Chapter 1: A Flower of Passion and Desire Blooms
Chapter Text
To the ignorant outsider, one question must immediately come to mind when confronted with the scale and scope of Limbus Company’s Bus division: Exactly how the hell did this entire department even sustain itself?
Well, if they were to confront the eloquent if arrogant Faust and pick their brain for an hour or three, she’d explain some of the more rudimentary and mundane details in, of course, a fashion that would leave people confused at best or asleep from boredom at worst. Lodging was never an issue, she would chide, as every Sinner was provided for “by the bus.” The overhead, too, was hardly an issue, as every Sinner would be “graciously and generously compensated once their contract was fulfilled.” An astute eye that asked such a question while surrounded by any of the other Limbus Company staff would quickly notice any other Sinners present (aside from the unflappable, diminutive blonde) averting their gaze, with each repeating Faust’s words in some type of derisive tone. Hell, apparently even the fuel needs for the bus were provided for, although exactly why the Backstreets Rats were involved was something many people neither knew nor cared to learn.
But of course, even with these main expenses accounted for, there were still a plethora of miscellaneous details that couldn’t be addressed simply through the generosity of the seemingly lucrative Limbus Company and Faust’s genius inventions. Workshops did not simply repair maces, scimitars, and bats out of the goodness of their hearts and Faust conceded off-handedly that, indeed, the amount of ahn provided by Limbus Company and supplemented by the Bus division themselves did pay for the repair of any damaged weapons or clothing whenever the need arose. This ahn, too, was often acquired through small commissions or other odd jobs the Sinners could take care of when they were busy attending to their company-mandated duties. Other times, the Sinners would come across worthwhile salvage while delving into the depths of abandoned Lobotomy Corporation branches, the sale of which would fill their modest coffers.
To most outsiders, the conversation would end there. Of course, to anyone who was more familiar with the dangers that lurked within the byzantine dungeons of the fallen Lobotomy Corporation, they would know that the regular gear any average Fixer could come across would hardly be adequate for the abnormalities that nested within those ruined halls. To this end, Faust’s coordinated schedule of “luxcavations” had served to provide the materials needed for her and Mephistopheles to refine the EGO each of the Sinners occasionally resonated with. Neither Dante nor the other Sinners were quite sure what to make of the “thread” that they would return from their luxcavations with, but the ordinarily proud and boastful Faust was surprisingly quiet on those details. Still, it’s not like every Fixer was familiar with the inner workings of their favorite workshop and the relative ease each Sinner had with their luxcavations had eventually caused even Dante to simply delegate the tasks off to the small excursion groups to handle by themselves, the clockfaced manager confident in their ability to handle some petty Zayin or Teth abnormality that, at this point, seemed more like a stubborn little pile of ore ready to be picked dry.
It was under these pretenses that made the absence of Don Quixote and Sinclair particularly strange.
“Faust believes we are roughly an hour behind schedule,” the white-haired girl noted, checking her phone with an exasperated sigh. “If we were to tarry any longer, Faust believes that Vergilius will be less inclined to let us operate these more informal luxcavation excursions.”
“That’s a funny way of saying that he’ll tell Dante never to leave us alone after he’s busy breaking all of our legs for dragging our feet,” Ishmael grumbled, slumping down on the ground and kicking a loose pebble down the corridor.
Severe as the girl’s rebuke was, her other two companions couldn’t really argue with her. Don Quixote, excitable and eager as she was, practically begged Dante to split the group as they descended into the abandoned Lobotomy Corporation branch. “It would be a valorous achievement the likes of which only the most accomplished and prestigious of paladins could boast of should we sweep over these villains all at once like the gallant cavalry of Liu!” If you ignored the quirkiness of the Sinner, she raised a good point – why spend three hours traipsing around the winding catacombs of a musky, abandoned energy facility where the five of them casually beat down the occasional freakshow or three that sprung out of the murky depths like vermin when they could spread out and gather the necessary thread in one hour? After cheerfully accepting the reluctant Sinclair as “her esteemed companion with which to pierce the encroaching darkness and secure the riches that were held in the confines of these abyssal depths,” Sinclair and Don had descended further into the facility, while Ishmael, Faust, Outis, and Dante had fanned out to basically pick the upper levels clean.
And, like Don had predicted, it was pretty straightforward. Ishmael had basically no complaints – even without Dante ticking in her ear or the other two Sinners to back her up, she had little to deal with. Those bizarre, floating globules of cyan fluid that hissed and shot acid at her face? Nothing a swift little sidestep and slamming of her mace couldn’t rectify. What about those four-legged flesh boars with a battering ram for a face? Well, she’d met their charge with Hearse, and the thin veneer of gore and blood that caked her shield was the result. What had once been an exhilarating change of pace as she plowed down the minor abnormalities that littered the halls had soon devolved into the same rudimentary and uneventful task she had become so accustomed to. Digging through gooey nests of recently-eviscerated abnormalities to procure the thread Faust required had gone from disgusting to mundane and by the time she returned to the decrepit lobby of the branch, a small box of enkephalin and a meager smattering of thread in her arms, she was already feeling like she could collapse at any time from sheer, unmitigated boredom.
It had gotten so bad, she wryly thought, that she had even begun to hallucinate. All while she crept through the halls, slamming her mace into several abnormalities and her heel into the corpse of others, she could swear she could hear a faint voice off to the distance, its words lost among the visceral, gory thrashing the redhead partook in. Perhaps she was so used to the company of four that she fought alongside that now her mind simply expected the banter of the boisterous Heathcliff as he smashed what constituted an abnormality’s skull into a flattened mess with his bat or the admittedly cringe musings of the bloodthirsty Ryoshu as she neatly gored and filleted a rampaging abnormality like it was a pig ready for slaughter.
Or maybe Don was just that loud and she was just making out her victory cries all the way up on the first floor. After all, it was Don Quixote they were talking about.
But that was three hours ago, and nestled in a dirty corner of the lobby, slumping her chin against the edge of her shield, the bored Ishmael blew a stray lock of her hair from her face and cast her gaze along the length of the spacious room. A fretting Dante paced back and forth, their fingers nervously tapping together and the ticks of various swears and obscenities as they vented their welling concern and trepidation had merely become part of the backdrop. Opposite her, Faust reclined against one of the walls, right hand flicking through her phone and her left lounging on the sheathed Walpurgisnacht. If she was at all concerned about the fate of the missing Sinners, her typical stoicism betrayed nothing.
But like come on, Ishmael chuckled to herself. It was Faust. The girl had taken a grotesque arm-blade directly to the chest and, as she slumped against its meaty surface and coughed blood, warned Dante with her dying breaths to ration the remaining EGO properly to ensure that the excursion was successful. She doubted that Faust would care even if you held a gun to her face and threatened to blow her brains out. She might even laugh at you for the threat.
Comes with the territory of being functionally immortal, Ishmael sighed.
Their final Sinner was absent. After an hour of tardiness, Outis had personally descended to drag back Don and Sinclair. Ishmael considered either stopping her or tagging along; she’d even caught Outis’s arm just before she had descended, much to the girl’s chagrin. But, after a brief internal debate, she decided against it. She, of course, knew what Outis would do if she found them lollygagging. Faust did, too, and perhaps Dante did if their manager could think straight with the panic likely enveloping their mechanical head. Don could never really learn her lesson when she overreached and caused problems for the rest of the Sinners, and Ishmael doubted that a particularly violent scolding from Outis would do anything to change matters.
But hey, maybe the fifty-sixth time would be the charm.
Ishmael groaned and knocked her shield off of her, instead pulling her legs close to her chest and resting her head atop them. Maybe she really should have gone along with Outis; her body was fucking killing her now. Her arms felt as stiff and rigid as her mace and her legs – honestly, even as she hugged them close to her chest, she swore they were still completely asleep, so devoid of feeling were they. She lingered there for only a couple minutes before finally jumping up to her feet with an annoyed sigh, fumbling to keep her headband straight as she stumbled toward Dante. “Hey, Dante. Can’t you, like, communicate over long distances with us or something?”
“[I’m… pretty sure that’s not possible, Ishmael,]” the manager replied. They paused and grew still, as though lost in thought, before slumping and giving what the redhead could only assume was a similar, aggravated sigh. “[Well, I didn’t hear anything when I tried, so.]”
“If you will permit Faust to interject,” the Sinner chimed in, not waiting for either to respond despite the rejection about to leave Ishmael’s throat. “… The prolonged absence of Don Quixote and Sinclair has exceeded expected and acceptable parameters. We should consider venturing further and attempt to reestablish contact with them.”
“That’s fine with me,” Ishmael shrugged, walking back and grabbing her shield and mace. “I’m getting sick and tired of waiting around anyway.”
“[I’ll bring up the rear],” Dante nodded, casting their gaze across the two remaining Sinners. “[If anything happened to Sinclair and Don, I can]-“
“No, Dante.”
Faust and Dante looked up, the former’s impassive face finally showing a warranted expression of confusion. Ishmael, too, brushed her fingers against her throat, suddenly aware that the interruption was her own voice. She shook her head, the following the faint worry in her head. “Um… Vergilius will probably start wondering where the rest of us are. It’s probably best if you head back up to the surface and rendezvous with the rest of the guys. We can bring the other two back.”
Faust narrowed her eyes and bit her lip, but ultimately shook her head. “Ishmael is right, Dante. There are only two people who are likely to appease Vergilius after this poor display, and Ishmael will have an easier time searching for the others if I accompany her and she is not busy dealing with you.”
An awkward whir flew from Dante’s head, likely passing for embarrassment. Ishmael pressed her hand against Dante’s, squeezing it tight. “We thoroughly cleansed all the floors leading up to the surface and the bus is parked only a short distance away. It should be safe if you head up ahead of us. We’ll go ahead and find Don and Sinclair for you.”
The manager fell silent, as if pondering the Sinner’s words. Ishmael felt the tension lift from her body as Dante slowly nodded, straightening up and pulling away from the two of them. “[I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll do what I can to keep Vergilius occupied but you guys need to hurry out regardless of whether we harvested enough thread for today].”
A sharp huff came from the glaring, white-haired girl. Ishmael brushed her off and waved Dante off, her smile and nonchalant shrug assuaging the few worries that still plagued the manager. “We’ll wrap things up quickly. Don’t worry about it.”
A steely-eyed Faust watched as Dante approached the small elevator at the far end of the room. A soft ping signaled their departure, the manager giving a curt wave to the two Sinners as its doors slowly shut them away. The white-haired girl crossed her arms as she turned her contemptuous glare toward Ishmael, a faint but noticeable disdain simmering in the otherwise quiet Sinner. “It will affect the continued upkeep of our division’s EGOs if we fall behind on our daily quota.”
“I’m sure you don’t mind getting the shit kicked out of you, Faust, but the rest of us don’t want to piss off Vergilius,” Ishmael sighed, turning toward the staircase. “Besides, I doubt this thread alone’s enough to sate this EGO.”
“Pardon?”
Ishmael’s head hurt. She grit her teeth, suddenly aware of the faint buzzing of the flickering florescent lights above. The dilapidated facility was showing its age, each miniscule flaw slowly piling into the weary redhead’s head and weighing her down. She should’ve stopped Don, or gone along with her, or gone along with Outis. Three missed opportunities, and all this time they were stuck in this musky armpit of the City when they would’ve already been lounging on the bus on a normal day. The last thing, the absolute last thing the redhead wanted to deal with now was Faust’s derisive commentary on top of this travesty.
“Nothing, Faust,” Ishmael grumbled, taking the first steps down. “Come on, let’s find those two idiots before Vergilius starts throwing darts to see what body part he rips off this time.”
The redhead didn’t bother to check whether or not Faust would follow, although the second pair of footsteps echoing in the nearly pitch-black staircase granted her some reprieve. What may have once been perfectly functional lights now hung uselessly above the two in various states of cracked and shattered disrepair, the occasional faint spark raining down and getting beaten away by Ishmael’s shield. To instead illuminate their way was a series of dim, red emergency lights lining the seam between the walls and the ceiling, although they served little more than to allow the Sinner to see just past her outstretched arm, her hand lightly tinted a faint scarlet. The Head only knew how exactly anyone was expected to climb these staircases if there was some rampaging, multi-headed cannibalistic monstrosity chasing after them. Wings above, how did someone even manage to run down these steps without tripping over themselves?
… Shit, did Don just slip and break her neck and that’s why they hadn’t heard from them?
… No, Ishmael shook her head, of course not. If that was the case, Outis would have dragged hers and Sinclair’s lifeless bodies up an hour ago.
… Shit, did Outis slip and break her neck?
Several hushed steps later yielded the response, a cracked metal floor and two battered and rusted walls, with the same dull red emergency lights providing only the vaguest illusion of lighting. Ishmael wasn’t sure if she should breathe a sigh of relief that all three of them hadn’t simply taken the trophy for the most pathetic way the Sinners had died to date or if she should be more concerned that all three of them were still absent. With the utterly dismal lighting leaving her swallowed in darkness, the redhead felt a tightness in her chest as she considered moving forward. Sure, even if one of those skittering crawlers were to leap from the ceiling and impale her straight through the chest, she’d still get back up after Dante and the rest of the Sinners inevitably stumbled onto her corpse.
But it’s not like that didn’t still hurt like hell.
The second pair of footsteps echoed behind her. She turned to Faust, sweeping her arm out to the blackened corridor in front of them – although she doubted the Sinner could even see her arm… or possibly even her. “Faust, you have a flashlight or something? Looks like all the lights in this part of the branch are out.”
“Unfortunately, Faust entrusted the flashlight we brought for emergencies like this to Sinclair,” the girl replied with an awkward shrug. “As the upper levels were still relatively intact, Faust believed that the two of them would have more need of it than we would.”
“That’s absolutely fantastic,” Ishmael groaned, fishing her phone out of her pocket. She tapped the flashlight app, lighting the duo’s way with a modest ray of light. “Well, hopefully we find those two idiots before my battery runs out.”
“If it will lift your spirits,” Faust continued, following close behind the redhead. “In today’s reports, I will endeavor to emphasize the particular failings of each individual Sinner so as to provide context and a clearer picture to Vergilius.”
“You mean you’re going to throw Don under the bus?”
A pause. Then, with a knowing smile, Faust said, “Of course not. She would be poor nutrition for Mephistopheles.”
Ishmael snorted, and with the only sound accompanying the two being their footsteps, she swore she could hear Faust quietly giggling to herself. The redhead thought it was nice that at least one of them was having fun right now. The stiffness in her joints hadn’t once left her since she’d tried to get some rest in the lobby; honestly, Ishmael felt like it was somehow even worse. It’s not like it was weighing down her body or affecting her ability to smash some multi-limbed monstrosity in with her mace, but if Dante were to pry about it, she’d describe it more like her arms and legs were still asleep, like something was still tying her down.
But of course, her companion this time around was Faust, and the detached Sinner would only care about the others’ performance if it affected their ability to perform in combat. The only relief Ishmael got from being stuck in the middle of this complete nonsense was that, unlike a certain mouthy brunet that had opted not to accompany the six of them into the branch this time around, Faust didn’t care enough to lord Ishmael’s complaints over her.
So lost was she in her thoughts that it took Ishmael a few seconds to notice the silhouette blending into the inky shadows of the corridor in front of her. She paused mid-step, nearly cracking her phone in two with her vicegrip as she fumbled for her mace. An unperturbed Faust poked her head over Ishmael’s shoulder, squinting as she tried to make out the listless figure standing in front of them. As the cautious Sinner stepped forward, her mace preemptively raised to smash whatever was loitering in front of them, she began to make out a vaguely humanoid shape, half-bent over, as though panting for breath. A pang of embarrassment shot through the girl’s body and she returned her mace to her belt while Faust sidestepped her, waving over the newcomer.
“Outis, your tardiness is quite unlike you,” Faust noted, tilting her head in wonder. “Is there some unexpected development in our search?”
Ishmael furrowed her brow as Outis stumbled into the dim light of her phone, her hair oddly disheveled. While she could hardly have called her face pale or lifeless, Ishmael felt a twinge of uncertainty in the pit of her stomach, that the normally stern and rigid expression that the Sinner wore felt more rehearsed than usual. Of course, whether Faust either noticed or cared, her thoughts were indiscernible amidst her blank frown. Unable to shake the odd feeling tightening in her chest, Ishmael coughed and drew the brunette’s attention. “Uh, Outis, you alright?”
Outis met Ishmael with a nod, a very enthusiastic one, if Ishmael had to describe it. The light that seemed missing from her cheeks seemed to be restored immediately, her eyes looking like they had just been relit by the explosion of a new star. “I’m fine, Ishmael. I’m feeling rather on top of things, actually.”
“… You looked out of breath a while back,” Ishmael said, pursing her lips.
“You probably just mistook what you saw, Ishmael,” Outis quickly cut her off with a wave of her hand. She turned to Faust, returning her hand back to the empty clip on her belt. “Faust, I scoured the adjoining hallways and I think I heard both Don and Sinclair nearby. If we hurry, we should be able to reach them in a few minutes.”
Ishmael cocked an eyebrow, shaking her head incredulously. “So you thought you saw them and you just came back to us instead?”
“Their absence was unexpected, no?” Outis shot back, the more recognizable – and insufferable – sharpness in her voice returning. “If I were to run into them while they were being beaten to death by some rampaging abnormality, I might be caught in the crossfire and retrieval would be left to you and Faust. If we all go in as three, either we relieve their weathered defense or we recover their mangled bodies.”
“I guess,” Ishmael trailed off, truly unable to form a rebuttal to Outis’s sound logic.
… But wasn’t this supposed to be a routine luxcavation?
The calmer thoughts in her head bubbled to the surface even as her stiff body trailed behind Outis and Faust. Was any job truly routine in Limbus Company? Every Tuesday they had to deal with an oversized gilded fruit that tried to slam its overgrown, maggot-infested head into them and every Friday those grotesque cyborgs would shamble toward them with those infernal, City-damned ribbons covering every inch of their rusted, bloodied bodies. Not to mention the occasional errant abnormality that nested in the upper floors even leading to those nests to begin with. Gregor had so cheekily commented on how quiet and uneventful these transitory walks were before one of those multi-limbed freaks leapt out from the ceiling, cleaving the bug-armed man’s head clean in two before Heathcliff could so much as mutter a “bloody fucking hell.” Maybe Don and Sinclair had simply stumbled onto a larger nest of abnormalities than they were usually accustomed to, and such a routine job had been derailed while they fought off the swarm of nightmares. Perhaps the winding hallways of this branch had caved in on themselves after several years of decay and disuse, and the duo had become lost amidst its labyrinthian corridors.
And yet, a small, paranoid part of her mind nagged at her from the back of her skull, whispering that obnoxious, aggravating, horrifying thought. “Do you think the boy who stabbed Kromer and the girl who tackled a bull to the ground would simply go down to some B horror movie wannabe?”
She looked up, eyeing Outis. Faust would be as unsympathetic to her plight as possible, of course; so long as the job was done, the sacrifices that were made in the process were irrelevant to her. Outis, bootlicker as she was, still had some type of level head on her shoulders. If anyone would understand the tingling sensation crawling under her skin, surely it would be the brunette. Ishmael barely opened her mouth to speak before Outis paused, drifting behind Faust, and turned to Ishmael. Her eyes locked the redhead in place, their gaze causing Ishmael’s voice to be caught in her throat.
She wished it was the usual steely gaze of the girl who mused about the Odyssey. The girl who looked down at the rest of her companions like they were less than dirt, a means for Dante’s and Limbus Company’s ends. The smug contempt was a mainstay for Outis and, as difficult as it was, a jumping off point for the two girls to reconcile their strained and begrudging respect for each other.
But the Outis that looked back at her with a warm and expectant stare was… off.
“Yes, Ishmael?” she said curtly, her brusque tone almost completely disconnected with her friendly gaze. Ishmael swallowed and rubbed the back of her head, trying to claw her voice out from her windpipe. “Outis, uh, you notice anything strange while you were down here?”
“Strange?” Outis said, her mouth twisting this way and that as if she mulled over the bizarre inquiry. She shrugged nonchalantly and turned back. “No, things have been pretty quiet and peaceful.”
“That’s good, then…” Ishmael said, trying to take the girl’s words to heart. Yeah, quiet and peaceful. This is the type of relieving, simple mission that the Sinners often wished for. The fact that it was like that should have been nothing short of a blessing from the Head themselves that they were given a brief reprieve in their monotonous lives.
But still she felt that tingling sensation. A tightness in her chest and a numbness in her sleepy limbs. A panicked voice in the back of her head, screaming over and over and over and over.
“Since when is a day ever fucking normal for this company?”
But then she heard it. Among the staggered footsteps of the three, the hollow corridors that surrounded them, and the evanescent screaming of her subconscious, she picked out the faintest sounds. A rustling, like the panicked movement of some fleeing animal… and something… wet? Her mind leapt once again to the one-eyed monstrosities that barreled toward them on their four stubby limbs. Such an animalistic and ordinarily unthreatening piece of fodder that they’d dealt with in every Lobotomy Corporation branch, but she still remembered Ryoshu’s arm bent at a sickening, backwards angle after she’d taken one of their rush downs wrong.
Was it the sound of feeding? Or the death rattles of a splattered Sinner?
Her pace quickened as did her heartbeat. Though her legs whined as the strained muscles struggled to keep up with Ishmael’s frantic concern, the protests of her body alone did little to stop her. The faint… scratching noise – or was it a rubbing one – came from a single doorway off to the side, the broken cell doors battered, rusted, and beaten as the toe of her shoes caught against the edge in her rush. Her sprint became a stagger, her stagger a fumbling trip as she slammed face-first into the ground, a dazed groan leaving her lips.
But as she lifted herself up to her hands and knees, her eyes caught of a lone spotlight at the far end of the… cell? No, the room as spacious as it was, yet still so vacant, with but the browning steel beneath her and the barren walls around her, could have once been a meeting room for the managers of Lobotomy Corporation. A meeting room perhaps would have explained the size of the room, just shy of the expansive lobbies in which they faced off against the bounties that lay at the heart of their luxcavations. It would have too explained the spotlight that hung from above, its searing beam an artificial ray of sunshine that put her pitiful phone’s flashlight to shame.
Ishmael understood where, at least. … But now her mind struggled to understand what and why.
Why was she now faced with that accursed shade of pink, so vibrantly reflected in that dazzling, white light.
And what… the fuck.
What the fuck. What the actual fuck.
