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Marie rests her cheek on the back of her hand as she scrolls her mechanical tablet to the next page. It is a quiet, uneventful night, or what passes as night here in the crypts. She is sitting down with a cup of hot tea, Grandmother's recipe, to read up on Kermerros' research on the strange animals of Deimos. Not the mindless infested, but the ones that are infected yet persevere for countless generations. His menagerie has quickly become her favorite place in the whole estate and, if she wants to help take care of the animals there, she needs to learn both from him and on her own.
"Mind the tail, Priest."
"What needs have you for a tail if you cannot control it?"
Marie resists the urge to heave a sigh. It is as quiet and uneventful as it can get when one lives with a devil and a priest who has little tolerance for the former's nonsense.
"Simple. It is to remind you I can do this even when you have me on my knees."
There is a sharp swoosh of metal cutting through the air, quickly followed by a curse from Lyon. Where was she? Mutagens and antigens. An antigen is a substance that helps the production of antibodies. An antibody is a substance which a person's or an animal's body produces in their blood in order to destroy another substance which carries disease. When an antigen is administered to a subject, it helps neutralize the Grey Strain spores in the subject's body, slowly reversing their detrimental effect on its physical and mental condition.
The figures in the corner of her eye are more or less out of their clothes and are locked in an embrace. Kissing, from what she is hearing. At its current stage of evolution, the Grey Strain necessiates various types of antigen for each animal species (see: Antigens by Animal Species). These antigens may result in various side effects, such as physical effects, behavioral effects, and enhanced combat abilities. The side effects have shown no cause for concern so far; however, observations shall continue to be made.
So… it is similar to the effects of Albrecht's serum on the Protoframes. She can only hope it doesn't hurt the poor creatures as much as what was given to the three of them.
The type and amount of antigen to be given, as well as any other necessary adjustment, are decided based on the subject's age, weight, disease progression, symptoms, existing antibodies and other health concerns (if any). A moan. Roathe sighs before growling softly. Lyon is caressing his thigh, running his hand from the inside of his knee all the way up to his groin. The type and amount of antigen to be given, as well as any other necessary adjustments, are decided based on… Roathe's cock must be quite erect now. Those golden piercings have always looked so lovely against the purplish blush, and what is even better is Lyon's large hand wrapping around it, stroking from tip to base, and Roathe fucking into his fist—
Focus, Marie Leroux. You have a task to finish.
She takes a sip of her tea, letting the bitterness quell the kindling heat in her nether region. She taps to view the different mutagen types.
"Fuuuck!"
And that is the loud, unmistakable squelch of fingers entering a devilishly tight and wet passage.
She is not going to look. She is not. A Sister of Sol does not stray from her duty.
"Yes! Yes! Put those fingers to good use now!"
"What did we say about keeping quiet, Devil? Or do you wish for Marie to chase us out of her room right now, never to grant us entry ever again? She has so graciously allowed you the use of her bed, yet you cannot control even the sound of your wanton pleasure."
A rough, deriding laugh is all that comes out of Roathe's mouth. And then he says, "Make me."
List of Antigens by Animal Species
Section A: Avichaea Antigens
Number one, Lyon barks out a sound half-angry half-rabid as he tries to wrestle the devil into some semblance of submission. They both know Roathe won't be silenced so easily, the mouthy demon that he is. He will keep blathering on until they either give in or crack the whip. The bed creaks noisily under their combined weight. It has withstood worse and—
She won't be finishing anything if she keeps letting herself be distracted like this!
Number one, Antigen for the Common Avichaea (also known as Tactim Antigen)
The sound of Roathe's tailblade cutting through the air before it slashes something. Lyon hisses. The devil cackles. Oh sometimes she wonders if riling Lyon will be the last thing he does with how often he likes to do it.
Oh Sol above! Number one, Antigen for the Common Avichaea (also known as Tactim Antigen)
Antigen Blueprint
Manufacturing requirements: 6 Fass Residues, 15 Ganglions, 30 Benign Infested Tumors, 15 Parasitic Tethermaws
As the Common Avichaea has the largest population among all three Avichaea subspecies, it is easier to evaluate the antigen's efficacy and observe the side effects. Currently, there is one known side effect: a small alteration to its vocal communication. Further research is required to understand the impact and implications of such alteration on intra-subspecies and inter-subspecies behaviors (see: Investigation into Tactim Antigen side effects).
When the Grey Strain infects a large population, it has more chance to mutate and develop resistance to the antigen. Therefore, it is necessary to regularly assess its efficacy and adjust—
Why is it so quiet all of the sudden? All she can hear is some heavy breathing and the smallest rustling of the sheets.
