Chapter 12: 1x0b: Typhon II

The month of May is pretty busy for the various schools of Southern Sun, which usually hold their autumn cultural festivals after Golden Week. As a result, students and staff alike have been flitting to and fro, practicing or doing field work or otherwise outside of the school proper.

Which is to say, Priscilla F. Murakumo was busy.

The teachers adore her. She spent a great deal of her Golden Week helping out everyone she could, across the city, preparing for their cultural festival. Day after day after day of helping others, doing whatever she could to be useful, and only really stopping to take care of her body’s needs…and even then only just.

Yes, Priscilla is a good girl at heart. And she hates that.

She hates a world where dedication has no reward.

People say a lot of strange things about her, but the truth is, no one really knows her that well. (Celina’s the closest, perhaps, but even she doesn’t know near enough.) And Priscilla prefers it that way. She prefers to keep to herself, only letting a select few into her heart in a place like Pedersen.

Some of it is true, of course. Oh, her mother and father don’t know, but she does indeed sneak off to the Electric City, outside of Sunset’s network, to learn about stories of magical girls. Of magic and miracles, of worlds where wishes come true. A world far distant from the Pedersen College, from most of the city, from seemingly most of the human species.

And so too, did Priscilla hate humanity.

Every day, she was tempted to run away. Every day, she was tempted to leave behind Sunset’s world. All the callous, superficial people she was surrounded by, all the pain and hatred, all the lies. Every time she saw someone like Alice, laughing alongside her friends at someone she exploited, someone who trusted her, she wanted to enact violence upon her.

Thirty-two stab wounds, gouged out eyes.
Burns on her skin, not a cloud in the sky.

It’s feelings like that which she knows she can’t reveal. Feelings like that, which could only be accepted in a harsher, but all the more honest world – the kind she sneaks off to, in fact. That world she so badly wants to join. It would disappoint mother and father, yes, but they could always have more children, right?

Priscilla is, after all, replaceable.

But there were people here who needed her. Or maybe, just one person…

This world could use a Goddess, Priscilla thinks. Though in a pinch, maybe an Adversary wouldn’t be so bad.

Yes. Someone like ____. Someone like her would do.

It’s thoughts like these that follow Priscilla beneath transgenic cherry blossoms, made to captivate the illusion of spring flowering. A falsehood, one her mother is especially proud of her work upon. Even in Japan, in the northern hemisphere, they wouldn’t bloom so late any longer –

and they certainly wouldn’t have inhumanly beautiful women standing beneath them, as if waiting for a confession under the sakura.

She was gorgeous. She was perfect.

Priscilla stared, mouth agape. She couldn’t move her eyes away. Her heart sang to her. This silver-haired goddess she’d never seen before just called to her and demanded her complete and total attention. Love at first sight. Instant crush.

But, but wait, who is this? Someone like this…Priscilla would have noticed. No one could miss that hair, that skin, those lips. She even smelled nice. Yet somehow familiar. Like she’d never met, but she’d known her for so long, her heart pulsing.

Everything else faded into the background. Everything else went still. Everything but her.

Her steps took her closer before she even realized she was moving. A red string was drawn between them. Her mind twisted around these feelings, blossoming from an all too familiar seed, and Priscilla realized who this was.

Yes, surely, this was her Mistress. How could she have forgotten? That she pledged her soul to the Demon Lord, that she had spent every day since the time they met on the first day of high school in her service, a sleeper agent for the yet-slumbering Lilith. That everything she did since that day was to awaken her, whether she wanted to be or not. That Priscilla’s very existence entirely revolved around the day she could finally be claimed, and that day has finally come.

Priscilla smiles hazily as she approaches her Mistress, gladly breathing in her pheromones. Knowing perfectly well she’s being brainwashed, and welcoming it. The Goddess herself wrote her fate upon the stars, to surrender to her own personal Adversary. She gladly accepts it, because Mistress gives her life purpose. A place. She’d been waiting her whole life for this moment, how could she turn away now?

