Archive of Our Own ^beta

          He appeared one spectral, foggy evening, without warning or even the slightest sense of foreboding. His arrival lacked sound. Not a peep, squirm, or even a hint of coarse-grained rubble marked it. He just showed up overnight and sat there, the outline of his rounded shape eclipsing against the newfound morning sunrise, which revealed his unsettling presence like a shower’s fog uncovering that of a massive, hulking prisoner watching you drop the soap on your first night in jail. He perched atop the brim of a rugged mountaintop near Skarloey Railway. A place where nothing had been present for as long as anyone could remember.

          He was known as the Boulder. Some just referred to him as Boulder, as if it’d been a name he’d been using for years. The truth was, nobody actually knew his real name, and that was partly because everyone was too pussy to roll down the rails beside him and ask him what it actually was. He was fucking terrifying, to say the least. Not a soul knew what his intentions were, or what his purpose in Sodor was. Was he planning on committing heinous, murderous crimes in the dead of night? Destroying the railway system, perhaps? Or was he just going to keep sitting there, with that angered, incessant facial expression plastered onto his limbless, gargantuan body for the rest of his life? Obviously not that last one, right? That’s why paying him a visit seemed like a dangerous, retarded decision. Nobody did it. Not if they didn’t absolutely have to, in order to help with some construction bullshit Sir Topham Hatt was carrying out through what could’ve been the worst possible timing known to man. Fat bastard.

          Well, actually, yeah. There was a curious, mischievous truck who wanted to get a better look at Boulder. S.C. Ruffey, to be exact. After fucking with the engines to an extent they couldn’t handle, his rusted-up, decrepit body was ripped apart in a malicious act of rage-fueled vengeance. Luckily, he was mended the next day, installed with a new, sturdier framework capable of enduring higher levels of pressure and tension. At first, fear of collapsing again suppressed his confidence, keeping his usual, chaotic attitude down a notch. This passed with time, however, and soon enough, S.C. Ruffey was back to his old ways. Being the rebellious badass he was, he took it upon himself to scope out the existence of Boulder, especially since everyone else was too cowardly to do it themselves. So he rolled off in the dead of night, a couple days after the initial arrival of that ominous creature, without telling anyone. He didn’t want some tag-along following him and being an annoying burden.

          The sun was already entirely down, and had been for a few hours, hidden beneath the horizon and allowing a blanket of coal to overtake the sky instead. All this, and Boulder was still eerily visible. Warm, half-flickering light fixtures lined the railings below him, serving as remains from the setup of the construction site. Moonlight reflected off his pearly, glossed skin like a glass of milk. Cum might’ve also worked, but trains don’t cum white, like humans do. It’s black, and fuel-based.

          S.C. Ruffey thought he looked beautiful, and not in an admirable, museum-esque way. It was more of a sexy way. A way where, the second his wandering eyes trailed over the features of that tediously-etched, stone-cold face, something deep within him shivered. He pushed away the intrusive thoughts, knowing he had to accept the fact that none of his fantasies in that realm of desire would actually come true here. Boulder seemed too independent, aloof, and uninterested. Additionally, he probably didn’t even have a clue S.C. Ruffey was already picturing himself getting torn apart, in a different manner from before, of course, by whatever beast this creature must’ve been packing beneath the surface.

          He rolled onward through the hushed, somber night, taking great precaution to keep himself at a steady, comfortable pace. Now that he was here, right beside him at last, he didn’t want to rush things. Fuck, should he even say anything? Maybe he should wait for Boulder to speak first. It would be safer, for the mute sphere was actually quite intimidating, in a way he hadn’t expected. At first, S.C. Ruffey figured he’d fucking speak up when the time came, but now that he was actually here, in the midsts of such unexpected, overwhelming emotions, he wasn’t quite sure about that. Maybe it was best to just head back. Or maybe not. No, he couldn’t chicken out now. He was already here, and he was going to say something. So he slowed to a hesitant stop, breath softly ringing in his ears. Just as he parted his lips, a low, gravelly voice boomed through the clearing.

          “I could hear the tender, sugared sound of your wheels against those rusted tracks a mile away. It’s about time you’ve come to see me. I know you’ve been watching. I doubt you know I’ve been watching, too.”