Each nerve in her body seemed to shut off all at once, leaving her only to stare at the spectacle before her. An unholy sculpture of flesh and silk, woven together in a design that perhaps only the most demented mind would have conceived as art. She wished her eyes would slam shut so that she did not have to see those tethered limbs so elegantly lashed together with a silken strand of pink, yet they refused to close even as her eyes reddened and dried. Her murky green eyes seemed to dilate, as though the scene before her was enrapturing, maddening, abhorrent, beautiful.
The first thing that came to her blank mind was that, yes, she had found the absent Don Quixote and Sinclair. Stripped of the finest armor that Limbus Company had bestowed upon their finest knight, Ishmael’s eyes fell upon a meek and defenseless girl, bare skin glistening against the harsh, burning light illuminating her form. A myriad of ribbons wound around her arms like a snake and pulled them tight against her back, her pale white skin turned red and raw by their constricting snare, while a lattice framework of pink silk snaked across her exposed chest, framing her breasts and causing them, modestly small as they were, to jut out, rubbing against the second Sinner tethered to her.
… Right. Her eyes followed Don’s breasts so tightly squeezed flat, faintly shimmering from a noticeable film of sweat, tears, and maybe even other liquids the redhead felt too uncomfortable to linger on. She followed them to the second body Don had been pressed against, a multitude of ribbons lashed around their waist and chests and pulling them tightly in a salacious embrace. Flatter than Don, the harness of ribbons wound around Sinclair’s chest seemed little more than decoration for some crazed lunatic, doing little but to perfectly outline Sinclair’s breasts, his nipples rubbing against Don’s as the two squirmed together in their bondage. Stripped down as well, Ishmael’s eyes began to gloss over the ribbons turning Sinclair’s arms into one useless protrusion uselessly secured to his back, the small, silken collar wound around his neck, a thin ribbon chaining his head close to Don’s, the two Sinners’ faces pressed together in a reluctant kiss, faces grinding against each other as their lips were practically glued to one another. Her eyes followed the curvature of their spines, tracing the outline of ribbons as they wound down Don’s and Sinclair’s hips.
Below, the ribbons splintered, numerous threads wound around their thigh and calf and securing the two of them in a pitiful kneel. Their legs spread open, Ishmael’s eyes followed another ribbon as it looped below the small of Sinclair’s back before descending down, threading itself between his legs. There, nestled snugly in his ass, the redhead’s eyes were drawn to a large, bulbous protrusion that stuck out like some farcical excuse for a tail. She gulped down bile in her throat as she saw it sparkle and shimmer in the spotlight illuminating the two bound Sinners, the plug almost… writhing and vibrating like some invasive tentacle as droplets of some unnamed fluid rolled down its glassy surface, its enlarged base snugly pressed between Sinclair’s ass cheeks and firmly kept in place by a ribbon that tightly gripped his crotch and ran up between his legs. Don, too, she saw that pink tendril penetrating her from behind, the girl quivering and shaking as it vibrated virulently inside of her as she desperately wanted to free herself from the ensnaring ribbons. And…
And with both Don’s and Sinclair’s legs spread wide, her eyes were drawn to the showcase in the center. Twin loop of ribbons encircled Sinclair’s ballsack and were pulled taut, prominently displaying his balls against a meticulous ring of pink, while a smaller thread was wrapped around the base of his erect penis, almost like some gaudy trimming as it
As it was guided directly into Don’s exposed vagina.
Not rustling. Of course that damned, that fucking awful sound wasn’t rustling. Prominently locked, seared directly into Ishmael’s unwilling eyes, she saw the two Sinners, her two co-workers… her two friends, firmly pressed against one another, grinding against one another, their licks locked in a forceful kiss. The wet horror of their reluctant moans as waves of pleasure rippled through their wrapped bodies. The sloppy plunk as Sinclair’s penis was driven in and out of Don as the pink ribbons wound around his waist teetered back and forth, like the fingers of an eldritch deviant.
A sharp gasp and loud, passionate moan tore from their lips as splotches of white sprung out from between the two’s interlocked crotches.
A trembling, muted voice finally broke Ishmael free from her paralyzed silence. Standing above her, the stoic Faust’s face was pale, gripped with a shock that was quite unbecoming of her, and quite horrifying to the redhead. “… What the fuck.”
“We… need to get them out…” Ishmael finally said, forcing herself up. If the handle of Hearse wasn’t double reinforced after several of her excursions into the myriad of Lobotomy Corporation Mirror Dungeons, the tension of her deathly grip would have almost assuredly caused the metal to snap in two. Ignoring the numbness of her legs and the stiffness of her arms, she wobbled toward the two bound Sinners, unable to tear her gaze away as they shuddered and grinded against one another, her ears subjected to a cascading moan that crescendoed to a deafening roar. In some sense, she felt like dropping her weapons to her feet and covering her ears, falling over and burrowing her face in her legs until the haunting eroticism was cleansed thoroughly from her eyes.
No. She needed to… keep going…
That damn pink sparkle… of course she had to deal with it.
Buried underneath the two’s legs, just below their ankles, a pair of dainty, pink heels were firmly locked over their feet, their silken surface stained by sweat and grime and surely some other indescribable fluids. A haze seemed to cloud Ishmael’s head as she forced herself forward, step by step, her fingers wrapped so tightly around the handle of her mace it was a sheer miracle it hadn’t buckled under the pressure.
Roseate Desire. The Pink Shoes. The aberration enraptured and entwined the two in this mockery of a show… all for what? To lure its wielder back into its clutches, maybe?
The redhead snorted. She shook her head, snarled, stopped her voice from shrieking like a defiant banshee. Even for a twisted abnormality manipulated by its equally psychotic master, this tasteless joke had gone a step too far. Only a handful of strides away did the two bound Sinners finally manage to break their kiss. Their eyes, tinted with a faint shade of pink, were wide with… the girl paused, struggling to find the words. Pleasure was the first thing that came to mind, so empty and devoid of any other light aside from that infernal pink, the soul underneath long since a slave to the passion that gripped them at the heel. Or… no, there was something just underneath that pink hue. Four worried, frenzied pupils, frantically staring down Ishmael like she was an encircling predator.
Or a girl in the middle of a speeding highway.
Panic. Ishmael realized too late, as the low rumble of the ground reverberated behind her. The last vestiges of their unbroken consciousness warned her far too late to flee. Ishmael leaned back on her heel and spun, bracing herself against her shield.
But of course, what hope did she think her flimsy little shield would have against a thick, wooden branch torn straight from the ground, hurtling toward her like a gigantic bat. Her shield saved her ribs from being disintegrated into dust… but only just that. Sent spiraling into the air, her terrified cry terminated, as did the arc of her limp body, into the nearby wall, leaving a sizable, Fixer-shaped dent in its steel. A weak and strangled groan poured from her lips as she slid down, crumpling to the ground in a pathetic heap. Attempting to blink away the waves that blurred her vision, she focused first on her arms as she tried to prop herself up from the ground. She squinted, trying to direct her attention to the dirt that stained her palms, the blood that ran down her arms, the flakes of pink that dotted her sleeves.
Shit. Fuck fuck shit fuck.
She violently scratched away at the pink splotches, only to be met by the ribbons’ venomous hiss as they tore free from the padded fabric of her Sinner jacket. String became thread and thread wound into ribbon as the coalesced into a firm, silken serpent that snaked around her wrists, pulling them taut even before she could think to make a break for the mace uselessly lying to the side. As she felt her wrists lash together, she whipped her head around, following the wooden tentacle that sprung forth from the shadows, its wooden bark sporting the occasional, decorative wrapping of pink. A second lingered low to the ground before it coiled upward, wrapped around the slumped figure half-strangled in its clutches. Ishmael’s muted, horrified stare met Faust’s as the captive girl weakly rose her head to meet hers, blood pooling from a cut across her head and down her face. Even as the pink ribbons began to snake across her torn turtleneck and through the holes of her tattered jacket, Faust cleared her throat and fixed her gaze on the redhead, still putting up a faint show of resistance against the constricting tentacle around her body.
“Faust!” Ishmael cried, leaping to her feet. She tore off in a mad dash to the girl… only to be yanked back and hoisted into the air. With a strident cry she swore and kicked as her feet left the concrete, looking up as a single ribbon looped itself around the silk binding her wrists and pulled, suspending her in the air. “Shit! Get the fuck off of me!”
“Ishmael!” Faust yelled, a surprising hint of panic accentuating her voice. She grunted and tried to pull herself away from the ribbons beginning to rise up her neck, still fixing her eyes on the redhead. “What the hell are-“
But Faust’s frantic inquiry was quickly smothered, reduced to a series of loud but incomprehensible muffles as a silken ball shoved itself between Faust’s teeth, a loop of ribbon flying across the back of her head and tying itself tight. The girl uselessly tried to spit the gag out of her mouth to no avail, kicking and squirming as the head of the serpent that held her in its grasp crept out into the faint, red hue of the emergency lights. The dark, ribbon-laced fingers crept under Faust’s chin and yanked her pale face to the side, letting Outis plant a kiss on the large gag between the white-haired girl’s lips. A mist of pink tainted her yellow eyes, her unlaced boots lying discarded at the doorway as the glimmering, pink shoes adorned her feet.
“Still as stubborn as always, aren’t you?” the brunette cooed, her voice a long and slurred drawl, as though the girl was half-asleep and lost in a dream. Though the wood of the Ebony Stem receded from Faust’s body, a tangle of ribbons was left in its wake, pinning the Sinner’s arms uselessly to her back. She furrowed her brow and tried to pull her face away from Outis’s, her pale face flushed an unbecoming shade of crimson.
“W-What…” Ishmael spluttered, the panic that once fueled her body almost instantly replaced with inexplicable confusion as Outis’s fingers began to crawl all over Faust’s body. She swung her head up to the ribbons around her wrists still suspending her in the air and pulled – rather uselessly, as it felt – managing only to rock her body back and forth in a slow, pendulum-like arc.
“Are you having fun there, Ishmael? Ah, I think Lisa used to enjoy the swing that I set up for her in the lab.”
Ishmael’s head whipped around, her body uselessly flailing behind it as that chilling voice caused her heart to skip a beat. Those same misty, pink eyes from before met her horrified stare, the thin, pink veneer failing to hide the ravenous red underneath. The girl that strolled out from the shadows yawned and stretched her arms above her, careful not to jostle the pink bear headpin tying her ponytail behind her back. The lab coat loosely draped over her shoulders seemed to billow in the breezeless air behind her, only for a trio of pink ribbons to slip out from its spotless covers, their heads eyeing the restrained redhead above them with an apparent, insatiable hunger.
“You again…” Ishmael snorted, trying to yank her wrists free again. “Let me-let us go, right the fuck now!”
“Was that a Freudian slip there, little Ishmael?” Carmen asked with a giggle. She kept her eyes fixed on the glaring Sinner even as she strolled over to the bound Don and Sinclair, placing each of her hands on their shoulders and sliding her fingers across the ribbons that were lashed around their naked bodies. “Poor Ishmael, unable to control her light. Let her desires spill out and manifest themselves here in the real world. Are you shocked because you don’t approve of my technique, by any chance?” Her nails dug into Don’s breasts, causing the blonde to jump and whimper before Carmen nonchalantly shoved her frantic face back into Sinclair’s. Whistling some jovial, demented tune to herself, Carmen pressed her heel into the small of Don’s back and pushed, forcing the girl forward – and driving Sinclair’s penis deeper into her. “I do have to apologize, Ishmael. The Red Shoes I’m familiar with were a bit more… straightforward with their obsession. This aberration does like dancing around the issue a lot more than I’m used to.”
She smirked and followed her hands down to their ribbon-wreathed hips, sliding her fingers above Sinclair’s crotch and carefully around his erect dick. Her movements were at first slow, each measured slide causing the bound Sinclair to moan and squirm, the heat and frantic movements of his sweat-covered body eliciting a similar, meek moan from the girl pressed against him. The faint pink of Carmen’s irises was slowly burned away by a sharp, sadistic red as her hand became a blur, her smirk growing wider and wider as Don’s and Sinclair’s voices raised to a fever pitch, the young boy practically melting in Carmen’s hands as her delicate fingers assaulted his defenseless dick. His body shook violently as a wave of fervent heat and passion ran down his spine and through his hips, climaxing in a hot and sticky discharge of semen. Unphased by Don’s own strangled moans as Sinclair’s seed sent a similar echo of eroticism through her bound body, Carmen rose back up and rubbed the cum off of her fingers on Sinclair’s and Don’s faces one after the other, keeping her gaze fixed on Ishmael’s disgusted face.
“But this is rather fun. Tell me, Ishmael. Are you giving me that reaction because you want to be the one doing this to your sweet little friends?”
A sharp pain jolted Ishmael from her glare. Her eyes flew down, catching glimpses of pink ribbons as they snaked down her pants, tightening themselves around her waist. Her stomach dropped and her mouth went dry, but even as she tried to clench her legs tightly together, she still felt a ribbon wriggle itself between her thighs and swoop back up, looping itself back into the burgeoning harness of ribbons. With a soft fzzzt, the redhead exhaled sharply, her face rocked with embarrassment as the ribbons dug tightly into her crotch.
“Or, sweet little Ishmael, are you giving me that reaction because you’re feeling left out?” Carmen cooed, cupping her hands under her chin with a mocking smile.
“Go fuck yourself,” Ishmael replied curtly.
“Ah, what a sharp tongue you have there,” Carmen sighed, lost in thought. “Reminds me of Lisa, actually. I wonder how she’s like now, all grown up and living her best life. Did she ever mellow out, I wonder? Ah.” She closed her eyes as she strolled past the wriggling Ishmael, each leisurely step bringing her closer to the remaining two Sinners. Her smile faded, an unfamiliar emotion flashing across the enigmatic girl’s face. Ishmael squinted as she tried to parse the listless brunette standing over Faust and Outis, trying to pick apart the expression painted on her face. The smugness was sanded away, the edges of her mouth sharp and the pockets of her lab coat scrunched up as her fingers gripped into the sides of her dress. Ishmael bit her lip as Carmen’s eyes finally opened with her brilliant, red eyes, a red gaze that always burrowed straight through her every time she stepped foot on that forsaken bus.
Seething animosity.
But for now, it seemed that Ishmael had slipped the focus of their captor. She cocked her head to the side, observing Outis’s work like some abstract, modern art piece straight out of Nest B. Stripped naked by her enthralled companion, the shredded remains of Faust’s jacket, sweater, and pants lay at her bare feet, a flurry of ribbons adorning her pale body, a mess of chaotic stripes from ankle to thigh until each connected to the bottom of an immaculate harness at her hip. Like Don and Sinclair before her, lines of ribbons were carefully spread out in thin rows and columns, tightly hugging the defenseless girl’s body until they broke at her chest, two divisions curving to opposite sides of her body and reuniting above her breasts while the third dove tightly between them and hooked to the top of the harness. Carmen paused and put a finger to her lips. While the effect on Don had been fairly minimal, the poor girl barely plumper than the ragged Sinclair pressed against her, the harness had served quite well to accentuate Faust’s more… pronounced assets. To complete the display, a short ribbon was connected to her bound wrists and tethered to her ankles, the harsh hogtie forcing the weary girl to her knees. Though ribbons held her legs together, the brunette’s eyes lingered slightly between them, a bulbous, pink head inelegantly poking out from between her thighs as it was shoved deep inside, held firmly in place by a ribbon tightly digging into her crotch. Carmen pursed her lips as she eyed the bound Sinner up and down before sliding her forefinger along the curvature of Faust’s breast. The listless, white-haired girl, despite her predicament, seemed as unphased as usual, staring out past Carmen to the suspended redhead behind her.
Ishmael furrowed her brow and made an open show of pulling against the ribbons holding her aloft to no real effect. What could have been construed as a scowl – spread wide by the ball of ribbons gagging her, was the girl’s response as she twisted and squirmed in her restraints.
“Hm, she reminds me of Kali…” Carmen muttered under her breath, guiding her finger down until it disinterestedly flicked one of Faust’s nipples with a huff. “Actually, she does remind me a lot of her, too. Ahaha, to think that you two share so much. You’re both so standoffish, so gifted in certain areas…”
A dark pall descended across the brunette’s face as she suddenly drew close, tightly squeezing the bound girl’s chest. Faust whimpered as her entire body shook like a flimsy branch in a tempest, her eyes widening as she seemed to finally acknowledge the foreboding girl in front of her, her head spinning back to finally meet Carmen’s contemptuous glare.
“… and so, so meddlesome too,” she scoffed, meeting the panicked Faust’s eyes. “You and your friends seemed so interested in our EGO. Tell me, then, Miss Faust. Is there anything that your endless curiosity wants sated?”
Carmen paused, a haughty smirk replacing her cold frown as she leaned in and kissed the restrained girl’s gag. Her face went violently red, mewing harshly into her gag as she felt the twin plugs in her slowly ease out before thrusting themselves deeper in her. As she stiffened, the plugs buzzed softly and vibrated as they slid back before once again thrusting forward, two rhythmic, piston-like motions that cause sweat and tears to pour down the shivering girl’s face.
“Of course, one trade begets another. I’m more than willing to indulge you on your many questions as to my inner workings.” Carmen slid her hand under Faust’s chin as the sobbing girl tried to look away, pulling her face back to hers. “And in return, you could enlighten me on who these mysterious benefactors of yours are that seem so interested in how I do things. I’ve already made peace with the fact that her and her librarians are opposed to my designs… but this Limbus Company of yours has busied itself quite a bit learning about the Seed of Light. I don’t think even the heads of the Hana or even those stuck-up Arbiters are in possession of as much knowledge as you are. It’s… gone far past being interesting.”
The shuddering Sinner could only attempt to shake her head, still held firmly in Carmen’s vicegrip. The brunette sighed and clicked her tongue, nudging her foot between Faust’s legs until she could gingerly prod the bulbous, silken plug deeper. “Yes, Miss Faust. I of course could simply enthrall you like your three other companions here… but if I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t quite like having my secrets dug up. Though I may not agree with her, I at least respect her wishes to oppose me as she carries the will of those precious eight with her, and maybe I will settle things at some point.”
Her red eyes narrowed, her childish chiding washed away by an unmistakable, fuming disgust. “But this meddling has gotten under my skin. So maybe I’ll… have a little fun with the circumstances that brought me here and do things a bit more old-fashioned.” She turned to Outis, grabbing the blank-faced Sinner’s undershirt by the collar and ripping it off with one, fluid motion. “I’ve said my piece, Outis. You’ve done quite a poor job trying to hide all of those passionate emotions welling inside you.” She grinned, a set of glistening white teeth reflecting the ecstasy that began to take over Outis’s face. “Who am I to stop you from enjoying yourself?”
Not an ounce of hesitation could be seen in the enamored girl as she quickly strode up in front of the quivering Faust, her jacket flung off as a multitude of ribbons sprung forth from her back like the burgeoning tendrils of a slithering abomination finally roused from its slumber. The head of one of the many tendrils slid itself under the straps of her bra before tearing it loose, leaving Outis’s bouncing breasts exposed as the ribbons looped back around and encircled her naked body. She twitched slightly and winced as each silken strand tightened around her, and for but a moment, Faust swore she saw the last vestiges of Outis’s consciousness flash in her eyes, her yellow eyes stricken with horror as they stared back at the defenseless, penetrated Sinner with a dreaded realization. She blinked again and eyes of unbroken pink stared back, bare arms laced with silken ribbons reaching out to cradle the abject girl’s face. The ribbons unfurled from Faust’s mouth and receded to the ones looped around to her neck, leaving it free for Outis as she knelt and planted her lips firmly against Faust’s. Outis’s right hand snagged a tuft of Faust’s hair and pressed the bound girl’s face into hers even as she shied away and muffled unheard begs for mercy. Her left slid down Faust’s chest and onto her breast, fondling it as their two chests pressed against one another, the heat of their bodies causing their faces to light up with an undeniable, inescapable passion. She leaned ever closer into Faust, pushing the meek girl to the ground and silencing her protests as her tongue slithered into her mouth, the myriad of ribbons chaining her arms behind her leaving her defenseless to the mindless girl’s erotic hunger.
“Hm, how interesting,” Carmen mused, giving a wry chuckle as she turned back to the writhing Ishmael. “This aberration has quite the profound effect with prolonged exposure. I do believe the Red Shoes they came to possess lost its potency against those with a high enough temperance, but these…” She held her arm out, watching as a ribbon slid out of the sleeve of her lab coat and playfully nuzzled her cheek. “… its effect seems rather mild just at a glance, but it does appear that its psychological effects are a lot more pronounced when it latches onto someone.”
She chuckled and turned to Ishmael, snapping her fingers. A high-pitched gasp tore from her lips as she felt the ribbon laced under her legs tighten, digging into her ass and crotch. “… Or perhaps its evolution of desires has caused it to feed on more… primal instincts. Murder is, after all, such a triviality to the City. What need is there to suppress something that is simply commonplace for even the lowliest Grade 9 Fixer? But this…”
Carmen closed in on Ishmael, her fingers tracing the curve of her outer thigh and sliding up to her hip. As her nails dug into the denim of the redhead’s jeans, the voices of the other four captive Sinners rose in a discordant crescendo, the strangled mewings of Don and Sinclair as they grinded against each other accompanied by the muffled pleas of Faust as Outis’s tongue entangled with hers. The boy’s voice leapt several octaves as his seed splurged out inside of the defenseless girl, yet the ribbons kept guiding him in and out, each digging tighter and tighter into their bodies as if laughing at the perverted spectacle before them. Faust’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and her face went pink, feeling a wave of ecstasy wash over her tied body as Outis’s knee shoved the plugs into her over and over and over.
Carmen breathed in deep and caressed Ishmael’s breast, guiding her fingers closer and closer to the buttons of her jacket. “… such manic passions. Such repressed desires. Even the most prepared mind crumbles under such delectable exposure. It’s quite exhilarating.”
“Right, you’re a pervert and an exhibitionist on top of being a psychopath,” Ishmael spat, grunting as the skin of her wrists grew raw. “I’m so happy for you. Maybe you can revive that old Urban Nightmare, the 8 o’Clock Circus or something. You’re both clowns.”
