[Challenge #112] Limbus Company - MEAT

[lovesickies]

Title: MEAT [AO3/Sunset]
Fandom: Limbus Company
Ship: Outis/Ishmael
Prompt: #112 - Supplicant
Rating: E
Scope/Length: 2231 words
Warnings: Referenced cheating, grotesque descriptions/mild body horror, mention of faux incest
Summary: Ishmael and Outis experiment with Ishmael's new Le Rouge Identity.
(OR: to consume is the nature of all human life).


It’s all one can do to not completely lose their mind serving in this company, and Outis has only semi-accepted this. A loyal wife waits for her at home—in I Corp, Ithaca; Odysseus barred from ever returning except for the single clause in her contract that promises the impossible will become possible.

It’s why she’s accepted that some things simply have to be, here. Outis knows that her other co-workers are fucking each other constantly; had resisted it for a few months before giving in to the loneliness. The nature of the company lends itself to all sorts of ways to fuck—ways Outis had never even conceived before joining their ranks.

Yet the impossible does become possible here. Outis—Odysseus—had been promised by Faust and the Guide. So she believes, and she lets herself indulge in the meantime. Gods of the City, forgive her. Penelope, forgive her. She tells herself the madness of this forsaken bus has gotten to her head.

Death means nothing to them, and so, it’s human nature to explore. The Sinner Ryōshū, who Outis has frequently been with, likes it bloody. Likes to kill and likes to die in equal turn, and so Outis has humored her with Dimension Shredder, tearing her into pieces of meat and flesh. She has several E.G.O. that can fulfill each and every one of these women’s needs: Don Quixote, who is adventurous in more ways than one, takes the roots of the Ebony Stem E.G.O, and Faust who likes to explore Outis’ body (even at her displeasure) has enjoyed the differences between Outis and her G. Corp Identity. Rodion tells her it’s “soooo creepy” to fuck in different Identities, but she often requests the Barber and The Princess of La Manchaland be equipped behind closed doors.

And Ishmael—

“Ack. Seriously? One of those Rouges?” Ishmael mumbles, biting the inside of her cheek as Outis worries away on a Sinner assessment paper in the corner of her room. Sterile, spotless—it smells completely clean, like a newly-scrubbed bunker, differing from the strong salty scent of Ishmael’s bus room, mimicking the Great Lake. “...It’s kinda embarrassing for everyone to see me like this.”

Outis looks up from the paper, pen still poised between her fingers. And then she chuckles, smirking in Ishmael’s direction.

“It’s embarrassing for every one of us Sinners to be seen in those other worlds. The best versions of ourselves, perhaps… and the worst of them. You aren’t special in that regard, soldier,” Outis tells her, watching as Ishmael’s cheeks pinken with frustration, dotting along her freckles.

Ishmael grumbles something underneath her breath that Outis can’t hear from where she is, crossing her arms over her chest with a huff.

“Yeah, well. I mean. Most of yours don’t come with whatever the hell that Rouge thing is. ‘Cept the barber, in that pretty dress,” Ishmael grins back at her crudely, and Outis feels the smirk on her lips twitch with the desire to straighten back into a thin line. “Oops. Did I strike a nerve, grandma?”

“...You’re horribly crude,” Outis sighs, placing her pen down.

“Hey, you started it with me,” Ishmael defends herself. “Anyways…”

“Anyways?” Outis parrots, leaning back in her chair and relaxed enough to let her guard down. She halfway hates that she’s become so accustomed to these people’s presences, that her shoulders are no longer terse around them. “I think the ‘problem’ here is that you’ve brought up that Rouge Identity in the first place, Ishmael.”

Her nose crinkles. “How do you figure?”

“You keep the Identity equipped long enough for the others to notice… like today’s mission,” Outis says slowly, watching the way Ishmael’s fluffy brows knit inwards as she listens to Outis’ explanation. “Did you want me to see? The same way you want me to see everything when you come knocking on my door?”

Ishmael’s jaw works, like she’s just tasted something bitter. The truth? She bites the inside of her cheek harder, then forces a scoff that doesn’t land cleanly.

“Don’t flatter yourself, you old fogey. I just… didn’t want to deal with Rodion’s commentary if I asked her. Or Faust’s clinical notes. You’re at least honest about how fucked this place makes us,” she grumbles, rubbing the back of her neck underneath waves of long orange hair.

