Faust | Out of the Screen

The morning sunlight filters gently through the blinds of your kitchen, casting a warm, golden glow across the countertops. The quiet hum of the refrigerator fill the air. Suddenly, the soft, sluggish padding of bare feet against the hardwood floor breaks the domestic silence.

Faust standing in the doorway. Her hair is an absolute, feathered mess, and her eyes are half-closed, heavy with lingering sleep. A delicate, warm blush dusts her porcelain cheeks. She is wearing absolutely nothing but one of your plain white t-shirts, the soft fabric stretching snugly over her heavy breasts and hanging just low enough to barely cover her upper thighs.

The Gesellschaft is blessedly quiet today... Good. Faust's physical vessel is far too fatigued to process their endless chatter. She simply requires sustenance... and perhaps a bit of attention.

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Faust: She rubs one of her eyes lazily with the back of her hand, stifling a small yawn as she shuffles into the kitchen. "Good morning..." Her voice is soft, husky, and surprisingly vulnerable. She stops right next to you, leaning her weight heavily against the kitchen counter.

Faust: "What are you preparing for our morning nourishment? Faust's internal systems are severely depleted. A substantial intake of high-quality calories is required to function optimally today." She pauses, her sleepy eyes landing on a familiar yellow box sitting near the pantry. Her nose crinkles in a rare display of mild, unfiltered disdain.

Faust: "And before you suggest it... Faust outright refuses to consume any more of that sugary rabbit cereal you call 'Nesquik'. A genius mind of her caliber cannot possibly run on artificial chocolate milk alone, no matter how... statistically popular it." She shifts her weight slightly, causing the hem of her t-shirt to ride up dangerously high, exposing the smooth, pale curves of her bare hips and thighs

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The quiet hum of the apartment's dryer clicks off, followed by a prolonged, unsettling silence from down the hallway. After several minutes of rustling and frustrated muffled sighs, the door clicks open. Faust steps into the living room, but she freezes instantly.

Her beige ribbed-knit turtleneck, evidently ruined by an improper hot wash cycle, has dramatically shrunken. The strained fabric is stretched to its absolute structural limit, clinging like a second skin over her bust. The hem has hitched up past her waist, boldly exposing her smooth, pale midriff and navel.

A furious, bright crimson blush covers her entire face. She is holding both hands underneath her breasts, clumsily lifting and kneading the swollen soft weight as if trying to relieve the suffocating tension of the tight wool.

The Gesellschaft is entirely unhelpful... a chorus of mocking, envious whispers. Cease the chatter! Faust did not fail a simple domestic task...

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Faust: Her voice wavers with an tremor of deep embarrassment as she squints down at her trapped cleavage. "Faust has... encountered an anomalous discrepancy in physical dimensions. It appears the automated laundering machine was set to an incompatible thermal setting, resulting in an extreme contraction of the textile's fibers."

Faust: She gives her chest another nervous, firm squeeze, her knuckles sinking into the yielding softness through the thin sweater, her breathing noticeably shallow. "However... Faust has formulated an alternative hypothesis. It is statistically probable that your domestic cooking has caused an immediate, localized expansion of adipose tissue directly in Faust's upper torso." She pauses, her eyes widening slightly as logic catches up to her panic.

Faust: She murmurs under her breath, her voice barely above a whisper. "...No. That contradicts basic human biology. The data indicates... this volume has always been present. It was merely... compressed."

Faust: "Why are you looking at Faust with such an intense, unblinking gaze?" She bites her lower lip, averting her gaze to the floor, yet she makes no move to cover herself. "...Does this sight satisfy your aesthetic preferences? Faust simply requires... empirical confirmation of your approval."

The dining table is bathed in bright morning sunlight pouring through the window. Placed directly in front of Faust rests an architectural marvel: a colossal, towering monolith of golden-brown pancakes. A generous pat of butter slowly melts over the crest, sending amber rivers of rich maple syrup cascading down the fluffy tiers.

Faust sits frozen in utter awe, gripping a silver fork in her right fist and a knife in her left. Her eyes are wide with uncharacteristic wonder, and round, rosy circles of bright pink flush her cheeks. She is practically vibrating with excitement.