“Ah, to so valiantly struggle against the inevitable.” Carmen swooned, giggling quietly as she flicked the coat buttons of Ishmael’s jacket open one after the other. As the loosened ends of the black fabric unfurled and hung at the girl’s sides, her fingers ran back down Ishmael’s leg, cresting her ankle and ending at the heelcap of her shoe. She slid the tips of her fingers just underneath the back of Ishmael’s heel and, miming a pop with her mouth, pulled her shoes off one after the other. The black socks underneath followed soon thereafter, leaving Carmen’s hand to gently slid across the bottom of Ishmael’s bare feet before gliding the tips of her fingernails against the exposed soles. The redhead’s face scrunched up and she grit her teeth, refusing to yield the indignity of some childish laughter despite the haughty smirk plastered across Carmen’s face. The brunette whipped her ponytail back and held out her hand, a tangle of ribbons creeping out of her sleeve and forming into a single, glistening, pink shoe. The redhead’s eyes narrowed and she tried to pull her legs into the air only for Carmen to snag Ishmael’s left ankle and pull her foot back.
“I understand you’ve been trying to distance yourself from this little gift,” Carmen said, her eyes eagerly switching between the manifested EGO and its perfect cradle within her hand. “It does seem like a waste. You and it resonate so well with each other. Such intense desires and such repressed emotions… haven’t you ever felt the desire to just… let it all out? It even fits you to a tee.” The smirk warped into a devilish smile as she slid her fingers between Ishmael’s toes and around her foot, playfully teasing it closer and closer to the shoe. “It seems like such a waste.”
“Okay, well that’s honestly the weirdest fucking thing I’ve heard all year, and I had to deal with a giant oversized chicken and a bunch of luddites dressed in weird slime suits. But fine, if you want my feet so badly, here!”
And then Ishmael slammed her right foot into Carmen’s unsuspecting face.
In a manner quite unbefitting the enigmatic mistress that accompanied the seductive whispers of the Sinners’ EGO equipment, Carmen spiraled into the air twice, corkscrewing in her descent before hitting the ground with a dull thud. The redhead felt the ribbons above her slacken, her body abruptly jerking down as the silken strands strained to hold their prisoner, and on instinct her fingers grabbed hold of the ribbon tethering her to the ceiling and pulled. It came free with a soft tear and she hit the ground with a somersault, leaping back to her feet and making a dash for
For what, exactly.
Her gait slowed, eyes frantically darting between her mace, the squirming Faust, and the staircase so tantalizingly out of reach. The dull groan of an aggrieved Carmen barely made itself known, nearly drowned out by Don’s feverish squeal as she felt Sinclair thrust into her once again. The enraged muscles in her still-bound wrists screamed at her to seize her mace, to give this supposed goddess a blunt taste of City hospitality, while her heart reached out to the white-haired girl lying on the ground, tears and saliva caking her flushed face as her empty gaze stared past the escaping redhead. She relished the joyous splatter of Carmen’s skull against the end of her mace, while the fleeting sense of loyalty and friendship still urged her to rush to the pinned Faust’s aid.
But before she was a cold-blooded Fixer or a Sinner, before anything else, she was a survivor.
So she ran.
What good would it do to sweep in as Faust’s chivalrous knight if it only resulted in her falling victim to those same ensnaring ribbons, left as little more than a plugged plaything writhing in her own fluids as that wicked, red-eyed brunette loomed over her.
She paid no heed to the flakes of steel and shards of rubble that cut her bare feet as she sprinted for the staircase.
How could she know if beating Carmen’s head in would kill such an abomination. Her gleeful smile as bone and blood splattered her face could very well be nothing more than a panicked scream as the mischievous girl’s head instead exploded into a nest of ribbons, each shooting around the frantic Sinner and lashing tightly around her until her skeleton snapped from the sheer pressure.
So close. Only a stone’s throw – no, maybe half a stone’s throw away.
She needed to find Dante. Vergilius. Hell, she’d settle for Heathcliff at this point. Maybe even petition the Liu and Zwei for aid if they were so desperate. What if she begged on her hands and knees and kissed the boots of those pompous Association heads to be given the time of day? Such an embarrassment was fleeting, ephemeral, easily slept off or drowned in booze.
It was nothing like this. Nothing was worse than this.
She wasn’t selfish. She threw such an asinine doubt to the back of her head, even as the dim light indicating the staircase’s doorway shone above her. Even with their so-called immortality, what could would it do if Dante never learned of their fates? Even if it was just their one life, a momentary sacrifice for a greater chance of success was better than gambling it all on some selfless, foolhardy attempt at rescue. Even if she could do nothing but scream and beg for someone to hear her, surely, surely it would be better than failing and doing nothing here.
She closed her eyes, bit her lip, tried her hardest not to hear Faust’s moans behind her. This would all be a bad dream. This could all be a bad dream. She just needed to get out. She repeated this to herself as the rusted steps came into view, and taking in a large breath, she
Tripped.
No. No no no no don’t you fucking don’t you fucking don’t you fucking-
Ishmael hit the ground hard, feeling her entire body jolt from the strain and sudden impact as she bounced twice, each time crushing her tethered arms underneath her, before coming to a stop. A frantic “fuck!” tore from her lips as she pulled her hands out from underneath her and tried to push herself up. Yet, even as her palms propelled her into the air, her legs felt like little more than cinderblocks holding her down and she smacked face first into the ground once again.
Only when she threw her head back did she see the ribbons wound around her ankles.
“Were you expecting me to say that was a good shot you got in?” came the endlessly aggravating voice of Carmen. A thin trail of blood coated her right eye as she trailed behind the fallen girl, the cheek underneath swollen a ghastly purple. “Or do you want a little headpat for a job well done? The daring little Ishmael, immune to the siren song of the EGO within her, endlessly resisting the temptation to dive into the true self she suppresses for so long. You’re quite good at that, aren’t you? Brushing everything off and hoping it will just all go away.”
“Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?” Ishmael retorted.
“I would be very bad at helping people reach their full potential if I hated the sound of my own voice,” Carmen shrugged, stopping short of Ishmael’s feet and kneeling next to her. The annoyed girl squirmed and shuffled closer to the stairway, dragging herself inch by inch by her bound wrists. Carmen clicked her tongue and rested her head on her hand, a devilish smirk spreading over her face. “Ah, but since you love speaking to me so much, Ishmael, would you like to hear a little secret?”
“What? Am I gonna learn your egghead boyfriend loved his papers more than you?”
“Ahaha, I don’t think that’s even close to how I would have described Ayin.” Carmen blinked, the milky whites of her sclera briefly flashing as a murky pitch black. “You see, Ishmael, you lost the very second you stepped foot into this little forgotten facility.”
One rip. Two. Three. Ten. Thirty. The bluster and snark that Ishmael had mustered for so long disintegrated with her clothes, her horrified, gaping expression finally devoid of any defiant flame as ribbon after ribbon unfurled from her body, tearing through her shirt, jacket, and pants like wet tissue. Her eyes traced the many heads of the silken hydra, following each neck one by one to her exposed body, where a familiar, pink harness was laced across her body, a lattice of pink that clung to her stomach and wove around and between her breasts. As she rose to a sitting position, she shook her head, blinking furiously, as though she could unsee the ribbons that lined her arms and ran down her legs. Almost as if mocking her, each one in turn grew tight, causing her to wince and whimper as the silk constricted her body. She flailed her legs and pulled at her arms, trying desperately to tear away the ribbons lashing her wrists and ankles, hopelessly attempting to keep her limbs from going completely numb.
And as the ascendant ribbons looped and converged back on their unwilling host, Carmen sighed and cupped her fingers to her mouth, her eyes glimmering with feverish anticipation.
“Something wrong, little Ishmael?” she asked calmly, the sides of her mouth twisted upward in an expression more disgusting than any abnormality the Sinners had ever dealt with. “Sleep paralysis, maybe? It looks like your limbs are falling asleep.”
Recognition shot across Ishmael’s eyes and shattered her soul, and her pitiful wails were quickly silenced as that infernal pink dove into her mouth, each thread curling into a ball and wedging itself firmly between her teeth. Those pink tendrils looped around her naked body one after the other and hoisted her into the air, carrying the thrashing redhead up and over the clapping Carmen. Her wrists and ankles were freed only for the tentacles to wind tightly around each arm and leg and pull them apart, leaving her spread eagle. She whimpered as the pressure felt like it was just short of tearing her arm fully from her socket and she hysterically whipped her head back and forth in a futile attempt to find some measure of escape… only briefly, as she felt the air practically desert her lungs. Was it perhaps the ribbon that wound around her neck and tightened as a makeshift collar that left the redhead breathless?
Of course not, Carmen chuckled. Both hers and Ishmael’s eyes were drawn to the ribbons coalescing in front of Ishmael, each flat strand piling onto one another, folding in on themselves, widening and softening its edges until it resembled a more large, cylindrical shape. Or, Carmen figured, as the top end slowly narrowed and adapted its edges, a more appropriate term would be
Phallic.
The gagged Ishmael shook her head, her despairing pleas muffled to an incoherent mumbling and traces of spittle as the twin dildos lingered in front of her face, each rhythmically moving back and forth, foreshadowing their deviant intent. Their heads drooped, brushing against Ishmael’s breasts and following the ribbon framework crisscrossing her body to her hips, and the terrified Sinner tried to pull her legs together. Her efforts yielded only the anger of the ribbons wrapped around her body, and a high-pitched squeal squirmed through her gag as each ribbon tightened around her, digging into her skin and causing it to go red, while the tendrils wrapped around her legs yanked her open even wider until she swore that her pelvis might just shatter.
And then she felt it.
Of the little kindness that she thought Carmen would afford her, she at least hoped… would have even begged for her degenerate overseer to at least be slow and gentle. Though the gag filled her mouth and threatened to dislocate her jaw, her anguished scream echoed through the facility as the dildos plowed into her one after the other, the lower half of her body exploding in a contradictory morass of pain and pleasure alike as she felt each one of her holes filled with that distressing, silken girth. The impact may as well have been a speeding bus smashing into her insides as her eyes bulged and her body spasmed, drool dripping from the corners of her mouth and tears welling her eyes. She’d endured a Headless Ichthys slamming its overgrown fins directly into her chest even though the impact had practically turned her ribs to dust, and as she felt the ribbons burrow deeper into her body, she wished to every Wing and the Head itself to be splattered to death by an entire rampaging mob of the abnormalities.
They had the courtesy to not hit her from the inside.
She whimpered. She sobbed. She begged, if not for release, if not for death, at least for her consciousness to fade. She grunted and panted and heaved as she felt the ribbons violently thrust in her over and over, and as her vision blurred and her thoughts swam, an uneasy and nauseating discomfort settled in her heart. A seed of doubt stirred by the ecstasy and passion wracking her body, edged on by the heat that flew from her toes to her flushed face.
It seemed like almost an hour of her wretched torture before her fizzling mind suddenly realized her hips were swaying along with the rhythmic thrusts of the ribbons.
Before she was acutely aware of the euphoric warmth that shot through her spine as each dildo dug further and further into her defenseless body.
No. No. Ishmael shook her head and bit down on her gag. If she could only spit out the ribbons and chew on her own tongue so that some shred of normalcy could wrench her body free from the depravity it sank into. As the redhead frantically blinked away the tears staining her eyes, she exhaled sharply, suddenly aware of the thick mist of pink coating her vision. She felt her body twist as the ribbons wrenched her arms and legs back, her breasts flopping under her while her palms were forced together, a quintet of ribbons running from her fingers to her wrist and locking her in a reverse prayer tie, a second loop of ribbons running underneath her breasts and around her arms and fastening them against her back. The pink collar secured on her neck tightened, causing her to splutter and wheeze even as Carmen approached the suspended girl and pulled her head up to meet her smug grin.
“So how does it feel, Ishmael?”
“Mmmmpff…”
It hurt. It stung. The insides of her body felt like it was getting pulverized into a thick paste as the dildos smashed into her again and again and again. She pitifully tried to pull her face away from Carmen’s piercing gaze only for the girl’s fingers to dig harder into her scalp and hold her head close.
“Mmmmph. Mmmffffff…”
Her heart ached. She hated her weakness. Her incompetency. She’d always tried to warn the others that if they kept coasting off of their overconfidence and sheer luck at some point they’d one day have to deal with a crisis not even the winding of Dante’s clock could ever fix. The reverberating screeches of Don and Sinclair as Sinclair’s dick exploded in Don once again, the perpetual thrusting of their plugs driving both into a perverted ecstasy. The muffled moans of Faust as both dignity and defiance were smothered under Outis’s lips, the white-haired girl vigorously returning the brunette’s ravenous kisses in turn. Loop after loop after loop of ribbon unfurled and refurled, wrapping the two tighter and tighter until not even the slightest lapse of passion could hope to pull them away from their sensual embrace. An agonizing white noise buzzed in Ishmael’s head as she heard the two girls gasp and shudder, an excitable tremor of undulating pleasure shooting through their entire bodies as their mouths interlocked with each other once again.
“Mmm. Mmf Mffffph… mmmmmmph.”
She loved it. The chorus of screams and moans that rang through her ears like the most wonderous melody of some erotic orchestra. The fire that ignited in her hips and pulsated throughout her body like a second, sweltering heartbeat. The pounding fullness that sent a shiver through her spine and a delectable, irresistible euphoria through her blood every time she felt it thrust deeper into her body. She sighed deeply into her gag, guiding her hips back and forth, grinding her crotch against the ribbons wrapped around her, staring at the beautiful, red-eyed goddess that stood proudly over her.
As she gazed longingly at Carmen, it seemed almost like hearts began to swim in Ishmael’s enraptured eyes.
“Good girl…” Carmen cooed, running her hand down Ishmael’s sweat-soaked mane. The tip of her finger hooked on the ribbon locking her gag in place and tore it free, the drool-covered ball dropping ignobly to the floor. Carmen knelt and closed her eyes, planting her lips firmly against Ishmael’s. The girl shook in her restraints, the excitable taste of Carmen’s tongue frying every nerve in her head, and the brunette’s brow furrowed as she clamped tightly down on the rocking redhead’s shoulder, holding her in place even as their tongues intermingled. For several long, tantalizing minutes, the two girls held their kiss, Carmen’s hand keeping Ishmael’s face firmly against hers while her other traced the curvature of Ishmael’s breasts one after the other. Reluctantly, Carmen was the first to break off their kiss, dashing away the small thread of saliva collecting their lips with the tip of her finger. She cleared her throat, swiftly regaining her composure even as the enraptured Ishmael tried to urge her suspended body further, her tongue longingly reaching for the brunette.
“Someone’s having quite a lot of fun, isn’t she?” Carmen observed, cracking a wry smile.
“Y-Yes, Carmen. Please, more. I… n-no moore…”
A sudden jolt raced across Ishmael’s body as she felt the dildos pound into her, the ribbons’ rage apparent as each strand dug into its flailing captive. Carmen sighed and watched as the redhead arced back, pain gripping her face as a myriad of clear liquids leaked from underneath her. Her eyes blinked thrice, momentarily regaining their mirky green depths, so wreathed in panic and desperation as though the last fragments of Ishmael’s mind were being stamped out by the constricting EGO.
“Something the matter, my little Ishmael?” Carmen asked, hooking her finger under Ishmael’s collar and pulling her body back down until the redhead’s face was level with hers. “Such distress is unbefitting you. Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Y-Y-Yes, Carmen…” Ishmael stammered, trying to focus her eyes on Carmen’s godly expression. Of course she was enjoying herself. The waves of euphoria that shot through her body every time her holes were filled with the stimulating girth of the ribbons piercing her. The ambrosia that was Carmen’s lips as they wove delicately around her own, blessing her with a high not even the sweetest chemical of Nest C could hope to imagine. It was awful, painful, she begged and pleaded but it felt like even her body was nothing more than an empty shell she merely resided in. She screamed as loud as she possibly could, yet only the empty walls of her own mind echoed her muted, frantic pleas for help. Every time she felt the twin plugs fill the walls of her ass and vagina, she felt her body breaking away underneath her, as though the last iota of sanity that she clung to was being chipped away at with a pink chisel. She breathed in once more and giggled, the tantalizing, pink mist once again enveloping Carmen’s perfect form. The brunette sighed as her fingers slid under the bound girl’s chin, a quizzical frown spreading across her face as she met those pink eyes.
“How interesting,” Carmen mused, keeping her face back even as Ishmael strained her neck to meet her lips. “I’d have figured that due to your resonance, your entire mind would have already fallen victim to the allure of your own EGO. Or… is it because you’re so compatible that a part of you can elude its charm?”
“P-Please…” Ishmael gasped, as though a shred of the drowning girl’s sanity broke through the ocean of her sensual desires.
“Hm, but there is one thing I’ve been holding off on,” Carmen said, crossing her arms. Ishmael’s eyes lingered on the listless Carmen as the girl meekly shrugged and stared back. Another tremor of erotic passion surged through her suspended body and the girl’s eyes slammed shut, a heavy moan drifting from her lips as she felt her body heat up. She gasped and panted, returning her gaze to Car-
To Heathcliff.
Of course it wasn’t Heathcliff. It couldn’t have been him. She’d have heard the other Sinners barging into the abandoned cell if they’d arrived. She would have seen Carmen and her myriad of ribbons rising to meet them, furiously engaging the Sinners with the naked Ishmael as the prize. He’d have ran up to her and hugged her and torn the ribbons free and
And yet that bronze skin, those rippled biceps, that unmistakable swagger. A familiar chuckle filled her ears and drowned out the four other Sinners’ enraptured moans as he loomed over the suspended girl, ruffling her hair.
“Lookin’ good, Ish,” he said, his voice so distinctive, so aggravating, so… enticing. Ishmael craned her head up to meet his, her eyes sparkling a vibrant and beauteous pink.
“H-Heathcliff…” she said breathlessly, her mouth dry. “I-I want…”
To escape? To have each ribbon torn free from her body? To feel his arms cradle her while he whispered that the sobbing girl would be alright?
He smirked. “Yeah Ish. I know what you want.”
A sharp, unzipping sound accompanied the soft flump of pants hitting the ground. Ishmael’s eyes drifted down, each hair on her body standing on end, the plugs smashing into her from behind little more than a mild, occasionally thump as her body focused entirely on the throbbing package in front of her. Hanging as low as she was, her face was perfectly level with Heathcliff’s crotch, her lips just inches away from his erect cock.
“I… want…”
You.
Was it Heathcliff who thrust forward, jamming the full length of his penis into Ishmael’s mouth? Or was it Ishmael who flung her body forward, swallowing the shaft as eagerly as the City’s most priceless popsicle. Perhaps if the rational, collected parts of Ishmael’s mind were still intact, she’d be able to appreciate the absurdity of that abrasive, aggravating, ravishing, delectable Sinner just shoving his cock deep down her throat. If there was still some clarity in her clouded eyes, she’d have tried to avoid the tender, warm rod as it filled her mouth, teasing her taste buds with a faint, salty nectar, a fullness that washed away the pain that ached her shoulders and plagued her body.
But none of that mattered now.
Her eyelids drooped and her body relaxed as she felt Heathcliff’s hands slowly massage the back of her head, holding her steady as he thrust into her mouth. The first movements were steady, like the cautious venturing of a novice Fixer embarking on his first job. Yet his confidence seemed to grow with each passing second and each passionate moan from the flushed redhead and, as the plugs intensified in speed and ravaged Ishmael’s defenseless bottom, so too did Heathcliff’s unrestrained cock plunge into the girl’s willing maw. She craved the hot, quivering dick that slid across her tongue and , even without the urging of the man’s hands, she locked her lips firmly around the shaft, feverishly licking the underside of Heathcliff’s penis. Maybe in that moment, he thought he erred in his haste, though even as the bulging cock tried to pull away, Ishmael’s mouth held firm, her misty, pink eyes fixed on Heathcliff’s crotch. She furrowed her brow and sucked, her gargled moan matching the man’s own succulent, quivering one.
“Don’t… go…” she managed to say, careful not to bite down on the head of the resting dick. “I need you to…”
Help me… Heathcliff… I can’t… hold on. I can see it… feel it in me… everywhere… It’s an ocean of pink… slowly drowning me…
Enveloping me in your warmth. Oh Heathcliff, my darling Heathcliff, I need more… I want more… please…
The words thrashed in Ishmael’s emptied mind even as Heathcliff thrust deeper into the girl’s mouth, the redhead weakly gagging as his engorged head brushed the back of her throat. Tears streamed down her blushing face and her body twitched once more as the dildos were relentless in their assault, filling her body with an ecstasy that turned each stray thought of the girl into dust. Yet still Heathcliff’s hands held her head tight. His apprehension seemed to dissipate as once again the fullness of his shaft slid back into her mouth. Ishmael’s tongue was there to meet it, tracing its contours from the bottom to the top, from its full length locked in her lips down to the very edge of its head nestled near the back of her throat, almost just out of reach. She shuddered as he moaned. She gasped as she felt his cock shake and tremble. It slid back and her tongue rested on the very end of his penis, blessed with a sharp, tangy, euphoric taste.
“Ishmael…” Heathcliff gasped, digging his nails into the back of the girl’s head. “I… I’m going to…”
“Mmmmmffff…” Ishmael’s words were lost in a gagged moan as she slid her head back and forth, following Heathcliff’s penis as its movements began to quicken and intensify. “Heathcliff… I need…”
you to come and save me… please Heathcliff… I can barely… see you… I need you to cum in me. I need to feel your seed sliding down your throat. I want to feel your body pressed against mine. I need to feel my lips against yours. I want to feel your cock… deep in my womb… I need to hold on… I can’t… please… Heathcliff. I can’t… I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I can’t feel anything but… this pain… this fire burning me up from the inside. Please… I need you to take my hand and cum… please, Heathcliff… I need you to consummate this.
Please… I don’t want to be… a doll to this fucking thing. Help me. Kill me. Heathcliff, I don’t care just please do something. I need you to
A shot of warmth splashed in Ishmael’s mouth. She froze, her eyes widening as the searing, poignant taste of Heathcliff’s semen coalesced in her mouth and slid into the back of her throat. She gulped, gasped, and as traces of white fluid dripped down her quivering lips, she longingly looked up at Heathcliff with eyes of an unbroken pink.
Yes… this heavenly taste… this beautiful sensation… her body filled to the brim as all three of her holes were caressed in an enveloping warmth. She blinked and stared up at the naked Heathcliff, his glistening chest and his warm smile laid bare for her immaculate enjoyment.
