Everything is black. Not dark, not the swirl of ink in a pool, or shadows clustered away from a light, but black. Not a screen switched off, but a broken one - a blank, black nothingness where the world should be. Just black, all around, in your lungs and eyes and mouth and somewhere, hollow in the pit of your stomach.

"Right. Let's test this one out."

The voice is hazy, muffled, like it's faraway and right here, all at once, a whisper and a distant call, and then it's not. Then it's a hard, heavy shove into something soft as the world explodes into color around you. Red. The bed is red - it's a bed, clearly, the cocky sprawl of a blanket disappearing over the bed as it shakes, a slate-gray headboard rocking into a clean white wall. There are hands on your shoulders, now, one a dusty pink thudding with blood, a vein along the back of it pulsing against the skin, knuckles whitened as fingers make reddening furrows in the soft flesh of your shoulder, and the other is black, flat and warm, somehow, pistons laced like bars through it and every twitch and tease of it mirroring its softer counterpart. Where one sweeps down your side to graze your hips, the other follows; where one cups a breast beneath you almost tenderly, the burr of callused skin is echoed by a rubber grip.

And -

"Fuck."

It's a voice. Your voice. Probably.

Something is inside you, hot and deep, too hot, warmth thudding in steady, quick waves like a hammer made of solid fire. Down between your thighs, there's a stretch, almost painful, almost... almost...

Fuck.

Glancing back only brings one of the hands to your head again, a palm cupping your jaw, and the world melts and slides around you, jolts and caresses coming in a rhythm, a satisfied, low rumble that might be words slipping into the air behind you. Beyond the bed, flashes of neon pink and blue flash, and cables like steel snakes slither across the floor in still, sinuous curves, and the heat is growing, something big easing weight on top of you. Pressure's there, too, inside, and you shouldn't feel that spreading, growing feeling, but -

Black.

It's all nothing, again, until the voice returns, low and clear.

"Rebooting."

A certain someone inspired this - you know who you are!

DPP Profile