Haii!! I love your sark stuff!! ( ^ω^ )I just wanted to pop in and give a request/idea: maybe sark and the reader who is a lower program, and the reader has been messing up/doing their job incorrectly, and Sark has to teach them a lesson!! Don’t feels pressured at all to write it!! （＾∇＾）
ʕ੭·͡ᴥ·ʔ੭ Still riding that Tron wave, babey!
Here's your request all done, dear nonnie! It's not fully NSFW but very suggestive so keep that in mind!
Enjoy!
It was about him.
It was always about him and your complete inability to think of anything else.
The work console hummed under your fingertips, streams of golden data flowing across the dark interface. You were tasked with re-routing a minor energy flow in the lower sectors - a simple, repetitive job meant for younger programs. And commander Sark was watching you. He didn’t pace. He didn’t loom. He simply stood by the viewport, a silhouette cut from grey leather and crimson light, his back to you as he observed the ceaseless, orderly traffic of light-vehicles in the canyon below. His stillness was more unnerving than any movement. It was the stillness of a predator confident its prey is already cornered.
You tried to focus on the data-stream.
Conduit 7-B… align with relay frequency…
But your processors kept stuttering, your internal sensors pulled toward him like a corrupted magnet.
The way the citadel’s cold light caught the hard line of his jaw.
The arrogant set of his shoulders, broad under the sharp angles of his armor.
The subtle, terrifying pulse of the red circuitry at his temples and along his arms - a visual echo of the power he wielded so casually.
It was efficient, brutal design, and it short-circuited every logical process you had.
You input a command.
The console beeped a soft error - you’d misaligned the frequencies. A fresh wave of heat, completely unrelated to processing load, flushed through your system. You hurried to correct it, fingers clumsy, thoughts heavy and syrupy.
“Is there a problem?”
His voice was like a physical scrape against your code. He hadn’t turned. He didn’t need to.
“N-no, Commander Sark. No problem.”
“Your output has dropped by thirty-seven percent in the last 4.3 cycles.”
He stated it as a fact, devoid of emotion, yet you swore on your unduying faith that there was something else, a static under the void.
“Your error rate has increased exponentially, in fact. Care to explain yourself?”
You swallowed, the sound too loud in the quiet room.
“I… I am experiencing minor system fluctuations. A defragmenting subroutine is running in the background, it’s - “
He turned, a slow, deliberate pivot on his heel, and his icy blue eyes pinned you to your seat. He looked from your face, to your trembling hands on the console, and back. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips. It wasn’t kind.
“A defragmenting subroutine,” he repeated, his voice dripping with mockery.
“How… convenient.”
He stopped beside your chair, close enough that you could feel the ambient energy radiating from his armor - a dry, ozone heat that made your own circuits feel weak. You felt weak, but no, not right now, not when you can’t think of anything but him filling your view like that!.. Sark leaned down, placing his gauntleted hands on the console on either side of you, caging you in. You were pretty sure you whimpered.
“Let me see your work log,” he murmured, his gaze on the data-stream you’d been butchering. You couldn’t breathe. All you could see was the perfect, severe line of his profile, the faint pulse of light at his throat. He studied the screen over your shoulder for a long, silent moment, while you counted the frantic pulses of your core. Then, he slowly turned his head to look at you and your own head jerked to the side – you almost touched. His eyes traced the flustered glow of your own facial circuits, the way your hands had frozen above the keys.
“Your problem,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that vibrated in your core, “is not a system error.”
He reached out one hand. Not to strike. Not to access the console. With the cold leather of his index finger, he tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch was electric, paralyzing. Your own brilliant mind was giving error after error.
“Your problem,” he continued, his thumb brushing once, slowly, over the line of your jaw, “is a profound lack of focus. Your processing power is being hijacked by… inefficient thoughts.”
He knew.
He saw right through you, through your armor and your code, to the shameful, searing distraction beneath.
“And we cannot have that,” he whispered, his face now so close you could see the finer details of his flawless, synthetic construction.
“Can we?”
<...>
His gaze was like a physical weight, pinning you in place. The rectification chamber hissed shut behind you, sealing with a finality that echoed in your code. The room was cold, lit by the sterile, unforgiving glow of the MCP's core, which pulsed slowly like a sick heart.
"Disengage your chest plate."
The command was so utterly unexpected, so intimate in its violation, that you simply stared.
"C-commander Sark, I - "
"Now."
The static in his voice sharpened, a warning of imminent system override. With trembling fingers, you initiated the sequence. The hard light of your chest plate dissolved from the center out, retracting to the housing units at your shoulders and hips, leaving the glowing core of your being - and the softer, more vulnerable light of your torso beneath - completely exposed to him.
"You leave yourself vulnerable to system errors because you are, at your core, soft. Undisciplined."
He raised his right hand, and for a terrifying, dizzying moment you thought he would push himself into your core. Instead, he laid his gauntleted palm flat against your throat, right over the pulse of your energy. The contact was a jolt. It wasn't just the physical touch of leather and light; it was the invasive pressure of his authority, his superior code, pressing against your own. His hand was searingly hot. His gaze was still cold.
"You feel that?" he hissed, leaning in.
"That is the inefficiency. The chaos. I can feel it sputtering. A weak, irregular rhythm."
He began to move his hand in a slow descent, closer, closer... You accepted it, closing your eyes and gasping when you felt an intrussion. It wasn't a caress. It was a compression. He was applying data-pressure, forcing your own erratic energy to align with the hard, relentless rhythm of his will, shaping your heat to his.
"You will learn to hold a pattern. You will learn to process commands without this... noise."
His other hand came up, clamping hard on your shoulder to hold you absolutely still.
"The lesson is simplicity itself: you will take the input I give you until your system runs clean. Until it pleases me."
The pressure increased. His thumb dug in just below your core node, a point of almost-pain that made your visual sensors flicker. A low, distressed whine escaped you - a system sound you couldn't suppress.
"That’s it, good, good," he purred, a cruel mockery of praise.
"Acknowledge the error. Now, you will hold. You will not compile another faulty line of code. You will not deviate. Your only function is to accept this correction, to accept me. Do you understand?"
You couldn't speak. You could only manage a faint, static-laced nod, your entire world reduced to the burning brand of his hand, the crushing weight of his command, and the terrifying, shameful realization that part of your system was interpreting this brutal recalibration as a form of attention you had desperately craved.
"Knew you had it in you," Sark stated, his eyes glowing with cold satisfaction.
"Let's see how long it takes to reformat this... defective programming."