also new layout/some new icons XD
More IMverse stuff, but this one involves Rosso masturbating to thoughts of Kefka SO THAT'S SOMETHING?
It also involves Nero the Sable being a giant creeper and trying to analyze Rosso. His conclusion is. Interesting. So uh. Yeah.
Rosso the Crimson has never had much patience for idle fantasies.
The desire to paint the world red, to cleanse it of life and bathe in the blood that she spills, that is different. It is not idle; it is a goal, one she has worked for all her life. It is not unreachable; she knows that she can do it, even more so now that she has an ally she can count on - but it’s that ally who keeps plaguing her thoughts.
Kefka has been a curiosity since the moment she met him, and in the process of learning and… bonding (“domestication,” her mind whispers), she has learned a few things. The first is that Kefka, while a powerful mage (a god, and the idea makes her shiver, and sometimes the idea makes her want), is rather fragile; it’s too easy to pin him down, to make him bleed, and part of her desperately wants him to get stronger just so that she can have a challenge. The second is that, for all his talk of hatred, he feels more than he believes: often selfishly, yes, but if she has been domesticated then so has he, and the thrum of Ultima through her body (an echo of espers and another world, an echo of him) and the glowing red tattoos on his face are more than enough proof.
The third is that she thinks everyone else is trying to drive her insane while he’s gone.
--
It has only been two weeks - not even, in fact - and already the stress is beginning to show. The clawmarks on her face from the nightmare-reality that was inflicted on her have faded, but her skin is much paler than it once was and there are dark circles under red eyes. When he was here, they would speak of killing, of torture, and it was good and it was right and it was what they are. Now that he is not, others have come to speak of normalcy: of making it so that what Deepground taught her mentally no longer exists, of things like ‘family’ and ‘friends’, and Rosso doesn’t want to listen but she’s tired and, despite herself, terribly intrigued by the new ideas.
Nero the Sable, however, is getting on her nerves.
“How the mighty have fallen.”
Rosso doesn’t look at him; what would be the point? She is pouring over books that she has taken from Kefka’s room; books on different worlds and magic, on things she has never seen and, perhaps, things that Kefka has not seen either. There are notes in the margins and she adds some of her own, but as Nero approaches, she shuts the book.
“What are you talking about, Nero?”
She is still a Tsviet, still Rosso the Crimson, but she is no longer taking orders from the others. Weiss has had his mind corrupted and Nero has followed him blindly, an utter fool, and besides. Their methods were so… impersonal. Rosso likes to watch, likes to feel the blood on her hands instead of simply letting an overgrown beast cleanse the world. She wants to do it herself.
“You love him.” Nero’s accented voice (so different from her own; quiet, soft, and utterly deceptive) is familiar; the words are not, and Rosso bristles. Now she turns to look at him, half-snarling, but Nero continues to speak.
“Your reaction to the nightmare was very interesting, as was your conversation afterward. Tell me, Rosso; did you not want the child because of yourself, or because you feared that he would discard you? I would ask the same of the fancies they have flitted before you, but you made yourself clear in that case. Domesticated, Rosso? No… You have become enslaved, and for all your strength, for all the humanity you claim to no longer possess, you still possess this.”
Her blades are out and she sets upon him in a second, but Nero lets the darkness wrap around him in a flash, and he reappears on the other side of the room. A tendril creeps toward her, wrapping threateningly around her ankle, and she snarls for real this time. Nero is powerful, and as much as she is loathe to admit it, if he were to drag her into his darkness it is unlikely that she would escape.
As he chuckles, however, she seriously considers attempting it anyway.
“Just as I love Weiss, Rosso. But don’t worry. You can continue to pretend otherwise, and I will make sure things are taken care of,” he says quietly, mechanical wings folding behind him. His eyes are hidden by unkempt black bangs and she curses it; it would be easier to know what he is thinking if it were not in the way, and then she throws something at him. The darkness swallows him once more, and the book hits the wall hard enough to make it shudder.
--
That night, Rosso twists in the sheets for an hour before giving in. Pulling a Remedy out, just in case, the Tsviet strips. She’s taken to going to bed fully clothed once again, but right now, it’s just all in the way. She hasn’t done this before, not to herself, but she isn’t thinking about that. She’s thinking about the first time, about Kefka’s hand around himself, about Poison being cast over dark flesh. She has a hard time thinking of sex without involving magic now (and for a moment, her mind goes back to time before he left, with him inside her body and inside her magic, and she swallows thickly), but she has no whispered words of fire or ice or lightning to use on him. He seems to like Poison, though, and so she spreads her legs, hands running down her thighs, and then she casts.