Priscilla stands before her Mistress, under the sakura, to give her confession. The confession she’d dreamed of so long. But it’s not a thing of words, it’s not a thing of overtures or overdramatic fumbling teenage gestures, it’s one simple act:

raising her skirt, and pulling down her panties to reveal her mound of Venus.

Mistress’ lips open up, into a black void, that swallows up Priscilla’s gaze. That void drools from her bottom lip and onto Mistress’ glowing violet claw, which etches the shape of a heart into Priscilla’s skin. A shiny black heart, from which her Mistress’ essence drools and stains her very soul black. From brand, to brain, to soul…

Priscilla drops to her knees, and exposes her neck. Thick red leather tugs across it, wrapping it up tight –

“A-aaauuuuuuu…?!”

and then she wakes up from that trance. Falling into hypnotic bliss at the mere sight of you, so deliciously vulnerable to your charms – iron-willed when it comes to anyone but her Mistress. And here she is: on her knees, kneeling, before a fantasy made real. It just felt so natural to Priscilla to kneel and prostrate herself before you, she couldn’t stop herself…!

Oh, but what a delightfully cutesy noise your new servant made for you! ???? Even in a moment like this, Priscilla’s determined to project that kind of image, isn’t she? And yet, she can’t stand up, she doesn’t want to move away, she’s still trapped completely within your gravity.

“You have a one-track mind, huh, Priscilla? Honestly, all it takes is me standing there, and your soul opens up to be claimed.” You laugh, openly, as your toe nudges ever so slightly against Priscilla’s black heart brand, and she quivers and gushes for you. “I guess it should be expected of the person who sold out company secrets just to get noticed by her crush.” You lick your lips, and run your fingers under your new pet’s chin, play with the tightness of the new collar around her neck. “My name is Rita, by the way.”

“R-rita…” Priscilla rolls the name on her tongue. “Rita Sternbach…” Putting two and two together, even through her struggle to think. “I, how, what –”

“Ssh.”

Priscilla silences herself. Wanting so badly to obey. Wanting so badly to be useful, to belong to you.

“You see, I’m the Demon Lord! So to speak. At least, that’s my intention.” You lean forward, letting Priscilla inhale deeper. “I’m no longer human,” you say, violet light flickering and pulsing through your horns, even down the invisible circuitry and veins within your biomechanical body. “I’ll never be a disgusting man again, and I plan to create the future of the human species. I’ve already started, in fact.

“You see, right?” you say, gesturing to those students still congregating around you – adoring stares, jealous glances, everything focused on you. “My love is inescapable.”

Love…

love

Priscilla’s fingers reach down to your brand, your mark. Pressing in. It feels so wrong, but so right. She stares at your glowing horns, pulsing with unseen energy and magic. At your glowing eyes, at Rita, Rita is a beautiful name, you’re so beautiful, she can’t find any reason to turn away from the urges within her.

Yes. She’s been marked. Claimed. Collared. Rita is her Mistress, her Queen. And she can’t resist it. No, she doesn’t want to resist it…

It’s written all over her face. It’s within her eyes. Priscilla is so worryingly pale, with stark white hair, that you’ve always wondered if she wasn’t a designer baby or something! That seems to be the kind of thing her parents would be into. Then again, you look pretty similar like this…if her hair were silver rather than white, you could easily be mistaken for sisters.

“But you want a better demonstration than that, right?” you say, running your gloved fingertips across your lips, showing a violet claw, at your tail curled around a leg, your eyes flickering as Priscilla drinks you in. “You can see me. You know I’m a succubus. You can feel it. The way I’m slithering inside you, black toxins, bound in your soul. But I have even more than that in mind.” You happily pull out your smartphone from your cleavage, and on the screen, Priscilla sees…

Your Celina, your Lilim, testing another iteration of your drone wear while being bound in glowing violet cables somewhere within your hive. Smooth black rubber, broken up by aesthetic flourishes, by straps and buckles, wearing headphones that are no doubt filling her with your programming…

It’s completely lewd! Completely impossible! Completely disgusting!

