their talents. They could brainstorm a screenplay together like he said he wanted... she could draw out the storyboards... oh the magnificent chaos. They would either love bouncing ideas back and forth or clash constantly because neither are team players and both are very particular about their own vision. But maybe they could compromise eventually

There's also the fact that they're pretty complementary personalities and can also relate to each other on a deeper level than the above but we're not getting into that in this post because it's gonna be long enough as is

Assuming that they do already become at least somewhat involved with each other before the events of the arc, here's some of what I can see happening

The aftermath of the Puzzlevision movie is definitely a turning point in their relationship. After the main crew beats his ass and his TV gets yeeted far far away I imagine she's the one to find him first instead of Mario (or he lands in her backyard, because convenient plot elements are convenient). I can see him being bummed out for a bit, he has every reason to grieve his shattered victory before he picks himself back up with manic enthusiasm and continues his quest for fame, and as she grabs his TV in spite of the glass shards and brings him in from the starting rainfall and inside her home, he questions her loyalty. Why would she still help? After he's been so brutally defeated, humiliated on live broadcast? What could she possibly be hoping to gain from this? And she's like I just care about you, dumbass. You're funny and lively and I wanna match your freak I find you pretty fascinating. I understand what yearning for recognition is like and I wanna help you get somewhere with your self-fulfillment but with a little less attempted murder this time please. And his friendless little mind is just blown but he's like yippee awesome let's get to it

She hopes after all that they could start on a different approach that avoids the SMG4 crew altogether. So anyway his first request is can you smuggle me into the Showgrounds I just wanna talk to them

Wait, so how did she feel about him trapping people in the shows? Welp. Nothing she could do. She was helpless! But she was sooo worried for them all while chewing popcorn on her couch at home watching the streams from her laptop, trust (she's a little bit cold and fucked up too there's just no other way these two could work out, plus she WAS technically helpless to stop him)

Another idea I've had is that... he stalks people, right. He canonically stalked Mario, he'd been watching all of them through screens and shit I think, it's a pretty standard part of his practices. If it's in person I think she would come along. People watcher + wants to supervise him + it's technically hanging out, her only qualm is the fear of getting caught. Girl why are your morals so lax about stalking. What is wrong with you. You're lucky your boyfriend makes you look like an angel in comparison

(Him frantically taking notes on Mario's source of the funni behind a bush + her getting bored two minutes in and just sketching the neighboring house or something until he's done. Parallel play <3)

Honestly her presence overall changes little to nothing in the story. Adds some things but the outcome of each mini-arc is the same. And I don't think it necessarily diminishes the Leggy friendship either, because having Two people you're bonded with after a lifetime of loneliness is indeed twice the amount of One, but it's still. Not a lot. That loss is still gonna fuck him up and make him worse (which also makes things worse for Firkász as a target of codependence, but more on such psychological burdens later)

Anyway something sillier I thought of is when Pedro is created she immediately assumes a parental role for no reason. She is a mom now & that is her son. And Puzzles is the dad, even though he vehemently denies this. "Don't talk to your son that way" "I'm not a father damn it" "but you created him" "yes but that doesn't make me-" and then Pedro starts looking all sad in a meme-y way. Do not deny your son Puzzles. Hesitantly he accepts the title if only to keep his minion cooperative

When Mario and Pedro have the meme-off she's in the audience cheering. Emotional support. Then Pedro loses but starts hanging out with Mario and finding himself, away from his deadbeat dad who only wanted to use him for views. I think it'd be really funny if he kept in touch with Firkász afterward but not Puzzles. One day her phone starts ringing during a conversation and she'll casually check it like "oh it's sonny boy Pedro" and while she goes to answer it he's just like "what"

Eventually she would also start suspecting that Puzzles might be homeless. He swings by her place often yet she's never seen his, he does all his villainous business in these abandoned buildings, and he's not really working or earning money? So she eventually asks "by the way where do you live" and after a series of unsatisfactory answers she's like "oh my god. just move in with me"

Then again is it really moving in if he's already hanging around like half the time. He can just come and go through television I guess. If she had one

But also I wasn't kidding when I offhandedly mentioned in that tag that she would ditch him for making brainrot. Look he's not proud of himself either but he swears up and down it's gonna bring the success he's been waiting for and still she's having none of it. Because that's just disgusting. Brainrot. For children. Mr Puzzles why are you trying to exploit children. And what of the artistic integrity. They argue and lucky for her he actually takes the initiative to leave with a suitcase (which is odd because did he even bring anything with him. is it just an empty prop for dramatic effect. has he taken things from her house), proclaiming loudly that he's going to be the most successful creator ever and when he's finally as rich and famous as he deserves she'll be knocking at the door of his mansion begging for him to have her by his side, just she waits-