It-- tingles, almost, running down her thigh, and Rosso stills, waiting to see if she will begin to feel ill, but there’s nothing. It looks like the scientists did something right, then. Running her fingers through it, she shifts back and casts again, this time over her chest, and the slide of magic over her breasts makes her gasp, head tilting back (though she’s careful not to get it near her mouth, just in case). It’s better than she expected, and her hands run down her thighs once more, nails lightly scratching.
The lingering magic fades away fairly quickly - she is no mage, after all - but Rosso doesn’t mind. One hand has started to lightly rub against herself as the other continues to scratch over her thigh, and it feels nice - that is, until her hand rubs just so and her nails slip, cutting a slice deep enough to send blood rushing to the surface.
She’s surprised, quickly pulling her hands up before memories of grappling with Kefka, biting and clawing and pinning as he bites and claws and pins back, return to her and then she looks at the cut with a curious expression. She thinks of the first time once again, of Kefka cutting his hands and smearing blood over her so that it ran down her legs, and then she shivers. She thinks that she’d like to feel his blood elsewhere; her back, perhaps - no, no, that would require too much trust, turning her back on him like that. Her chest, then; she can press against him and let it trickle down, warm and (because it’s Kefka) smelling of magic. For now, her own will have to do; she catches what she can from her thigh, though there isn’t much, and smears it down her front, hand lingering to play over her breasts.
She knows, however, that it will quickly cease to be enough, and her other hand resumes its stroking. Her eyes shut as she slips two fingers in; maybe too much and too fast, but she has a high pain tolerance and she wants. She imagines herself on Kefkas lap, pressed up against him with his blood smearing between their chests; imagines her nails digging into his back as he rolls his hips up into her, sparks dancing over her spine. She imagines him murmuring in her ear as she rubs her clit, imagines him telling her all the ways they will kill everything else because life is meaningless, and she moans.
Her final thoughts before orgasm overtakes her are that Nero is wrong; that she wants because she wants and not because Kefka does. That she doesn’t love him, because if she loved him she would kill him, spare him from the trappings of life itself. That this isn’t an idle fantasy, because she will be able to sleep thanks to the chemical rush in her body, and it’s certainly not her fault if Kefka is the first person who comes to mind.
Rosso sleeps, and this night there are no questions, and she is content in knowing that Nero is wrong.
Nero waits, and the hand of a child curls around a wing, and he is content in knowing that it doesn’t matter either way.
It also involves Nero the Sable being a giant creeper and trying to analyze Rosso. His conclusion is. Interesting. So uh. Yeah.
Rosso the Crimson has never had much patience for idle fantasies.
The desire to paint the world red, to cleanse it of life and bathe in the blood that she spills, that is different. It is not idle; it is a goal, one she has worked for all her life. It is not unreachable; she knows that she can do it, even more so now that she has an ally she can count on - but it’s that ally who keeps plaguing her thoughts.
Kefka has been a curiosity since the moment she met him, and in the process of learning and… bonding (“domestication,” her mind whispers), she has learned a few things. The first is that Kefka, while a powerful mage (a god, and the idea makes her shiver, and sometimes the idea makes her want), is rather fragile; it’s too easy to pin him down, to make him bleed, and part of her desperately wants him to get stronger just so that she can have a challenge. The second is that, for all his talk of hatred, he feels more than he believes: often selfishly, yes, but if she has been domesticated then so has he, and the thrum of Ultima through her body (an echo of espers and another world, an echo of him) and the glowing red tattoos on his face are more than enough proof.
The third is that she thinks everyone else is trying to drive her insane while he’s gone.
--
It has only been two weeks - not even, in fact - and already the stress is beginning to show. The clawmarks on her face from the nightmare-reality that was inflicted on her have faded, but her skin is much paler than it once was and there are dark circles under red eyes. When he was here, they would speak of killing, of torture, and it was good and it was right and it was what they are. Now that he is not, others have come to speak of normalcy: of making it so that what Deepground taught her mentally no longer exists, of things like ‘family’ and ‘friends’, and Rosso doesn’t want to listen but she’s tired and, despite herself, terribly intrigued by the new ideas.
Nero the Sable, however, is getting on her nerves.
“How the mighty have fallen.”
Rosso doesn’t look at him; what would be the point? She is pouring over books that she has taken from Kefka’s room; books on different worlds and magic, on things she has never seen and, perhaps, things that Kefka has not seen either. There are notes in the margins and she adds some of her own, but as Nero approaches, she shuts the book.
“What are you talking about, Nero?”