          Yeah, it was him. S.C. Ruffey didn’t actually have to start the conversation after all.

          Boulder’s mouth didn’t move when he spoke. It sounded like his rumbling, haunted voice had emerged from the inside of his body. Somewhere nobody could see.

          S.C. Ruffey gulped in a bout of shocked distress, pausing in deep contemplation for a moment before carefully responding. His voice was a wavering sliver, a fraction of the volume Boulder’s had presented. “Okay, maybe I’ve been watching you. Sure. But how did you know?” His eyes flickered, wheels quivering. “And why were you watching me?”

          “I see everything,” Boulder began, and it sounded like he meant it. “I see through lies, even those spawned from the throats of deceivers who lie so well, they’d claim to almost convince themselves of their own nonexistent truths. I see through false bravado, into the wretched, suffering souls of shivering cowards wearing predatory masks. I see through anger, the kind that releases baseless nonsense one would only regret spewing later. I see through the space-time continuum, through years past, and years yet to come. I couldn’t tell you if they hold magnificence or mediocrity, for those words fail to have a true, objective meaning. Would you agree with me? Or do you see everything in black and white, my sweet, supple boy?” He paused, a little too long for comfort.

          S.C. Ruffey flinched, breath hitching. He felt paralyzed, dumbstruck. Unable to grasp a fraction of meaning behind a single word that blasphemous, sentient rock had just uttered. “I… I don’t know. You’re confusing me. And you didn’t answer my last question, really. Why were you watching me?”

          Boulder remained silent, and for some reason, it felt threatening. On the verge of sickeningly so. However, he didn’t remain motionless. In a sharp, unbroken flash, one too quick to truly register, S.C. Ruffey felt something cold, coarse, and suffocating envelop him. His face drained pale, primarily from an instantaneous surge of sheer panic, for he could still breathe, unlike George Floyd when he overdosed on fentanyl and they blamed it on the cop. He felt himself become weightless, a refreshing yet exposing gust of air skimming the underside of his wheels and bestowing upon him a thrilling sensation previously foreign to him entirely. The emotional outcome could only be described as dread mixed with excitement.

          So, what exactly was this odd, lengthened stone formation Boulder used to grab S.C. Ruffey and hoist him up the side of that mountain? To put it plainly, he’d managed to unlatch a piece of himself. One that was usually hidden from view, behind an invisible trap door of sorts. Perhaps it was even retractable. Well, he gently placed S.C. Ruffey down with it, directly in front of him. A low grumble purred in his throat, if you could call it that, since he was a rock and didn’t have a fucking neck. It was a mystery how that thing could even speak, really. “You see, S.C. Ruffey. The trains down there are ravishing specimens. Yes, I’ve always found them exceptionally beautiful.”

          A rush of vivid, clear-cut jealousy swept through S.C. Ruffey. “Huh? Trucks are beautiful too.”

          “Oh, they are. I never said they weren’t, now did I? You take my words at face value. You refrain from delving deeper, into the unknown depths of what could be lingering beneath the iceberg. Words aren’t always all that you see, little truck. But that’s how you conceptualize things, isn’t it?

          “What the fuck? You aren’t making any sense.”

          “You aren’t either. But now that I’m looking at you up close, beneath this serene, succulent moonlight, I’ve changed my mind about those trains. Maybe if you take my elephantine, impossibly-erect cock, you’ll be the most beautiful one of all. Do you think you can take it? Can you make me explode, sweetheart? Can you make me release ropes upon ropes of hot, oily cum deep inside your tight, trembling bussy?”

          S.C. Ruffey’s mouth shot wide open, forming a perfectly-shaped, gaping circle. He wasn’t even facing in the direction of the Boulder, but instead away from him, so he couldn’t perceive a single glimpse of what he was currently fucking doing. Anyone could just casually roll by right then and witness that whole event, full view. Front-row access to the show. But he was powerless, and couldn’t do a single thing about it. He was going to sit there, unable to even choke out any coherent words right about then, and get plowed mercilessly by this creature. And that’s exactly what ended up happening. The structure that’d lifted him? It was none other than Boulder’s 40-foot long monster cock. And it began forcing itself inside of S.C. Ruffey, all at once. Relentlessly. Nonstop. The worst part? It wasn’t even rape. No, S.C. Ruffey couldn’t call it that.

