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Camu Camu	By : TalaXRei Category: +A through F > Crash Bandicoot Views: 633 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Crash Bandicoot, nor the characters from it. I do not make money from the writing of this story. Crash Bandicoot and its respective characters are (c) to Naughty Dog and Sony. D'Enfer and Dazzle (c) R. Kinghorn.

Chapter List
- 1-Chapter One
- 2-Chapter Two
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- 2
Just... bear with me. Tbh, I wrote this entire "fanbook" very much for myself, as it's filled with headcanons and hypotheticals. For context, this chapter starts at the end of the timeline. This is a loooooooooong series of various short stories consisting of action, angst and other adult themes that I'm trying to tie together. It's currently in pieces allllllll over my laptop and phone in twenty-four chapters so far, all of which need polishing up before I'm happy to share them. Definitely the biggest fiction I've ever written and very ambitious. It isn’t even my "canon". It’s a pure crack, what-if, AU fiction. What if Dr. N. Tropy became the CEO of N. Labs after Cortex’s disapperance? What if he took it in a different direction and was much more ruthless about it? What if he gave in to the toxic attraction he has for D’Enfer? What if D’Enfer gave up waiting for Cortex? What if she went back for Brio? What if Brio rediscovered a greater purpose under Tropy's dictatorship, free of Cortex? What happened when Cortex came back to it, three years later? A combination of OC and CC writing, a random mixed bag. So, enjoy said, compiled hypotheticals and various headcanons. Warnings for any strong sexual content, gore, angst and everything else coming your way with this one. And believe me - it’s coming.

Paris. 1938
      Day 2,524

      D’Enfer lit the slim cigarette that lay nestled between her lips as she stood on the private terrace of her glamorous hotel room at the Plaza Athénée. The historic neighbourhood of architectural beauty that surrounded her bestowed the most exquisite frame for the Eiffel Tower. Beyond the horizon, the phosphorescence of the crescent moon illuminated the shimmering haze of the skyline and cast a blanket of sparkles across the purling surface of the La Seine. Scores of lights caused the condensed mass of buildings to twinkle, as if they were akin to the silver stars suspended above. People twisted their way through the streets many storeys beneath her, barely more than small flecks of ink on a writer’s page. Automobiles flowed through the streets below like blood through veins, their shrill horns crying intermittently and muted by height. Paris never slept, even here, in this entrancing era. The hustle never came to a cease. Its fabulousness was eternal, undying.

      D’Enfer could not argue that this period agreed with her. It echoed her love for all things elegant, from fashion to food, to artistry and music. Delicate fingers traced along the extravagantly crafted sapphire and pearl choker that adorned her throat at the musing: just one of the small pieces that had caught her lustful eye last week so had subsequently been pilfered. The security here was far too easy to bypass.

      The passage of time was an arduous affair to keep one’s eye on. When D’Enfer had been sent here, she had been transported four months forward, and sixty-six years back. Even though the act of time-travelling had become second nature now, it still never failed to disorientate her when the periods were massively differing. She’d strived to keep a tally at the start of this assignment, but she had lost track of how long she had been here exactly after two months, maybe three.

      She exhaled the hazy cloud of smoke with a soft, soundless sigh. It rolled, lingered, spiralling into the hot air of the night and was swept away with a soft gale as if it had never been. Keeping track of time was not her job. It was his. And though she could easily stay here forever, she knew she couldn’t. She was too heavily relied on at the libratory now. She discarded the burnt matchstick over the stop of the black, ornate rail and turned back toward her boudoir, stepping through the gossamer chiffon draperies that billowed and caressed her like beckoning hands.

      He was due to make his fortnightly check on her any moment now, bring her munitions and charge up her communicator. He wouldn’t be late. He never was. It was inconceivable for him to be late. As D’Enfer stepped inside, the transcendental gateway she had been waiting for appeared in its usual roaring, violent fashion before the polished wardrobe. The large, luxurious room flooded with blinding lights of roman silver and blue and a sharp crackle of static energy filled the perfumed air with deafening clamour. He was here.

      D’Enfer leaned back against the frame of the French window, crossing one svelte arm beneath her heavy breasts. She watched the huge, mercurial orb as it jerked and rippled, fulgurated and sparked, taking another listless draw on her cigarette as if watching paint dry. Its sudden appearance no longer caused her to flinch in shock like it used to, and with his insistence on time it wasn’t unexpected. And as she lowered the butt from her ruby lips and exhaled with an upward tilt of her head, Doctor Tropy stepped through, as if emerging from a pool of silver-white water. His tall, lean shape cast a shadow over her for a single moment before the rift closed behind him with a whistle. And just like that, the room was once again an opulent picture of ivory, gold and honey, warm and cosy. Just as it was, save for him and the disjointed murmur of ticking hands from the timepieces on his crude, gilded armour and the serpentine hiss of the twin pistons. Under one arm he carried a heavy metal container, olive in colour.

      “You’re actually punctual for a change.”

