[COMMISSION] MILK | FAUST/ISHMAEL | LIMBUS COMPANY

Faust did not often sleep. Or rather, she rarely allowed herself to be seen sleeping. 

In her mind, rest was merely a temporary state of mental reprioritization—an inefficient but sometimes necessary suspension of activity.

But this time, she had overexerted herself.

The recent expedition through a distortion-warped Mirror Dungeon had pulled at something within her—a Singularity that twisted perception and scale until none of them could tell how large or small they were supposed to be. 

Ishmael had been the most severely affected. A flicker of mist, a shimmer of cursed light, and she'd found herself reduced to no more than a few inches tall, her voice swallowed by the echoing corridors of the Bus.

Faust had carried her at first. Practically speaking, it had been the most logical solution. But then she'd nodded off—leaned too long against the bunk wall, her head drooping slightly, her long coat half-open, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose.

And Ishmael had slipped from her grasp.

Now, she was lost.

Lost in the folds of Faust’s clothing, lost in the ambient heat of her sleeping form, lost somewhere between two immense, pale breasts that had, in this strange, oversized world, become a canyon of skin and pressure.

The warmth was stifling.

Ishmael tried to push herself upright, only to slide slightly between the soft mounds, the fabric of Faust’s shirt sticky against her back. Her breath came in soft, panicked gasps. The air was damp, and claustrophobic. 

Every tiny shift of Faust’s sleeping body was a seismic event, threatening to press her deeper into the heavy warmth that surrounded her.

It wasn’t just warmth.

Wetness clung to her now, trickling slowly across the slope of Faust’s breast. At first, Ishmael assumed it was sweat—but then the scent hit her.

Sweet. Creamy. Faintly metallic.

Milk.

She blinked, stunned. Another slow rivulet rolled across the curve of Faust’s chest, soaking into the collar of her shirt and pooling near the hollow where her breasts met. Faust let out a low, near-silent exhale through her nose, clearly still in a dream. She just shifted a little bit. 

The movement crushed Ishmael further into the plush valley of flesh.

She squirmed. "F-Faust…"

No response. Her voice was a mere tickle against the landscape of Faust’s sleeping form.

Sticky droplets now slicked Ishmael’s skin, sliding down her side and over her thighs. Her body flushed in embarrassed heat as she tried to move again, her limbs struggling to gain purchase on the soft, milk-damp skin. Her fingers dug in, trying to push herself up. But her hand slipped, and she fell forward against Faust’s nipple, barely visible beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.

The nipple twitched under the touch, a fresh bead of milk blooming and soaking through the cloth. Ishmael gasped. She was coated now—slick with the strange, involuntary offering from Faust’s body, caught in a place no one should ever be, too mortified to cry out and too scared not to.

Faust murmured something in her sleep.

It was barely audible—just a breath of sound. But it made Ishmael freeze. She wasn’t sure what was worse: Faust waking up and finding her here, or Faust continuing to sleep and leaking like this, unaware of the tiny body nestled between her breasts.

And still, the milk just kept on coming.

Beads and rivulets, small to Faust’s body but immense to Ishmael’s reduced form. Her hair was wet now. Her back, her legs. Her clothes clung to her, saturated and useless.

It was hard to think clearly. The oppressive heat. The rhythmic pulse beneath her feet. The sweet scent. The constant threat of being smothered.

And, worst of all, the growing realization that this wasn’t entirely by chance.

Faust had looked...exhausted earlier, yes. But when Ishmael had still been full-sized, she had noticed the way the older woman had occasionally touched her chest, the way her shirt fit differently. Something Faust had calculated. Controlled.

Maybe she had known what would happen in the Mirror Dungeon. Maybe she had known Ishmael would be shrunk. And maybe…

Maybe she wanted this.

Ishmael’s breath caught. Her body ached, her thighs pressed close, trembling with the humiliating tension of the moment. She didn’t want to think like that. Not about Faust. Not about herself. But the milk dripped across her lips again, unbidden. She coughed softly, wiping her mouth, but the taste lingered.

Warm. Intimate.

Wrong.

Faust shifted again in her sleep, her arm raising slightly, the subtle gesture pulling her shirt taut over her breasts. The motion sealed Ishmael tighter into her prison of flesh.

Still no waking. Just the distant thunder of her heartbeat. Just the slow, sleepy swell of her breath. And the milk, still coming. Faust’s body offering it freely, subconsciously, as though in response to the tiny, helpless thing pressed against her.

Ishmael didn’t know how much longer she could stay conscious. Her limbs were weak from exertion. Her pride was eroding, little by little, against the tide of heat and milk and soft, pale skin.

A noise escaped her lips. A quiet whimper.

Faust’s brow twitched, her body tensing up a little bit, and Ishmael froze, worried she’d woken her.

Still sleeping, she murmured:

“Ah…so that’s where you went.”

No more. No less.

Just that quiet, calm, dreamlike tone—neither surprised nor disturbed. As if she had known all along. As if Ishmael had only ended up where she belonged. As if she were actually aware of everything.

Faust’s body curled inward slightly. She still seemed to be asleep, and regardless, there didn’t seem like there would be any way of escaping either.

Not until she woke up, but what would happen then? Things could go in any direction, and some of those directions were pretty frightening to think about. For now, there was no way she could get out on her own. She was totally stuck. 

Ishmael, slick with milk, cheeks red and chest tight, could only wait.