She glances over just in time to catch Roathe's gaze. Lyon has got him pinned down and he is staring at her from where he is burying his face into the bed, the blue on his face and ears almost taken over completely by an adorable pinkish blush.
And then Lyon starts ploughing into him, rough, relentless thrusts that would be sending him sliding forwards if it weren't for Lyon's grip in his hair and on his arching back. Her room, her sacred study space, is now filled with the sounds of their making—the squelching of his thick cock spearing his greedy hole, their enthusiastic moans, the screeching of a bed forced to take part in too vigorous an exercise. There is an obscene smash every time Lyon's hips slap against Roathe's backside, drawing a sob out of him, over and over and over, as if it were a punishment when it is anything but. Little Marie knows how all of that feels firsthand, doesn't she? When her Lyon gives in to his earthly desires, shedding his priestly coat and his iron discipline, and fucks the way he wants it. Non-negotiable. With his eyes closed and moving at his own pace. Singleminded in the pursuit of his own pleasure.
Her hole clenches at the scene playing out in vivid details in front of her. It is a mess of slick and want, hot, wet and ravenous, in her undergarment, but she also wants to finish this chapter tonight so that she can discuss it with Kermerros tomorrow.
"Is that the best you could do, Father?" Roathe spits out, throwing a challenging look over his shoulder.
Her Lyon's eye cracks open. If his stare could burn, there would be a sizzling hole in the middle of her Devil's back.
"I'm— ah— getting quite bored here."
He puts his foot on the side of Roathe's head and then proceeds to step on his face.
"You—?!!"
Whatever Roathe wants to say is cut short by the mattress and Lyon changing his pace—short, quick thrusts that rock him back and forth rapidly, pulling nothing but choked moans and curses from him. He digs his claws into Lyon's ankle as he struggles to catch up with the new speed. He wants control so badly but with his shaking knees and the overwhelming sensations and Lyon's bruising grip on his waist he just can't. All he can do now is taking it, taking the priest's cock like a good little thing, squeezing around the thick length, feeling how wet he is for it, fluid driping uncontrollably in a visible rivulet from his own manhood.
"It is not your place to speak, let alone demand, Devil," Lyon says lowly. His golden hair is a mess as it sways with the force of his pounding, as sweat glistens on his bare chest, trailing down and down his divine body and Marie has to lick her lips to stop herself from getting a taste. Oh the salty heat! The rise and fall of his muscular torso! The way Lyon would tremble when her tongue travels across his chest, swirling around his perky tits.
"Would I have bothered"—Roathe manages to say, straining against the foot on his face, before Lyon pushes his head down again—"complaining—fuck!—if you had been doing it properly?"
"Pray tell how I should have done it."
"With. More. Effort!"
Lyon shifts the angle just enough to hit his sweet spot. For a second, Roathe goes silent, and then he shudders violently and cries out and quickly wraps his hand around his cock. Marie presses her thighs together and wiggles in her seat, trying fruitlessly to imitate what is happening in front of her eyes. She can't help it, knowing how Roathe must be feeling right now, restrained and pounded so mindnumbingly deliciously into the bed by her Lyon. If she were there with them, she would be wrapping one arm around Lyon, feeling the raw strength of his hips, and bringing Roathe to completion with the other.
"Ye-es! Finally! Fina—"
All that comes out is a squeak. For a heart beat, he freezes, and then his cock is shooting all over her bedsheets as he tries to fuck himself backwards. Lyon obliges, drilling into his sweet spot with all his strength and agility. Marie palms herself, biting back a moan. Roathe is sobbing as Lyon milks him until there is nothing left but he keeps going and Roathe starts to thrash in his hold. She wants to join them. Now. Now.
Roathe's gaze flickers back to her, sharp like a hawk. His lips stretch into a grin as Lyon releases him from his foot only to grip his hair, pulling him back onto his cock.
"Won't you join us now, darling?" he asks, half-laughter, half-moan, and with none of the dignity of Orokin royalty.
None at all, not when he's moaning and trembling visibly every time Lyon is buried to the hilt, the way his eyes are starting to lose focus, his spent cock growing fatter again, falling deeper and deeper into the bottomless spring of pleasure where Lyon is bringing them both. Them all. Their priest can persevere for as long as it takes to ruin his partner, until they beg him for the mercy only he can deliver.
"Marie, my apology," Lyon says, breathing roughly, without faltering in his pace. Whatever is Roathe's reply is cut off by a gasp. "We shall be done soon enough."
