#a visage of one's self; images

[ofdeedsglorious]

halloween art is done! vampire lord charlemagne based on that one ce's design and unlucky vampire hunter constantine~ @toadmiretoweepover

[ofglories]

Once again under the cut because no risks-

Arthur Alter you shameless shameless man

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

First off I LOVE your writing, I’m so happy you’re taking requests again so, may I please request something with Ghost? Like the reader is part of the 141 and Ghost has a soft spot for her and is very protective of her and both having feelings for each other but not saying anything bc both think the other one deserves better or just something like that🥹😮‍💨💖🙏🏻 feel free to keep practicing smut for this one!👀✨

You’re awesome 🥰💞

Blood Was Its Avatar

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Getting close to you was never his plan, but when he can't stop his self-protective instincts from pushing you away, will he be able to repair your strange friendship? Or will his body have to speak for him? (18+)

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, wounds, stitches, death, smut, p in v, throat f-ing, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, implied pain kink, hair pulling, hate sex? but not really?, semi-clothed sex, vulgar language, fluff at the end, etc. just pure filth.

A/N: This is sub-par because I was up until 4 in the morning today and didn't have the energy to edit in-depth lmfao, but enjoy Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

All of Ghost’s problems started and ended with you. He was impressed with that fact, actually. 

They call you ‘Masque’ on account of the mission from years back, ‘07 Ghost recalls easily. When you’d been pinned down and surrounded, the dead bodies of your unit all around your feet. You’d chosen to act while the others had been yelling orders over the radio—rooting around the pooling blood on the ground and slathering your face with it; your body. 

You pretended to be dead. 

Quick thinking, Ghost had told you with a glint in his eye when you’d gotten back, those whites of your eyes ten times more noticeable. Like the moon hanging around a crimson-drowned sky. 

You’d cursed him out and said of course it was, quoting some poem from Edgar Allen Poe as a joke.

“Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.” The Masque of the Red Death. Your claim to survival apparently, as you had just read it a day before.

Ghost said you were bloody fucking crazy and found his eyes darkly watching the way you smirked at him. How the dried blood on your lips would splinter at your loud chuckle as you both entered the C17.

As he knew—all of his problems started and ended with you. Today was no different.

“Damn! Lookin’ good today Ghost, are those new gloves I spy?” You were always so…bubbly. 

“Masque,” the masked-man greats blandly, not even sparing you a look as you enter the meeting room. The screen on the far wall was hooked up to Price’s computer—broadcasting its news out into the dim lighting with images of mayhem and a loop of a video containing the bombing of an embassy building in the Netherlands. 

Profile pictures stain the screen of wanted subjects; captured or killed in the crossfire made no difference here, anyone could see it. 

You drop down into the seat beside his own with a huff, body shed of your usual black gear, and wearing casual fatigues instead—your tags jump on your chest and Ghost sees them glint in the light.

Your face shifts into a smile, prodding with a bump of your elbow. The Lieutenant turns and glares dryly while you carry on, “I asked if you got new gloves; they’re nice.” 

“Needed ‘em.” Ghost drawls, seeing no way out of this as he glances around at the multitude of other free seats. No one else was here yet, and Price had needed to step out for a moment to grab another report from his office one floor up. 

A small grunt echoes from his throat before his eyes dart back to yours. Shifting in his seat, his lax posture tenses before loosening. 

Raising a brow at Ghost, you stifle a laugh.

“That’s it?” He blinks at you slowly, those bright blues trapping you as they shine out from his skeletal visage; his great body hidden under layers of Kevlar and thick canvas cloth. Like some weird and deadly present. You tease him, “No attempt at a conversation, Ghosty? That hurts.”

You sarcastically put a hand to your chest. 

“Then suffer.” Ghost states like he’s reading the newspaper, stretching out one of his wrists by rolling it until it cracks the joints. Where was everyone else? “I’m not fuckin’ talking about bloody gloves, Masque.”

“It’s called a conversation starter!” Under the mask, he raises a dull eyebrow. You glower at him, but the smirk on your lips shows how much you enjoy this.  

“For who? Could have jus’ stayed quiet, then.” Scoffing, you roll your eyes and indulge him—pointedly going silent. Almost immediately an awkward nothingness covers the room with its metaphorical blanket and Ghost’s muscles slowly go stiff as he crosses his arms slowly over his chest. You bite your lip and stamp down a snort. 

A minute spreads like molasses. Two. Three. Five.

“Alright,” Ghost growls, breaking as you pick at your cuticles, humming horribly off-tune to a point where the Lieutenant’s ears were ringing and annoyance faired. “Fucking hell stop it, just say something already to shut up that noise. Sounds like my damn brakes squealin’.” 