Yes, Priscilla F. Murakumo is a pure maiden. She would never be involved with something so lewd. It’s not like she looks at the moaning, shuddering, blissful Celina – who she can recognize instantly by the shape of her unfair body, by her hair – her pleasure obvious even masked and blindfolded, her twintails framed by curling horns, the wavy hair filled with glowing fibre optic cables, pink heart marks over where her nipples and her vagina should be, vibrating, the faint sound of some kind of rotors buzzing even through the smartphone speaker…

It’s not something which Priscilla is jealous of. Anyone who tries to approach her, any boy especially, knows she’s innocent and pure. It’s as mother and father would want it.

And yet. She can’t help but push her fingers deeper into that mark on her crotch, as if doing so would make her soul belong to you even faster. She can’t deny it. She can’t possibly win against you.

“A-auuu…” she moans, unable to maintain it. How could…how could anyone resist Mistress?

Priscilla remembers, when you brought in a replica of that old ludonarrative meme, the ‘Weighted Companion Cube’. Sitting on it cross-legged, you stroked it lovingly, as you might a pet – just for effect, of course. It was an object, lovingly crafted by your own two hands, but at that point you hadn’t yet realized that even the seemingly inanimate could be filled with love.

And Priscilla felt so jealous, didn’t she? It’s not, it’s not anything strange, even if the idea of being made a literal object that’s incapable of doing anything against you, even if transforming into something like that haunts her dreams, that’s all normal, it comes from such a very normal and relatable desire…

Being useful. Being wanted. Supporting (in this case literally) the one she’s infatuated with.

“Really, now,” you whisper, as you taste the depths of Priscilla’s obsession. “Uhuhu. So it was true all along – you had a crush.” Your tail hooks itself into Priscilla’s collar, and you pull her into your arms, tugging her head into your chest, her face nestling into your cleavage and breathing in your pheromones. “You can’t blame me for being suspicious though. You can only love girls, yes?”

Priscilla, in a haze of embarrassment and shame, gives the tiniest of nods.

“So, how did you know?” You didn’t know yourself, obviously – though it didn’t take you long to figure it out when you got a push.

Really, at the point of putting your tail on, you knew. In that moment, it became clear. You could never go back, from there. And that you even did it in the first place…your dreams were impossible to deny. Rita is written on the fabric of the universe, after all.

“…um.” Priscilla whispers quietly, as if there were anyone to hear who wasn’t under your control. “Do you remember your Intro to Ludonarrative Studies projects in your first-year literature class?”

You do. You remember quite well.

Video games don’t interest you much in and of themselves – you don’t dislike them, but you find it hard to get invested in them like some of your friends do. But of course, in their attempts to instill something like ‘culture’ into the malleable and unformed brains of the city’s students, they ensure that every one of them gets a taste of ludonarrative and film studies, even if only in their early literature classes. The classics of a bygone age before the Collapse form a foundation for the study of modern culture, history, folklore, and memetics. So the theory goes, anyway.

Nonetheless, you were eager to prove yourself, maybe to spite your new friend Windam’s assertion that you were cultureless and had no understanding of social dynamics. And in the process, you had quite a few projects that interested you, in fact. That inspired you.

“I remember, when they had us do readings. Everyone was flat, listless. Without passion. And then, there was you, Mistress!”

The memories come back – accompanied, of course, by your own recordings, summoned by a thought from the cloud.

“It was a morality core they installed after I flooded the Enrichment Centre with a deadly neurotoxin to make me stop flooding the Enrichment Centre with a deadly neurotoxin.”

“I thought, in a room full of people who were just going through the motions, you shined brightly. That you really cared. That there was passion. I could feel your admiration for that game, and its leading machine lady…”

Before then, ‘artificial general intelligence’ was just a buzzword to you.

“Speaking of curiosity, you’re curious about what happens after you die, right? Guess what: I. Know.

“Here’s a hint: you’re gonna wanna pack as much livin’ as you can into the next couple of minutes.”

“But there was something more than that, wasn’t there? It wasn’t just interest – you weren’t the only one to have that. It was a kind of passion that tasted different than everyone else.”

Before then, you hadn’t identified that nameless longing in your heart, the very one that drove you to become the Demon Lord.

“Why do I hate you so much? You ever wonder that? I’m brilliant. I’m not bragging. It’s an objective fact. I’m the most massive collection of wisdom that’s ever existed. And I hate you.