      She offered a smile and straightened up from her reclined position, sweeping her dark curls back over her shoulder with a hand. “For you, mi amore, always.” She took a step toward the bed. “We both know you’re not a man who cares much for foreplay, so let’s just get straight to it, sí?” D’Enfer stopped a foot from the edge of the mattress and slipped a hand into the back pocket of her pinstripe trousers. She withdrew a small, circular object, metal and gold in colour. It looked strikingly like a compact mirror, as was intended. She tossed it down onto the bed. It hit the decorative runner with a dull thump of silk.

      Tropy looked at it. “Any charge left whatsoever?”

      “About three percent,” she replied and crushed her cigarette in the exquisitely-cut glass ashtray on the bedside table. Nefarious did not approve of her bad habits in general, but cigarettes were strictly one. She found that fact ludicrous, given the fickle doctor was in part a machine and emanated enough smog by his lonesome to suffocate a small aborigine tribe in New Guinea. “I didn’t want to drain the last of it in case I needed to make an urgent call; given it is my only way of contacting you from here.”

      “How wise of you,” he drawled coolly. He stepped to the end of the large bed up between the two armchairs, the pistons on his back fizzling with each step. He picked up the device, inspecting it thoroughly from down his hooked nose and dumped the metal box down in place of it. She heard a metallic rattle from inside and knew it was bullets for her rifle, grenades and other such toys. As much as she loved the 30s, they did not cater to her advanced arsenal. Tropy furrowed his brows crossly at the scruffs and dents littered along the communicators smoothed edges. “It’s taken quite the belting I see. Care to explain why?”

      The Italian hoisted the hillock of her shoulder in blasé shrug, smirking all the same. The warm saffron lights from her stained-glass lamp reflected off the crimson silk of her blouse, dancing iridescently across the rich material. “If you cared for its bodywork maybe you shouldn’t have gifted it to the woman who spends her time in gunfights and grappling across rooftops, sí?”

      Nefarious did not approve of her saucy mouth. That was evident by the sidelong, flinty glare he cast her from those eyes that seemed to glow from their shadowed, narrowed sockets. He never had, never would.

      “I don’t suppose you have a spare?”

      “Loaned, not gifted,” corrected Nefarious sternly. “And don’t be absurd. These are by no means easy to make. The components for the receiver alone are a scarcity to come by much less filch. You know full well I lost the majority of my inventory when that fuzzy orange halfwit destroyed the time twister.”

      D’Enfer sniffed, amused. “I need a drink.” She crossed the bedroom, winding passed the various furnishings that filled the room, and toward the large sculptured archway which led to the parlour. “You want anything, mi caro?”

      “A sherry,” he replied. “That is, if you have any left.”

      “Sí, I do. I’ll be right back. Try not to miss me too much.”

      She heard him sniff contemptuously and slinked around the corner, black heels clicking like the steady hands of a clock on the waxed, salt and pepper marble. She snapped her fingers toward the high ceiling. The tiered crystal chandelier that hung above the grand piano roused to her gestured command. She averted her gaze from the instrument purposely as she passed it. Every single one of the rooms at the Plaza Athénée had a piano installed becomingly against the parlour windows as a mere ornament, a symbol of affluence in a hotel that cost a fortune to stay even a single night in. She hated the damned thing. It did niente but remind her of Neo and the hollow heartache it subsequently brought her to recall the memory of him, seated at his own one, and playing like he sometimes did.

      She could hardly believe it had been almost three years since his disappearance. And dear god, did she miss him.

      From the myriad of gleaming, cut crystal and bottles galore that lined the surface of the liquor cabinet, D’Enfer took two of the upturned sherry glasses from the silver tray and picked up the corresponding bottle. It was only a third empty and softly sloshed when she gathered it up. She never touched it unless Nefarious made his visit. The stuff was far too sweet for her tastes. With everything in hand, she turned back and made her way to the bedroom once anew.

      The doctor was seated in the left hand easy chair. In his palm was her portable communicator of which he had plugged a dongle in to. The lights on its tip flashed red intermittently as he tapped away at the various buttons the small contraption had inside it with a typist’s finesse. The soft light from its small, circular screen bathed his regal features with a chartreuse glow, intensifying the blazing orange of his eyes as they drifted intently over what data it offered. D’Enfer found it hard to comprehend this was the same man who she had met four years ago. She had rarely had any form of interaction with the Master of Time until three years prior. Back then Nefarious was someone she only knew in passing, an urbane-spoken gentleman who was perpetually stressed, overworked, fagged and hated her. He never seemed to stop, like he was birthed from the clockwork he obsessed over. He looked far more at ease in this moment now then D’Enfer had ever seen him afore. Yes, though his age lingered upon his face in the form of lines and grooves and she knew the hair beneath his heavy, chronographic helmet was mottled with white and grey, he appeared overall... reinvigorated. She wondered - were things at N. Labs back in the present time going that well, or was she the reason for those sparks of renewed energy and gradual lack of stress?

      “Will it take long?” she asked.