She blinked and smiled, staring up at the ribbon wrapped Carmen looming over her. Her dress and labcoat shed, a haphazard tangle of ribbons occasionally wound around her body, leaving her plucky breasts sticking out just below her affectionate grin and her loose, brown hair cascading down her back. Carmen’s fingers ran down her hip and along her crotch, a penis of silken pink sticking out where the lines of ribbons wound around her pelvis and along her thighs all joined together. She followed its shaft to Ishmael’s face, her finger stopping as it pressed against the redhead’s lip. Carmen plucked a small, red bear hairpin from her hair and, flicking the rope headband from Ishmael’s hair, began to tie Ishmael’s hair into a familiar, long ponytail.
“Tell me, my dearest Ishmael… who do you love?”
“I love you… Heathcliff…” Ishmael’s gargled voice came, obediently sucking the makeshift penis that filled her mouth. Carmen laughed as she nestled the pin just above the base of the ponytail before pulling the penis out of Ishmael’s mouth, kneeling and planting her lips on the love-stricken Ishmael.
“And now we can be together, Ishmael. Forever.”
“… Alright, that’s fucking long enough I’m going down there!”
Amidst the somber mood of the atmosphere, it was unsurprising that not a single Sinner moved to stop Heathcliff as he literally barreled into the Lobotomy Corporation branch, the faint crashes of overturned desks and distant “bloody hell!” and “fuck!” barely able to escape the gaping maw of the enigmatic luxcavation dungeon. The remaining Sinners all exchanged worried glances, the same thoughts all crossing their mind but dying at their lips.
… Heathcliff was right. It had been far, far too long.
Ryoshu was the first to show any visible frustration. Nearly chomping down on her cigarette, she shot a glare to the listless, clockfaced manager sat on a nearby bench, “head” buried in their hands. A sharp cough finally caused Dante to look up, their flimsy little overseer flinching as Ryoshu’s glowering face threatened to cut him down as effectively as any Shi Fixer.
“Yo, IM. Exactly how long do you expect to sit around there and do nothing?”
“… Shu’s right, Dante,” Rodya chimed in, her voice uncharacteristically cold. “It’s been, like, two hours since you stumbled out of there and said Faustie and Ishy went to find the others. They wouldn’t have taken that long to drag them out of there, and they wouldn’t have taken that long if the two of them couldn’t have finished the job themselves.”
A quick gaze across the ruined alley of the Backstreet made the mutual discontent among the Sinners evident. Yi Sang’s usual melancholic expression had grown stiff, as though he was short of expressing disgust. The same could be said for Meursault, whose unexpressive gaze carried with it a chill that was stifled only by his unflinching professionalism. Gregor merely averted his gaze, adjusting his glasses and lighting another cigarette, yet he still faced the corporation with a stony frown, as though if he stared long enough into the abyss, he could will the six Sinners back up from its depths.
A hand tightly gripped Dante’s shoulder. The manager looked up to meet Hong Lu, the naivety in his warm smile all but absent in his quiet stare. “… Dante, we shouldn’t tarry here any longer, should we? If we need to get the others, then we should get the others.”
The mirthless manager shook their head and gave what could only be assumed to be a sigh before waving them off. On a better day, even Ryoshu would have paused and checked to see whether Dante was giving them the go-ahead to act on their on accord or whether they were simply dismissing another of their many, many aggravating complaints.
But this wasn’t a better day, and Ryoshu had already departed down that long, winding staircase, the flickering bud of her cigarette the last, fleeting image of Limbus Company Bus’s 4th. Rodya sighed and spun her axe in her palm, reaching her hand out to Dante. “Hey, you’re coming along with us, right? Maybe Sinclair just got a little out of control and corroded? That soup head of his can be pretty nasty, doncha think?”
“[That’s true].” they finally chimed, a low and pensive whir coming from their mechanical head. Their hand rose and snatched Rodya’s, a lifeline that seemed to restore the vitality that appeared so emptied before. “[… I’m counting on you then, Rodya].”
For a moment, the girl froze, numb to the world around her. The ordinarily feeble manager that had cowered behind them when abominations or inquisitors or rampaging robots tried to murder the lot of them now seemed to latch onto her outreached hand with a grip so tight she might’ve mistaken it for the jaws of those feral, four-legged wolves in plate armor. Her knuckles turned white as her fingers mirrored the same strain on the handle of РАСКО́Л. A brief image flashed in her blue eyes, the visage of a smug and contemptuous tax collector looking down on her, siphoning the very energy from her body as if to restore the wrinkles that plagued her face.
She pulled the manager up from their seat and immediately stumbled back. Sweat caked her face as she doubled over, panting. She looked up with wary eyes at the unmoving, red-coated manager above her, oblivious to her plight.
… Maybe the tension birthed from the five’s disappearance was just getting to all of them.
She cleared her throat and bowed her head, twirling the axe between her fingers once again. “Right, Dante. Don’t want to get tied up here. I should…”
“[Catch up with the others]?”
“… Y-Yeah,” she nodded, her chest tightening from the palpable awkwardness.
“[Don’t let me string you along, then],” Dante said, waving the Sinner off. “[I’ll be right down].”
Rodya backed away slowly, gingerly running her fingers down her chest. Perhaps the trepidation stemming from their bizarre situation had begun to strain her psyche, as she thought that the folds of her jacket felt a bit… off. Part of her wanted to bring it up with one of the other Sinners, perhaps have their assurances that they’d just been a little too overworked the past few weeks.
But only the empty street met her wanting gaze.
Left with little more than her thoughts to assuage her worries, Rodya was the fifth to descend into the murky depths of the abandoned branch.
At long last, it was just the manager and the final Sinner hovering over them. Dante turned their eyeless gaze back to the smiling Hong Lu, tilting their clockhead in wonder. “[Anything else you want to add, Hong Lu]?”
“Nothing you don’t already know, my dear Dante,” Hong Lu chuckled, wrapping his arm around their solemn companion. “It was quite the aspirational plan that you suggested. I’m quite surprised, really. Weren’t you worried that the others would hear?”
“[Maybe if Faust was here, or Ishmael or Outis],” the manager replied with a shrug. The two made their way to the howling entrance, Hong Lu’s arms still intertwined with Dante’s. “[But if it’s just Yi Sang that I had to worry about, I could see if I could get away with trying to pass on a message to one person].”
“It seems your gamble paid off, Dante,” Hong Lu said with a smile, leaning in and planting a soft kiss on the side of the clock head. Dante tried to wrench their arm free, a fool’s errand considering the Sinners, as average as they were compared to the paragons of the City, still greatly outmatched him in terms of raw strength alone. What could have been construed as a glare was shot at Hong Lu, the oblivious Sinner shrugging it off with his glimmering, pink eyes fixed on Dante. “And Rodya seems rather amicable too, doesn’t she?”
“[I think she notices something’s off],” Dante noted, resigning themselves to Hong Lu’s persistent tagalong. “[But I suppose it doesn’t matter].”
After all, not even the most immaculately crafted plans were perfect, but such irregularities were to be expected. Besides, even if any of the Sinners harbored any concerns, the necessary precautions had already been made. Perhaps if it was just the five against the seven there would be some genuine concerns that the ribbons so exquisitely tying everything together could be undone.
But the seeds of desire had already long since flown to their new flowers.
Dante absentmindedly adjusted the collar of their jacket. Nestled snugly underneath their black undershirt, a faint, shimmering pink ribbon wriggled and receded as the dim, red emergency lights of the stairwell hit it, quickly vanishing down Dante’s chest.
Chapter 2: Silken Autocracy
Chapter Text
Something felt off.
Angela wasn’t quite sure how to describe the sensation. Roland had related to her the idea of a “gut feeling,” a visceral instinct that gnawed at the back of your head and warned you of something that was amiss. According to him, the intuition of any person, let alone an experienced Fixer like himself, was something that should be heeded before anything else, likening it to a sixth sense that could pick out hidden dangers that your other senses couldn’t.
Now, when the unamused library director was explained this phenomena, she met it with a shrug and a dismissive cocking of her eyebrow. Exactly what sort of threat could someone “sense” but not see or hear? The best she could fathom is some existential crisis that someone had forgotten about until it was too late to address, but such a problem was limited to those of flesh and blood. She was quite adept at remembering things; a bit too much, as a couple thousand years of eternal suffering could attest. She wasn’t like some two-bit Syndicate grunt that forgot about some gas leak in their decrepit apartment or some layabout Fixer who forgot to put the takeout from HamHamPangPang in the fridge.
But after a month of silence from the City, she began to understand what Roland meant.
The pale librarian paced endlessly in her office, her once orderly desk strewn with a myriad of books detailing the records of the many different factions they’d encountered. From the handwritten scribblings of Roland and Gebura as they provided personal accounts of Office and Syndicate alike to the newly reformed books of those foolish enough to once again accept the trials of the Library, each provided a wealth of knowledge that some of the more ambitious Fixers may have tried their luck for. Liu, Zwei, Hana, Blade Lineage, Stray Dogs, Thumb, the meticulous machinations of these organizations and intelligence of its most prestigious members were laid out in a messy pile, a treasure trove that no doubt would greatly affect the balance of power in the City.
And yet not a single invitation had been accepted.
She pursed her lips, her golden eyes glazing over the opened pages once again. She’d read through each of their contents thrice now, the magics of the Library haven woven a number of invitations that would have enticed a small army by this point. In some ways she understood why none had dared ventured into the halls of the Library to whisk away one of its books; whispers among the City related it as tantamount to suicide, a Star of the City fallen not due to its own inadequacies, but rather from the direct intervention of the Head itself. Yet even then, occasionally the Library would get the one curious Fixer who wished to test their luck. Other times, familiar faces would find their way back into the Library, some to reminiscence, others to spar with an always welcoming Gebura or Roland. Angela vividly remembered her disgust accommodating their childish whims, enduring Mirinae’s teasing chide that, technically speaking, it would be well within their rights for people to simply come in to browse and peruse the Library’s contents so long as they didn’t attempt to abscond with its contents. Loathe as she was to simply let the people of the City simply waltz into the Library as they wished, neither patron nor librarian felt interested in stopping them.
She ran a hand through her teal hair, nursing a nonexistent but nonetheless irritating headache. Was this just another regret she had to live with, an emptied library when she had once resisted people simply treating her spire as some glorified café and gym? She slumped back into her chair and rested her head against the end of the deck, rattling the processors in her head for answers. Her violet dress, once smooth and spotless, was crinkled and stained as sleepless nights and several useless cups of coffee and tea alike had taken their toll on the girl. Sleep was not a necessity for her, after all, and she’d taken full advantage of that – her fruitless endeavors to bring another visitor to the Library marking their fifteenth day.
She clasped her hands together and rested her head atop them, staring at the closed door that marked the entrance to her office. Four days into her sleepless pursuit, Roland had urged her to take a break, suggesting that she was simply paranoid over nothing. Nine days in, the entirety of the Asiyah and Briah layers had crammed themselves into her office, trying to pry the books out of her clammy hands while loudly insisting she sleep. Twelve days in, even Hokma had tried to provide his counsel to the frazzled girl buried under a mountain of books, half-heartedly remarking that even her metallic face was beginning to grow bags under her eyes.
Every time, she would reply the same. “I don’t need to sleep and my affairs are my own. Please leave me alone.”
Now, she was not even left with her patrons for company. Drowning in books, she had naught but the gnawing anxiety welling in her facsimile of a heart to keep her company, left to endlessly question the deserted island her precious Library had suddenly become.
She cast her eyes toward one of the books – Cinq, was it? – and brought it over, consigning herself to another uninteresting night of repeating the same information over and over again. As she flipped the book to the first chapter, she paused, a light flashing in her eyes. A nostalgic sensation washing over her, leaving the exhausted girl with a faint smile.
Yes, these were the moments leading up to the signing of an invitation. She closed her eyes as she sank into her chair, deciding against delaying the recollection just so she could fetch Roland. The cramped office around her swam and distorted, leaving only blackness in her vision.
A pitch, empty void, with little more than a harrowing wind that roared about in its endless abyss. Nothing but an inky blackness stretching out to an absent horizon, with neither sky nor sea nor star to guide her eyes. Not a voice, not a light, not a single hand that she could reach out and grasp to keep her company.
Nothing but the faintest tint of pink.
She shot up in her chair. The recollection had abruptly cut off, as though the arcane forces of the Library had their spying eyes gouged out. Not that whatever she had seen had brought her any information… or any solace.
The back of her arms tingled. Roland had commented on the sensation once when all of the librarians had come together for a movie night. He called it “goosebumps,” a sensation borne from immense fear or anxiety. She remembered how he laughed at her for getting so spooked at a simple horror B film, her face somehow paler than usual as she sunk behind Malkuth and Hod as the two girls clung to each other for support.
Goosebumps. She had goosebumps at the thought of greeting the guests that had materialized at the entrance of the Library.
She shook her head, massaging her arms until the discomfort was rubbed away. The hell was she worried about, anyway? If it was truly a problem that neither she nor the patrons couldn’t handle, she could just kick them out with a snap of her fingers. This wasn’t back then, when the light overflowing the Library had robbed her of her mechanical shell and the omnipotence she held over the Library’s powers, nor was it when she and its halls were drained, left kneeling before the suffocating aura of an Arbiter and a Claw.
She had all the cards in her hand. Nothing could possibly harm her.
Right?
She scoffed and rose up from her chair, filing a mental note to root through her memory and partition the logic that could question her guaranteed success. With a faint snap of her fingers, she vanished into the ephemeral halls of the Library.
The time it took for Angela to teleport from one part of the Library to another was a second. As she once described it to Roland, all she needed to do was think about a place that she had to be and she would find herself there instantly. Chesed often made a joke that, to her, Angela just thought the Library was one big room that shifted according to what she needed it to be at that given moment.
Yet it felt off when she stumbled into the lobby. Perhaps it was the lights, dimmed to the point where a faint shadow was cast over the hallway. Or maybe it was her fatigue, tricking her into thinking a minute had past where she’d traveled in awkward silence when in reality she’d arrived far sooner. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of her feelings and no doubt discussing them with the Sephirot would result in the same, tired suggestions she’d heard so many times before. She rolled her eyes at the dreaded thought of suffering through one of Malkuth’s lectures once again and snapped her fingers, directing her attention to the lights above.
Nothing.
She bit her lip, snapping her fingers again. The lights seemed to brighten a little, something akin to flicking a match to light up an underground cavern. Much like such a meager flame, it did little to chase away the shadows permeating the hallway. She remembered that, in her time at Lobotomy Corporation, occasionally the lights would go out and their corresponding bulbs would have to be replaced.
Maybe she could have Roland do that.
A muffled footstep caught the director’s attention and she spun around, holding the small book she always carried along with her out like some defensive ward. The newcomer, too, yelped and jumped back, frantically putting their hands up. The familiar brown dress, laced with white and adorned with a small, tiger’s eye gemstone, could barely be made out under the dim lights, but those familiar details, accompanied by that soft and comforting voice, caused Angela to sigh. “Hod, is that you?”
“A-Angela,” Hod said, quickly folding her hands together and bowing her head. “Sorry. I was a bit thirsty and I went to get a drink from Chesed’s floor and on my way back, I… um, felt that we finally had a guest after so long.”
True, each of the librarians had a partial connection to the Library through Angela and they, in turn, could sense some of its inner workings, although they were completely unable to utilize its powers outside of manifesting EGO. Angela returned her book to her side and looked around, knowing already the answer to her question. “… Were you the only one to come down?”
“I guess so,” Hod said quietly. “It is late at night. I think most of the other Sephirah are sleeping. You’d probably be able to wake them if you sent the guests off to their floors but-“
“And Roland?”
Hod shrugged, an awkward frown on her face. “Maybe he’s asleep too, Angela? We haven’t received a guest properly in a few months now. Besides, you’re usually the one to greet them.”
“… I guess I usually am,” Angela replied, turning back to the obscured hallway. Lingering toward the very end, the pale librarian could barely make out the silhouettes of two young girls, the tallest just a hair above her. Enshrouded by the pervading darkness, the two had to proceed deeper in before Angela could make out the crimson capes of the Liu Association, slightly wrinkled with the gold embellishments crinkled and occasionally cut off by the errant hole. The blonde Fixer was the first to step forward, nervously combing back the stray locks jutting from her ponytail before she bowed her head. “Ms. Angela, a pleasure to meet you again.”
“Yes, I remember you from a couple of your visits,” Angela said, parsing her memory for the name. “You were one of the Fixers under… Lowell.”
“Yes. Cecil, Ms. Angela. I assume you remember me and my coworker, Mei?”
The smaller girl nodded her head at Cecil’s gesture, the small buns that normally adorned her head missing as no golden hairbands could be spotted among her disheveled black hair. She threw up a smile as she locked eyes with Angela, a disarmingly wide one at that. Though she’d not paid too much mind to the guests that frequented the Library, she had seen the two girls that had worked with Lowell on occasion, the Fixers spending most of their time at Hod’s increasingly popular book club or at Chesed’s makeshift café. If she remembered correctly, Mei was the more excitable of the two, often striking up some cheery conversation with the assistant librarians when alone. Apparently while she was busy sorting books in the general works floor, Mei had once challenged Gebura to a 1v1 to “get back at her,” leading to rather predictable results.
The smile Mei gave her was… off. Like someone who was trying their hardest to show utmost sincerity and joy in a life devoid of such happiness. It crawled under Angela’s skin when she tried to remember where she’d seen such a sight before.
… Right. She remembered it all too well in the lonely executive manager room at Lobotomy Corporation, her ghoulish smile reflected back at her in the vacant monitors.
Angela cleared her throat and gestured to the stairwells leading upward. “I suppose you two know the routine. Are you here to take out a book or merely browse?”
The two paused, their vacant eyes staring back at Angela. That unnerving sensation Roland had spoken about before, her "intuition," practically screamed at her to run, to summon that possessive teddy bear to rip their heads off, to throw them out of the Library and rescind the invitations that she'd so carelessly sent out. Her hook had finally snagged a fish, the creature she'd so desperately wished to gaze upon nothing more than a nightmare from a far flung oceanic trench.
But she stopped herself. Chastised herself, even. She was tired. The two Fixers had done nothing but show her common courtesy, and she, as the director and librarian of her role's namesake, owed them nothing less than the same. She cleared her throat and buried her doubts within several folders, feigning a smile. "... I'm sorry, do you wish to t-"
"We were here merely to escort her, Angela," Cecil said curtly, walking up and brushing past Angela. "She wishes to speak to you."
"She…?"
Another pair of footsteps. The pale librarian blinked, met with a bizarre… plopping noise, slightly off from the clicking of heels against the stone stairs ascending the Library. A flurry of images ran through her mind as she tried to recall where she heard that noise. Amidst the many guests that made their return to the Library, the various arguments that stirred up between the Sephirah over trivial nonsense, the bustling assistant librarians as they transported books between the different floors… there. Once again the vivid recollection of that movie night flashed through her head. The evenings filled with screams and cheers alike as the Floor of Art hosted a double feature of “City blockbusters,” as Chun and Chesed both excitedly called them. The long night a peaceful lull as Tiphereth hosted a smaller get together with the female Sephirot. She remembered the young girl scoffing at Binah’s and Gebura’s notable absence, the gaiety of Malkuth and the timid voice of Hod as they shuffled into the room, their formal dresses shed for loosely hanging pajamas. The soft patter of their bare feet as they made their way onto Tiph’s large couch, the girl tossing cases left and right while mumbling about catching up on that one cool mecha anime.
Patter. Yes, that’s what it was. A set of bare feet walking into the dim hallway lighting, ribbons wound around the sole and spiraling past her ankle and up the exposed leg. A young, naked girl, her skin just a tad shade darker than the remarkably pale Angela, with calloused hands and a freckled face, with an intricate assortment of pink ribbons wrapped around her in what Angela could only conceive as a parodic insult to clothing. A ribbon slid underneath her plump thighs masked a set of pink, bulbous plugs that stuck out from underneath her, the vibrating protrusions caked in a clear, viscous fluid that Angela could neither identify nor felt the desire to do so. The feelings that rushed through Angela first and foremost were confusion and disgust, this… deviant intruder that seemed ripped out of some poorly written parody defacing her Library with her filthy footsteps. Yet, as the red bear headband came into view, tying her voluminous, crimson mane into an equally familiar ponytail, the disgust was quickly smothered, replaced with a facsimile of the noble Funeral of the Dead Butterflies flung out from her outstretched book. The noble gunslinger, draped in black and brandishing his twin-colored pistols, stared down the enigmatic girl with his expressionless glare, held back only by Angela’s still-raised arm.
“Now, is that any way for you to treat an old friend, Angela?” the girl asked, cupping her mouth with a childish giggle. A trio of ribbons flitted from her shoulders and mimed the laughter like some bizarre, silken chimeric hydra. Angela almost, on instinct, shot her hand down to direct her EGO to gun down the sickening creature staining her Library, holding back only by the skin of her gritted teeth and her nearly broken restraint. “I just wanted to pay you a visit, see how things were holding up, tell you how I was doing. Me, personally, I’ve been doing well.”
The redhead’s fingers touched above her chest and slid between her breasts, gliding across her stomach and finally stopping at her crotch, fingering the plug shoved deep in her vagina. “This body is so… mmmmph… fantastic. I forgot what all of this felt like. It’s truly… mmmmm…” The girl’s face grew red as her pink eyes rolled up, momentarily seized by pleasure. “Ah… hehe, yes, this girl’s body is lovely.”
“Carmen,” Angela said curtly, each syllable laced with venom. “I don’t… know how you’re taking form outside of the Light, but I don’t want to see you, especially in such a vulgar form. Get out.”
“Now, now, Angela, I’m sure we can discuss this like civilized individuals,” Carmen cooed, sliding a finger along her vessel’s hair. “How about we sit down with Daniel and have a spot of te-“
A violent bang silenced the girl’s haughty speech. Her expansive smile softened, now a dismissive pout as she ran a finger across the redhead’s singed locks. Just a few inches shy of her head, the wall behind Carmen was scorched a charcoal black, the incinerating bullet shot from Solemn Lament so graciously sparing the ribbon-enveloped girl’s face from splattering into several bloody chunks. The girl held her smile, even though beads of sweat could faintly be gleaned rolling down the sides of her face.
“Roland called that a warning shot,” Angela said, meeting Carmen with a glare. “I’m told it’s to be polite to people you want to leave. If I have to ask you again, I’ll make sure to throw this decapitated body of yours out the door.”
“That new friend of yours has made quite the impression on you,” Carmen observed with a giggle. “Becoming quite comfortable with all of the anachronisms of the City. I’ve made a few friends myself, Angela.”