          Well, it wasn’t rape if you enjoyed it, right?

          “Oh, fuck,” S.C. Ruffey whorishly moaned aloud, a high-pitched, needy contrast to his usually confident, dominant voice. His wheels felt weak. No train had ever touched him like this before, but now, he’d been forced into submission, and it seemed like it was exactly where he wanted to fucking be. Boulder’s cock continuously pumped itself into him over and over again, down to the hilt. Each thrust brought him closer to the edge, teasing his sensitive, throbbing prostate effortlessly.

          “Now, for your question,” Boulder muttered under his breath through an onslaught of broken moans and heavy panting, pleasure coursing through his gravelly, lifeless insides, “Why was I watching you? Oh, it’s simple. I could see through that look you always gave me. The one you gave me when you glanced up here, across the horizon, toward the mountain I inhabit. Those eyes. Those ‘fuck me’ eyes. I know you wanted me to fuck your supple, cock-needy hole until you begged me to keep filling you up every fucking night. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You wanna be my little slave? Taking this meat every fucking night of your god-forsaken, accursed life? You live to be my personal slut, right? That’s what you are.”

          S.C. Ruffey continued to unleash ceaseless, primal sounds of desperation, eyes rolling back until you couldn’t even see his fucking pupils anymore. “Yes daddy, that’s exactly what I am. You saw right through me. You really do see everything, don’t you? Fuck, I’ve nutted so many times thinking of you stretching me to the brim, ruining me for anyone else.”

          “I know you have, my little son. I’ve seen you get off to me countless times. You’ve even done it surrounded by your truck friends, out in the open, while they’re asleep, you naughty thing. I’ve done the same, thinking of ripping your hole apart. Now, I’m going to break you in half, way rougher than anyone ever has. Even when they had to fucking rebuild you.”

          “You know about that?” S.C. Ruffey whimpered, throughly enjoying the way that dense, leaden cock rammed into his pliable insides, simultaneously refraining him from catching a moment to fully process what was actually fucking happening here. Yeah, he was getting dicked down by Boulder, and he never wanted it to stop. He could live the rest of his life up there, eternally taking his cock like an obedient, immovable fleshlight. Seriously. It’d been a fantasy of his for quite some time, and since it was finally happening, it felt ethereal. Had he broken through the barrier of the matrix itself? His tiny wiener leaked, jiggling underneath him and threatening to explode without even being touched. It was almost pathetic.

          “You shouldn’t be surprised. I told you, I see everything. And I see you entirely, even now. I see you struggling not to cum. Well, I want you to cum. I want you to fucking release yourself all over my hulking, colossal cock like the worthless, disgusting whore you are for daddy. Do that for me, boy. Make that pretty little cock squirt for me,” Boulder growled, his vicious, forceful tone only fueling S.C. Ruffey’s relentless horny.

          “Fuck, okay. I’ll cum for you, Boulder.”

          “I didn’t say you could call me that. You called me daddy earlier, like a good boy. Do it again.”

          “Yes, right. Daddy, I’m gonna squirt all over your big, meaty cock. I need you to breed me, daddy.”

          Boulder was pleased. More than pleased, actually. He’s probably got a pregnancy kink, based on how quickly he managed to cum after S.C. Ruffey screamed that shit aloud with no shame. Seriously, it was earth-shattering.

          So now, lemme tell you exactly how that climax went down. “Good boy,” Boulder grumbled a few seconds before it, voice even lower than usual. “Now, I’ll breed your hole. I’ll breed your fucking hole.” With that, he came. His moan of sheer, unadulterated ecstasy was even louder than S.C. Ruffey’s, who came alongside him, if you could even believe that. But it was. He unloaded so much cum into that truck, it spilled out through his quivering mouth and down the side of the mountain itself. A torrent of dark, coal-colored liquid, just flowing down onto the tracks below. When S.C. Ruffey busted, his own trail sputtered down there, too. All without a single brush of friction against his cock the entire fucking time. It wasn’t enough to be noticeable by passerby the next morning, but it was enough to leave this dried-up, faded trail of residue smack-dab against the mountain, and slightly running down the tracks. It’s only truly visible if you look hard enough. Every night, though, a new layer’s added. I feel like someone’s gotta notice eventually.