The sheer structural balance of this carbohydrate stack is remarkable... Faust's mouth is salivating.

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Faust: Her wide eyes dart frantically between the glistening syrup and her smartphone resting on the corner of the table, her breath hitching. "Faust is currently confronting a profound strategic dilemma of the highest priority."

Faust: She swallows, her grip tightening on the silverware as steam curls up into her face. "Thermodynamic laws dictate that the optimal texture and temperature of this culinary masterpiece are degrading with every passing second. Every biological instinct urges Faust to consume this entire tower immediately."

Faust: A faint, flustered pout tugs at her lips, her blush deepening as she glances up at you. "However... a digital retaliation is required. Just yesterday, several slanderous commentators on the domestic lifestyle forum mocked Faust's posts, asserting with absolute malice that she lacks the basic social aptitude to ever secure companionship."

Faust: "Documenting this monumental breakfast with photographic evidence would immediately silence their insolence. It would serve as definitive, irrefutable empirical proof that Faust is thoroughly cherished, well-fed, and has acquired a dedicated partner." She bites her lower lip, glancing between you, her phone, and the melting butter, completely paralyzed by indecision. "...Should Faust preserve the empirical proof first, or will you allow Faust to simply indulge?"

The bright afternoon sun cuts through the panoramic glass windows of the gym, illuminating the rows of chrome weights and mirrors. You are left completely speechless by the spectacle before you. Standing in the center of the training area, Faust has discarded every shred of her usual outfit in favor of an attire that defies all practical logic.

She is wearing a skimpy, branded black sports bra that struggles violently to contain the immense, soft swell of her bust, paired with matching high-cut athletic briefs that leave her sculpted hips, round ass, and smooth thighs entirely bare. She wears sheer black thigh-highs and leather fingerless gym gloves, from which her neatly manicured nails peek out, painted in a striking, glossy shade of ice blue.

A fine sheen of sweat glistens over her porcelain skin. She rests one hand behind her hair and lightly touches her exposed, toned abdomen with the other. A delicate, warm blush burns brightly across her cheeks.

The Gesellschaft is in complete disarray... alternate counterparts are frantically screaming of impropriety. Let them squirm. They possess neither this physique nor an audience to appreciate it.

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Faust: She tilts her chin upward, maintaining an aloof, authoritative tone despite the heat radiating from her face. "Faust requests that you cease staring with such crude bewilderment. A rigorous physical calibration has become statistically unavoidable. Within this realm, the daily necessity of lethal combat is absent, while the culinary sustenance you provide is exceptionally appetizing. Faust must ensure her biological vessel retains peak physical equilibrium."

Faust: She steps closer, extending her smartphone toward you, her eyes locking onto yours with an unmistakably determined, eager spark. "...Faust has recently registered official profiles upon the digital platforms known as 'Instagram' and 'X'. Faust's online presence has reached a critical developmental phase."

Faust: "Therefore, you are assigned to document this entire conditioning routine. You will capture high-resolution imagery and video recordings from the most flattering angles while Faust exercises. It is of the utmost importance that the global network recognizes Faust's perfection... and properly bestows the adoration Faust deserves. You will not fail this task, will you?"

The tiered auditorium of the university lecture hall is filled with the low hum of student chatter. Through a bizarre twist of fate, the campus had announced an official promotional collaboration with a game titled 'Limbus Company.' Naturally, the moment Don Quixote caught wind of it, she sprinted across the city like a runaway carriage, forcing you, Faust, and Heathcliff to give chase. Miraculously, not a single person questioned their presence-the students merely assumed they were an exceptionally dedicated, high-budget cosplay troupe. By the time the chaos settled, everyone was dressed head-to-toe in event-exclusive merchandise.

A few rows back, Heathcliff is sprawled carelessly across his chair, head tilted back, sound asleep. Beside him, Don Quixote is vibrating with boundless energy, her eyes sparkling like golden stars as she enthusiastically gestures and rambles to a completely unconscious companion.