You stop and laugh loudly, elbowing him again as he jerks away with a low grunt. Blue flashes, and his heart pounds.

“Jeez, Lieutenant, is my humming that bad for you?” The air rolls with tension.

“More effective than torture.” Ghost utters, his Manchester drawl violent and thick as it coats your ears. You take no offense—you’d been doing it on purpose, anyways; always the one to exploit cracks in the concrete. You'd found out a lot through your studies of the man beside you. Mostly, all of the small tics and unique qualities that made Ghost such a strange character. 

On the battlefield, the large man was resilient and patient. He could wait in one spot for days if he had to, sitting for a perfect shot. Nothing could break the line of purpose and authority he had over the units he was placed in or his fighting spirit. Gunbattles, torture, you name it he’d survived it. 

But he disliked anything below scalding hot tea, detested his objects and packs being messed with…and clenched his hidden jaw at small, repetitive, noises.

Low, horrible, humming, tapping fingers, tongues clicking over and over. You had no idea why, but the sight of making this experienced and handsome man glare at you with annoyance made your face heat up. 

You chuckle in the meeting room, eyes crinkling up at him before you reach for one of the pens and notepads on the table. Clicking the bottom, you shrug and start to scribble nothing into the side margins as blue ink bleeds like foreign blood. 

“What’s Price got for us today, then?” Your voice echoes, “We shipping out with the others or going Black again?” 

The Captain usually paired the two of you up for Black Ops for a reason—Ghost the strategic mastermind to your reckless bloodlust. Push and pull. 

Missions were rarely a failure. 

Ghost sighs, finally getting the sensation of control back into him. “Black,” he begins, “least for us. Old Man’s sending Garrick and Johnny out in hopes of drawin’ a few bastards out first. Netherlands. We slip in the back—off the books, ‘course.” 

He watches you from the side of his eye, gaze following your pen as you sketch out a small stick figure with a skull for a face. Ghost stifles a huff as he scratches at the side of his face.

“Well, of course,” you slyly tease, glancing at him before looking back to your pad. “Are we getting any soldiers?” 

“None. Just us.” 

“Ooo,” Ghost watches your lips curl and feels his body slowly still. “Sounds like fun.”

“It sounds like I’m going to have to babysit again,” you laugh again and dark blue seems to spark with some strange emotion. Ghost clears his throat and takes down a breath.

“Oh, please,” you chuckle, “I’ve saved your hide a few times before, Ghosty, be nice to me.”

“Nice isn’t in the job description, Masque.” 

“Well, it isn’t for you, grumpy. I think Johnny and Gaz are lovely.” Your nose tilts up teasingly as Ghost grumbles like a cat. “But that’s alright, I like you anyways.” Winking, you go back to your pointless scribbling as footsteps echo from the hallway. 

Ghost stares, his hands on the armrests slowly clenching into fists as he studies your expression. His eyes slid over scars and blemishes he’d already looked at a million times over, seeing in his mind’s eye the stains of blood and that every present smile—the burn of your presence beside him like a brand in his stomach. You never seemed to let him get too far away from you on Ops, but it wasn’t some form of obsession. It was worry; he’d seen it. 

You didn’t like it when you couldn’t see his back ahead of yours. Ghost guessed it had to do with your lost unit. He never pressed it. 

In fact, he’d noticed himself not eager to see you off himself. Had spent many a night in the onsite gym after missions because of it, where he’d given you the cold shoulder after. He didn’t like that feeling. That hesitation. 

Ghost knew only to trust people as much as he had to…so why did he like when you said nice things to him? His jaw clenches, shoulders rolling to dispel tension as he rips his eyes away from your body as if you were fire incarnate. Your head perks up at the sound of talking voices getting closer to the meeting room. 

Soap and Gaz enter a few moments later and Price shuffles in behind them. You smile warmly and greet them, shifting the notepad closer to yourself nonchalantly. 

Ghost grunts and stays stationary, straightening up when he realizes he's slightly leaned toward you during your conversation. His new gloves pull taunt over his knuckles and he suddenly wants to rip them off. 

—

You begin to wonder when you’ll be free from blood coating your fingers but know deep down you never will be. At least, not if this was how you’d be getting covered in it.

Sitting inside the hotel bedroom, you slowly extract a blood-coated bullet from Ghost's large thigh, grimacing when he grunts from over you. You’re in between his legs, kneeling, as the metal finally breaks free from the skin barrier—the entry wound is small but nonetheless dangerous. His pants were cut from thigh to knee, a long spit that showed pale, scarred skin. 

Keeping a tight grip on the forceps, you hum under your breath in satisfaction. 

“No bullet fragments—lucky you.” 