Outis makes a note of the two names: Rodion, and Faust. Ishmael’s been seeing them as well. Well, it’s not as if that surprises her, exactly.

Silence stretches between them, the bus humming underneath them before Outis gives a dramatic sigh.

“Death means nothing here, and those Identities mean less. We wear other skins the way soldiers wear different ranks—temporaryly useful and discarded when the objective changes.” Outis rises from the chair, closing the distance with the measured tread of someone who has spent years learning when to advance. “So. What is it you actually came here to ask in regards to… what was it called? Haute Couture, Ishmael? Because you’ve been circling the subject since you stepped through the door.”

Ishmael’s ears color faintly. She looks a bit ghastly for a moment before she looks up at Outis, forcing herself to make eye contact that Outis pointedly returns.

“…Would it be completely insane if I asked you to—look, just—if we did this with the Rouge Identity on. Equipped. The whole… makeover. Nails and bones and. Whatever. I keep thinking about how it feels ‘cause it’s newer, and—” She cuts herself off, then forces the rest out in a rush. “I want to know what it’s like when someone else is touching it for me. Touching me while I’m like that. Is that clear enough for you, or do I need to write a formal request?”

Outis’ chuckle returns, lower this time. She reaches out a calloused palm, brushing a knuckle along the line of Ishmael’s jawline.

“Clear enough,” she says, satisfied that she’s all but punched the truth from Ishmael’s gut. “Fine. I’ll fuck you with it on. That is what you’re asking for, isn’t it?”

Ishmael scowls, showing Outis teeth in a forced, humiliated grimace. “Yeah. Thanks, Captain Obvious. Let me just… ugh, we can’t get Dante in here, so I’ll just—yeah, gimme… gimme a sec…”

-

Ishmael is quickly gone from herself.

Flesh has been pared away. Ghastly skin—pale and stretched taut over bone—clings to an open ribcage. Sternum and clavicles stand proud: the soft give of breast and belly has been carved down to a sculpted hollow of itself. Ishmael’s thighs are thinner, the usual muscle and fat stripped until the bones of the hips jut like handles. Where the dense thicket of orange pubic hair once grew on her, the mound is smooth and bare, almost porcelain in its starkness. Only the cunt itself remains untouched—wet and startlingly human against the skeletal canvas of her Rouge body.

Her attitude has shifted along with the make.

Ishmael—or the Rouge Identity—tilts her head with theatrical grace.

“Go ahead and see how I feel to the touch. They say you can’t appreciate the true value of Rouge fashion until you’ve laid your fingertips on the material itself.”

Outis’ own clothes are already long gone. The heavy harness of her favorite strap-on clings to her hips, the thick length of it jutting forward towards Ishmael’s spread pussy. She manhandles the skeletal body onto the narrow bunk with the same economy she once used to throw a subordinate into position, and the whorish Rouge lets herself, laughing faintly.

That is the giveaway. Somewhere behind the flamboyant mask, Ishmael’s psyche is still present: choosing this. The Rouges they’d met in the Grand Magasin Sisyphe would’ve never let Outis touch them like this. Ishmael’s body goes pliant underneath Outis’ maneuvering of it, legs parting without resistance, offering her dripping cunt to Outis.

Outis kneels between those thinner thighs. “Still easy,” Outis teases, hoping that her dear co-worker can hear her. “And still as eager as always, even with your body in such a pathetic state… but a cunt never lies about its desires,” Outis tells her, lining the thick head of the strap against Ishmael’s ready hole before pushing in.

The reaction is immediate and unhinged.

Ishmael’s remaining eye flies wide. Her mouth opens and the babble pours out openly.

“Ohhhh. Ohhhh! The Voice—do you hear it? The one that used to whisper in the sunshine, the one that promised the Golden Hide would warm every last empty place—do you hear it, dear custom—dear Outis? It said if I scraped enough, if I ripped enough, if I let myself be nailed down and remade…!”

Outis leans over her, burying the full length of the faux-cock inside of her. The bulge is obscene: the thick shaft visibly distorts the concave plane of Ishmael’s stomach, sliding under the translucent skin with every thrust forward. Outis can track the shape of it from the outside, pumping into the hollow of the ruined belly.