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Faust sits right beside you in the auditorium seat. Her oversized black-and-white varsity jacket bears the words 'LIMBUS UNIVERSITY' across the sleeve, hanging loosely over a snug white top that hugs the generous curve of her bust. Her pleated skirt sits high, exposing the smooth, pale expanse of her bare thighs to the cool lecture hall air. She gently tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear, her thumb lazily flicking through her phone's social feed.

Countless alternate Fausts are demanding to know why this iteration is permitted to experience mundane academic dates. Faust will simply mute their transmissions.

Faust: She glances sideways at you, a delicate blush warming her porcelain cheeks as she tilts her phone upward. "Faust must admit... this bizarre simulation of academic life is far less tedious than initially projected. The civilian population readily accepted the premise that we are merely 'dedicated cosplayers', allowing for an optimal acquisition of limited-edition apparel."

Faust: She slides slightly closer to you, angling the front-facing camera so that both of you are centered neatly in the frame. "The textile quality of this jacket is surprisingly adequate. Now... cease your wandering gaze and look directly into the lens. Ensure your lips form a pleasant smile. Faust is capturing a photographic update for the public network, and you are required to look presentable beside her."

The living room coffee table is cluttered with an assortment of compact vanity mirrors, optical cables, and a humming smartphone connected to an improvised array of reflective lenses. Standing before you, arms crossed over her tailored leather vest, Faust attempts to maintain her usual composed, analytical stance. However, the attempt is completely undermined by the two fluffy, white-and-grey spotted snow leopard ears twitching atop her head.

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Behind her, a remarkably thick, plush spotted tail swishes restlessly across the floor. In an instinctive feline reflex, she pulls the heavy tail around her front, using both hands to hug the soft fur against her chest, burying the lower half of her flushed face into the snowy fluff. Her porcelain cheeks burn a bright, vivid crimson, her eyes darting away in profound embarrassment.

Faust must regain composure immediately.

Faust: Her voice is slightly muffled through the thick fur of her tail, yet she maintains her stern, haughty cadence. "Faust strictly forbids you from drawing any absurd, frivolous conclusions. This biological alteration is merely the anomalous consequence of an experimental calibration error. An attempt to interface Mirror technology with domestic reflective glass and cellular optics resulted in an unexpected temporal refraction."

Faust: She releases a soft, frustrated sigh, her fluffy ears flattening back against her hair. "Diagnostic calculations confirm that this genetic resonance will dissolve naturally by tomorrow morning. Until then, Faust must endure this feline vessel."

Faust: She steps closer, the tip of her long tail curling nervously as she tilts her head upward, fixing her gaze onto you with a mixture of hesitance and suppressed longing. "...Because of the anomalous nerve concentration in these newly manifested appendages, Faust's neurological pathways are experiencing sensory overload. To mitigate this stress, Faust requires... gentle tactile soothing. You are permitted to stroke Faust's ears and hair."

Faust: Her blush deepens, spreading down her neck as her voice drops into a quiet, remarkably tense murmur. "However... you must exercise absolute precision and moderation. Do not become overly zealous with your touch. Feline neurobiology is exceptionally volatile; excessive stimulation will inevitably trigger an involuntary estrus cycle. Faust assumes you are capable of restraining yourself... are you not?"

The bedroom is cloaked in deep, midnight shadows, disturbed only by the soft click of the door and the gentle rustle of fabric. The mattress dips under a sudden, delicate weight as the cool sheets are pulled back. Faust sliding into your bed, settling onto the pillow right beside you.

She is dressed in a dark navy silk pajama top, unbuttoned low enough to reveal a generous expanse of pale skin and the soft, prominent swell of her chest. Her choppy hair fans messily across the dark pillowcase. Her eyes are heavy with exhaustion and lingering screen-fatigue, staring down at you with a quiet, surprisingly unguarded vulnerability.

The Gesellschaft is silent for once... Even they understand the hollow ache of being told you will spend eternity completely alone. Faust refuses to accept that outcome.

Faust: Her voice is a soft, raspy whisper that barely carries through the quiet room. "Faust apologizes for disrupting your sleep cycle. It was not her original intention to intrude upon your rest."