An amount of days later she finds him on her doorstep, teary-eyed and dejected. She saw all the callout videos and streams. She knows exactly what happened

Now there are multiple ways the Puzzle Park conundrum could go, each slightly varying in the amount of angst that follows. The simplest one is the cop-out where, coincidentally, during the entire Didney takeover and the SMG4 crew's entrapment Firkász just so happens to be Somewhere Else. Like while no one way paying attention she went to visit family or something. Blissfully unaware until return. It would be of course hilarious that she just casually misses colossal events like that, but besides that he could even take offense to it

"I FINALLY made the most GLORIOUS THEME PARK and you didn't even SEE IT" "I'm sorry I was in Budapest. Anyway what the FUCK Puzzles"

The other and less pleasant alternative is her not sneaking a trip abroad and sticking around for the entire thing, which is bad because while she loves stepping as far aside as allowed when heinous things happen and then washing her hands, or maybe at this point she's even disturbed and concerned and afraid enough to want to cut him off, he won't let it happen. Making him care for her was her second mistake. (Caring herself was the first.) Now he's unwilling to lose her, and he possesses significant power with which he can make her submit. She's faced with the choice of either shutting up obediently, or being brainwashed along with the crew. He won't hurt her or, God forbid, torture her, oh no, he would never do something so horrible to his lovely Scribbles. But her personal autonomy is, for the moment, entirely negligible

If she's brainwashed and controlled, well, that's just utterly violating and something she'd have a very hard time forgiving. Girl what did you expect, he's the Brainwashes And Controls People Guy, you saw that red flag and you made a cozy little blindfold out of it. Coupled with the fact that she'd be the singular person to ever visit him in containment that means a lotta screaming, feeling wretched, then doing it again next week. Perhaps she'd stop coming one day, because she could no longer find more affection in herself than resentment to scrape out during those few hours, but it would eat her alive. Besides it would be dangerous... what if he breaks out somehow. What if she's never safe. Buuut that went a bit too serious and scary and we gotta stay silly here so on to the next option-

(Before we move on I think brainwashed Scribs would be dressed up very fancy and showy, like a magician's assistant. In a bold royal purple and sparkling gold perhaps. She'd perch elegantly on top of a TV, legs crossed, sneering at the bumbling contestants)

If she's taken but allowed her consciousness, I have fondly imagined that she gets the dubious honor of staying with him, physically speaking, inside the engine room... just imagine the feeling. Stuck in direct proximity of such a colossal mechanical being that's hanging from cables upon cables, huge screens surrounding you overlooking the park. I think it's pretty epic, if you aren't busy being terrified. Hey Scribbles didn't you want hands-on inspiration for your next novella anyway, maybe it could be tech horror-

This way she can witness all the fun challenges while still within a safe and agreeable proximity. Besides I don't think he would've ever intended a more physical role for her in the management of the park anyhow. She's more like arm candy or something... in this case for his enjoyment only ;)

Now as for Puzzles' defeat I've been tempted to not tamper with that either. It would certainly be less hassle, plus I don't know why, unlike the shameless self-indulgence of my AUs, when it comes to OC insertion I just get... shy to upset the status quo and the natural flow of events. Feels like a transgression unless based on extremely good reasoning. For the record I won't come into your house and steal all your cheese if you do it, by all means live out your Mary Sue dreams, comrades; this is mainly me being strict with myself. With Puzzles and M(L)eggy I don't wanna take away from the significance of their shared arc, albeit in the case of Firkász here being built up as an important companion suchly, I feel like either of them could reasonably do the deed. There may be a world where a conscious Firkász, already at prime proximity, decides to save the trio from a death struggle by going inside his head in an act of betrayal. But that's juuust a theory! /ref

Small side note, I feel like Leggy appearing to Child Puzzles in his mindscape did more harm than good anyway... since it only cemented his obsession with the little nugget. And whatever "power of friendship" lesson he's "learned" is pretty diminished by the fact that his crimes and mental instability have landed him a likely lifelong spot in solitary confinement. (Some people say he might come back, I fear for that possibility but also, slay king, we love to have you.) And besides I don't think he even learned a damn thing. His obsessive tendencies are just focused on his Companion Cube now

That leads me into my final point, the post-canon alterations... oh how much more comfortable it is, to meddle with a part of the timeline that has yet to be clearly paved against your intentions. There is soft and bountiful soil here, albeit radioactive

Picture this. You're Scribbles. Your boyfriend is in extremely high security prison and batshit insane. He's still your boyfriend. He has literally no one else. Of course you're gonna be visiting him

The first time she comes in she's horrified to see that they tied him to the bed. Untie him. Untie him right now what the hell were you all thinking. She'll formally request it if she must, yes she knows what he did but this is just inhumane. Twenthy layers of concrete bricks and metal are more than enough to keep him in there. He has rights too goddamnit