Ghost forces out, “Yeah, feelin’ proper lucky.” You chuckle, moving back and dropping the bullet to a food plate you’d put on the floor. Shuffling, you take up the rag placed over your upper arm and bring it back up. Patting the gushing wound, you frown and think back on the events that got you here as the Lieutenant shifts and bites his tongue. 

The intensity in his blue eyes burns into you, lungs deeply inhaling with a silent breath. Your fingers tingle, but you diligently press the fabric to the wound and try to ignore the heat from Ghost’s flesh or how his legs flinch with every trail of your nails. His muscles are pure iron around you, and you’re suddenly very aware of the position you’re in. 

Swallowing stiffly, you sigh and notice him slightly shiver when your breath caresses his upper leg. You stop immediately, lips going tight.

It had been fifteen minutes earlier when Soap and Gaz had set up in a far more open and less secluded hotel three blocks away—directly across from the base location for your gaggle of targets. As planned, you and Ghost would be off the books and go in when they were too distracted by the Sergeants’ in plain sight. 

Fire was supposed to be the cover story. Go in, take care of business, and set the place alight after the area was clear of civilians. But no one was counting on the targets being surrounded by three more friends. 

Of course, guns lead to bullets and bullets to flesh. You can still hear the ringing in your head when Ghost had jerked you to the slide and shoved you behind the far wall—skull snapping back to look in horror as his leg exploded with gore. 

Fucking bastard had been distracted by you and hadn’t had time to dodge. That wasn’t Ghost, but then again, Ghosty wasn’t quite the same, was he? Least, not to you.

“You’re a fool, you know that?” You huff, something swirling in your chest as your gloves peel the layer of cut pants farther down to see better. “You should have looked after yourself.”

“And what?” Ghost grumbles, letting you do what you wanted to him.  “Let you get fuckin’ shot, Masque—you have a bloody death wish?” His last word comes off with a growl as you press tighter into his thigh. 

His hand instantaneously snaps out to grasp the back of your hair tightly with an instinctual low groan. Naturally, a small whine exits your lips in retaliation.

You both freeze and the room jumps up to a hundred degrees; your lower body flips as your skin burns a million degrees. Fingers still, you feel your breath hitch when his calloused fingers scrape your scalp, your hair in his expansive palm. It was a pure reaction you knew, and when you’d asked him to let you help out with this problem you had thought this might happen—he’s a soldier after all, just like you.

But he hadn’t denied you. If anything, since six missions back, you were the only person who he wanted to work on him. He’d never said why. 

You look up at him from the side, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Ghost’s heart skips beats before he clears his throat, snapping his hand back immediately and slamming it to the mattress. A second of strained silence settles where you both try to forget what the fuck just happened.

“Keep bloody going then,” He says, deep and grating to a point where you shove down a shiver. Your head feels light off of his scent, and you have to ask yourself why you’re feeling so feverish all of a sudden. 

You bite your lip and nod, hand moving away to grab at the sanitized needle and thread with your forceps—dropping the rag back onto your forearm to let it hang. For once in your life you’re left mute by his actions. 

Mute to the fact that you’d liked them. 

Your face burns like a hidden fire; epidermis alight with the strength to rival the flames the two of you had started fifteen minutes ago. Lungs stutter and hands inside the gloves go clammy. It’s only after you were halfway done with the stitches that you mutter words.

“Shouldn’t have taken that bullet, Ghost.” He had been stone still the entire time, hands clenched beside him and his thighs like rocks. Feet firmly planted. It was like he was barely breathing, too. 

Ghost blankly stares, staying quiet as you continue. 

“You were distracted. That never happens.” His form was almost entirely shadowing you; great spanning shoulders from above tight like a looming statue. You dig the needle deeper with a push of the forceps, threading through yielding skin with quick punctures. He doesn’t even flinch. 

Ever since ‘07, there was an obvious aversion to partners stemming from you. You distanced yourself from forming close bonds with those who you hadn’t already known. In many ways, Ghost and the others of One-Four-One were the closest you could get to people now.

Ghost, you admit, was far closer than all the others combined. 

But this sentiment was known—both the aversion and the care you held. The Lieutenant wasn’t good with words, but he knew how to read you better than anyone; the way you carried yourself. He knew you didn’t like it when he got hurt in front of you. 

Ghost had to ask why he even bothered to shove you out of the way, regardless. You would have been fine. So why had his eyes gone wide and his iris flared with a dead glow when he’d seen the gun swivel in your direction? The man grunts at a deep dig from your sutures but you continue to mutter to yourself as he glares at the far wall, venom-like. 

His sin was that he had grown to care about you. His burden and his curse. 

This couldn’t continue. 