Slowly, soundlessly, Marie turns off her tablet and drinks the rest of her tea. There are a couple of excuses she can give Kermerros for her lack of progress. She knows he won't mind it that much, but she does. Centuries of knowledge to be learned and she is only capable of taking one step at a time. Why in Sol's light did she allow them inside in the first place?
She carries the device and the empty cup over to the table. She can feel their hungry gazes on her, brushing over her nape—the place where her transformation begins—a mix of undying desire and spoiled impatience, down her swordsteel back, lingering on the lovely curve of her backside. She pretends to type something on the dark screen, fusses with the various books and scrolls on the table, even the strange little trinkets that are part of the game Jambon and she like to play, where she has to guess what these oddly-shaped items do, if they actually do anything.
The room falls silent once more as its guests look on with longing at the lady who holds their hearts captive.
When the wait has been long enough, she tugs her night veil off, lets her golden hair flow freely down her back. She folds the cloth neatly, taking every care to preserve one of the few pieces of clothing from home that she has left. The air in the room shifts once more, growing taunt with anticipation.
There is unspoken joy on her lovers' faces when she finally, finally moves closer. Close enough to bestow upon them the gift of herself. Far enough to remind them who is in control. She watches them watch her push the first button of her nightgown through the buttonhole, and the next one, and the next one, and the next one… They almost forget to breathe. Their eyes light up with every button undone, every sliver of soft skin and warped flesh revealed, until she is slipping the gown over her shoulders and floats before them, in her full glory and nothing else but her small, soaked undergarment.
"What a sight to behold," Roathe croons. Lyon nods in agreement, equally breathless.
"Alors…" She floats to the other side of the bed, far, far away from their hands. "D'abord, you came into my room uninvited. Then you proceeded to occupy my bed. Et maintenant, you have distracted me from mon étude. What shall I ever do with you two vilains garçons?"
"I gave in to temptation." Lyon shakes his head ruefully. "I await punishment."
And you shall have it.
Marie sweeps his golden hair into her hand and licks a broad stripe up his neck. It tastes as good as she remembers and more, and she can feel his heart pounding underneath the hot skin, the strength and the excitement. Lyon raises a hand to touch her, his lips already poised for a kiss. She swiftly evades it, hiding a gleeful smile behind her hand. Lyon looks crestfallen for a moment, before it is replaced by pure determination.
"May I have just the smallest bit of your attention, please?" Roathe has turned half-way around to look at them with his customary sneer and undisguised greed.
"Fuck him," Marie whispers into her priest's ear. "Fuck him until he speaks no more."
Roathe barks out a maniacal laugh, licking his lips and swishing his tail, before Lyon smashes his face into the bed and resumes the brutal pace from earlier. She wraps her arms around Lyon's shoulders and lets herself sway with each of his powerful thrusts. It never gets old, watching Lyon and the Devil fuck. The sight of the two men together is surpassed, perhaps, only by the wanton tension that preceded their getting together, and by the countless times she jerked Lyon off while whispering filthy suggestions into his ears—how the Devil would look with a cock in his mouth, how Lyon would look riding him, how she would have them both fighting for a taste of her sweet essence, place herself between them, taking both their cocks.
"Of course. Of cooourse," Roathe says with a laugh. "It was all this silver-tongue Devil's fault you could not control your cock."
"He's just so loud, so demanding," she speaks loud enough for both to hear. "Pourriez-vous y aller plus fort? Could you tame this Devil, Father?"
Lyon pauses just long enough to flip Roathe over and then drives back in. Roathe arches his back to accommodate the new angle, his heavy, gilded cock bouncing with every move, looking close to bursting. Lyon grips it not so gently. Roathe's eyes fly open just as his claws rip into his priest's thighs and Lyon starts stroking. They look so good together like this: Roathe spread out on his back, taking cock so eagerly, without a bit of reserve in expressing his pleasure; Lyon working his hips so skillfully, pounding into him harder faster each time he sinks back in.
Moments pass and they are still locked in this impasse, neither willing to lose the fight, to be the one to succumb to the pleasure of the other's doing. All they need is just a little push…
She grabs the Devil by his tail. He gasps in surprise, which quickly turns into a groan when she runs the feisty little blade over her lips. Then she presses it against Lyon's chest and slashes with the deadly edge.
Like ships caught in a tempest, their control unravels. They groan and curse and cry out and grab each other as they chase after their own release. Marie, too, feels her core winding tighter and tighter and with a happy moan she clings tightly to Lyon and lets it explode within her. She presses her breasts against his tortured back, rubbing the sensitive mounds against the expanse of his taunt muscles, enjoying the toe-curling tingles it brings with every joined gasp.
She leaves them just long enough to place herself between them.