She is still a Tsviet, still Rosso the Crimson, but she is no longer taking orders from the others. Weiss has had his mind corrupted and Nero has followed him blindly, an utter fool, and besides. Their methods were so… impersonal. Rosso likes to watch, likes to feel the blood on her hands instead of simply letting an overgrown beast cleanse the world. She wants to do it herself.
“You love him.” Nero’s accented voice (so different from her own; quiet, soft, and utterly deceptive) is familiar; the words are not, and Rosso bristles. Now she turns to look at him, half-snarling, but Nero continues to speak.
“Your reaction to the nightmare was very interesting, as was your conversation afterward. Tell me, Rosso; did you not want the child because of yourself, or because you feared that he would discard you? I would ask the same of the fancies they have flitted before you, but you made yourself clear in that case. Domesticated, Rosso? No… You have become enslaved, and for all your strength, for all the humanity you claim to no longer possess, you still possess this.”
Her blades are out and she sets upon him in a second, but Nero lets the darkness wrap around him in a flash, and he reappears on the other side of the room. A tendril creeps toward her, wrapping threateningly around her ankle, and she snarls for real this time. Nero is powerful, and as much as she is loathe to admit it, if he were to drag her into his darkness it is unlikely that she would escape.
As he chuckles, however, she seriously considers attempting it anyway.
“Just as I love Weiss, Rosso. But don’t worry. You can continue to pretend otherwise, and I will make sure things are taken care of,” he says quietly, mechanical wings folding behind him. His eyes are hidden by unkempt black bangs and she curses it; it would be easier to know what he is thinking if it were not in the way, and then she throws something at him. The darkness swallows him once more, and the book hits the wall hard enough to make it shudder.
--
That night, Rosso twists in the sheets for an hour before giving in. Pulling a Remedy out, just in case, the Tsviet strips. She’s taken to going to bed fully clothed once again, but right now, it’s just all in the way. She hasn’t done this before, not to herself, but she isn’t thinking about that. She’s thinking about the first time, about Kefka’s hand around himself, about Poison being cast over dark flesh. She has a hard time thinking of sex without involving magic now (and for a moment, her mind goes back to time before he left, with him inside her body and inside her magic, and she swallows thickly), but she has no whispered words of fire or ice or lightning to use on him. He seems to like Poison, though, and so she spreads her legs, hands running down her thighs, and then she casts.
It-- tingles, almost, running down her thigh, and Rosso stills, waiting to see if she will begin to feel ill, but there’s nothing. It looks like the scientists did something right, then. Running her fingers through it, she shifts back and casts again, this time over her chest, and the slide of magic over her breasts makes her gasp, head tilting back (though she’s careful not to get it near her mouth, just in case). It’s better than she expected, and her hands run down her thighs once more, nails lightly scratching.
The lingering magic fades away fairly quickly - she is no mage, after all - but Rosso doesn’t mind. One hand has started to lightly rub against herself as the other continues to scratch over her thigh, and it feels nice - that is, until her hand rubs just so and her nails slip, cutting a slice deep enough to send blood rushing to the surface.
She’s surprised, quickly pulling her hands up before memories of grappling with Kefka, biting and clawing and pinning as he bites and claws and pins back, return to her and then she looks at the cut with a curious expression. She thinks of the first time once again, of Kefka cutting his hands and smearing blood over her so that it ran down her legs, and then she shivers. She thinks that she’d like to feel his blood elsewhere; her back, perhaps - no, no, that would require too much trust, turning her back on him like that. Her chest, then; she can press against him and let it trickle down, warm and (because it’s Kefka) smelling of magic. For now, her own will have to do; she catches what she can from her thigh, though there isn’t much, and smears it down her front, hand lingering to play over her breasts.
She knows, however, that it will quickly cease to be enough, and her other hand resumes its stroking. Her eyes shut as she slips two fingers in; maybe too much and too fast, but she has a high pain tolerance and she wants. She imagines herself on Kefkas lap, pressed up against him with his blood smearing between their chests; imagines her nails digging into his back as he rolls his hips up into her, sparks dancing over her spine. She imagines him murmuring in her ear as she rubs her clit, imagines him telling her all the ways they will kill everything else because life is meaningless, and she moans.
Her final thoughts before orgasm overtakes her are that Nero is wrong; that she wants because she wants and not because Kefka does. That she doesn’t love him, because if she loved him she would kill him, spare him from the trappings of life itself. That this isn’t an idle fantasy, because she will be able to sleep thanks to the chemical rush in her body, and it’s certainly not her fault if Kefka is the first person who comes to mind.
Rosso sleeps, and this night there are no questions, and she is content in knowing that Nero is wrong.
Nero waits, and the hand of a child curls around a wing, and he is content in knowing that it doesn’t matter either way.