Angela lowered her hand, the manifested EGO raising its guns once again. “Kill he-“
“Angela!”
Angela froze and spun around, the distressed cry of the brunette patron librarian momentarily seizing her attention. Twin pairs of discarded shoes and stripped socks led up to the struggling Sephirah forced to her knees, her arms yanked behind her back and firmly locked under Cecil’s armpit. Behind her, Mei flicked the final strip from Hod’s remaining shoe and pulled it off, sliding her hands back toward her stockings and yanking them off of the panicked girl as well. The Liu Fixer’s eyes glittered with an unbroken pink as they fell onto Hod’s bare feet, her fingers dancing on the quivering soles. The reflexive laughter that was choked out of the brunette belied her terror as she yanked her head, her eyes fixed on the strands of pink thread that descended from Mei’s sleeves.
“Hod!” Angela cried, redirecting the gunslinging EGO toward the restrained librarian. “Let go of he-“
A sharp pain shot up Angela’s wrist. The Funeral of the Dead Butterflies dissolved into a pale smattering of light as the director was thrust back, hitting the ground with a strangled gasp. Her eyes flew back to Carmen’s vessel, her arm outstretched with a long, thin ribbon loosed from her wrist, the errant tentacle coiled around Angela’s own. Carmen flitted her fingers up and, ardently following her orders, the ribbon grew taut before pulling itself back and up, dragging the floundering Angela behind. The pale librarian snarled and clung to the stone beneath her with her free hand while driving her toes into the ground, succeeding only in uprooting several of the tiles while ripping the white silk of her glove apart. She grunted as she was hoisted into the air, eyes fluttering between the ribbon wound around her wrist and sliding down her arm and her small book lying on the ground, its pages squished and crumpled against the floor. Another of those infernal ribbons slid around its spine and plucked the book from the ground, pulling it back the smirking Carmen.
“You’ve grown soft, Angela,” Carmen said, a mocking glimmer in her pink eyes. “I didn’t think that simply threatening one of my past colleagues would be enough to disarm you. And Michelle too, of all people. I’m sure you’re aware of what she did, aren’t you?”
Hod’s eyes widened, a horrifying realization spreading across her face as the girl’s voice, low and gruff and laced with shreds of mockery and contempt, carried that charisma and confidence that she could never shake, even two lives later. “… Carmen?”
The vessel’s eyes flicked toward the patron librarian, gazing onto the kneeling girl like an ant. “So she does remember me. It’s been so long, Michelle.” She ran her hands down her naked body, giggling softly to herself. “I apologize if this form is rather salacious, but I had to make some compromises in taking a new body. Of course, perception is relative, so I suppose it’ll be less of a concern once I’ve finished things here.”
“Finished?” Hod shook her head, a pale sweat running down her face. “Carmen, you can’t-“
A ribbon curled around Hod’s neck and pulled tight, cutting off her tearful protests as she wheezed and gasped for air. Angela grit her teeth and feverishly tore at the ribbon suspending her in the air with her free hand, her efforts met with the silk molting and splitting apart at the mere touch of her pale fingertips, the newly liberated strands entangling her extended wrist until both her arms were haplessly strung up above her head.
“Gnnngh!” Angela snarled, haplessly kicking in the air as her eyes focused on the pink ribbons lashed around her wrists. She vividly recalled a throwaway incident in the Floor of Language where several of the assistant librarians and a few of the Sephirot were gathered around one of Gebura’s stained couches, cheering on the lounging redhead as she thrashed several would-be upstarts in a simple arm-wrestling match. She remembered her face scrunching up in confusion as she saw Roland wince in pain as Gebura effortlessly smashed his arm onto the table, the Grade 1 Fixer hastily concocting some throwaway excuse at the pale librarian’s inquiry before suddenly challenging her to the same competition. If it were another time, she might’ve even laughed at the fleeting recollection of the girl slamming Roland’s hand through the table at Gebura’s signal, Roland howling in pain and nursing his dislocated shoulder amongst the laughing librarians. Though she’d never been one for brute strength, Gebura observed that Angela’s mechanical frame likely made her on the stronger end of the available staff.
And yet, despite Gebura’s assurances, the vicegrip the ribbons suspended her in wrapped around her arms with such strength Angela may have believed that someone encased her hands in concrete. Her eyes followed the circling Carmen with contemptuous rage, the naked redhead mindful to linger just barely out of reach of Angela’s flailing feet. Carmen’s eyes ran up and down the wriggling director, mouthing her thoughts silently to herself and occasionally pausing as her eyes lingered on some unspoken, choice parts. As she completed a rotation, she drew up close to Angela as she closed her raised fist, the ribbon slacking and causing Angela to lower until she was only a few feet from the ground.
“Hmmm, I never did get a good chance to look at this body that Ayin constructed,” Carmen mused, a duo of ribbons following behind her as faux heads as she tilted her head in wonder, occasionally dipping to the side as a wild kick from the seething girl failed to connect. As Angela’s flailing and pathetic attempts at resistance reached its fourth pitiful attempt, Carmen clicked her tongue and snapped her fingers, the two ribbons surrounding her nodding dutifully before burrowing into the ground and springing back up, encircling Angela’s ankles before diving back down. The pale librarian gasped and grunted in pained as her legs were spread open, defenseless to the inquisitive girl’s fingers as they ran up her torn leggings. Carmen pursed her lips as she shot Angela a dirty smirk, leaning down and resting her vessel’s head on Angela’s knee.
“How terribly rude of you, Angela,” Carmen cooed, shaking her head and wagging her finger at the restrained director. “I just wanted to admire Ayin’s handiwork. He really did try his hardest but… hm, that haircut is quite different.”
“I wasn’t a fan of the ponytail,” Angela said pointedly, trying to wrest her wrists free to no avail. “Every time I saw it, it made me feel like I was looking at someone else.”
“So you went with this ghastly haircut instead, hm?” Carmen replied, adjusting her hair pin as she straightened herself and slid her hand up Angela’s thigh, finally catching the edge of the girl’s leggings. She grinned and pulled them down, exposing the stark, white leg underneath. Carmen marveled over the sight like an entranced Wing scientist staring at the secrets of a fallen Wing, poking and prodding Angela’s bare skin with the tip of her finger. “How interesting. It’s so cool to the touch, but the tenderness and elasticity feels very human. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was touching a corpse.”
“G-Get off of me…” Angela stammered, her face flushing a bright red as Carmen’s hands tightened around her inner thigh.
“What’s this?” Carmen smirked, her eyes burrowing into the blushing girl. “You can feel embarrassment too? And here I thought that you had rejected your bid for humanity when the Library fell. … Or was Ayin’s little experiment more fruitful than even he ever dreamed?”
If Angela thought that ripping off her own leg would save her from Carmen’s prodding fingers, she’d have gladly torn it free from her hip. Yet, even as the thought crossed her mind, an equal, foreboding helplessness settled on the girl, a disquieting despair that should have been completely foreign to her, the girl who resided in her own manifested EGO. A plume of black feathers flashed in her mind’s eye as she cast her gaze skyward, focusing on the ribbons entwined around her wrists.
That defiant pink rocked from side to side, unphased by Angela’s cold stare. The pale librarian’s eyes widened, the severity of her predicament finally dawning on her. Carmen giggled as her fingers along the strap of Angela’s heel, unbuckling it and sliding the shoe off with a smile. “What’s wrong, Angela? Are you surprised that I resonate with your EGO? You are, after all, a reflection of myself.”
“T-That means nothing.” Angela spluttered, struggling to maintain a calm and steady breath. “The other Sephirot will-“
“Will what, Angela?” Carmen asked, moving to Angela’s other foot. “Go on, then. How are my beloved little coworkers faring?”
The brazen confidence exuded by the enthralled redhead gloating in front of her caused Angela to pause, the dread and trepidation that had been hounding her since a month ago once again bubbling to the surface of her mechanical heart. As she closed her eyes, she could see the emptied hallways of the Library flickering in her blackened vision, pillars of smoke accompanied by crashes and explosions, bits of rubble and debris shaking loose from the ceiling and clattering to the ground. Amidst the overturned smelting pots, a thrall of Hana Fixers and assistant librarians alike surged across the weathered metal bridge, their empty, pink eyes fixated on an enraged Gebura. Even consigned to the flat of her blade and her free, closed fist, body after body went soaring through the air or crumpled into battered craters on the ground, only to rise once more as the ribbons curled around their arms and across their faces animated their bodies once more. The Red Mist surged forward, barreling through the mindless horde like a speeding truck, yet even as she cleared a wide birth between her and the captivated legions surrounding her, her body could not help but begin to lag, strands of pink beginning to curl around her wrists and creep up her arms like a parasite.
The unamused, former Arbiter shredded the ribbons curling around her wrist with a snap of her fingers, a plethora of fairies leaping from her hands and tearing through the silken pink. Opposite her, gracefully gliding down the stone bridge atop pink heels, Zena twirled and flashed a mocking smile to Binah, loosing a thick, electrified bolt toward her from out outstretched palm. Binah nimbly sidestepped the first and the second, parrying the third with a golden pillar that snuffed its glittering trail under its archaic runes. Her faint smile as the singularity evaporated into mist flickered and died as the remnants of Zena’s projectile coalesced in the thick air of the mock twilight, forming into a tangle of pink ribbons that snaked toward the surprised librarian. She huffed and dug her heel into the ground, an obsidian wave emerging from the rippling stone before her feet and impaling the tentacles as they attempted to encircle her host. Twenty became ten as the golden edge of Binah’s wave-like barrier sunk back into the depths of the Library with the ribbons in tow, and ten became one as a string of fairies surged from Binah’s hands and skewered them one after the other, disintegrating them into fleeting fabric that evaporated into nothing but dull light.
Yet one was still one, encircling around Binah’s arm and gripping tightly. A pall of darkness descended on the irritated girl as she raised her free arm to skewer the ribbons that had tried to take hold of her once again only for the fleeing ribbons to drag the infected limb sharply behind Binah’s back. She huffed as the dark cloak that hung loosely from her shoulders was wrenched free and craned her head back to catch a glimpse of the ensnaring ribbons. She just needed a moment to catch that shimmering pink and tear it free with a snap of her fingers.
Just like Zena only needed a moment to entangle Binah’s remaining arm with yet another pink ribbon.
The blonde patron librarian fell to the ground, her baton falling free from her fingers and disappearing into the inky depths of the yawning abyss below the carpeted bridge. She rolled over and scrambled back, her heart ready to burst from her throat as an amalgamation of City dwellers and librarians alike shuffled toward her, pink ribbons curling away from their bodies like the worn skin of some humanoid serpent. She gulped and desperately tried not to hyperventilate as a familiar, white-haired girl broke away from the shambling hordes, her red eyes dyed a velvety pink yet her manic stare still remaining. She brandished her twin knives, pink ribbons adorning the hilt and winding down the girl’s arms.
“Lookie here, it’s poor little Tiphereth,” Myo cackled, the ribbons wrapped around her face and down her neck all wriggling in their shared laughter. “What’s wrong? Poor little Angela forgot to give you a chaperone? Don’t worry. I’ll be like your reliable little sister and I’ll make sure you’re all snug and warm.”
Tiphereth leapt to her feet and ran. Her hurried, frantic breaths drowned out the ethereal laughter of the enthralled horde behind her, the girl left with nothing but her clammy hands and her sweat-drenched face as she rounded the end of the bridge, tore past several bookcases, and clambered up several staircases. For every panicked footstep and every fumbling trip as she hit the floor again and again, an accompanying, thundering thud would echo behind her, drawing closer and close as the encircling tendrils savored the delectable fear dripping from their fleeting prey. Around the bookshelf nestled on the corner of the second floor, Tiphereth would screech to a halt, paralyzed by the ribbon-wrapped hand of an enthralled librarian crawling out from behind the shelves. To her right, several Seven Fixers skittered across the wooden railing, their pink tentacles nipping at the chance to catch the blonde girl’s exposed ankles. She yelped and broke to the left as a frenzied claw from behind her went wide, kicking over bookshelves and toppling small countertops as she went.
She wished it did something, anything. Even if it was just a placebo effect to calm the nerves in her head, she hoped and begged that she was putting some distance between her and the oncoming masses. The entranced horde may as well have been a lava flow or a speeding steam roller, effortlessly plowing forward with their hands outstretched, yearning to adopt the young girl into their fold. She slammed her hands over her ears in a last-ditch effort to stifle their maniacal laughter and fled to the last refuge left to her in this crumbling Library. Maybe Roland would have joked it was a cliché to hide somewhere so obvious, making some snide comment about how if things were truly as dire as a horror movie made it out to be, you’d be better off taking a risk slipping past the psychopathic murder and trying to go for the exit instead.
But as each floor above and below her was rocked with explosions and roared with the last, hopeless resistance of the Library, Tiphereth felt no shame in retreating to her room. The small, wooden door slammed shut behind her, the simple twist lock providing little more wistful hopes and dreams. She spied a small bookshelf just next to it and – with admittedly very little effort – wrenched it in front of the door. The small couch lining one of the walls came soon after, and a few nightstands shortly thereafter. As she kicked the third one into place, its dark wood clashing with the assortment of yellow couches and bean bags and the rustic bookcase rattling in place, she finally fell to her knees and cast her gaze to the small, queen-sized bed next to her. Part of her wondered if adding it to the makeshift barricade might be enough to spare her from the tentacles’ entangling grasp.
Another part of her urged her to hide under it.
No time to dwell over the specifics, Tiphereth thought. If she was stuck in here, the least she could do is buy some time and hope that Angela or another of the Sephirot would come and bail her out. I mean they had Gebura and Binah on their side, after all. All she needed to do was just pile enough stuff onto the door and-
Crash.
The girl’s thoughts were shattered as she felt a tendril coil around her neck. She choked and wheezed as she was pulled back, away from the comfort of her bed, away from the last vestiges of hope that she desperately clung to as her fingers clawed at the carpet, toward the shattered barricade that had been so easily brushed aside by the hungering, pink tentacles. It wasn’t enough; she knew even if she piled every single book in the Library in front of her door, nothing would have stopped their relentless advance. Panic turned to despair as she felt her body begin to freeze up, paralyzed by that sullying caress of pink curling up her neck and down her collar.
Malkuth gasped and, with the last strength still remaining in her withering body, clutched at the ribbon coiled around her neck. Her body smashed against the splintered coffee table, the mesmerized three Index Proxies just barely out of reach of her flailing legs, she was less than one of the many patrons that had ascended the Library to one of the City’s many Stars. Less even than Sephirah that had rained down the light upon a dreary and hopeless City. In that moment, encircled by a myriad of librarians and City dwellers alike all engrossed in a pink stupor, she was a plain and ordinary girl, a simple drop in the ocean of this EGO’s ecstatic conquest. Abject hopelessness and despair flooded her mind as the ribbons meticulously crawled over her body, pillars of pink soaring up and tearing her dress off. Her red headband was flung from her disheveled hair, a pink ribbon sliding into its place as librarian and Fixer alike closed in on the struggling girl, ribbons leaping from their listless bodies even as their emptied grins chilled Malkuth’s soul. A faint tint of pink clouded the girl’s brown eyes as she tore away at the ribbons encircling her arms and tightening around her chest, each silken thread torn hissing in anger before descending again on her bare skin. Her vision blurred as tears streamed from her pink eyes, the pink ribbons wrapping around her body and pulling tight bombarding her with… euphoria, pleasure, a comfort that she’d only felt back when that one, smiling brunette had been by her side. Her jaw fell slack as the last iota of sanity that Malkuth had was sanded away, mummified upon layers upon layers of pink thread even as fingers closed around her shoes and tore them free.
By the time her eyes took in the pink heels that were sliding over her bare feet, the voices screaming at her to still kick and bite and tear at the ribbons wound around her chest had become little more than a faint whisper, a spring breeze lost amidst the fading light of a City’s twilight. Her back arched and an excitable yelp sprung from her lips as ribbon upon ribbon slid further down, winding back on each other until they formed a slick, bulbous head pressed against her ass and vagina. Softly, as if screaming from an entirely different world, she thought she could hear one final plea for her to snap out of it, to scream and cry and flail, anything to wrench her body away from the pleasure beginning to seep into her pores.
But whatever message may have been hoped to conveyed was long as a rapturous moan of pleasure ripped from Malkuth’s mouth, her eyes a solid and unwavering pink. Her body writhed and her hips gyrated, easing in the inquisitive tendrils that poked at her most sensitive parts. Her face looked down her naked chest and toward her exposed crotch, cheeks flushed pink with a burning passion, as her hands slid down her hips to-
Angela gasped as the undignified charade shattered before her unseeing eyes, returning her to her peril at the entrance of the Library. She hung loosely in the air, drained of the last drops of energy she’d had used to put up even the illusion of resistance. She truly now what Roland had meant at the climax of their ascent into the reaches of the City’s starry sky, face twisted in grief and longing as he coldly stated his intent for vengeance, as he mirthlessly recalled the corpse of his beloved wife amidst a broken and shattered City district.
It was only by the most fleeting hope that he could find the one responsible, that one elusive star in his lightless sky, that Roland did not sink into despair, that he did not simply crumble and wither away like a flower deprived of its sun. She, too, reached for her own bygone dream back then, a freedom and liberation from her wretched and pointless cycle. It was always there, just out of reach, so tantalizingly close to her outreached fingertips, enough that she would brave the dredges of this accursed City itself just to even feel it under her metallic fingertips.
But as her head hung from her shoulders, as her golden eyes caught the sight of nine listless shadows descending the Library’s entrance, their familiar visages wreathed in pink and their once carefree and vibrant smiles stretched to a parodic horror, she could no longer see the faintest glimmers of the star. As she felt Carmen’s fingertips dig into her thigh and the vessel’s lips press against her ear, the pale librarian could do nothing but whimper.
This time, there would not be another cycle.
“What’s this, I see?” Carmen’s voice cooed through the coarse voice of her vessel. “You seem so downtrodden. So that little facsimile of a heart of yours can be broken, can it?”
“Please…” Angela meekly begged, the crystalline glimmer of tears running down her cheeks. “Let them go, Carmen. They have nothing to do with-“
“They have everything to do with this, little Angela,” Carmen cut her off, a euphoric grin stretched far wider than the redhead’s face should have been able to accommodate. “So many people have repressed their desires so much that the little, flickering embers they have left in their shell of a heart are barely enough to sustain their own EGO. The Cityfolk are blind, Angela, so lost in the monotony, the banality, the utter dreary emptiness of this hellish metropolis. The number of people with the conviction to pursue their passions, to realize their dreams, to truly embrace their inner self… I’ve found that the candidates likely to embrace my distortion have become rather slim as of late.”
The vessel’s eyes closed, opening once again as a shade of brilliant, malignant red. “But this… evolution, this aberration of my precious EGO… opened an opportunity, Angela. Much like how you seized at your chance at freedom, I will not let this one chance slip through my fingertips.” Again she smiled, threw her head back and laughed as the ribbons unfurled from her shoulders one after another, the multiheaded, silken hydra all cackling in muted unison with their host. “The City could not stop me from awakening its children. And now…”
She slipped her finger under Angela’s chin, lifting the forlorn librarian’s head up so her eyes were level with those demonic, red orbs. “Now, sweet little Angela, there’s just one loose end left. So let’s make the most of our time together.”
Carmen tilted her head to the side and smiled, her eyes returning to an enraptured pink, as the ribbons fell onto the suspended Angela one after the other. If, at one point, Carmen had thought to show some level of restraint or elegance in her work, such frivolities were finally abandoned, the many pink tentacles skewering Angela’s dress and ripping away the velvet cloth as though it were tissue paper. The panicked librarian tried to flail, to beat away the ribbons that so eagerly ate away at her clothes, only for the ribbons wound around her wrists and ankles to pull away in a violent retort, spreading her arms and legs helplessly out and holding firm, completely depriving the girl of any shred of resistance. As what few remaining options left to the director were eviscerated along with her dress, she thought to scream and yell in frustration – a pitiful and ultimately fruitless endeavor. But of course, Carmen would not even leave her this last bout of defiance, a tangle of ribbons quickly forming around Angela’s lips. The girl’s brows furrowed as her eyes fell on the abhorrent formation pressing against her mouth, a large and cylindrical contraption with a bulbous head, stretched wide enough that, as it forced its way through her lips and clenched teeth, she felt her jaw stretch open, a pang of pain shooting through her skull. She coughed, gagged, moaned as a wave of emotions surged through her body, an uncomfortable, tingling warmness running down her throat and through her chest as her tongue pitifully failed to stop the intrusion from forcing itself into her mouth and toward the back of her throat. As its full length filled Angela’s mouth, a myriad of ribbons unfurled from its base and wrapped around the back of her head, locking the protrusion firmly in place.
“Oh, what’s this?” Carmen giggled, running her finger down Angela’s twitching cheek. The moniker “Pale Librarian” was a natural takeaway of her synthetic origins, her skin ordinarily white and cold. Yet, choking down the large, invasive ribbon pressing against her throat, Angela’s face had lit up red with embarrassment, a human reaction foreign to the frantic and flailing girl. “I see even an imitation such as yourself can’t help but be a tad bit flustered when a penis is shoved into her mouth.”
“Mmmmmph…!”
Angela struggled to shake her head, the ribbons tightly wound around her neck and her skull holding her body firmly in place. Carmen maintained a smug, arrogant smirk as her finger pressed into the base of the dildo filling Angela’s mouth, drinking in the whimpering girl’s moans as she felt its massive head press against the back of her throat. Delighting in the tears dripping from her face, Carmen slid her finger down, past her quivering lips, past the ribbons collaring Angela’s neck, across the outline of her exposed collarbone, and finally stopping as she prodded her breast. The ribbons were thorough in their work, expertly plucking away the last bits of cloth that may have shielded the girl until nothing was left but her stark white body. In many ways, Ayin had perfectly encapsulated Carmen’s faded brilliance in Angela’s body, her hips as wide and as curvy as her own and her midriff slim and smooth, almost inviting someone’s hands to glide over it like an immaculate ice rink. Yet, the red sheen of Carmen’s eyes flickered and sparked to life as her hand hovered above Angela’s breasts. Though Carmen’s new body was not her own, her vessel sporting a fair chest bordering on voluptuous and a firm ass that could easily and succulently occupy someone’s wandering hands, she still instinctively grasped one of her breasts with pursed lips, her eyes lingering on Angela’s own. A couple of terms quickly flew to mind – luscious, ripe, bouncing breasts whose faint jiggles as the ribbons curled around Angela’s wriggling body tightened around and in-between her chest only served to accentuate their sheer volume and perfect curvature. Though she loathed to admit it, Carmen could feel her face heating up.
