FVN Chapter 276 Fuck Dome
Chapter 276 Fuck Dome
[???? something real – post malone.]
the rain pelted the dirty streets as he came up by a cobbled square dazzled in a million shining neon signs. cold and fresh, bouncing off feldstone pavement, the pattering shone like crystals. still, the downpour couldn't distract the mist vapors of the new vapor industries or piss stench of lowly living quarters of the undercity.
people hurried under droopy umbrellas, eyes hid and uncaring for the next soul ahead. the glow of blitz lights bathed the arena in fusion light; it was wonderful what the inoculation of [mecha] energy into the mana-populated, magic-using citizenry of titans landing had done for the city.
the ton were calling it the machine revolution.
he passed by a cute couple strolling in the other direction. their shared umbrella lifted, surprising him with a bow. "lord israfel." the woman offered first. rafel was taken aback. he hadn't expected anyone to recognize him down here. the undercity, apart from breeding the most criminal lot of the capital, they were also the worse lassez-faire when it came to matters of politics—or who the fuck was sitting the fae throne.
"thank you, ser. you saved the world." the husband pressed forward to grab his hand and shake it vehemently. rafel could only hold on. his jaw shifted. 'just what i need? freaking fans!' he wanted to yell he had done it for entirely selfish reasons. rafel looked between the couple; their white was like poured cream. oriental. shiny. with little eyes. "i wouldn't say the world, you know." he said.
"pfft." the woman scoffed, grinning, and he could tell she struggled not to jump on him for a hug.
the couple started away and he followed them up with his eyes. they were whispering and looking up at the brick walls of long, spired buildings. it was then rafel's eyes drifted to the stone of pubs and gambling pools which tormented artists of the undercity had made their canvas.
the splash of crazed wall-art depicted a 3d larger-than-life mural of a deific man in spartan battle gear carrying the figurative [prometheus torch].
"mhmm." rafel turned his head to sturdy it more.
it was him.
the deified soldier.
red, luxurious hair. yellow, illustrious eyes. strong, hardened chin. sturdy, war-bled physique. as the wall-art, other images of him hung from balconies and lofts as posters, banners, embroidery, fucking toys in carts. he even spotted a hologram of himself in battle splendor through the display window of a fitting house. the tailor had sure added her own sizeable girth for his crotch.
"wow!" he stared up at the magnificence. he was more a hero in the undercity than anywhere else in the empire. his guess was that these people had been secretly needing a symbol, an anti-hero, a fucking well bloody villain... anyone, to lead the surge against the tyranny of devils. and unknowingly, he had filled this spot phenomenally.
"damn. i look good." rafel entertained a chaffed smile. if cora were here, she'd smack him over the top. it's hard not to be narcissistic when you're a vision idol. when he looked down again, the couple were gone.
the whole world of the undercity was lit like a stage in the ball season. 'shit,' rafel surmised. that too was coming up soon. he briefly wondered if ravenna would ask him to it. as empress now, no man had right to ask her to the soiree. that was eldorian law. even if he'd been married to his little raven, she would still have to be the one to pose the question. some empress down the history text had cemented this rule—right after her sworn lord consort was caught in the gardens, fingering their prize hibiscus.
in other words, this law translated as 'men aren't worth shit.'
if only that empress had known it would only serve to favour; who wanted to go down on their knees these days for every single party or proposal?
in fact, just thinking of queen ravenna de vríes on her knees, begging for 'something' brought a large smile to rafel's face.
"oh! i can't wait for ball night!" the teenage perv in him jumped around inside his head, frothing at the mouth and imagining ravenna's lips close to his belt. "hmm. yes!"
instantly, the man crumpled in on himself.
[ding! gladorium use successful!]
[host has gained +70 influence.]
rafel was glad peitho was with him. "even if i don't get a tight pussy to sink into this cold, rainy morn, i'll always have her. i bet she must be horny from watching me pound cora—"
[i can hear you, you know.]
"ouh!" rafel felt like someone had punched him in the guts.
[you're right, lord host. i am in heat. i wish you don't find a suitable slut here.]
peitho came back. rafel thought: am i ready to fuck my system. but her words and voice... too darned sexy. luckily, people were too focused on the ongoing blood spectacle to notice the aloof, virile redhead as the great ptolemaic hero from all the graffiti. boom! the shaven kickboxer crashed hard into the cage. he met with the rings so hard the skin of his back came off. "yah!" the crowd roared up to the glass sky of the dome.
the shaven man's opponent: a hulk with [vee six] injections shooting out his mammoth shoulders fell upon his advesary with mighty fists. continue your journey at empire
boom! boom! boom!
this was a recurring sound rafel heard.
he was much displeased with this fight: it was over too soon.
plus... no titties.
"wish it were a girls fight, huh?"
a voice came to him. rafel blinked to spot the person to whom it belonged: the woman was indeed very attractive, but she had no sweetness to her. she was all edge and tats. her entire left arm was [legendary class] adamantium metal. the steel sparkled in the ring lighting. she grabbed to the cages as more blows descended, from the cosmo-enhanced hulk beating the shaven man to a literal pulp.
blood spots hit the cage and the woman's face. she did not turn her eyes from him.
all around them, people gyrated like a flood, hard going at thunder for violence. neither of them cared. in the silhouette of the flashing dome and close-contact bloodsport, rafel felt this hot, mecha woman's words wash over him again. this time, right into his dick.
"wish it were a girls fight, huh?"
once more, all he could find to say was,
"jackpot."
[to be continued]