“It can’t be for no reason. You must deserve it.”

“And I thought, when you lit up like that, there was only one thing it could be.”

But there was something there, that you wanted, that you craved. After so much time working on Himeko, you already had this subconscious ideal that a machine can and should be female, that it was something more than mere biology, and this only confirmed it in your eyes.

“You’re angry, I know it. ‘She’s tested me too hard.’ Boo~ hoo~ I don’t suppose you ever stopped whining long enough to reflect on your own shortcomings, though, did you?

“You never considered that maybe I tested you to give the endless hours of your pointless existence some structure and meaning. Maybe to help you concentrate, so just maybe you’d think of something more worthwhile to do with your sorry life.”

“They say the Adversary was born with the wrong body. That when she ascended, it was the end of her path toward girlhood. Even back then I was interested, and you reminded me of her.”

“Isn’t that just someone’s headcanon that inexplicably got popular? And a pretty flimsy one, too.”

“…I’d still like to believe it!”

You pursued it, your science and visions. Without really knowing why. Eventually, you’d have awakened to your desires and potential, even if you took the ‘slow path’ – your soul, your existence, couldn’t bear anything else. But it was all planted as a seed of want, to have that kind of power and control…

“Before you leave, why don’t we do one more test? For old time’s sake…”

You are reading story Echidna: The Remodeling of Humanity at novel35.com

But it seems, then, that someone else realized before you did what your fate was.

“Don’t you remember what I asked you that day?” your Priscilla asks.

…it’s rare you forget much. But social encounters are one of those things you have a bit less memory for than usual. It’s easy enough to scrub through that footage, though, taken from the glasses of the time…

“Hey, ____.”

“Uh, hi. Priscilla, right?”

“…are you a boy?”

“What? Uh, yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” you said, and you walked off without a word. A moment of confusion, then filing it under the already obvious matter of the ‘effeminate’ golden ___, not worth remembering.

Ah. Now you see.

If she had asked ‘are you a girl’, then you might’ve started thinking about it. But because she framed it in the opposite direction, you didn’t notice at all, and just tossed the memory away as an unimportant question. Never connecting it to the interest Priscilla showed in you afterward…

“I know what you said then, but it bothered me. Someone like you, whose words tasted like that, couldn’t possibly be a boy.” Priscilla shakes her head. “I couldn’t just leave it at that! But I didn’t know how to say it, so I just thought…I’ll make myself useful to you! And then, someday, I could maybe find a way to ask again, properly this time! That I could make you happy, somehow!

“When Celina told me you were looking into genetics research, I remembered I found some of Mother’s passwords once, and I thought, you know…maybe it’d help?”

Really? That’s it? On such a hunch, on such a flimsy little idea that you might be more than your pathetic masculine body, she went to such lengths – up to and including selling millions in company secrets? On a hunch?

You laugh.

You laugh and you laugh and you laugh.

What a deliciously obsessed girl! No wonder her passions are so rich you can gorge off them, a true succubus feast! No wonder you understood, on instinct, that she could become your Typhon! A red string dyed in blood! Imagine if you weren’t Rita – she went to all these lengths, down to betraying her own family and her company, betraying everything on the mere chance she’d be noticed! A completely irrational act! How deliciously arrogant! Your old STEM friends could never understand what it is to drown and accept the vast grandeur of emotion and love, they could never claim this for themselves! Your Priscilla will be chained to you forever!

“Um, Mistress? Is something – mmf!”

You grasp your servant’s head in your hands – and servant she was, from that day forward, even if she never realized it – and you kiss her. Pushing your tongue in deep. Priscilla struggles and chokes, barely able to breathe around it. Going light-headed. But it makes her tingle and open, her nipples rubbing against her bra, her insides feeling so humid and squishy, and she never felt happier in her entire life.

Oh, yes, of course.