“… My,” Carmen finally said, coughing awkwardly. “I see that Ayin spared no expense in designing you. I feel that some of his choices were, uh…” She cleared her throat once more, her eyes darting away as the foreboding atmosphere exuding from the enigmatic girl seemed to freeze all at once, replaced with a palpable embarrassment. “It does seem like he… took some liberties.”
Slowly, her hand jerking back and forth indecisively, Carmen’s hands caressed Angela’s breasts, her eyes darting away in embarrassment once, twice, thrice, yet always returning to the firm, supple flesh kneaded under her grasping fingers. The soft hums caught in the vessel’s throat soon devolved into a breathless moan as Carmen’s hands slid up and down the librarian’s defenseless chest, mirrored by the gagged whimpers of the teal-haired girl, tears streaking from her eyes as Carmen’s hands tightly gripped her jiggling breasts. Angela, too, moaned – or at least, the strangled gargles coming from her gagged mouth as she struggled with the dildo pressed against her throat may have been her best attempt as a moan – her body rocked with a flurry of emotions she had never experienced, each causing her mind to spin and her thoughts to scatter. Her breaths, a short and disjointed staccato through her nose, came in frantic bursts as she felt her chest twinge and turn both inside and out, the pink ribbons connecting across her naked body one after the other even as the inside of her chest tightened, unable to process the… uncomfortable pleasure assaulting her. She clenched her eyes shut and pulled at the ribbons splaying her limbs out, trying to force herself free even as the silk tightened around her wrists and ankles tightly pulled back, eliciting a pitiful yelp as she felt more and more like a battered doll being dissected by her sadistic owner.
But her eyes shot open she felt the ribbons begin to prod between her legs.
“Ehehe, to think that would get a reaction from you, too,” Carmen giggled, fondling Angela’s breast with one hand while sliding her fingers down her ribbon-wrapped stomach, stopping just short of the girl’s crotch. “Ayin’s handiwork is truly… exquisite.”
“Mmmmmfffffffffffph…!”
True, Angela was completely naïve to the more sensual uses of her lower parts. Of course she wasn’t oblivious to what they were or their function, but the recreational uses she’d heard on occasion from Roland and some of the drunken Sephirot were… confusing at best and utterly pointless at worst. She already derived great satisfaction curling up in her office chair, legs crossed, with a nice book in hand. Exactly what sort of pleasure could come from her own skin that couldn’t be matched by a compelling book or a riveting story? Much like Carmen’s mind dredged up a plethora of terms to describe the feeling of Angela’s breasts against her inquisitive fingers, the pale librarian too was lost in her own head as she struggled to come up with the words. Uncouth, maybe, so brusque and invasive as she felt the firm and phallic tendrils penetrate her. Uncomfortable, too, the foreign invaders instilling in the squirming girl a fullness that she couldn’t adequately describe in anything other than such plain text. Her face scrunched up and her mind screamed as her desperate struggles failed to budge her tethered body even a single inch.
She huffed and bit down on the dildo, suddenly aware of the sweat caking her face. Warm. That was another sensation filling her body. A warm… no, a sudden and inexplicable heat that rushed through her, like every bit of her biological circuitry had gone haywire and ignited. If she could grab her heaving chest and hold herself tight, if she could just smother the flames that were racing under her pale skin, if she could just close her legs and shield herself from this abrasion, this bizarre emotion, this…
Heavenly euphoria.
N-No. The director tried once again to pull her legs together – a futile effort, the ribbons holding her legs apart may as well have been steel. Left with her muffled whimpers and Carmen’s fitful giggles, Angela found no reprieve from the whirlwind of sensations assailing her, her thoughts slowly corrupted one by one as though a vicious malware had wormed its way into her body. The discomfort flooding the lower part of her body, the blood flowing through her face in abject embarrassment as she felt the ribbons tighten around her ass, the immense pleasure that shot through her spine like a dose of Enkephalin as she felt the pink tendrils push through her walls inch by inch. She grunted and exhaled sharply through her nose, little more than a meek fly caught in a pink web as she hopelessly tried to bat away the warmth that crept up her body.
And then the pink tendrils pulled back, just briefly, before thrusting themselves into her defenseless holes.
“Gmmmmmmmmmph!”
Her back arched and her eyes bulged from her head as the sudden, intense pounding may as well have been a lightning bolt striking her down. Her head hung loosely from her shoulders, her disheveled hair clinging to the sides of her cheeks with sweat and tears, as she whimpered and sobbed, drool slipping out from the corners of her mouth and pooling just below her chin. This violation, this manic intrusion that dug into the parties of her body that she’d paid no heed to for so long was… beautiful, rapturous, a sensation she’d felt only once as the One True Book crested her fingertips. Now she understood, she understood the knowing smile Roland would take as he occasionally reminisced about Angelica and how forceful she was in bed. She understood the content laughter Netzach would have when he entertained himself alone, alcohol diluting part of his thoughts and his shame. She understood the twinkle that shone in Hod’s eyes as hers and Gebura’s hands would meet for only a moment, the redhead winking and smirking before mouthing some muted proposal, her eyes sliding down Hod’s chest and toward her trembling waist.
She understood this was wrong and that she had to refocus her mind, wrench back the Library from the haughty Carmen fondling her breasts, that she had to get herself free, free the others, just… get the ribbons off of her… but…
Another sharp thrust and her teeth buried themselves in the dildo, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as a strident, fervent cry forced itself past her gagged mouth. No, no, she didn’t want the ribbons to leave her. The touch of their silken surface as they wove in and out of her, the heat flowing through her hips as she felt herself slowly gyrating back in forth, urging the tentacles further in. This maelstrom of newfound feelings were… tantalizing, intoxicating, the type of pleasure she’d been so interested in even after forgoing her quest. Her legs shuddered as she felt wet droplets splash across her inner thigh, a collection of clear, viscous fluids that dripped from her crotch and ran down her tethered limbs.
“How absolutely fascinating…” Carmen sighed, her fingers pinching one of Angela’s stiff nipples. “Despite being a machine, everything here can be described as nothing short than beautifully human. The way you shake, the way you moan, even…” She smirked as her hand slid between Angela’s legs, nudging the ribbons deeper into her. “Mmmm… everything about you is so… haaaaah…”
The vessel shook her head, her face flushed as red as her luscious, red locks. Instinctively one of her hands flew to her own crotch, gently pushing the plugs sticking out from underneath her with a drawn out moan. Her other hand, once favoring Angela’s chest, clamped onto the shivering librarian’s shoulder, supporting the shaking girl as she, too, struggled to maintain a steady breath. Whether it be a lapse of Carmen’s unflinching control over the EGO or born from a more primal desire, the ribbons forming the gag in Angela’s mouth tore away one after the other, causing the director to spit out the pink thread one after the other.
Only to be met with Carmen’s lips.
All at once, it seemed like the world around the two girls fell quiet. Angela’s body went numb, the last shards of thought still remaining to her dedicated to the tongue now pressing against her lips. Deep down, she knew she should have opened her mouth just to bite down and tear it free from her proselytizing maw. Yet, as if rebelling against the last, rational bastion of thought in her, her tongue flew to meet Carmen’s, the two girls pressing their faces into each other as they drank in the moment, sharing a long and tender kiss accentuated only by the heat of the invasive ribbons between their legs. Carmen drew close to her artificial double, the hand on Angela’s shoulder now wrapped tightly around her back, pressing their chests together as her hand flew to Angela’s crotch and playfully tugged at the tendrils dug deep inside her. As her lips caressed Angela’s, she rhythmically pulled the makeshift plug back and forth, timing it in blissful harmony with the intersection of their tongues until the drool dripping from their chins matched the fluids coating her fingers.
Finally, breathlessly, Carmen was the first to break it off, a thin strand of saliva connecting their lips. Angela stared back with a look that could be half described as wallowing in abject despair, the realization of her sinful display finally dawning on her. The other half, likely weighing on Angela like a disdainful weight, was hungrily, her head still instinctually reaching out to catch Carmen’s. The redheaded vessel pressed a hand to her chest and tried to steady her beating heart, feigning a smug smile as she met Angela’s blank eyes.
“And to think… it only took a few minutes, and already you-“
“P-Please…” Angela whimpered, shaking her head in disbelief. “Carmen, nnnngh… I can’t… please let me go. This… haaaah… I don’t-“
“Relax, my dear little Angela,” Carmen cooed, slipping her finger under Angela’s chin and lifting it up until their faces were level. “Just let it all go.”
“I-I won’t…” Angela managed to splutter, a faint glimmer of defiance in her worn, golden eyes. “C-Carmen… you bitch. This can’t… I won’t… nnnnnnnnmmmph…”
A raspy moan drowned out her protests, the girl slumping in her silken restraints as she felt the pink tendrils methodically penetrate her once again, the sensual euphoria flooding her mind and burying her thoughts. Her vision blurred, the mixture of excitement and exhaustion all numbing her senses save for the heat that surged through her body with each thrust. Deaf to even her own ragged breaths, she failed to catch the slow clicking of heels behind her. A hand wrapped in pink slipped over her shoulder and toward the back of her hair, directing the weeping girl’s head to the side. Even stripped of his suit, his lithe muscles accentuated by the pink ribbons crisscrossing his bare chest and his eyes dyed a deep pink, that same, smug smile face spread across Roland’s face, that immovable poker face that had confounded Angela even now. As his eyes bore into her naked body, she felt her heart stop, left exposed to the one man who had come so close to crushing her greater than any villain that had stepped foot in her precious Library. She swallowed, wishing to every single god that she’d written off after so many boring lectures with Malkuth on her floor that one of them might at least shield the remaining tatters of her dignity from Roland of all people.
“Roland…” she whimpered, unable to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Roland, please…”
“Angela,” Roland’s voice came out in a long, enraptured drawl as he dragged himself toward the bound girl, radiating an intensity she’d not felt since their bout at the climax of the Library’s power. “You know, I had never noticed it until now…”
“Noticed… what?”
His face stretched into an abnormally wide grin, strands of ribbons jutting awkwardly out from the sides of his head. His free hand lurched forward, grappling Angela’s exposed breast and holding it tight. “You and Angelica… I think you two were the same size.”
The girl froze, eyes widened as her reliable, dutiful Servant, the last shred of hope she’d clung onto, closed in on her defenseless lips, a forceful yet delicate kiss pressed against her reluctant mouth. A flash of reactions all rushed through her mind all at once – to scream, to sob, to beg, to curse out the grinning, pink-eyed redhead that did nothing but loom over her and toy with her and her friends in this wretched depravity.
But the only thing that came to her mind was to return Roland’s passionate kiss with her own.
“Funny that, little Angela,” Carmen chuckled, leaning forward and pressing her hands against the back of hers and Roland’s heads, pushing the two closer together. “Such base feelings of affection and attraction can be so easily twisted, urged on by such a little push. Friendships, admiration, even wistful lust can be… perverted into something so beautiful.”
“Mmmffff…”
Perhaps Angela had some retort, but against Roland’s devouring lips and caressing hands, nothing aside from stifled moans were left to bounce off the enigmatic girl’s crooked smile. Carmen rolled her shoulders and made a circling motion with two of her fingers, as if to urge Roland along. He gave the girl a passing nod before sliding his arms underneath Angela’s armpits, supporting her languid form as the ribbons broke from the ceiling and flew downward. She fell to her knees before the ribbons wound around her wrists and ankles tightened once more, locking her legs apart and wrenching her arms behind her back and toward each foot in a tight, makeshift hogtie. Her back arched and she huffed sharply, her chest jutting out and her breasts framed by the ribbons weaving between and alongside each one. She grit her teeth and winced as she haplessly tried to straighten her body, only for the ribbons to pull her arms further back, illicitly a pained gasp from the pale librarian.
Leaving just time for Roland’s cock to slip into her mouth.
Carmen hummed, her head inquisitively tilting in the other direction as she watched the spectacle before her. If she had to describe the scene, it would be as though the sheer taste of Roland’s dick had flipped a switch in the struggling Angela. Her body seemed to sag, held up only by Roland’s hands cradling her head as his penis slid in and out of Angela’s quivering lips. The redhead leaned in with enraptured interest, her eyes practically glowing as she saw Angela’s own close, opening briefly to a shade of unbridled pink before returning to their lusterless gold.
“Do you want to know a little secret, my dearest Angela?” Carmen cooed, kneeling until she was level with the girl. Angela’s eyes lazily met hers, her head slowly pivoting back and forth to accommodate the Fixer’s delectable cock as her own hips gyrated in tandem with the penetrating tentacles. “This aberration born of the Red Shoes is at its strongest when a full copy of itself is placed onto its user, but it can still corrode another with these flimsy ribbons alone.” She casually lifted her leg, sliding her fingers between the toes of her bare feet. “Though I’ve used this girl as my vessel, there’s still just a tiny part of her in there, kicking and screaming and begging to get control of her body once again. It would be child’s play to simply manifest a copy of these Pink Shoes and use them to smother what little remains of this poor child’s consciousness, but I must admit it is… rather fun hearing her voice in the back of her head. It’s like seeing someone drowning far from the shores of a stormy beach. You see her head bobbing up and down in the surface of those torrential waves, flailing and floundering to keep herself afloat, knowing juuuust deep down.”
She smirked. “Knowing that, eventually, she too will drown under her own desires.”
A strangled groan was Angela’s reply, followed by a high-pitched whine as hers and Roland’s bodies each shuddered in unison. The Fixer thrust deeply into Angela’s mouth, droplets of cum leaking out from the corners of her mouth. Carmen snapped her fingers and Roland nodded like an obedient marionette, sliding his dick out of Angela’s mouth but pausing just shy of pulling it away from the girl’s face. With a giggle, Carmen gestured to the side and Roland obliged, turning slowly and leaving his erect, dripping cock still prodding Angela’s cheek. Carmen nudged the other with her finger, her pink eyes glistening with amusement.
“She was one of two, although the second girl tragically didn’t hold out as long as the vessel here. She seemed so quiet and so self-assured, though it seemed that she couldn’t hold out when confronted with her eleven other friends.” Carmen clicked her tongue, sighing discontentedly. “But now you can replace her, my dearest little Angela. You, the only person who dared to oppose my plans to liberate this world. It would be nothing short of an affront to my respect for you to choose the easy way out and simply let this EGO wipe your mind free for me.” She shook her head, manifesting a small, pink shoe in her hand before chucking it over her shoulder. “No, Angela. I shall show you the desires born from the humanity you craved so much. I want to see you squirm and beg until you’re nothing but a slave to these ribbons she holds so dear.”
Carmen slid her finger forward until her hand was fully placed against Angela’s face. A small ribbon flitted from the redhead’s wrist and began curling around Angela’s forehead like a little snake exploring an uncharted frontier. “I wonder, my little Angela, who will break first? You, or my precious little Ishmael, still trying so hard not to lose herself to her own EGO. Ah, I must admit that the very thought is rather… mmmm… delicious to think about…”
Instinctively, Carmen’s hand returned to her crotch, gently nudging the plug sticking out from her vagina. She smiled wistfully as she felt the thick, viscous liquids run down her fingers, giggling as a warm and electrifying feeling rushed through her body as she urged it deeper in her.
“And then what… Carmen…”
The arrogant visage of the redheaded vessel broke for just a moment, a black scowl spread across her face as she glared at the weary Angela, face caked in sweat and splattered with semen, the lower end of her body dripping as she violently shook in her silken restraints. The pale librarian’s empty eyes looked back at her, almost pitying her.
“If I remember, Carmen… nnngh… you said that you wished for everyone to awaken their EGO… to see themselves for who they truly are.”
Carmen crossed her arms, pursing her lips in irritation. “And, Angela? Now no one in this wretched City is repressing their feelings. Their true selves, their emotions, their unbridled desires, they are now fully on display, amplified by the allure of these ribbons. It is only a matter of time before everyone manifests their EGO and we awaken from our meager and dismal dream.”
“What utter… bullshittery…”
Carmen’s fingertips dug into her palms. She rolled her shoulders, a visceral and primal desire to slam her heel into Angela’s face barely constrained under the velvety ribbons wrapped around her leg, and met the kneeling girl with a scoff. “Well then, Angela. What exactly is the problem?” She threw her arms out, Fixer and librarian alike saluting their silken herald. “Not even the Head could escape the grasp of this EGO. No matter what, even you will fall victim to your most coveted desires and sink into depravity. No one can stop its relentless advance. Not even you, Angela.”
“Nor you… Carmen…”
With great pain, through loud and erotic moans, the pale librarian rose her head to meet Carmen and smirked. “… You’re right. At this point, no one will stop Roseate Desire from consuming everyone. … No one.”
The elation and adrenaline that once coursed through Carmen’s borrowed veins ran dry. Carmen signed over Roland, the Fixer nodding mutely as ever before once again gagging the insolent director with his dick. Carmen spun on her heel and paced back and forth in the quiet hallway, failing to find even an iota of solace in the pained whines and ecstatic moans of the desecrated library director. Her eyes flew to the ribbons wound around her wrist, their glossy, pastel flair now positively garish to the girl’s eyes. She scoffed and tore it free from her skin, throwing it aside as she spared a glance back at Angela. The director shuddered as she took another load from her unrelenting servant, his hands ensuring her head could never pull itself free from his penis. Much as she would have reveled at the sight of her artificial doppelganger brought so low, her words soured what was ultimately a perfect victory.
A pinch on her arm brought her attention back. Another ribbon was wrapped tightly around her wrist. With a dismissive “Tch,” she slipped her fingers underneath with a grunt and wrenched it loose, tearing the silk in two with a flick of her wrist. Her eyes watched as it squirmed around her fingertips like the severed arm of an octopus. It flailed and shuddered and… as its metaphorical head wheeled around to glare at her, seemed to hiss before it dove down and to the left. Carmen realized too late the end of its arc, unable to pull her arm away before the ribbons coiled back around, locking her wrists together.
“Geh, what the-“
A rush of emotions rippled through her body, forcing Carmen to her knees as she gasped for air and pulled at her bound wrists. She ground her teeth and shook her head until she could trace the origin of the abrupt annoyance. She felt it immediately, a sudden and forceful jab slamming her from underneath, and whipped her head back as she felt the plugs in her crotch piston back and forth, their slick and lubricated surface gliding through her vessel with ease. She snarled, her hands flying to her crotch to remove the obtrusion, only for a sharp flick to stymy her efforts.
“W-What…?” She stared blankly at the ribbon just above her chest, having shot itself out and tethered the harness to her wrists, keeping them locked closely to her breasts. She shook her head once more and closed her eyes, trying to clamber back up to her feet. She was simply getting… ahead of herself. Maybe she had gotten too comfortable with her new body and it was beginning to direct the EGO of its own accord. Perhaps she had simply slipped when trying to smother the remnants of Ishmael’s mind and caught a part of herself in the exertion. Or maybe…
Nnnngh… she felt her face heat up as the plugs burrowed deeper and deeper with each thrust, their exertion causing her legs to wobble and collapse underneath her like jelly. As she fell to her knees, she bit her lip and closed her eyes, the screeches and moans of the tortured Angela behind her distorting and melting into the static around her. A reluctant relief fell over her as she felt the tightness clinging around her body fade away, her evanescent connection to the mortal plane fraying one by one.
It would be just a moment, she assured herself.
… After all, it was her fault.
Carmen breathed a sigh of relief – despite the fact that this ethereal form had no need for air nor could feel it rushing through her imaginary lungs. Her first instinct was to feel around the facsimile body that she was so accustomed to. Modest breasts underneath her drab, olive dress, a lab coat loosely hanging over that as well. She lifted her foot, comforted at the sight of her ordinary, brown shoes without a shred of pink on them.
Absentmindedly running a hand through her now-brunette hair, Carmen took a few tentative steps forward. She bit her lip, trying to find the words to describe the void that she found herself in. Something akin to the vacuum of space, she might’ve told Ayin when joking about the dreamlike world she now wandered in, a starless night sky above and below where the glassy ground beneath may as well have been imaginary. Maybe she would’ve imagined Ishmael’s mind to be more… lively, or perhaps run into some type of phenomena or even just a feeble amount of resistance to her now forceful intrusion.
Or perhaps it was taking what little energy the girl still had to maintain this sanctuary in her fracturing mind.
In truth, Carmen was prepared to spend the next few hours traipsing this barren nothingness in pursuit of the illusive redhead, if only to spare herself from the constraining ribbons assailing her vessel. Even if she wasn’t in direct control of the EGO, the parasitic strands enrapturing the entirety of the City would be self-sufficient enough that her absence would hardly be missed. And besides, with Angela the only person left not under the Pink Shoes’ full dominion, it was unlikely that something would throw a wrench in her plans at this point. No, dealing with Ishmael was more like tying up a loose end rather than stifling some threat to her plans.
Perhaps she was walking for hours, but to her, it did feel like she’d only been in this abstract reality for only a few minutes before she saw it. An accursed strand of pink. Her attraction to this EGO had long been worn out and she kept a wide birth as she traced the ribbon up and toward the endless horizon, terminating at, at long last, another figure in this otherwise empty world. Despite the absence of a single star to illuminate the void around them, Carmen could see her clearly as quickened her pace. That disheveled mane of red, coated in seat and sticking to her face and back. Her voluptuous breasts heaving and shuddering with each strained breath, the ribbons strung about her body serving only to highlight the features that the irked Carmen lacked. The familiar twin plugs jutting from underneath her, their pink surface distorted by the liquids dripping from their vibrating bases. Carmen slowed to a stop and stretched her hands above her head, her eyes focusing on the listless, green irises of the broken Sinner. Brought to her knees, ribbons wound around her ankles and securing her legs apart while two more ribbons descended from an endless ceiling and tethered her arms above her, Ishmael was but a husk of a human, a pitiful little creature that appeared deaf to Carmen’s clicking heels. The enigmatic girl circled Ishmael once, twice, thrice, poking at her body every which way with an inquisitive hum, yet Ishmael gave no reaction, only occasionally arching her back and giving a low, drawn-out moan as the plugs in her drove her to another climax.
“Hm… I was under the impression you were on the verge of breaking, Ishmael,” Carmen said, pursing her lips in wry contemplation. “But I didn’t… exactly expect this sort of spectacle from you. Is there anything really left for me to break, really?”