She lets them kiss her everywhere they can reach, still tied together as they are. Already Lyon is plunging his tongue into her mouth, pulling her against his chest with an iron grip, and she touches his face and hand and neck and cock with the same urgency. Roathe isn't far behind, of course. He nips, licks, caresses from the place where her legs flicker between planes to warped skin to soft, human blemishes. It is ticklish, and it sends shockwaves straight up into her cunt, spilling more of her slick into her see-through wet panties.
She twirls around to hover over him, staring back at his grinning face. He is running his hands up and down her sides with deliberate strength, not unlike a predator awaiting the golden moment.
"No winner, it seems," he says smugly.
They both hear Lyon's huff of laughter from behind them. He knows very well what happens when someone underestimates her.
She grabs those teasing hands, presses them into the bed high above his head, and kisses Roathe's breath away. She does not yield when he tries to seize control. She ravages him until it is he who gasps for precious air, who has drool spilling from a corner of his mouth, makes all those little sounds that his pride will deny ever exist.
Once she has had her fill, she licks her lips like a hungry wolf and says, "Non. We're not done yet."
She flips Roathe back onto his stomach and pulls at Lyon until he is slowly pounding his cock inside Roathe again. Then she grips the naughty tail and settles herself astride his gilded back. There is a moment of adjustment, and then she is grinding her dripping cunt to their rhythm. They move as one—Lyon is fucking Roathe and Roathe is fucking her and she is fucking them both. She strokes Roathe's tail like it's his cock. She slams her Lyon impossibly deeper into her Devil. She rubs the writhing appendage over her nipples, between her soft breasts, and slashes and slashes the broad chest in front of her. She rubs her clit and her folds and hole all over the golden, shiny armor and revels in the sounds, this song of lust and love and bloody violence, all of their own making. No telling where one ends and another begins, only this endless pleasure that they are riding together.
Roathe comes first, calling out their names—his tail has always been his weakness, as sensitive as his adorned cock and oh so honest in its craving for affection.
"Bien joué, Diable! Mon bon garçon," she coos, as she continues to stroke his tail from base to blade.
He shakes violently between her legs as he rides it out, his release splashing onto her shins, drenching her bed even further. Lyon squeezes his eye shut as his perfect pace begins to falter. Marie can only imagine how tightly Roathe is enveloping him. How exquisitely hot and slick. How much Lyon loves to prolong his pleasure until it comes crashing down on him and grants him release.
She digs her nail into his backside and speaks urgently against his curling lips, "Jouir pour moi, mon soleil. Jouir pour moi! Jouir!"
Lyon pulls out completely and slams back in with a force strong enough to almost dislodge her from her seat.
Roathe chokes on a scream.
Marie moans and presses her legs tighter against Roathe's sides, grinding her cunt on his back frantically.
With one final slam, Lyon stops and lets go. Marie feels it too, her own peak, the thick spurts pouring straight into Roathe, into her, and Roathe shuddering through one more orgasm. His face crumbles in ecstasy as he holds on to her, to Roathe, and Marie holds back and rolls her hips and finds herself riding another crest up high and glorious.
She blinks her eyes open with a surprised yelp as Roathe collapses underneath her, his legs no longer able to hold them both up. Lyon pulls her into his lap and sits back on the bed, keeping some distance from Roathe. They are all gasping for air, shaking and dazed from la douce petite mort.
It is not delicate, but simply different, that Roathe doesn't wish to have anyone close when he is getting down from the high. The way Marie never wants to have her feet tied and Lyon both eyes blinded. She rests her head in the crook of Lyon's neck and traces her fingers over the crimson cuts on his chest as they wait for him, as they always do.
After a while, Roathe uncurls himself and rolls on his back. Marie drapes herself over his chest, snuggling up to him happily. His arm goes around her waist in an instance, while Lyon goes to retrieve a damp cloth for them. It is a mere moment's silence before he returns and disturbs their rest with his gentle, caring hands.
Roathe lifts his chin a little when Lyon settles to lie down with them. His golden hair spills down one shoulder as he leans down to place a kiss on the Devil's waiting lips. With their eyes closed, they part, yet linger a breath away from each other, not quite ready to speak it into existence. Marie has more than done her part, just as Sol and Lua have done their part in letting their fates cross. All they need is a little more time and never enough kisses.
And so the Devil's Triad kiss, and kiss again, again and again, until exhaustion and the late night catch up on them. Roathe straightens his arm so that Lyon may rest his head on it. He hugs Marie from behind and drapes his arm over Roathe's stomach. Roathe places his hand on it, claws and all, and the three of them slowly drift off to sleep in the safety of each other's embrace.
"What were you reading? I could hel—"
"Shut up," they say at the same time.