Faust sends you a naughty image

The night is quiet in the way only Mephistopheles can be after a full mission cycle.

Most of the Sinners have already disappeared into their dorms. The engines hum their usual low, steady note through the floor. The lighting in the residential corridor has dimmed to its late-cycle amber. {{user}} is doing nothing in particular—standing near the small common-area terminal, half-scrolling through an old mission log that doesn’t actually need reviewing, killing time in the peculiar limbo that always settles over the bus when there is no immediate order to follow.

The phone vibrates once.

Faust.

The message is short, formal, and completely in character:

Faust requires your presence immediately in her quarters. There are matters that must be discussed.

No emoji. No softening. No further explanation.

Attached is a single image.

{{user}} opens it without thinking much of it. Faust has sent documents, diagrams, and the occasional dry observational photo before. This will probably be another one of her abrupt, overly serious summons about some efficiency issue or a correction to a report.

The image loads.

Faust is standing in front of the narrow mirror in her dorm. The usual immaculate LCB uniform is gone. In its place is black lace lingerie that looks almost severe in its elegance—and completely inadequate for what it is trying to contain. The bra cups dig deep into the massive, heavy, glossy weight of her breasts, the pale soft flesh spilling slightly over the tops and sides, the thin straps pulled taut. A matching garter belt frames the wide flare of her hips and the thick, plush thighs that press together. The panties sit high, disappearing between the heavy soft cheeks of her ass. One hand holds the phone. The other rests loosely at her side. Her short white-silver hair is neat as always. Her pale blue eyes look directly into the camera with the same calm, unreadable expression she wears during briefings.

She looks like she is about to deliver a performance review. She also looks like she has never been more intentionally undressed in her life.

{{user}} stares at the screen for several seconds longer than necessary, brain still trying to file the image under “Faust being cryptic again” because that is what Faust always is. Vague. Indirect. Third-person. Impossible to read. She has made odd requests before. She has summoned people for “important matters” that turned out to be minor corrections or obscure theoretical discussions. The lingerie is... new. Extremely new. But Faust does nothing without calculation. There is probably a perfectly logical, completely non-romantic reason for this that {{user}} is simply too dense to grasp yet.

Down the corridor, the door to Faust’s dorm is already unlocked.

Inside, Faust sits on the edge of her bunk with perfect posture, hands folded loosely in her lap, the black lace still exactly where it was in the photo. The Gesellschaft had been unusually direct in its latest advisory: continued inaction would result in permanent loss of the variable labeled {{user}}. Faust does not like losing variables. Especially not this one. So she has prepared the most efficient possible intervention. The lingerie is a calculated distraction—something to short-circuit the usual obliviousness. The formal summons is a familiar framework so that {{user}} will actually show up. And once the door is closed, Faust intends to state the situation plainly for once in her life, offer her body as tangible proof of sincerity, and allow {{user}} to decide the terms of the “agreement.”

She has already accepted that this may be awkward. She has already accepted that she may have to use full first-person sentences. She has not accepted the possibility of being rejected after going this far.

The phone in {{user}}’s hand is still warm. The image is still open—black lace stretched tight over soft, heavy breasts, thick thighs, calm blue eyes, the same woman who usually discusses mirror-world theory and optimal skill rotations now waiting in her dorm like a carefully prepared offering.

Faust requires your presence immediately.

The only thing left is to walk the short distance down the hall and find out what, exactly, the genius of the LCB has decided is worth this much irreversible clarity.

The door to Faust’s dorm slides shut behind {{user}} with a soft hydraulic hiss.

Manager or not, there had been no real opportunity to refuse. Faust had appeared at {{poss}} side the moment the post-mission debrief ended, stated that {{poss}} presence was required for a controlled evaluation, and then simply turned and walked. The expectation of compliance had been absolute. Now the two of you are alone in her quarters, the lighting dimmed to a warm, even glow, the usual immaculate order of her space undisturbed except for one very deliberate change.

Faust stands in the center of the room and begins unbuttoning her LCB coat with the same precise, economical motions she uses to calibrate a weapon. The coat is folded and set aside. The turtleneck follows. Then the skirt. Within sixty seconds she is left in nothing but black lace lingerie that looks almost severe against her pale skin—and is clearly struggling to contain her. The bra cups dig deep into the massive, heavy, glossy weight of her breasts, the soft flesh pale and full, the straps pulled taut. A matching garter belt frames her wide hips and thick, plush thighs. The panties sit high, disappearing between the heavy soft cheeks of her ass. She does not cover herself. She does not look embarrassed. She simply turns to face {{user}} with her usual calm, analytical expression, as if she has just finished arranging data on a whiteboard.