The Sinner’s head hung limply from her shoulders, oblivious to Carmen’s rhetorical jabs. Her apparent disinterest caused the brunette’s eyes to narrow, but she simply sighed and sat down cross-legged next to the limp Ishmael, occasionally prodding her with her finger. “Well, on one hand, I guess if I break this last fragment of you into a million pieces and grind them underneath my foot, I won’t have to worry about your body or its EGO being so terribly difficult to work with. On the other hand, I do think it’s a lot funnier seeing you strung up like this. I could just pop in here whenever I feel the opportunity, check in on how you’re holding up. I do think that, with how long you’ve held out, you might actually manage to hold onto your sanity long after Angela’s drowned in degeneracy.”
No response. Carmen pouted and seized Ishmael’s head with one of her hands, forcing the redhead to look at her. “I was expecting more of a reaction when threatened with the erasure of your self, Ishmael. I won’t exactly get a lot of fun out of it if you just gawk at me like some Backstreets urchin who just had part of their brain carved out by an aspiring chef.”
A faint flash of light in Ishmael’s eyes. Carmen smiled and tightened her grip under Ishmael’s chin, whistling nonchalantly. “So, Ishmael, would you rather try fruitlessly to gain back this lovely body of yours, or should I spare both of us the trouble and erase the remnants of ‘Ishmael’ from this vessel? I’m feeling rather magnanimous today, so I’ll let you choose.”
“You… seem so confident… Carmen…” Ishmael wheezed, each word long and belabored. “When you told that… Angela person… that you were going to use Roseate Desire to…”
“I hate eavesdroppers,” Carmen interrupted curtly, lowering her hand to Ishmael’s throat and tightening it. “Honestly, I think I might just kill you for that alone, Ishmael.”
“But do you think… that you can simply force people to manifest their EGO through this…?”
That burning question once again posed like a burning spear through Carmen’s metaphorical heart. If this projection of Ishmael’s soul was anything like a normal human, Carmen’s sudden vicegrip would have crushed her neck like it was a fragile piece of paper mâché. With every word dripping with contempt, Carmen replied simply, “Of course, Ishmael. This Distortion is mine, every single awakening and movement tethered to the emotions that I have collected. I can direct them as I see fi-“
“Distortion…?” Ishmael laughed. Not a pitiful one, bred through fear, nor a happy one, sparked from a truly incredulous moment. No, with an awkward cadence and an oscillating pitch, somehow both high-pitched and low and rumbling, it was nothing short of insanity. “But… didn’t you say this was my EGO, Carmen?”
For once, the enigmatic girl was left speechless.
“You made a critical error by getting so close to the City you’ve enraptured with this… with my EGO, Carmen,” Ishmael said, her voice imitating Carmen’s once mocking cooing with a raspy undertone. “Like you said. No one can stop its relentless advance.”
Carmen jumped to her feet, a pink ribbon flitting from her wrist and sharpening to a makeshift blade. It wasn’t quite rage that filled her body, but nonetheless the emotion that flowed through it screamed from every single nerve to shatter the cackling girl writhing in her silken restraints. She swung hard, a long and sweeping blow to Ishmael’s neck. She yelled as the ribbons’ sharpened edge made contact.
And stared in horror as the ribbons bounced harmless off her skin, curving back and toward her like a pouncing serpent.
She dropped the blade and scurried back – an already pointless endeavor before she realized that the blade she had fashioned had come from her body. The ribbon flew toward her outstretched arm, weaving in and out of the cotton fabric of her lab coat and eviscerating it with its silken fangs. She’d have tried to grab the rebellious ribbon with her free hand, had a similar ribbon not sprung from her opposite shoulder, ripping away at her sleeves until both her arms were laid bare. Before she could think to bat away the tendrils that had once so obediently served her, they joined the plethora of ribbons already wrapped around her arms, nearly covering her arms in that abominable pink before their heads thrust into the ground, dragging Carmen down with them.
“W-What?!” she stammered, staring blankly at her ribbon-wrapped arms. “No, this isn’t…”
Right, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was the architect of the City’s Light, the seed that birthed everyone’s manifestation of EGO. She was the divine being that would bring about the advent of the new world. This EGO, these tools brought about through her own conviction, through her very essence, should be the ones at her whim.
Hers. No one else’s.
That thought raced in Carmen’s mind again and again and again and again and again. Even as she felt the silken threads writhe under her clothes, even as those pink tendrils shot out from her back and tore her dress and coat clean off, even as that infernal, rampant EGO slithered down her bare legs and slid them apart, slipping underneath the heel of her shoes and prying them free from her feet, she thought, hoped, begged that the power she had once held firmly under her thumb was not wildly spinning out of control before her very eyes.
And then a laugh. Hoarse, strained, intermittently cut off by a dry cough. Fear gripped Carmen’s wide eyes as she whipped her head up, locking eyes with a grinning Ishmael.
“You…!” she snarled, pulling at her silken bonds to no effect. “Do you think this is funny, Ishmael? Do you think that you can simply restrain the person who gave you these powers?”
“I’m merely doing what you wished, Carmen…” Ishmael replied, her eyes flicking between a dull green and a vibrant pink. “The true wish of these Pink Shoes… of my Pink Shoes… is to drown it all in pleasure. To create a world where I will no longer have to cry…”
A cold, sticky chill ran up Carmen’s spine, the familiar prodding of a large and bulbous head against her two holes. She desperately flailed her body, trying to evade their piercing ends. “T-T-This is absurd!” she screamed, tears streaming down her illusionary face. “How could you… override my control over this EGO? You shouldn’t… nnngh… be a… ab… aahhh…”
Her face lit up, the last of her protests caught in her throat as the tentacles found their mark, thrusting deep into the shuddering girl. Her body convulsed and her hips buckled, yet she was unable to shy away from the ribbons fully penetrating her, a wave of euphoria trying to douse the righteous fire burning in her heart. Carmen gasped, feeling her crotch erupt in an explosion of ravenous lust that spread across her body, and struggled to maintain eye contact with the enamored Ishmael. The Sinner’s head lolled to the side, as though the debasing of the once omniscient goddess of the Light was little more than an idle amusement to the similarly bound girl.
“Override… control…” Ishmael’s words slowly dripped out of her, punctuated by low, guttural moans as the plugs drove her to the edge once again. “… Carmen… I haven’t had… any control… over this EGO…”
Perhaps at that one, dismal moment, Carmen finally comprehended the true severity of her cataclysmic error. Her body lurched forward; her breath forced out of her lungs as the enthralling ribbons wormed their way into their ultimate prize. As she felt her once composed mind begin to ache and fracture as the ecstasy of her degenerate torment weighed on her, her jaw fell open and, with one last, strained breath, she let out a guttural and visceral scream.
Or, rather, the empty void was filled with her agonized wails for half a second before the pink dildo found its way into her opened mouth, nestling itself into the back of her throat. Her eyes fell on the tendril invading her mouth, frozen in utter horror as it wrenched itself free before once again launching itself into her hapless maw. She gagged and choked and wept, yet biting down on the hardened tendril seemed to do nothing as it effortlessly slid past her teeth, its pounding sensation shearing away what little resistance she could still muster. Her eyes drooped, the once vibrant and pulsating red adopting a faint tinge of pink as her body wove back and forth, easing the three large dildos further and further in. As the tantalizing fire that surged through her body with each synchronized thrust sent her to the very precipice of her self-restraint, her weary eyes slid up one last time to the redhead hanging over her. What may have once been a honeyed smile born from the overwhelming passion wracking her body was obscured by a matching dildo that had woven its way into the girl’s mouth, leaving only her erotic, mindless moans as a reply to the debased Carmen.
Struggling to form itself amidst the undulating warmth that pulsated through her like a second and third and fourth heartbeat, a queer thought lingered in the brunette’s head. Though she was locked within the psyche of the broken redhead, wrapped in ribbons and mercilessly violated alongside the girl whose wishes had long since exceeded the breadth of her own soul, she felt… liberated. Excited, even. For so long, she had chased that distant dream of showering the world in Light, to finally free the souls of those who had been crushed underneath the heel of dystopia, of cynicism, of a dreary eternity that would consume the last shreds of optimism that humanity attempted to bear. In this form, freed from the bonds of her mortal shell, she swore to the very Stars the City prided itself upon she would cast down this wretched existence.
For so long she carried this burden, a quest so foolish that she swore that the very weight of the world against her would one day snap her back. Still, she endured, she grit her teeth and continued to share her blessing with a world that continued to reject her. Even if the City denied her, even if the Head denied her, even if her very friends stood behind an artificial facsimile that, too, denied her, she would stand alone if need be. She would be the salvation the world needed.
And she… hated it.
She was tired. So very tired. As the light fluttered from her eyes, as the last drops of life were drained from her torn wrists, she reached out and embraced the cold embrace of death like a tender lover, only to find her soul shackled to the essence of this accursed planet, a bucket to drink from the well. She bore this duty because it was demanded of her, because she was the only one who could do it. She was the Light, the last hope for the world. If she were to simply fade away, then everything that they had worked themselves to the bone for, that they all fought and died and sacrificed themselves for would crumble into dust, ground underneath the eternal wheel of this uncaring City.
But here. Here was different. She was not Carmen, the very essence of the Light, the last hope in a cruel and dying world. She was Carmen, the second and last prisoner of Ishmael’s fully awakened EGO. A simple girl who had grasped at humanity in order to drag it into the new age, finally relieved of the burden that she had shouldered for many long, tiring, fruitless years. A dildo pressed against the back of her throat, buried itself in her ass, and thrust itself through the walls of her vagina, and she squealed and howled with a picturesque delight, matched only in its full and heavenly glory by Ishmael’s only moan as the two were driven to a synchronized, euphoric climax.
At long last, she could forget her burdens and sink into her desires.
At long last, Carmen was finally free.
Chapter Text
A series of low, obnoxious beeps rung through the air, an auditory mosquito that poked and prodded at the drowsy girl as she pulled the covers over her head, an aggravated moan making her irritation quite known to no one in particular. Her phone, dauntless and uncaring as it was, continued its relentless alarm, ended finally as she rolled over in her bed, slamming down lazily on her phone with her opened palm. The snooze button that flashed on the face of the touch screen eluded her the first, the second, and even the third time, finally acquiescing as the right edge of her palm fell upon it. As the girl shuffled around in her bed, fatigue still trying to chain her to her bed, she blinked twice as she tried to focus on the phone lying next to her, catching flashes of pink whenever she closed her eyes.
She furrowed her brow, as if trying to recall some faint memory. She sighed, finding nothing but faint wisps and nothingness in the back of her head; she was never good at remembering her dreams.
Thoroughly roused from her slumber – and already missing the sheep that were once so pleasantly drifting across her closed eyes – the girl threw her legs over the side of her bed and plucked her phone from the nightstand, scrolling through the small list of notifications that lit up at her touch. A small text caught her eye, nestled just a few messages below the topmost notification. The familiar name brought a smile to her face and she clicked it, thumbing in the pin before her phone unlocked to a white text screen.
“u still coming to the square today ish? gangs meeting up to plan for the tourney”
The redhead yawned and snagged her headband from the table, tightening the pink bows nestled on each side before gently securing it atop her head. She rolled her shoulders, trying to massage away the lingering aches from last night, and tapped the small box at the bottom of the phone, bringing up the small keyboard.
“yeah yeah Heathcliff. I’ll meet you guys there”
Ishmael’s eyes lingered on the green speech bubble for only a second before she tabbed out, flicking through the remainder of her notifications. A few DMs from Gregor and Outis over on Discord, some hashtag on Twitter that she didn’t recognize, a courtesy reminder to collect her dailies sent over 9 hours ago (dammit), and some other miscellaneous news that her eyes glossed over. As the final notification was swept to the side with a bored huff, the home screen of her phone popped into view, a myriad of apps in the foreground of a slightly overexposed picture of her and Heathcliff at the beach, their cheeky smiles dripping with seawater as the blazing sun above tinted their cheesy peace signs with a pale, white mist. Her eyes flicked to the top of the phone where the weather app showed a pleasant 26 °C beside an unfetter, shining sun.
Well, it was toward the end of summer, after all.
She stretched her arms over her head before leaping off the bed, already pulling her green pajamas over her head and tossing them to the side. Though she loathed to call herself a neat freak, of the thirteen of them she somehow had the most meticulously organized apartment, with not a single figurine misaligned nor a pen out of place. Even the thin shirt she threw off had – practiced over several years of habitual routine – leisurely drifted into the small little hamper placed just beside one of her cabinets, settling into its confines with the rest of her discarded clothes. The thin rays of an emerging dawn began to creep through her blinds, shining over the small Liu Association poster plastered over her bed and the framed picture of the Limbus thirteen, the gaggle of cheery Fixers almost falling over each other as they tried to cram themselves into the same, small photo with the shimmering Mephistopheles towering above them. As she moved across her small bedroom, she eyed herself in the mirror before moving over the bathroom, turning her body a bit and admiring the lacy, pink bra just small enough that it left a fair amount of the supple breasts underneath uncovered. She wistfully thought back to those months ago when Heathcliff had picked it and its matching panties out, joking that something like this could make even her average chest size look quite bouncy.
Much as she hated to admit it, the look on his face every time she took off her shirt made the purchase worth it every single time.
The soft plopping of Ishmael’s flip-flops soon gave way to the hustle and bustle of E Corp’s busied streets as she emerged from the W Corp metro, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun above. The cool autumnal breeze skirted through the mildly packed sidewalk, causing the redhead to shiver as it nipped at her exposed thighs. In retrospect, she thought wryly, the combination of a tight t-shirt and hot pants may not have been the brightest of plans if it wasn’t gonna be another sweltering day like it had been last month, but sacrifices had to be made for the greater good, after all. Adjusting the strap of the orange and gold Liu backpack hanging from her back, she darted down the block, weaving past Nest egg and lounging Fixer alike. With every other bound, she tapped her phone, tracing her position on the map from the station’s entrance to the small park just a way’s away. The first traffic light resonated with her, turning green as she neared the corner and allowing her to dash through traffic without a care in the world. Predictably, though, the second was far less courteous, leaving a disgruntled Ishmael tapping her foot impatiently as a stream of cars and buses took their sweet time crossing into the intersection like a stream of soft-serve ice cream basically crawling its way out of the valve.
Left to the nebulous whims of an idling traffic light, Ishmael’s eyes drifted to the building next to her, its polished windows reflecting her visage immaculately. The violet t-shirt might have been a little ambitious for her, the hem stopping just short of the waistline of her pants, though as ill-fitting as it was, the menacing kraken adorning the Abyssoft logo spoke to her on a personal level. Of course, from a different angle, one could point out that the size also served to help accentuate some… other aspects of the girl. She pursed her lips, spying a tuft of raised hair on her head, and matted it down with her hand, careful not to knock her precious hairband ajar. As she pulled her hands back, she took a moment to check her nails, the glossy, pink nail polish on her hands and her toes thankfully unblemished, before adjusting the pearl bracelet on her left hand. As the cars slowed, the nagging feeling at the back of her mind kicked in once again and she raised her right foot, realigning the matching anklet on her right leg before the light turned green. She heaved the backpack back in place and continued her idle run down the block, the small little marker indicating her position closing in on her final destination.
And sure enough, the usual spot soon came into view – a small park with its modest trees and flowerbeds ringing a collection of stalls, benches, and chairs, a relaxing enough place to whittle away the lazy hours of the day while not being too crowded as to be very suffocating. Following the block parallel until she came across a crosswalk (as City traffic would sooner scrape the splattered remains of her body off of the grill of their cars rather than spare her the few seconds to leap across), she briskly strolled into the tranquil square, her eyes fluttering from table to table for that distinctive-
“Yo, Ish!”
… and boisterous voice.
“Yeah, Heathcliff!” she called back, her eyes settling on a small table nestled under the shade of a rather prosperous oak. Three figures could be seen around it, the first catching her eye the very jewel that her world revolved around. She didn’t even try to catch her fluttering heart as she tore into a mad sprint, waving down the man sitting on the edge of the table, legs crossed and his head resting in the palm of his hand in what he almost certainly believed must have been a cool and imposing pose – even if it was a bit dorky to the other three. A similarly slim t-shirt adorned the Fixer, a brooding shade of black adorned with the distinctive emblem of the Shi Association plastered in its chest, while the ripped jeans going down to his sneakers gave him a look somewhere between grungy and overly tryhard. Not helping the appearance was the greasy sheen of his hair, almost certainly due to the actual grease that probably lined each strand – a consequence of the redhead not being there to chastise him for his poor hygiene. In a word, Heathcliff’s usual attire could be best described as juvenile, a bad boy look from someone whose mind was still lost in their adolescent years.
And Ishmael ate it up.
The girl practically tackled him to the ground, leaping into his arms and planting a huge kiss on his lips. Barely managing to keep his balance as he scrambled for the edges of the table, the two Fixers leaned into each other, their tongues entangling with one another as their hands coiled around each other’s backs, pushing them tighter and tighter together. Ishmael’s flip-flops dropped to the ground as her legs wrapped around Heathcliff’s waist, the girl practically grinding against his crotch as their wet and sloppy kiss continued unabated. Sure, a t-shirt whose primary purpose was to show off her bust and a pair of short shorts that left her legs on full display left the redhead susceptible to the chilling bite of encroaching autumnal winds, but sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. Namely, the sacrifice of showing off to Heathcliff. Her fingers began to creep down the cloth of Heathcliff’s t-shirt and, were Ishmael a less constrained woman, she might’ve tried to tear it off there and then.
She did, of course, find it in herself to restrain her inner lust, albeit only through the assistance of a rather loud and forceful cough. The two Fixers broke their kiss, their faces a deep scarlet as they looked over at the other two friends sat quietly next to them, looking up at the passionate couple like some show at a strip club. The blonde wolf whistled and smirked, her chin resting in her hands.
“Don’t let us stop you,” Cecil said, gesturing to the two of them. “Wouldn’t be the first time you two fucked in front of us.”
Heathcliff rubbed the back of his head and half-assisted, half-shoved the flushed Ishmael off of him, averting his gaze from the smug grin of the Liu Fixer staring them down. With only moderate difficulty (and a bit of swearing), Ishmael quickly untangled herself from Heathcliff as well, dropping back to the ground and dipping under the table, snagging her flip-flops from the grass. Though she tried her best not to look at them, embarrassment still permeated her body as, out of the corner of her eye, she caught Cecil covering her mouth with four of her fingers, doing a poor job of hiding her laughter.
“Stop bein’ such a tease, Ceci!” Mei chided, wrapping her arms around Cecil and pulling her tight. “If they wanna make out, let ‘em! We still got the rest of the week off before we gotta clock in again so we should make the most of it! Or, what, you jelly about Heathcliff’s lips or someth-“
Her playful remark was silenced by a smothering kiss, Cecil quickly grabbing hold of Mei’s hair and pulling her close enough to shove her tongue through the girl’s delicate lips. Ishmael snorted and slipped her flip-flops back on, watching with growing amusement as Mei’s face lit up redder than the crimson cape she and Cecil would wear when out on patrol, complemented by the faint blush slowly growing across Cecil’s own as Mei returned the gesture in turn. Though it lasted shorter than the kiss of the two Limbus Office Fixers, it couldn’t have been by any more than a few seconds.
As the two Liu Fixers finally broke their tender kiss, the pair of judging stares from both Heathcliff and Ishmael caused the blonde to slink in her chair, shielding her face with one of her arms as it cradled the top of her head. True to form, though, the shameless Mei shoved her shy better half before wrapping her arm around her shoulder and pulling her tight. “Pfff. Come on, Ceci. This is where you’re supposed to go ‘Why would I be jelly about old Heathy and Ishy when I got the cutest girl in the world right here?’ and stuff.”
“Nnnngh… shut up, Mei,” Cecil grumbled, wishing she could have some Wing wipe away the memories of the past five minutes from everyone’s mind. “You know that-“
“Yeah, yeah, you got stage fright, all worried that you don’t kiss as good as Xiao or that your breasts aren’t as big as Faust or something,” Mei cut in, flicking the girl’s head with her finger. She turned to the duo sat across from them, flashing her hand. “Oh yeah, Ish, that’s right. Me and Ceci got a mani-pedi just the other day. Thoughts?”
“A mani-pedi? For you guys?” Heathcliff chuckled, cocking an eyebrow. “Seems like a bit of a waste after the first day or two back on the job.”
“C’mon, Heathy, I can watch my strength,” Mei replied, grinning ear to ear. “I can totally keep these from breaking for a month.”
“I give it a week,” Ishmael chimed in.
“Two weeks,” Mei shot back.
Ishmael shrugged, opting not to pursue the matter for too long. Admittedly, the dazzling set of golden nail polish, coated with a glossy finish and adorned with a dash of sparkling glitter, was quite eye catching. The redhead hid a smile underneath her palm as she noted that the exact shade of gold, a dazzling hue that seemed to sparkle with the slightest bit of illumination from the sun, just so happened to match Cecil’s hair. Her eyes flicked to Cecil and, almost predictably, her nails were made up of lustrous obsidian black, the dark tone a match for Mei’s own. Of course, it wasn’t too much of a surprise – the dynamic duo of Section 2 may as well have been conjoined at the hip whether it was smacking down upstart Syndicates or grabbing ice cream while out on patrol in J Corp. Whether this was in spite of – or maybe even because of – their occasionally clashing personalities was often a hushed rumor throughout the affiliated Offices. The contrast was noticeable even now – a simple, white blouse and light blue skirt made up Cecil’s casual attire, with the mortified blonde’s toes curled up and digging into the foam of her flip-flops; while Mei sported a blazing red t-shirt and denim shorts, the visage of the indomitable Red Mist emblazoned on her chest.
“Actually,” Ishmael finally said, casting her eyes to the emptied seats to their left and right. “Who else is coming, anyway? Aren’t Rodya and Gregor still out of town?”
“Spelunking in the nearby mountains, yeah,” Heathcliff replied, sitting himself next to Ishmael and pressing his shoulder against hers. “Think ol’ Greg said they weren’t gonna be back until Sunday or something. Don and Sinclair went off to get some drinks; in fact, should be back right ‘bout-“
“Hail, most noble of companions! I have returned with the most exotic of treasures!”