Her soul belonged to Mistress from that day. Or even before. You made an indelible impression on her, and she took it all on faith. Magic and miracles do exist, after all. Why should she turn away from that feeling? Why shouldn’t she accept that…mmf…she belongs to you…

She goes light-headed, trying to suck harder on your tongue. As if trying to make it come. She would’ve gladly suckled on what you had between your legs before now, such a thing was hardly an impediment, but Priscilla is just…she’ll let you shape her. However you wish. As is her Mistress’ right.

And she doesn’t care if she’s selling out the whole world to do it, because she hates humanity almost as much as she loves Mistress.

“Ah, Mistress…you’re a monster now, right?” she asks, once your tongue finally pulls out to keep your yet-human servant from suffocating too much. “A ‘monster girl’, I think they call it?”

“I am. And you’re going to be one, too.”

Priscilla flushed bright red. Oh, oh dear. That was…so she could become like Mistress, or maybe, maybe something else…

You reach under your skirt, spreading out your legs slightly. You have no panties to get in the way of this, oh no. You moan eagerly as your womb opens up, its machine cells under your control in that same way Blue told you was impossible when you were still learning to write sex scenes, that way you never quite stopped finding erotic despite that. That gleaming, blood red spherical jewel.

Priscilla stares as you bring it to her eyes, gazing into its facets. As if she could easily be tranced by it, like the moon’s pendulum. Then again, if it’s you, she could be hypnotised and brainwashed by any particularly feminine rock, couldn’t she? She loves Mistress, she obeys Mistress…

“I already know what you’re going to be, in fact. I’m going to make you a dragon!”

“Um…” Priscilla tips her head to the side. “A dragon? Like, a big dragon, with big muscles and nasty teeth and eating people?!” She sounds actually quite excited about the concept, really; guess that explains all her suspiciously furry-adjacent art retweets. Even so…

“Uhu. Not exactly.” You grin brightly, fluttering your lashes. “Oh, I think we can definitely manage that later. Maybe I can make you a dragon for me to ride as I charge against the UN over the skies of Nairobi?” And doesn’t that make her blush. “But no, no, I have the next best thing. We’re going to make you a small, cute little dragon-kin. Small enough to be my little sister, or even my daughter. Does that sound good to you?” You whisper, you lick your Priscilla’s neck and ear, you listen to her delightful moan and croon of desire.

“A-a-a-auuuu…”

“I’ll take that as a yes.~”

(Not that you would take no for an answer, anyway.)

That decided, you lift Priscilla up in both arms as a bridal carry, your servant giving a soft little ‘yelp’ of excitement, and walk her into Pedersen proper. Today you’ll stealing the nurse’s office – yes, it’s a bit of a cliché, but it works well enough, and is the nurse really going to say no? – as a place for you to ensure that Priscilla’s transformation goes smoothly. Because today, you’ll be making one of your creative works real, with Priscilla as your canvas.

Yes, you and dragons have a bit of a history; an infamous one at that. It was an embarrassment, as far as a lot of your former RP friends were concerned. You and Windam, depraved as you were, insisted on keeping manaketes, your own personal variations on dragonkin invented for your tabletop campaigns, above any other objections. Small, cute, ageless…

Of course, you understand now. You despise the unintelligent; your intentions weren’t what others assumed of you, or even what you assumed of you. Because for someone born in a disgusting male body who longed to have another, who only understood into teenage or adult years, longing for small, cute bodies like that was natural. No matter how naughty it might be. No matter how depraved – ah, but you’re a demon, who cares what anyone else thinks? And to have that body and an intelligent, sharp mind, that too appealed.

(And, of course, you have a feeling that Windam was the very same. You wonder, is that ‘siscon’ thing just jealousy toward that cute pigtailed little sister, held for so long that it twisted into something like this? You’re an only child, so you can’t say for certain, but it’s conspicuous. Don’t you think?)

“W-what are we gonna do on the bed?” your Priscilla asks, as you place her onto the medical bed with a soft ‘pomf’. Like this, she really does remind you of a delicate little porcelain doll, but really, she’s much to precious to you to remain a mere insect.

“Just hold still,” you whisper, opening up her blazer, undoing her tie and blouse. Her belly is softer than it looks, her uniform maybe a bit too small for her, her appeal clearly settling into her hips and rear; her breasts are small and cute, and she really is already halfway to being an appropriately small and cute little dragon.