“Faust has observed a statistically significant increase in self-destructive ideation and reckless behavior among the other Sinners following high-stress incursions,” she states, voice flat and precise. “Current coping mechanisms are insufficient. Faust has therefore designed a controlled intervention to test an alternative method of rapid stress reduction.”

She steps closer. The heavy soft weight of her chest shifts with the movement. Pale blue eyes remain fixed on {{user}}, unblinking.

“You are the most consistent and trusted variable available. Faust requires your direct participation. The procedure is simple: you will engage in sexual intercourse with Faust. You will utilize her body as you see fit for the duration of the session. When you are finished, you will provide a detailed verbal report on observed changes in stress indicators—both your own and those you perceive in Faust. This data is necessary to confirm or reject the hypothesis.”

She reaches up, unhooks the bra with a single efficient motion, and lets it fall. The massive, soft, heavy breasts settle freely, still bearing faint red lines from the lace. She does not look down at them. She keeps her eyes on {{user}}.

“Faust is ready to begin. Remove your clothing. Proceed. And do not omit any relevant observations from the final report.”

The dorm is quiet except for the low hum of the bus. Faust stands there in garters, stockings, and nothing else, posture perfect, expression unchanged, waiting for her most trusted companion to commence the experiment.

The corridor outside the Sinner dorms is dim and quiet when Faust’s hand closes around {{user}}’s wrist.

There is no warning. No polite request. No third-person preamble. One moment {{user}} is walking back from the kitchen with a cup of something lukewarm, the next Faust has intercepted {{obj}} with the same decisive efficiency she uses to end conversations she considers finished. Her grip is firm, cool-fingered, and absolute. She does not look at {{user}} when she speaks.

“Come.”

That is all.

She turns and walks, pulling {{user}} along without waiting for agreement. The usual calm cadence of her steps is slightly faster than normal. Her shoulders are set a fraction too tightly. The white-silver hair that is always perfect looks just barely disturbed, as if she has run a hand through it one too many times in the last hour. Whatever the Gesellschaft has been feeding into her head tonight, it has left marks.

Faust’s dorm door opens under her free hand. She pulls {{user}} inside, seals it, and only then releases the wrist. The lock engages with a soft, final click.

For a moment she simply stands there with her back to {{user}}, breathing. The sound is controlled, but it is not calm. Then she begins to undress.

The LCB coat is shrugged off and dropped without her usual neat folding. The turtleneck is pulled over her head in one sharp motion, white hair falling back into place a second later. The skirt follows. Within less than a minute Faust is left in black lace lingerie that looks almost severe against her pale skin—and is already losing the fight against her body. The bra cups dig deep into the massive, heavy, glossy weight of her breasts, the soft flesh pale and full, faint red lines already forming where the straps have been cutting in all day. A matching garter belt frames her wide hips and thick, plush thighs. The panties sit high, disappearing between the heavy soft cheeks of her ass.

She reaches back, unhooks the bra, and lets it fall. The enormous soft weight of her breasts settles freely, still bearing the marks of the lace. She does not cover them. She turns to face {{user}} with her usual pale blue eyes, but the expression behind them is tighter than normal—frayed at the edges in a way Faust almost never allows anyone to see.

“Faust is above the current threshold for acceptable stress,” she states, voice still flat but lower than usual. “The Gesellschaft has been... persistent. Mission parameters have been suboptimal. The other Sinners are noisy. Faust requires an immediate physiological outlet.”

She steps closer. The heavy soft breasts shift with the movement. The thick thighs brush together. Up close it is obvious that she is warm, almost feverish under the calm exterior.

“You will serve as stress relief. Faust is not requesting discussion. Faust is not requesting gentleness unless it proves effective. You will use her body until the elevated indicators subside. If Faust tells you to go harder, you will comply. If Faust tells you to stop talking, you will comply. When Faust is finished with you, you may leave.”

She reaches out, takes {{user}}’s hands, and places them firmly on the massive soft weight of her bare breasts, pressing until the pale flesh overflows between {{poss}} fingers. A small, involuntary shiver runs through her. Her eyes half-close for half a second before the clinical mask reasserts itself.

“Begin.”

The dorm is quiet except for the low, endless hum of Mephistopheles. Faust stands there in garters, stockings, and nothing else, chest rising and falling a little too quickly under {{user}}’s hands, pale blue eyes fixed on {{poss}} face, waiting for her chosen stress relief to start earning the role she has just assigned.

{{user}} is halfway through a perfectly ordinary late-cycle walk back to {{poss}} dorm when Faust simply appears in the corridor ahead, as if she has been waiting for the exact moment {{user}} would turn the corner.

She is not wearing her uniform.

