Proper Care and Maintenance

(C) tri-Ace and Square Enix

Thanks to my lovely friends Toastyann and Gunlord500, who managed to convince me to post this here.

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Lezard has always known how to take care of his toys. He spends a such long time on a single creation that he can't help but treat what he makes nicely, with all the respect and love that a creator should have. That is a very different thing from what he finds outside his tower, because he comes into those easily and they are never needed for anything more than their intended purpose. Humans, elves, demons...these things mean very little to him. They are made by other hands than his own, and when they come into grasp he finds more fun in dissembling these mass-produced beings anyway.

No, no, the only things he loves are his own creations, things made under his discerning eye and molded by his capable hands. In his hands, his homunculi take shape. He is a god in his laboratory, and he is happy to further that belief in his own mind. His minions work for him, handling what he doesn't care to, following his orders to the letter.

This is how it should be.

Mm...but now he is working tirelessly on a new kind of creation, a homunculus who takes the form of the goddess he so loves, even beyond his own creations. This is her form as he sees it, with long silver hair, large firm breasts that spill out towards her sides as she lays on the table, a long slender waist with a dimple for a navel, and oh, such shapely legs. She is so pliant, so willing and ready to be touched. He can't help but acquiesce to her unspoken desire; it calls to him in her ever-closed eyes and slightly parted lips--the latter so full and pouty that he often imagines what it'll be like once his love's soul animates the vessel and she's able to use those lips and tongue he made for her to the best of her ability.

It can wait, he thinks whenever he enters a new vessel to test how she feels to him, though he can't help but look down at her lips in barely-suppressed longing.

The bodies of all the homunculi made in her image are never warm; there is a translucence to their skin that is more appropriate to a corpse than a living being. But he figures he has enough heat for the both of them, and there is an attractiveness to the silvery sheen of her already pale skin that he can't deny, won't deny because what does it matter to a necromancer? Not that he makes a practice of being intimate with the dead, because really, what human corpse has ever been so beautiful as his beloved? No, that's a joke, he prefers living bodies, warm and soft and able to make little moans and sighs as he moves inside them.

Not that he has ever had that, either. His lovely Valkyrie will be the first, once he places her in the appropriate cage.

He does imagine it, though, as his gloved fingers dig into the flesh of this or that vessel's hips and he moves just a little faster. He imagines her, his glorious goddess, trapped within human flesh, all his to play with. He imagines how much more she can feel outside of her elfin vessel, and how she will cry out with each thrust as her eyes are squelched tight; if there are tears forming under her long lashes, it is because she can't bear much more of the pleasure he is giving her. Sometimes, if they are in his bed, he likes to imagine her long, graceful fingers clutching the sheets, twisting them between her fingers. If he is doing his test run elsewhere, then surely her hands are gripping his arms or caressing her breasts, rolling and pinching swollen nipples between thumbs and forefingers. It would be a nice sight to watch, he thinks, as she attempts to heighten her own pleasure (though it's nothing compared to what he's doing to her, and the sight is more for his benefit than her own in the end).

He imagines all this, fantasies merging with each other until all he really sees is him and her as one, now and forever entwined in passion. And there will come a time when he can hear her, her voice breathless as she is reduced to low moans to articulate just how good he makes her feel, as she brokenly gasps out his name, and that is the moment that all his wants and needs and love and lust pull together into a flashpoint, a climax of everything he feels, will feel, has ever felt about her.

And with that, he reluctantly allows himself to return to reality.

It does not embarrass him afterward, as he pulls out of the homunculus that shares her image. He'll even retrieve his glasses just to gaze down at her lovely form, imagining that her face and chest are the blotchy red of sexual flush--with skin that pale, it would only be natural. She would probably--no, definitely--be trying to catch her breath after their passionate love-making, just like he is now. But that is for later, once he lures her to him. For now, he is merely testing out his newest creation.

They are all successes once he got the process down, but it never hurts to make sure.

The homunculus' legs are spread apart, and now he can see that this model is going to need to be cleaned before he puts it into its holding chamber. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, his expression is otherwise detached as he casts a levitation spell on it, making sure to keep the vessel horizontal so that it doesn't spill, and transfers it to the appropriate area in his laboratory for a full cleaning out.

After all, Lezard is very aware that proper care and maintenance allows for years of use in even the most regularly-used toys.

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