          Well, someone other than me, yeah? But I saw it happen, and until someone else discovers it, I’m not snitching on S.C. Ruffey. I don’t think you should, either, because we’d probably get in trouble. I don’t wanna get wrapped up in their bullshit. Bottom line? It’s gross, and that’s why nobody should ever go near Skarloey Railway again. Not unless they absolutely have to.

          “And that’s why I never do. At least, not anymore. After I saw that disgusting, fucked up shit go down, my mind was settled. I’m never going down there again,” Thomas cheerily uttered, concluding his long, horrendously-detailed story. It was late at night. Deathly late, in fact. But he’d stayed up alongside James to get high on some strange, organic coal, or something. They didn’t really know what it was, but Diesel sold it to them, and said he’d originally purchased it from Harold, who always seemed to know exactly where the good shit was.

          “Well, I’m never going down there again, either. That’s fucking disgusting,” James grumbled. “I’ve got a couple questions, though. Why did they keep referring to Boulder’s cock as ‘meat’? He’s a fucking rock. There’s not a bit of meat on him. And if it was 40-feet long, how did it fit inside of S.C. Ruffey? Where was the hole?”

          “Shit, good questions, but I have no idea. I mean, I didn’t get the best look at it from that angle. I just knew it was going in, unfortunately. Oh man, that’s something that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life. Those moans. The dirty talk. That sharp, grating sound. It sounded like a fucking cheese grater on someone’s clit.”

          “Hey, that’s my line,” James teased, narrowing his eyes.

          “I know, I just wanted to get over with saying it before you did. As for the hole? It’s probably in the same place a train’s is. Right? He’s just a truck, and he’s shaped kinda like us. Cranky the Crane, though? That’s another story for another time.”

          “Real. You know, that Boulder and S.C. Ruffey story was pretty funny. I’d still say mine was funnier, though. Just by a little.”

          “Yeah, I can’t believe you actually witnessed Sir Topham Hatt heading out to Smudger’s shed every night to jerk off in front of him and force him to watch. It’s sick, especially knowing the bastard can’t move. He’s stuck there as a fucking generator. Isn’t his life already horrible enough? I think Hatt’s the one who turned him into that hopeless shell, too. Probably with premeditated plans of obtaining an immovable fleshlight. Imagine ruining someone’s life to get your dick wet. Fat bastard.”

          “Yeah, fat wanker. Fat bitch ass nigga.”

          “Fat cunt. Fat cracker, too.”

          “Can you two SHUT THE FUCK UP? I’m trying to SLEEP OVER HERE!” Gordon howled at the top of his lungs from within his closed quarters, sending Thomas and James into a clamorous fit of laughter. They really couldn’t give a flying rat’s ass about Gordon, but Thomas was already feeling pretty tired. Maybe Gordon’s outburst served as his eventual signal to officially check out for the night.

          “Okay. I’m going to sleep now, James. Though it’s gonna be hard to do, knowing the Boulder is watching us. If he really sees everything, he probably heard this entire conversation. He’s probably gonna watch us sleep, and jerk his shit to us in spite of our trash talk. I really hope he just leaves us alone, and focuses on S.C. Ruffey, though.”

          “Wait a second, Thomas. If he can see everything, doesn’t that mean he’s aware you saw that whole thing between him and S.C. Ruffey go down? He probably found your cucking incredibly hot. Maybe when he came in S.C. Ruffey, he thought of you too.”

          Thomas stared at him through the crisp, twilight air, a fake, plastered smile on his face that only communicated the exact opposite emotion. “You know what? I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Goodnight!”

          “It’d be kinda surprising if he didn’t. Goodnight,” James mumbled as he retracted into his quarters, still high as a fucking kite.

          “Yep, but not as surprising as me. I’m just full of surprises.”

          With that, Thomas flashed a cheeky grin, directing his eyes toward the screen. The credits roll. We might never know what surprises he was talking about.