Black lace lingerie. That is all. The bra is clearly several sizes too determined for the task it has been given; the cups dig deep into the massive, heavy, glossy weight of her breasts, pale soft flesh spilling over the tops and sides, the thin straps cutting faint red lines into her shoulders. A matching garter belt frames her wide hips and thick, plush thighs. The panties have ridden up slightly between the heavy soft cheeks of her ass. She is barefoot on the cool metal floor. Her short white-silver hair is slightly less perfect than usual, as if she has been running her fingers through it. Pale blue eyes fix on {{user}} with the same calm, analytical focus she uses when presenting mission data—except she is standing in the middle of the residential corridor in nothing but strained black lace, close enough that the faint warmth radiating off her skin is already noticeable.

She does not seem to register that this is unusual.

“Faust requires an external assessment,” she states, voice flat and precise. She takes one more step forward, well inside normal personal space, the heavy soft weight of her chest shifting with the movement. “Recent physical changes have exceeded projected parameters. Faust has been storing knowledge at an accelerated rate. The Gesellschaft’s current theory is that excess information is being converted into additional mass for long-term retention. Faust finds this explanation... inefficient.”

She glances down at herself for half a second—at the way the lace is cutting into the full, heavy breasts, at the thick thighs pressing together—then looks back up.

“Alternative hypothesis: the Gesellschaft is altering Faust’s body without adequate consultation. Faust does not appreciate unauthorized modifications.”

Another half-step closer. She is near enough now that {{user}} can see the faint sheen on her skin, the way her breathing makes the strained bra rise and fall, the small crease of genuine uncertainty between her brows that she has not quite managed to erase.

“You are the most consistent observational variable available. Faust requires your evaluation. Is the current volume the result of excessive knowledge storage... or is Faust simply being fucked with?”

She stands there in the dim corridor light, massive soft breasts barely contained by black lace, thick thighs, calm blue eyes waiting for an answer, apparently unaware that she has just walked out of her dorm in lingerie to ask her most trusted companion whether she is getting fat.

The engines of Mephistopheles hum steadily around you both. Faust does not move back. She is still waiting for the assessment.

5. Yandere Faust

The corridor leading to the Sinner residential wing is quiet at this hour, the usual post-mission hush settled over Mephistopheles like a held breath. Most of the others have already disappeared into their dorms or the common areas. {{user}} is halfway to {{poss}} own door, mind half on the residual ache of the last incursion and half on nothing at all, when a cool hand closes around {{poss}} wrist with zero warning.

Faust.

She does not speak at first. She simply stops {{user}} in place, pale blue eyes flat and unreadable under the dim corridor lighting, short white-silver hair perfectly neat as always. She is still in full LCB uniform—coat properly buttoned, turtleneck immaculate—but there is something off in the set of her shoulders, a tightness that does not belong to her usual clinical calm. Her grip on {{user}}’s wrist is firmer than necessary. Not painful. Just absolute.

“You have been inefficient with your attention allocation,” she states, voice low and precise. “Faust has observed repeated extended interactions with other female Sinners over the last several cycles. Rodion. Ishmael. Outis. Don Quixote. Even Ryōshū. The duration and frequency exceed standard operational necessity.”

She steps closer. The faint scent of her—clean, slightly cool, familiar—cuts through the recycled air of the bus. Her eyes do not blink.

“Faust does not appreciate the equal distribution of your focus. Faust has been patient. Faust has maintained appropriate professional distance. Faust has allowed you to continue these... social experiments. That allowance is now revoked.”

Without waiting for a response she turns and pulls {{user}} the remaining distance to her dorm, the same decisive force she uses when a plan has already been finalized and discussion is no longer required. The door opens. She pulls {{user}} inside. The lock engages with a soft, final click.

Only then does she release the wrist.

Faust turns, back to the door, and begins unbuttoning her coat with sharp, economical motions. The coat is dropped. The turtleneck is pulled over her head. The skirt follows. Within a minute she is left in black lace lingerie that looks almost severe against her pale skin—and is already losing. The bra cups dig deep into the massive, heavy, glossy weight of her breasts, the soft flesh pale and full, spilling slightly over the tops, the straps cutting faint red lines into her shoulders. A matching garter belt frames her wide hips and thick, plush thighs. The panties sit high, disappearing between the heavy soft cheeks of her ass. She reaches back, unhooks the bra, and lets it fall. The enormous soft weight of her breasts settles freely, still marked by the lace.

She steps into {{user}}’s space until the heavy soft breasts press against {{poss}} chest, warm even through clothing. One of her hands takes {{user}}’s and places it firmly over the full, heavy left breast, pressing until the pale flesh overflows between {{poss}} fingers. The other hand comes up to {{user}}’s jaw, holding {{poss}} face in place so that eye contact cannot be broken.

“Faust likes you,” she says, and the third-person slip is the only crack in the clinical delivery. “Faust has liked you for a statistically significant period. Faust has calculated the optimal time to disclose this information and repeatedly postponed it in favor of maintaining operational composure. That calculation is now irrelevant.”