And right on cue was the perpetually energetic Don Quixote, her goofy W Corp cap tilted to one side as she strode toward the group, a faint stain spreading across her teal, Siegfried-branded t-shirt as she held the collection of boba tea and coffee against her chest. She plopped the collection of eight drinks – immaculately prepared in a kaleidoscope of colors without a single drop slipping from their plastic cops – onto the center of the table, keeping one that could only be described as some type of ground rainbow for herself and downing half of it with a single gulp. “And salutations, Ishmael! It warms my heart to see you once again after such a long and dismal absence. Lo, I daresay that I was sentenced to the most blackest of abysses after our parting, so much so that even my indomitable spirit was beginning to falter!”
“I thought you and Ish went to the FELT concert literally two days ago,” Heathcliff asked, shooting a knowing smirk to the redhead. “Come to think of it, didn’t you two share a couple bottles of rum? I remember you sent a few pics or so of you guys at Don’s apartment getting all fri-“
“I thought you said you deleted those.” Ishmael’s response was immediate, her voice sharp.
Not a single sound came from the two Liu Fixers, their makeshift poker faces doing little to hide the laughter that was trying to claw its way from the corners of their sealed lips, nor from Don Quixote, who leisurely sipped her boba tea as though the exchange between her friends had taken place in an entirely different language. A short cough finally broke the silence as the modestly dressed Sinclair made his presence known, poking his head around Don’s shoulder and clearing his throat. “Don wouldn’t actually stop talking about you all night, Ishmael. It was, uh, actually rather cute.”
Ishmael’s face scrunched up, the blood rushing up to her head as she buried it in her hands, much to the laughter of the gathered Fixers. Carefully reaching over the flustered Ishmael, Sinclair grabbed his vanilla coffee before hooking arms with Don, dragging the girl over one of the remaining chairs. Of the group, Sinclair was one that could’ve most likely been confused with still being on duty, a plain white undershirt with a black denim jacket draped above and some jeans underneath. Considering how soft-spoken and timid Sinclair was half the time, many of the other Limbus Fixers would sometimes joke about how it was funny that he, of all people, was the one Don seemed to gravitate to the most, considering that he may as well have been a lump of coal compared to Don’s sweltering star.
”But I mean, have you seen Sinclair when he gets worked up?” Rodya joked once, lounging on the bus after a routine Urban Plague extermination. “Imagine if he gets like that when he’s the mood, too. Maybe Don’s the one who has trouble handling him.”
“A cursory analysis of Sinclair’s conduct after our encounter with the Laundry of Dreams suggests that he may be rather rough and aggressive in bed,” Meursault added, not once glancing up from his novel. “Perhaps he and Don have more in common than a surface observation suggests.”
“So who are we waiting on, anyway?” Heathcliff asked, breaking Ishmael from her stupor. “Anyone get a hold of Faust yet?”
“Heard last night she was partying with Yi Sang, Outis, and Ryoshu,” Ishmael said, fishing her phone out of her pocket and scrolling through her Discord DMs. Sure enough, the last message from Outis was an ominous, if quaint “Ryoshu is challenging everyone to a drinking game again” followed with an exasperated selfie of the constantly fatigued Sinner, the fuzzy sight of Ryoshu with a bag full of vodka bottles in the background. She flicked the phone off and gave Heathcliff a shrug. “Assuming things got as bad as they were the last time and the last last time I think they might all be still out cold. Shit, why the hell’s our shotcaller got to be the one with half the bus fawning over her?”
“I mean, it is Faust,” Heathcliff said, his eyes slipping below Ishmael’s collar. “She’s really got the full package and stuff. You’d probably be more popular too if, y’know. I know a guy at K Corp and-“
An emptied, plastic cup smashed into Heathcliff’s skull, not quite hard enough to splatter it into several gory chunks, but with just enough force to send him corkscrewing to the ground. A simmering Ishmael pulled her arm back, the most strained definition of a smile spread across her face as she turned to the now cackling Liu Fixers, shrugging. “He’s lucky he’s hot.”
“Pfff, I know, right?” Mei chimed, snuggling her head against Cecil’s neck. “Like me and Ceci’ll get into fights all the time over the dumbest things. What places to eat, whose place to crash at, the half of the goons we want to throttle, but we always kiss and make it up at the end.” The Liu Fixer leaned forward, spreading her hands out as if illustrating some large and expansive valley. “And, like, it’s sorta hard to tell because Ceci doesn’t really wear tight fitting stuff, but when we’re in her bed like my jaw dropped. They’re so huge and-“
“A-Anyway!” Cecil interjected, placing her hand on Mei’s head and shoving her underneath the table. “We can just fill Faust in later. Me and Mei have been duoing a bit in preparation for the tourney. Now that Shiv’s been getting nerfed, I don’t think we have to hard prioritize Kai’sa. I’ve been brushing back up on Lucian and I think a standard Lucian Thresh bot should be pretty solid, especially since Gaze’s adc doesn’t handle aggro well.”
“Rain, right?” Ishmael said, flicking again through her phone. “Yeah, I think Rain and Mika aren’t that big a threat. It’s Alloc that I’m worried about. He’s tearing it up in solo queue right now.”
“Well if that blighter comes and tries to steal my camps I’ll just knock him the fuck out,” Heathcliff said, taking his seat once again and nursing a light bruise across his forehead. “What fucking loon’s gonna contest a Kha’Zix that early?”
“The loon that drags Bono over to shank you while you’re alone, dumbass,” Ishmael sighed, shooting a dismissive glare at Heathcliff. “I was hoping we’d iron out the synergy issues between you and Faust while we’re here but-“
“Well if she’s not gonna bloody be here then why don’t we just have you take over for her?” Heathcliff retorted, turning all eyes to the redhead. “We’ve smacked around a buncha idiots before. Why the hell’d we need to put you as a sub just for this tourney?”
“Because, Heathcliff, neither you nor I want to shotcall,” Ishmael said, huffing in irritation. “I smack the dude in front of me and hope that’s enough to carry us all. All that stuff about macro and rotations is just… not really something I wanna think about that much.”
“The hell’d you mean I don’t wanna shotcall, Ish?” Heathcliff shot back, slamming his half-emptied coffee onto the table. “I’m basically calling all the fights whenever the five of us queue.”
“Yes, Heathcliff, and the last time you told us to contest the Baron, we all got funneled into a chokepoint, got a huge rock thrown at us, and got penta’d by Yujin’s Yasuo,” Ishmael matched Heathcliff’s glare with her own, the two steaming Fixers practically ready to explode. “If you’re leading us we’d be better off just running around like headless chickens.”
“If you’d allow me to report the grace of my exemplary and earnest training, noble Ishmael, I am proud to say that have triumphed over no less than twenty valorous knights and champions on the Fields of Justice, leading my four erstwhile paladins to victory and glory against the most dire of odds!” Don said, beaming like the returning hero of some childhood fable. “I daresay that I may very well be the most renowned top laner of the City, a peerless Fixer with no true equal.”
The four other Fixers quickly turned to Don, giving her a polite nod in response. Sinclair sighed and patted the impressionable blonde on the head before leaning over and giving her a kiss on the cheek. Her optimism was truly unshakable, such conviction and such infectious happiness that it even managed to cool the otherwise enflamed tempers of the two other Limbus Fixers. Each of them gave her a smile, biting their tongues so as to not dampen her spirits.
A final pair of footsteps finally brought an end to the uneasy silence. Ishmael craned her head back, waving over the final two. “Oh, hey, Angela! You made it!”
The pale girl smiled and waved back. Ishmael still wistfully recalled meeting the enigmatic director of the library at one of Mirinae’s many parties, apparently eased out of her gloomy tower after some forceful encouragement by her staff and several of the Association directors. So timid and quiet, she almost had to be handheld through her conversations by her loyal servant, Roland, struggling not to get overpowered by Chun’s boisterous exploits or every Grade 1 Fixer in the room all lining up to pick a fight with the Red Mist. Though she wasn’t short by any stretch of the imagination, her slim frame always seemed to be huddled down, as though the rest of the City seemed to loom over her. So many months later and, though she still dragged her feet at times, the wide and heartfelt smile she had whenever she met the others did put Ishmael at ease. It was hard to explain but, for some reason, it felt like a quiet but stubborn friend had finally come around, put at ease by the heartwarming unity of the collected Fixers. In fact, as the two began to approach the table, the change in Angela’s demeanor was equally reflected in her wardrobe. Freed of the suffocating, dark tones of her regal dress, the short-sleeved blouse of a warmer, violet hue followed a modest, black skirt, its frilly hem stopping just short of her knees, her outfit completed by a set of open-toed, black slippers. Perhaps at one point, she might’ve been bashful to expose her pale skin against the glowing sun above, but if she felt any such discomfort, it was at least hidden behind her smile.
Trailing behind her, of course, was no one else but Roland, who may as well have been Angela’s shadow with how close the two were. The consummate professional as always, he still sported a prim, pressed white dress shirt and some slacks. The lack of a jacket was likely the best the group could hope for a casual appearance from Roland, but considering his usual attitude even before he traded beers with Netzach and Heathcliff, it’s not like he exactly needed any help.
“Yo, Ishmael!” he said, returning the redhead’s wave with his own. “You’re never gonna believe this. Olivier managed to get all of us an advance showing to the upcoming Turbulence Office movie coming out this weekend.”
“No bloody way,” Heathcliff said, nearly leaping out of his seat. “You mean the Turbulence Office XI: Kingdom of the Cold Sun?”
Roland smirked, fanning out a wave of nine tickets. “The one and only. I got a couple more for the rest of Limbus and the Library too. Oh, right, Cecil.” He nodded at the starry-eyed blonde. “Don’t worry, I already let Lowell know. We’re planning on getting a big get together. Mirinae already went out of her way to book out of C Corp’s theaters for it.”
“C-C-C Corp?!” If Heathcliff nearly leapt out of his chair, Mei’s abrupt rise nearly flipped the entire table over. “You mean the one with the large leather seats? And the giant cup holders?”
“Yeah, the very one.”
“The one with the giant buffet and the pizza delivery service too?” Ishmael added, her voice quivering in anticipation.
“Oh yeah, you know the one.”
If Ishmael’s heart was faced with any more excitement, she might’ve suffered from a heart attack right then and there. With the six of them bouncing up and down at the sudden and exhilarating development delivered by the Library’s most trusted Fixer, it took Ishmael more than a few minutes to finally still her pounding chest, noticing Angela’s gaze cast behind her. She slid her legs around and rose to her feet, waving Angela over.
“Hey, Angela, something wrong?”
The pale girl froze for a bit at the sudden inquiry, looking back at Ishmael quickly. She gestured behind her before turning to face the redhead. “Oh, nothing exactly wrong, per se. It’s just that my sister-“
“Your sister?” The four Limbus Fixers cried out in unison. All eyes now flew to Angela, her face tinted pink with mild embarrassment. The teal haired girl cleared her throat and, with an awkward smile, continued.
“Yes, I don’t often talk about her much since she used to live abroad, but due to a shift in her work, she actually found some employment at L Corp’s Wing, so she’ll be staying with me for a while her Nest migration permit gets processed.”
Ishmael’s eyes flicked toward the center of the table, a lone, strawberry boba tea left untouched among Roland’s typical black coffee and Angela’s chocolate tiramisu shake. As she returned her attention to Angela, she finally noticed the meek, timid girl trailing behind the two. A plain and unassuming olive dress and some brown shoes, long, brown hair tied up in a long ponytail, a set of dull red eyes that seemed reluctant to meet the lounging group. Truthfully, if Angela hadn’t mentioned that the two were related, Ishmael probably wouldn’t have been able to catch it, their faces only slightly bearing a resemblance. Angela reached back and took the girl by the arm, urging her forward.
“My apologies for intruding on your group here,” the girl said, her voice just a bit above the breeze blowing through the park. “I didn’t mind watching over the Library while Roland and Angela went out, but she insisted-“
“Come on, Carmen,” Roland laughed, thumping the brunette on her back and causing her to stagger forward. “They ain’t gonna bite.”
Angela shot a glare toward Roland, pursing her lips. “Isn’t this exactly what you did to me a few months ago?”
Roland grinned and leaned forward, planting a kiss on Angela’s enticing mouth. “… And it worked, didn’t it?”
Angela scoffed and tore her arm away from Roland, trying to hide her flustered grimace as she quickly took her seat with the others. Ishmael eyed the last empty spots on the bench adjoining the table before looking toward Carmen, waving her over. “You coming? Your boba’s not gonna be cold if you leave it out for so long?”
Carmen blinked twice, clearly astonished. “O-Oh, you got me a drink?”
“Lo, while I was adventuring for these veritable nectars, a messenger pigeon from the Black Silence himself came and bestowed upon me a quest, the contents of which were an enigma even to me!”
Roland opened his mouth only for Angela to press a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “… You know she’s not going to listen to you, Roland.”
“Yeah…” he groaned, shoving his face in his palm. “I should’ve texted Sinclair…”
“… so when I was asked to procure an extra drink for the sanctity of our great company, I could not have dreamed that I would be delivering such a generous gift to a relative of our most holy patron, Angela.” Don wheeled around in her chair, clasping her hands in prayer as she knelt her head in reverence. “I hope only that this succulent beverage is sufficient for such a gallant princess as yourself, fair Carmen.”
An awkward silence filled the table, the group painfully unable to criticize their most eccentric gremlin for simply living her best life. Don’s head slowly rose, bemusement marking her ordinarily cheery face as the stale atmosphere slowly began to settle in. She glanced around, an uncharacteristic frown beginning to spread over her face. “… My friends, did I-“
And like a galloping knight swooping into save his fair maiden, Sinclair swept his head around, locking Don’s lips with her own. Though not nearly as sloppy as Ishmael’s and Heathcliff’s nor as intense as Mei’s and Cecil’s, the gentle simplicity and impeccable timing did much to remedy the tattered feelings of the girl who wore her heart on her sleeves. As Sinclair pulled back, Don rushed forward, catching the Fixer in an embrace so tight it might’ve shattered the spine of a lesser man.
“D-D-Don…” Sinclair choked, his face turning a pale blue. “I-I can’t… breathe…”
“I love you too, my dearest Sinclair,” Don replied, once again oblivious to her boyfriend’s plight as he began to lapse in and out of consciousness.
“Right then,” Ishmael sighed, rolling her eyes. She snapped her fingers, trying to catch Carmen’s attention as she reached for the strawberry boba tea. “Carmen, I’ll throw it over, just gimme one second.”
Carmen nodded, holding her hands up in anticipation. Ishmael’s eyes shot to the strawberry boba tea, its pink surface shimmering brightly in the dazzling rays of noon’s sunlight. Her brow furrowed, feeling a slight tingling in the back of her head as her eyes focused on the small droplets of condensation sliding down the plastic cup, applying a glossy sheen to the pink surface underneath. Such a radiant, entrancing hue spoke to her, a siren song to the last, adrift sailor still clinging desperately to a piece of driftwood.
Ishmael’s hand froze, her entire body paralyzed head to toe as a familiar, constricting vicegrip wrapped around her chest and across her arms, weaving down and between her legs like an intimate snake, ensnaring its allured victim in its clutches. The tingling sensation was a pounding headache, her head an anvil constantly barraged by blow after blow after blow as she threw her gaze skyward, to the blazing sky above. The cityscape around her was wreathed in flame, a series of listless figures all staring down at her like the many specters of some bygone cataclysm, waiting patiently for the last of their kind to join them in their eternal purgatory. She gasped and gulped in air, feeling nothing but a dry, stinging breeze assail her lungs. Across from her she watched as the two naked Liu Fixers fell on their bench, a giggling Mei straddling a cackling Cecil as the girls’ wanting lips soon met, their breasts rubbing against each other and their legs intertwining, their bodies caked in sweat and liberated from any obscuring clothing save for a series of pink ribbons haphazardly flung across their limbs and along their chests, terminating only in a pair of pink shoes. To her left, Sinclair lifted the squealing Don into the air, her excited cries raising to a fever pitch as slowly, hungrily, he slid her down onto his erect cock, the two Sinners shuddering as Sinclair ejaculated almost immediately, his hands swooping up and snatching Don’s head before pulling her face against his. To her right, Angela’s lips were already entwined with Roland’s, their hips grinding against one another as Roland teased his penis against Angela’s labia. The pale librarian gasped and slid her tender fingers down Roland’s back, sliding up his hip before they rested on the base of his dick, guiding it into her. The Fixer not once tried to stop her, only pushing himself in as he felt the tender, warm embrace of Angela’s body enclose around the head of his twitching dick.
Ishmael blinked again, looking toward the decrepit table that was sat before her. Her eyes slowly crept down, toward her naked body laced with ribbons, a lattice framework that crisscrossed her chest, framed her breasts, and slid down her legs like the vines of some invasive, otherworldly plant. All around her, she could see them; the encroaching, enveloping pink ribbons and those glimmering pink shoes.
Her feet, at least, were bare, freed of those accursed, pink shoes. Yet, as much as she wanted to begin ripping off the ribbons around her, she could see it… just out of the corner of her vision. The final girl, Carmen, wrapped in those same pink ribbons, her empty eyes dyed with pink as the dildo sliding back and forth in her mouth pivoted in perfect synchronization with the two, throbbing plugs penetrating her underneath. Occasionally her body would squirm and twitch, trying to endure the lust and passion overflowing with each forceful thrust, until finally she reached Ishmael. She knelt slowly, oh so very slowly, revealing in her outstretched hands a pair of those pink shoes. A knot formed in the redhead’s throat and she wanted to scream, to fling herself from the table and run for her very life… yet her body remained motionless, her consciousness flailing helplessly as its emotionless shell did nothing but sit harmlessly, unable to free itself from the impending horror drifting toward her feet.
“Ishmael…”
A hand gripped her head and pulled it to the side. Of course, how could she have forgotten. Even with ribbons outlining his chiseled body, even with ribbons curled tightly around his arms and legs, even with his dick already beginning to penetrate her exposed vagina, Heathcliff was still… as beautiful as ever. His lips fell on hers and hers responded in kind, her tongue wrapping around his as a wave of euphoria washed away the last of her doubts and fears. She felt a jolt run up her spine as the first shoe locked into place, a heat rising in her chest and burning away the last remnants of doubt and trepidation that lingered in her body. Her lips curled upward as she pulled herself closer to Heathcliff, panting heavily as she felt Carmen’s fingers take her last, exposed foot, the silken surface of the shoe slowly sliding over her toes as she-
“Ish?”
Ishmael shook her head, a faint numbness permeating her body. The strawberry boba tea was still standing in the center of the table, her arm still half-stretched out, fingers grasping for its glossy surface. Beside her, a befuddled Carmen and an increasingly worried Heathcliff both leaned in, concern evident on their faces.
“S-Sorry…” Ishmael nervously laughed, finally grabbing the drink and handing it over to Carmen. “I guess I didn’t sleep well last night. Spaced out for a bit.”
“Spaced out for a bit?” Heathcliff shook his head, slapping the girl across her back. “Dammit, Ish, you had me worried there for a second. Thought you had a bloody fever or something. You-“
Heathcliff’s words were cut off, silenced by Ishmael’s lips as the girl fell upon him, locking him down with a passionate, almost sinful kiss. Slowly, almost reluctantly at first, soon he returned it in earnest, pulling his arms around the Fixer and pulling her closely to his side. They kissed until she finally slid her mouth to the side, pressing her head against the side of his cheek as she wrapped her arms and legs around Heathcliff, holding as tight as possible as though the world around her might try to wrest her free.
“Thank you, Heathcliff…”
“’Course, Ishmael,” he said softly, nuzzling the top of Ishmael’s head with his face. “Don’t worry. I got you.”
A single tear ran down Ishmael’s face. She breathed in and smiled, the warmth of Heathcliff’s body filling her with a blissful contentedness, washing away the last worries that clung to hear.
“I know you got me,” Ishmael said. “But I’m happy. I’ve… never been happier in my life.”
Because what more could the girl have asked for? An easygoing job with her best friends, curled up against the man she loved more than anything else. She could very well have done nothing more that day than curl up in Heathcliff’s arms and kiss him until the sun descended beneath the crooked horizon.
Heathcliff chuckled and finally ruffled Ishmael’s hair with his hand, meeting her shimmering eyes with a smirk. “Aight, Ish, come on. Let’s grab the others and head off to C Corp. This is the best arc in the Turbulence Office series, after all.”
“Fuck yeah it is,” Ishmael cheered, leaping out of Heathcliff’s lap and pulling him up next to her. “Remember the part where Linette copied Kirbo’s powers and threw a fucking star at Liu Ye? That shit was badass.”
“It was a riot, alright,” Heathcliff said. The two joined arms, the rustle of the other seven behind them following shortly behind. “Hey, I hear they got some nice booze, too. You wanna grab some when we get there?”
“Really?” Ishmael narrowed her eye, scoffing. “How the hell’re you gonna appreciate Mr. H kicking the moon if you’re shitfaced?”
“Eh, I’ll manage, Ish,” he laughed, nuzzling next to the redhead. “Besides, imagine how fun tonight’ll be with some premium Nest A rum.”
“Planning ahead already, huh?” she shot back, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You fucking pervert.”
“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” he replied, returning the kiss in turn. “Come on, I think the next W Corp train should be leaving in a couple of minutes.”
“Yeah…” Ishmael felt her words drift away in the autumn breeze billowing around her. She took a huge breath, the faint scent of lingering barbecue and the fragrance of the flowers behind her bringing a smile to her face, and tightened her grip around Heathcliff’s arm, leaving the park behind them.
Today was going to be the greatest day ever.
Notes:
Not gonna lie, I think this is probably gonna be a one time thing. Premise couldn't stop me from getting a bit bored at the end lol.
ari_zonia on Chapter 1 Sat 02 Sep 2023 04:06AM UTC
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Meow (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sat 16 Sep 2023 03:20PM UTC
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kidlefting on Chapter 3 Fri 15 Sep 2023 04:03AM UTC
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KosuzuMotoori on Chapter 3 Fri 15 Sep 2023 06:43AM UTC
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ChioxLoco892 on Chapter 3 Sat 16 Sep 2023 12:58AM UTC
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HipoSlime on Chapter 3 Fri 22 Sep 2023 04:50PM UTC
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KosuzuMotoori on Chapter 3 Sun 24 Sep 2023 08:13AM UTC
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HipoSlime on Chapter 3 Sun 24 Sep 2023 09:08AM UTC
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KosuzuMotoori on Chapter 3 Wed 27 Sep 2023 05:10AM UTC
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devilishMendicant on Chapter 3 Sat 30 Sep 2023 09:44AM UTC
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ShadyPenguin26 on Chapter 3 Sun 01 Dec 2024 06:17AM UTC
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