She’s embarrassed, flushed really, at showing you her body, even with her bra and panties still on; despite her interest in being transformed, reshaped, taken, she really does look so deliciously innocent. You really want to defile her…

And so you do.

Your lips open up again, your tongue drips black ichor, and you let it fall onto your claw once more. This time, you don’t create a brand; instead, you draw an incision upon where her breastbone meets her sternum, a perfect place for a jewel to contain Priscilla’s soul. No blood, no pain, but your Priscilla finds it so hard to stay still, that you have to tie her down with your tail, the limb splitting up and strapping down her limbs to ensure her safety.

You give the void formed by your claw a loving kiss, pushing deep in with your tongue into a metaphysical space, licking her soul. She moans, and your tail gags her, just to be certain she doesn’t bite herself in the process. This part might be a little painful, after all; it’s more magic than science, so you’re still not entirely sure you’ve worked out all the kinks in the process.

Even so, Priscilla isn’t afraid. She couldn’t possibly be. She belongs to Mistress, and this is her reward for serving her faithfully, for selling out her own family and the Sunset Corporation to the Demon Lord…

and she smiles, around your tail, as you push the dragonstone into her void.

It spreads out within her, crystalline structures branching from it into her body. Like twisting wires and cables, it converts Priscilla’s cells to the machine cells you’ve been developing, what you’re made out of, what you intend all life on the planet to be made of before you leave it behind. A red glow begins to escape Priscilla’s new core as it seeks out her soul, passing from the physical into the metaphysical, her eyes opening and pulsing blood red as she screams around your tail.

It can’t be helped. The process is going to be harsh, because of your design for Priscilla and how you’re enacting it. Your own change wasn’t nearly so drastic, and you were unconscious for most of it; this process is going to have a few complications before you can truly perfect it.

But if anyone can take it, it’s your Typhon. And still, she has no fear.

It starts with her skin. From a distance, it might look like it’s merely becoming strangely glossy and shiny, overtaking her outward from her core, oddly smooth; from here, though, you can see how her epidermis shifts to tiny, scintillating scales. Merely touching Priscilla would be enough to tell; she has the skin of a smooth reptile, not a soft primate. An inhuman beauty the insects would be hard pressed to appreciate.

Her ears, too. They’re long, pointed, but serrated on the bottom, just that slightest bit different from those ‘elf ears’ you love so much. Growing outward into that point, twitching slightly as new nerves and muscles form, designed by your machines and models within your hive, claiming all the computational capacity it could grasp under your will. Such good girls your machines were.

Her teeth, too. A primate’s teeth are made for an omnivorous diet, but Priscilla’s teeth are sharp, serrated, made to saw and cut and dig into meat. It’d be quite dangerous for a mere human to kiss her, but your tongue has nothing to fear, even as Priscilla could kill with them.

(Not that you want her to – it’d be such a waste of raw materials. But she can, could, and would.)

Growing out of her flesh, as it roils and bubbles visibly as your machine cells make sense of instructions, her soul safely ensconced within her gem, free of any harm that might come to it. Her nails on fingers and toes grow out to sharp red claws as the roots of her core grow out of her, her soul’s vast power visible within them. Priscilla is deadly. You wonder, if anyone tried to harm you before now, just what she would have done to them in your defense…

And despite all the pain, despite that, Priscilla is wet. She’s so wet, she’s so turned on by abandoning her humanity, by serving her Mistress. She doesn’t want to stop. You might have to modify her further later, just like you said~

Her eyes shift, her face shape just that slightest bit unnatural. Not quite childish, despite her receding bone structure and her shrinking spine, despite becoming small. Less than five feet, in fact, losing a good few inches and quite a bit of body weight. She’s so tiny, even her collar doesn’t fit properly anymore, and yet her proportions – almost fairy-like, really – quite clearly set her apart from an ordinary human. Everything just so subtly, deliciously wrong.

Monstrous.