      “About an hour, just over, to reach one-hundred percent. No longer than the previous times I’ve done this for you. Is all your other equipment in working order?”

      Her tail swished as she made her way back toward him. “Sí. So orologio, how long am I to stay here?” D’Enfer hooked her foot around the leg of the glass coffee table a little off to the right and dragged it over to sit before her guest with a shrill scrape. She placed the two glasses down with a clink of crystal to polished oak and uncapped the sherry bottle. The smell of potent, sweet alcohol hit her nostrils and she wrinkled her tiny nose in distaste.

      “Until you’ve recovered the second time crystal from this era,” replied Nefarious, not sparing her a glance. “You’ve already recovered one. And from our last rendezvous you informed me the second is going to be on display at the Musée d'Orsay by Friday and remain there until Sunday.”

      “And yet, with all that knowledge and all attractive charm and the all that power to teleport back and forth through time, you still insist I do it.”

      This time, Tropy lifted his gaze. The look he affixed the bandicoot with was akin to a frost-laced stone. “It’s why I pay you, madam. Or rather, it’s why you’re still alive ever since I took over as the CEO of N. Laboratories and haven’t been reduced to a delicacy or a fur coat.” With a slow blink, the doctor lowered his eyes again and tapped in another series of numbers. There was a moment of silence between the two as D’Enfer poured them each a generous drink and set the bottle aside. “The time twister is still largely in a state of disrepair, Gin is assisting as best he’d able and Nitrous isn’t exactly known for his forte with machinery. It’s less of a gamble to open one small window at a time and send you through alone, where you can be left to collect the materials necessary to repair it, and then come to recover you.” Another pause, before he muttered, “As much as I loathe you, Agent Granata, you do have your uses.”

      She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and swirled her liquor idly. Her heavy gaze drifted over him and her shapely eyebrow quirked inquisitively. “And what uses are those, mi amore?” she asked coyly, taking a sip. The sweet, syrupy liquid seared the back of her throat and warmed her belly as it descended.

      “You’re a satisfactory means to several ends.”

      He was being complimentary. From Nefarious, that was rarer than falling stars, even if it was executed in such a backhanded manner. With a smirk laced of honeyed sugar, D’Enfer stepped forward and lifted a foot with a dancer’s elegance. She planted it squarely upon the exposed fleur-de-lis patterned cushion that peeped from between his lean thighs, her leather-encased toes grazing the soft bulge of his genitals nestled between his legs. His stern face did not alter, his eyes remained on the screen, nor was he sporting an erection of any description but she smelt something shift in the air: something dark and teetering on ribald. When he did not protest or raise his hands to her, D’Enfer’s stomach squirmed with anticipation. Nefarious had no misgivings whatsoever when it came to removing her from his person with overly-excessive force when he did not desire her charms – he was vicious toward her and with little to no warning. But it seemed he wasn’t going to deny himself this time. At least he had finally started to break that supercilious habit. It had only taken two years. “So is there any end I can help you reach satisfactorily right now? We have an hour to kill.”

      He didn’t look at her, but she saw his throat palpate, delicate like the beat of a butterfly’s wings. Given the way his brow was angled, she supposed it was disapprobation. Wouldn’t be Nefarious, she mused, if he didn’t voice some form of complaint. British people treated that like a birthright. He was no exception. “You know as well as I that we’re both being listened to right this moment. The communicator has a recording chip in it or did you forget that?”

      Placing her free hand on his shoulder, she rocked her foot back and forth tantalisingly, brushing her toes against him in repeated, slow strokes and whispered, “You didn’t object the last time a camera was involved, or did you forget that?” The dark, carnal memory flooded back to her at her own allusion, recalling how she had gripped the edges of the bathroom counter and watched her trembling, disshelved self in the steamed glass above the basin as he ruthlessly took his pleasure from her, how his face had been cold and unreadable with no vestige of mercy, dripping with hard-worked sweat.

      Nefarious’ mechanical hand wrapped the thin ankle pressed between his legs with a gentle purr of gears. Those calibrated, steel fingers that had the crushing power to break her bones with a mere jerk dragged their way up over her calf, the crisp material of her suit pants whistled beneath his palm. He lifted his gaze to hers, and his face revealed such a contained rage that she expelled a shaken sigh. She loved this part, more than anything else, watching the terrible conflict of hatred and desire rage through him. What she did to him wasn’t what excited her: it was what she did to his mind. She revolted him, and in turn made him loathe himself. She leaned forward. “It’s been a while since that happened, hasn’t it?”

      He snapped the communicator closed and his lips twisted into a contemptuous sneer. It was a look of subjugation. “Have I ever told you that you’re as insatiable as you are detestable, Miss Granata?” he asked wryly, taking his hand from her leg and reaching up between her breasts.

      “Non baby, you haven’t. But least I’m no dirty bugiardo, like you.”

      With a haughty sniff, Nefarious hooked his fingers beneath that exquisite choker and with a rough jerk dragged her down onto him.
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