Actions

Work Header

What We Believe

Work Text:

It was akin to an enormous library, with infinite doors and hallways and twisty little corridors. Una had never visited this place before, though she'd heard whispers of it, more and more of them until finally her curiosity could take no more, and she'd stolen away late at night to visit. She had barely crossed the threshold when she was confronted with a devastatingly handsome man, with hair like Fabio, tight trousers that could have been painted on, and a washboard stomach that Una wanted to touch repeatedly—just to ensure it was real.

"Ms. Sers." His voice was deep, husky, and she was reasonably sure gave her a small orgasm upon the very first syllable. "Theodore Oswick Smythe, at your service. Your first visit, I take it?"

"Y... yes."

"Why then, we should go over a few terms, a statement of belief." He took her arm in his and swept her past rooms out of which drifted a variety of noises. Some were simple poetry readings, cadences drifting out in rhythmic intonations, and others brought a bright flush to her cheeks and caused her to miss a step. As they passed one door, Una caught a glimpse of the inside. Two indistinct figures were kneeling, hands behind their backs, while a third stood over them, holding two leashes in its hands and smirking broadly.

She must have made some sort of sound, a soft 'oh' perhaps, as he chuckled deeply, noticing where her attention lay. "Oh, don't mind them, they love it. Trello has a lot going on in its life, with so much to juggle, while github is constantly splitting its attention before getting back on track. But, you see, gCode knows ALL their dirty little secrets, and has them both in the palm of its hand. Everything they do is in service of code."

"Oh my," Una breathed, becoming flustered.

He whisked her past the kink meme fills and the porn prompts, though it seemed to take a long time to traverse down the hallway of bigbang challenges, before he escorted her into a room from which she could see all parts of the archive.

"Your Home," he declared, and before she could thank him, he pulled her to him, arms tight around her waist and kissed her. She melted instantly, fire sweeping through her veins, and she moulded herself against him.

She was vaguely aware of being pressed over the back of a love seat, and then he pulled away to look deeply into her eyes and huskily murmur, "Our goal is maximum inclusiveness," he tore at the laces of her corset, "of content."

She whimpered in delight. She hadn't even realised she was wearing a corset. "But the software..."

At that moment, it definitely felt more like hardware. "Open source. Available for anyone to use." As if to prove his statement, someone stepped through the door, nearly silent and light of foot, and crossed the room, opening a drawer and taking out something that shone with myriad colours and lights. He stroked it lasciviously for a moment, before smirking broadly at Una and walking out again.

"Who was-"

"That was Works. He's experimenting with media embeds." He had her corset nearly all the way off, exposing her to the heat of his stare. "It's a little tough, you really have to make an effort to get it in there correctly, but everyone agrees that the end result is extremely satisfactory."

"Would..." Una felt her face heat at the very thought of what she was suggesting. "Would he maybe let me try out some media embedding?"

Theodore Oswick Smythe leered at her. "He'd love it. Though, I think you'll find that Works like having media embedded in him."

"Oh," she breathed.

"Of course," he said, solicitously, as he rucked her skirts up, running his finger along the edge of her stockings teasingly, "If there are any problems, of a legal nature, we are fully committed to defending those under our roof. We have resources, after all. We can't guarantee it, of course, but will take all necessary," his hands moved higher, "factors," higher still, brushing the edge of her underwear, "into consideration." There.

She threw her head back, cried out shamelessly. When she caught her breath, Theodore Oswick Smythe was still smirking that terrible, incorrigible, smirk.

"You're so easy to read," she chided.

"Well," he said, preeningly, "I do make an extra effort to be readable."