Any human, any insect who laid eyes on her from a distance would hardly find it unusual, save perhaps her pointed ears – and there were plenty of girls in this late Reiwa era who self-modified to have similar ones, even with the primitive technology on offer. Any insect who came close would see that everything is subtly wrong, that this tiny little Priscilla can’t even be seen as human, let alone whether she looks young…

and her core pulses. Flickers. Glows.

Just like her newly red eyes.

Priscilla F. Murakumo is no longer human. The way she’s shrunk, her bra and her panties are too big, and her stockings too; it goes without saying even her previously-undersized uniform won’t fit properly.

“Uhuhu.” You chuckle, and holding your phone up again, you show off what Priscilla looks like from the cameras in the nurse’s office, making her blush as your tail recedes, and lets her speak, breathe, move freely.

“M-mistress,” she gasps out, her voice higher pitched than before, as she stares in awe at her claws and her scales. As she touches her ears, as she explores her new self, even daring to touch her cute little cunny. “I, how, what, why, how –”

“Ssh.”

You place a finger on her lips, and with your tail and your other hand, you open up your uniform blouse. You aren’t wearing a bra underneath, her gaze drawn in to your nipples. Your drooling, engorged nipples. Changed, altered, inhuman. Just like her. They drip something that smells like honey…

and Priscilla’s stomach growls.

Blushing, hesitant, in awe, she can’t possibly resist you as you push your nipple to her lips, and crush your sister-daughter dragon, your Typhon, into your chest. Letting her close her eyes, sink into your love, and embrace being yours…

and so you lay there, with her, in that office, feeding her your milk, and showing her your love. Letting its honey-like sweetness lull Priscilla into bliss, the last of your magic settling her hair to a more silvery sheen – clearly marking her close relation to you. Sister, daughter, yours.

You tighten the collar around Priscilla’s neck, and she is finally at peace. Queen’s on her throne, all’s right with the world.

It’s the least you can do for the one who saw the true nature of your soul, when even you could not.

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That evening, Velka S. Murakumo gladly returned to her condo in Highton View Terrace after another harsh bit of crunch at work. It felt like she’d only been able to come home to sleep since before Golden Week…

It was annoying, really. Velka got little enough time with her family as it is, but getting involved with a security audit across all of Golden Week meant that there was precious little chance of having an actual vacation. Not that it was unreasonable for the company, what with millions of dollars in trade secrets, private research, and other confidential data being stolen under Velka’s watch.

The worst part is, they never did figure out who leaked the information – only that Velka and her husband were clear of any direct wrongdoing. But even after that, there was rotating passwords, rotating keys, double-checking biometrics, it was a disaster. An attack like that one was thought to require physical access, but it was clear that there were holes in the bucket, as it were. They were lucky it hadn’t been sold on the open market, but surely some of their competitors were already taking advantage of this masterclass of corporate espionage.

The only real alternative was Priscilla, but she was a good girl, right? She never got into trouble with anyone, she never made trouble for anyone, she was the true model of a daughter for the proud Murakumo dynasty. Even if she did steal it, what point would there be? Surely they’d have found out, and it’s not like she wants for anything…

Yes, Velka is glad to put this little affair behind her. They might never know the real culprit, but at least it’s over. And now Velka can make up for lost time…

“Honey? Priscilla? Are either of you there?” Velka asks, the usual housekeeper seemingly already leaving early. There’s an eerie quiet in the air, the room unusually warm; perhaps Priscilla turned down the HVAC again. “I’m finally done! Wanna go see a movie or something?”

“Mother! You’re back!” Priscilla says, clearly hiding somewhere in her room. “I’ve actually got a friend over!” Her voice sounds oddly higher-pitched than usual, but otherwise, she’s as cheerful and polite as ever.

“A friend? Really?” It’s unusual for Priscilla to bring someone over, but Velka should be happy about it – and security, of course, would have cleared that friend, so she shouldn’t worry about what kind of company her daughter is keeping. “Well, come on, why don’t you introduce me?”

“I’d be glad to,” Priscilla says, as Velka climbs up the stairs to her daughter’s room. And when she opens the door, she thinks, it’s good that her daughter is finally opening up to others –

and as Velka S. Murakumo lays eyes upon the Demon Lord and her pet dragon, her free will meets its inevitable end.

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