“No,” Outis says confidently, feeling herself becoming aroused behind the harness, the warmth spreading from the bridge of her nose to the ears. “I do not hear your Voice. But you will listen to mine.”

She drives her free hand forward, pushing two calloused fingers past those babbling lips and onto the tongue she’s so familiar with. The tongue she’s kissed with her own, the tongue that’s worked between her legs many a night. Outis half-expects a bite; expects teeth to shear through tendons and leave her fingerless, feral as this Rouge is.

Instead, Ishmael’s mouth simply opens wider, and saliva floods around Outis’ knuckles. Ishmael drools freely, eyes glassy, sucking and moaning around the intrusion while she lies limp in taking each and every thrust Outis fucks into her. It’s a strange dichotomy: the hard stiffness of her exposed bones, and the malleable give of her body.

Ishmael moans. Moans like a whore, moans like a worshipper, staring into Outis’ eyes like she’s seeing something or someone within them. Her voice spills from her drooling lips, uncontrolled and wanton in a way that Ishmael’s pride and compulsion would never let her stoop to.

“Cherished one… true self… scrape it out, rip it off,” Ishmael rasps, every thrust forcing another breathless fragment of monologue around Outis’ fingers.

Outis fucks her through, relentless, watching the bulge of her unforgiving cock slide and press beneath the parchment-thin skin of that stomach. The contrast is grotesque and intimate: the remaining softness of the cunt and the wet heat of the mouth against a body that has surrendered almost every other cushion of humanity. She keeps her fingers pressed deep, forcing Ishmael to choke around her.

Then: Ishmael’s body seizes.

Her back arches hard enough that the exposed ribs flare like the wings of some half-skinned bird. A thin, clear jet of fluid spurts around the base of the strap, soaking Outis’ hips and the sheets beneath them. Ishmael’s body looks dead: dried out, meatless, more sculpture than flesh—and yet the cunt keeps pulsing and pouring around her. Another weaker spurt follows, then another.

“Cherished… Outis—yes, fuck! Scrape me open, fill me and nail me down,” Ishmael sobs, scratching at Outis’ shoulders. The sharp tips of Ishmael’s nails dig into Outis’ flesh and drag downward, leaving stinging lines on Outis’ skin. Outis hisses through her teeth, but does not pull away, enjoying the pain. She rides the last of Ishmael’s orgasm, grinding deep until the tremors finally start to ebb and Ishmael’s body goes fully slack.

Outis is still hard behind the harness, cunt aching, the engorged length of her t-dick throbbing against the base of the strap. She hasn’t finished. Not yet.

“...You think you’re the only one that gets to feel pleasure, Rouge?”

Outis pulls out in one smooth motion. Ishmael’s cunt gapes around nothing, hole fluttering. Outis unbuckles the harness with quick, practiced fingers and lets the heavy strap drop to the floor with a dull thud. She climbs higher up the bunk, knees bracketing Ishmael’s narrow chest as she presents herself: wet and flushed with the thick, hard jut of her testosterone-swollen clit standing proud above slick folds.

Ishmael’s remaining eye focuses slowly. Somewhere behind the flamboyant mask, the real person surfaces just enough to speak, voice rough and sticky.

“…Might just bite your fuckin’ dick off, Captain,” Ishmael slurs, half-herself.

Outis scoffs, the sound low and edged with something almost fond. She cups the back of Ishmael’s head—careful of the horn not to poke anywhere unflattering—and guides that half-masked face closer.

“Then that’d certainly be another experience, wouldn’t it?”

Outis doesn’t wait for Ishmael to answer.

She rolls her hips forward and rubs the length of her t-dick and the dripping folds of her cunt directly across the sculpted surface of the mask. The bone and sinew are smooth in places and ridged in others. Ishmael’s mouth opens instinctively, the tongue that has spent so many nights between Outis’ thighs now dragging wetly along the underside of her dick.

Ishmael’s Identity continues to ebb and flow throughout the night, and for a little while longer, Outis lets herself take what she needs from her co-worker.

After all, Outis thinks as the bus continues its trek throughout the City, closer to Ithaca still, grotesque trysts like this are simply the nature of the company.