Side note do you think they did that because he could also be considered a threat to himself. Well whoops

I mean I guess how much he's restrained would still be conditional on his behavior so as a compromise what if it varied. Scribbles returns after a week and he's inexplicably in a straitjacket now, greeting her all innocently like "honeyyy hiiii :))" and she's all "what the hell did you do this time". He proceeds to explain that he didn't DO anything it's just that when he snapped at the psychatrist and threatened to rip out her spine then crush each vertebra individually before her eyes she didn't take it as a joke

It's evident from Leggy 2.0's existence that after the canon events he gets even more obsessive, if that's even possible, of his perceived connections so you may expect historical magnitudes of codependence here... I mean the power dynamics have been flipped and at any point she could just walk away forever and leave him to rot... so initially he'll have a hard time letting Scribbles go for the day (which is honestly understandable as he's in solitary confinement). When she must depart and he almost rips the cell door off its hinges she commissions a plushie of herself so he has something to remind him of her when she's away. Naturally he talks to it all the time. Leggy Rock and Scribbles Stuffie are buddies

Now she's not a mental health professional... I don't know if they would actually bother assigning him a therapist... I think that therapist would also need a therapist. Or maybe he's a group effort. Either way she'd come up with little crafty activities they can do together other than talking, using what she's allowed to bring in his cell. Paper... crayons I think... bro isn't even trusted with a pen. But drawing is a fun one regardless of your utensils. Origami... I feel like that would activate his perfectionism but once he gets a paper flower right he's so proud of himself and sticks it in her hair and she looks so pretty with it wow. I saw a video on Insta where the OP had a "clay date" with her boyfriend and they made little clay figures of animals and that's so cute too. Imagine the various paper and clay creations piling up on his nightstand over the months. A warm and friendly sight in the otherwise sterile room

A less wholesome opportunity is him recreating his enemies as little clay effigies and squeezing them to death. No Puzzles don't do that. Bad television

Funnily enough, though it can be exhausting to deal with, there are things Firkász would enjoy about this turn of events. He's a talkative fellow at heart and while he might love the sound of his own voice it's mostly all he hears, so when she decides to be the one to rant or rave about what's on her mind, he listens to her. And that feels... nice. Formerly he was so consumed by his plotting that she'd stopped feeling like she ever truly had his attention. When she visits now their time together is just about the two of them (after he accepts she's not going to break him out) and she's gushing about her new idea for a storyboarded sequence or she's describing the world of a novel never to be made or she's showing him her sketchbook or she's complaining about the shit day she had at work and he adds his own commentary to it but he's hearing her out and his eyes aren't on anyone or anything else. You know. Feels a lot like getting back someone you loved

Do I think he would eventually be released in light of her positive influence on his mental health? Hmm... dubious. I would definitely enjoy a redemption arc for him but as a part of that he's gotta stay out of the SMG4 crew's business. They owe him no forgiveness after all that

It would give way to amusing interactions of course if Firkász had made good acquaintaces with them in the meantime so as a result they and Puzzles have to sort of... tolerate each other sometimes... Meggy would probably like seeing his improvement but also at a distance, for now... it's kinda weird for them isn't it, because they both only liked each other when she was turned into the equivalent of a toddler

Anyway all of the above was really just a lengthy excuse to give Scribbles scary dog privileges. Yes I said it. Pretty sure many people would remember or have heard of the threat this man was and even if they don't know, just look at him. Look at that face. Does this face make you feel safe

Well it shouldn't

Touch his morality chain and there's a nonzero chance you'll be begging him to release you from the mortal coil by 2PM. He may be trying his best, but old habits die hard... and you'll die harder :)

...I don't mean it that way. Head out of the gutter. Please

Is any of that healthy for a relationship? Well uhh erm... hmm... ah. Oh well. Anyway

This concludes my ramble about the little bitch that lives in my mind since four days ago and the clinically insane television man I'm tacking her onto like a sticky hand. It has been three days of jotting down and editing the lore and all of this may be stupid but fuck it we ball (gotta keep killing cringe culture). Nonetheless I'm looking forward to taking -2 psychic damage every time I remember writing any part of this ✌️sayonara

#💌 rory answers #💬 rory rambles #<<< full stop.#this got long HAHAH #FYI her name is both “Firkász” and “Scribbles”. do not be confused I just like to switch it up for fun #Mr Puzzles and Ms Scribbles... sounds lovely together :3 #they're both little freak weirdos but in slightly different ways #smg4 firkász #smg4 scribbles #...do I tag this with his name #no... I shan't #shoutout to Jeremey for reminding me (when I whined about being too shy to post this on main) that this is SMG4 #I was scared that my SMG4 OC's lore may be stupid.#seriously. what was I thinking

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