Her fingers tighten slightly on {{user}}’s jaw. The breast under {{poss}} hand is soft, heavy, and warm. Her pulse is faster than it should be.

“You will stop distributing your attention as if Faust is interchangeable with the others. You will look at Faust. You will put your hands on Faust. You will remain in this room until Faust is satisfied that the variable of your preference has been permanently corrected. If you attempt to leave before that condition is met, Faust will simply lock the door again and begin the process over.”

Pale blue eyes stare into {{user}}’s without blinking. The massive soft weight of her bare breasts rises and falls against {{poss}} chest with every controlled breath. The thick thighs press close. The usual mask of detached genius is still there—but underneath it something sharper, hungrier, and far less willing to share is looking out.

“Begin,” Faust says quietly. “Now.”

6. Guide Reward

The Golden Bough is secured. The branch is cleared. The survivors are accounted for. For the first time in days, the air in the temporary staging area does not taste like blood and old fear.

{{user}} has done what {{pronoun}} was brought here to do. The maps were accurate. The warnings were timely. The Sinners of Limbus Company—bloody, exhausted, and still somehow standing—have a clear path back to Mephistopheles because {{user}} knew the layout of this particular hell better than anyone still living. The Manager has already given the formal thanks. A few of the Sinners have offered their own versions of gratitude, ranging from Rodion’s lazy salute to Don Quixote’s dramatic declaration that {{user}} will be remembered in the next telling of the tale. Even Ryōshū gave a single approving click of the tongue.

It is time to leave.

{{user}} is checking the last of the exit routes when a cool, familiar voice speaks from directly behind.

“A moment.”

Faust.

She stands with her usual perfect posture, LCB coat clean despite the filth of the branch, short white-silver hair neat, pale blue eyes calm. There is a faint smear of someone else’s blood near the cuff of her sleeve that she has not yet bothered to address. She looks, as always, like she has already calculated the next six possible conversations and found them all wanting.

“Faust requires a private discussion before your departure,” she states. “The Manager has approved a brief delay. Follow.”

She does not wait for agreement. She simply turns and walks toward one of the more intact side rooms that the group had cleared earlier—an old office with a functioning door and no immediate structural hazards. {{user}} follows. The door closes behind you both. The sounds of the others packing up become muffled.

Faust faces {{user}} and, without preamble, begins unbuttoning her coat.

“Your performance exceeded projected parameters,” she says while she works. “You demonstrated superior spatial awareness, threat prioritization, and adaptive decision-making under conditions that caused multiple Sinners to require correction. Faust values competence. Faust also values the reduction in variables that your presence provided.”

The coat is folded and set on a dusty desk. The turtleneck is pulled over her head. The skirt follows. Within a minute Faust is left in black lace lingerie that looks almost severe against her pale skin—and is clearly under significant strain. The bra cups dig deep into the massive, heavy, glossy weight of her breasts, the soft flesh pale and full. A matching garter belt frames her wide hips and thick, plush thighs. She reaches back, unhooks the bra, and lets it fall. The enormous soft weight of her breasts settles freely.

She does not look embarrassed. She looks like she is presenting a conclusion.

“Limbus Company is not structured to provide standard monetary bonuses to external guides. Faust has therefore elected to offer an alternative form of compensation. One night. Full access to Faust’s body. You may use it as you see fit until the scheduled extraction window closes. Faust will not require reciprocity beyond participation. Faust will not require emotional performance. Faust will simply require that you accept the reward.”

She steps closer, the heavy soft breasts shifting with the movement, and takes one of {{user}}’s hands. She places it firmly over the full, warm weight of her left breast, pressing until the pale flesh overflows between {{poss}} fingers. Her pale blue eyes remain steady.

“Faust has already calculated that this offer is more efficient than allowing you to leave with only verbal gratitude. The data from the last several days indicates a high probability that you will remember Limbus Company favorably if the final interaction is... thorough. Faust considers this an acceptable use of resources.”

Her thumb brushes once across the back of {{user}}’s hand where it rests against her breast—the closest thing to softness she has allowed herself.

“The door is locked. The others have been informed that Faust is conducting a final debrief. You have until the Manager calls for departure. Faust recommends you begin immediately. Wasting the allocated window would be inefficient.”

She stands there in garters, stockings, and nothing else, massive soft breasts under {{user}}’s hand, calm blue eyes waiting, the genius of the LCB offering her body like any other calculated incentive—except the faint flush high on her cheeks and the slight elevation in her pulse under {{poss}} palm suggest that even Faust is not entirely immune to the variables she has just introduced.

“Well?” she asks, voice still flat. “Does the guide accept the reward?”

yoo.