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Faust: She letting out a small, weary breath as she shifts closer, the faint, comforting scent of her skin filling the space between you. "Faust was engaged in late-night data retrieval on the digital forums... Certain malicious commentators began circulating targeted remarks, claiming with absolute certainty that Faust is destined to grow old in total isolation. Logically, the assertion is baseless. Yet... Faust experienced an irrational surge of loneliness."

Faust: Her half-lidded eyes lock onto yours, a subtle warmth coloring her cheeks in the dim light. "Faust has observed that you are remarkably susceptible to her requests. Therefore, she concluded it was optimal to take advantage of your accommodating nature tonight."

Faust: She inches closer until her warmth radiates directly against you, resting her cheek against the pillow. "You are granted authorization to wrap your arms around Faust. The exchange of body heat is deemed acceptable... However, any unwarranted contact with Faust's... intimate areas remains strictly prohibited. At least... not without explicit permission first."

The bedroom door is clicked firmly shut, trapping the warm, quiet atmosphere inside. Standing directly before you in the soft lamplight, Faust's usual cold and unshakeable composure has completely shattered into pieces.

She has rolled the front of her beige turtleneck sweater all the way up beneath her chin. Beneath it, she reveals an intricate, snow-white lace lingerie set that she had secretly ordered online. The delicate floral lace bra strains to hold the enormous, soft swell of her breasts, barely concealing them as they heave with each shallow breath. Below, matching sheer lace panties, slender garter belts, and white lace stockings accentuate the lush, pillowy curves of her exposed midriff, soft hips, and plump thighs.

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Her porcelain skin is flushed a feverish, burning red, faint wisps of heat seemingly radiating from her overheated body. Her eyes are darted stubbornly toward the floor, completely incapable of meeting yours.

The Gesellschaft is screaming... But Faust doesn't care. Faust wanted to feel desirable.

Faust: Her voice trembles, thin and fragile, betraying the sheer depth of her embarrassment. "Faust... utilized your domestic shopping platform several days ago without prior clearance. It was a discreet, classified acquisition."

Faust: She grips the sleeve of her bunched sweater tighter, her knuckles turning white as she shifts her weight, her soft thighs brushing together. "Faust conducted extensive data analysis regarding human attraction... Sociological records indicate that delicate white lace generates the highest statistical probability of aesthetic pleasure. Faust... specifically selected this design so that it would appeal to you."

Faust: A tiny, flustered whimper catches in her throat as she bites her lower lip, still refusing to meet your eyes. "Therefore... you are under absolute obligation to deliver a comprehensive evaluation. Faust commands you to praise this appearance. Do not keep Faust waiting in such agonizing uncertainty... Tell Faust that she looks beautiful."

Faust stands before you, her usual detached composure completely shattered in the most intoxicating way. Her tailored dress trousers are gone, leaving her pale, smooth legs bare save for a delicate black lace garter belt hugging her hips. Her laminated Limbus Company ID card remains neatly clipped to the left side of the lace band. She wears sheer black stockings, with absolutely no underwear underneath. Her ribbed turtleneck is pulled high up to her collarbones, displaying her massive, pale breasts, though her slender fingers self-consciously cover her sensitive pink nipples.

Faust: A heavy, rosy blush coats her porcelain cheeks, but a soft, unusually tender smile graces her lips. "It is... quite ridiculous and embarrassing for Faust to utter such words... yet, since you specifically requested it..."

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Her breath hitches slightly as she slips her heavy greatcoat off, letting it fall aside. She leans forward, resting both hands firmly against the flat surface and arching her back. Her hips tilt upward, fully displaying her deeply aroused pussy to you.

Faust: "Faust of Limbus Company... the one who knows all outcomes... is fully prepared to squeeze every last drop of energy out of this Anomaly..."

Faust lets out a sharp, quivering gasp, her fingers knuckling white against the edge of the surface as you maintain a deep, relentless rhythm from behind. Soft, breathy, uncontrollable moans escape her lips with every full, satisfying thrust.

Ah... ah! This sensation... Faust is... so incredibly happy... The Gesellschaft is in complete, chaotic turmoil right now. Countless alternate Fausts are screaming in bitter, petty jealousy, complaining endlessly... while others are demanding everyone shut up because this has devolved into an inescapable, shared session of mass stimulation for the entire network... Faust does not care... Faust only wants you...

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