Ghost looks down at you with a sheen of distanced nonchalant-ness and when you lent back with a sigh of your lips, his body moved. You blink in surprise as you feel his muscles bunch and before you know it you’re being grabbed harshly by the arms and lightly shoved to the side. 

“Ghost!” You snap, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stands to his feet—blood training down his thigh and kneecap before disappearing back under the stained cargos. “What the fuck?! I’m not done with it.” 

Attempting to stomp closer, he swivels his head to you as his spine goes formal. Your feet stall from under you and your veins pump faster, forceps and slick gloves freezing mid-air. 

You blink. He’d only ever looked at you like that when you’d first met. 

Blue is a silent sheen of ice and cold death; black sockets behind his mask are more like voids holding chilled sapphires. 

Why was he looking at you like he didn’t know you? Once more you say, confused and suddenly small, “Ghost?” 

“Enough.” His voice was monotone and barky, the tone final. Your fingers tense at the sound. What…what was this? “You need to get your head back on, Masque. I can’t watch over you like a bloody Private every time you get stiff-legged, copy?” 

Your jaw slackens. Inside, your heart smashes itself into your ribs in a violent pang. There’s a moment of complete and utter silence in which Ghost remains standing with concrete tied to his feet. He sees the flash of confused hurt in your eyes, the way your muscles jump for a moment.

A suffocating wave of regret strikes him, but he felt like he had to do this—keep up boundaries. Even if his throat was closing in an attempt to make him shut up. 

Ghost’s accent makes him sound harsh and unforgiving. “Price’ll need us back in fifteen. Get your shit together.” 

He bends down and snatches bandages with a quick hand, beelining to the bathroom and closing the door with a firm hand. Blankly, you stare at the barrier as the wall rattles; face burning—unable to speak beyond a small sound in the back of your mouth. 

The two of you stay separated for the remainder of the time, not speaking, and not moving from your respective areas. 

When Ghost finally leaves ten minutes after he’d pushed back the self-loathing and guilt, freshly bandaged, he finds your stuff already gone. He glances around the area slowly, taking in the wails of the fire trucks from blocks away and the neighboring rooms of the hotel as residents speak in mutters from behind walls. The air is cold and lifeless. 

He grabs his things in total silence, swallowing down saliva paired with long breaths. Ghost’s eyes remain tight. Body wound and coated in rigidity that could rival a rhino’s armored plates.

Mind whirling, but still ever mute, he leaves the hotel and heads to the coordinates Price had given the two of you alone. The absence of your warm body beside his was more jarring than anything he’d expected to experience.

Ghost didn’t want to admit how many times his eyes trailed to the empty concrete at his left.

—

When you lose something in someone, you tend to lose it hard. Thus still, that was the case here. Ghost and you always jabbed at each other—it was in your nature to do so—but this was different. The Lieutenant could be cold, but…never to the extent to shove you away from helping him with his wounds. 

Both of you always did that with the other, if that be physically or just being in the same room, while getting fixed up. 

If Ghost didn’t want you around for whatever rage-inducing reason, you weren't going to grovel or beg. The sudden switch-up still stabbed you in the heart though. 

On the second week, it got easier. 

You passed by Ghost without a single comment, shifting into the meeting room once more. He grunts as you shimmy through the door right before him, his feet halting before he runs into you. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Masque, you lost your bloody eyes or something?” You don’t answer, blankly walking to the end of the table and taking the single chair with steady steps; sitting down and dragging a notepad to your general area. 

Blinking, you look up at the projection and skim the small details they give over. 

Ghost stares from the doorway, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he slips inside and slowly strides to the table. 

The days had been difficult for him, struggling to re-situate himself to his isolation after you’d been with him for years. Sure he had Johnny, Gaz, and Price, but you were…

Ghost places a veiny hand on the back of a chair about four down from yours, knuckles white as he’d shed his gloves not five minutes ago. His eyes stay stuck to the tabletop, hips shifting. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard to push you out. Not only physically but mentally. 

He found himself thinking of your face at night. Like a phantom, it would snap into his consciousness when the lights went out and the shadows got long. Your smile and your skin. How your fingers would gently press into his flesh when you were threading a needle through him—shivers of pleasure and pain intertwined by the scrape of your nails. 

Ghost’s hand tightens on the chair, and you spare him a tense glance as he seemingly fights within his mind. 

The Lieutenant wonders at your willpower and your drive. He spent the weeks hating that he had gotten what he wanted, and then he hated himself more because of that fact. It was good to keep you away from him. Not only for himself but for you. 

You both were becoming too….attached. Ghost would have none of it. It had bled over into him using his own body to protect yours that was just…was just…

“...Those new tags, then?” You look away from the screen and shift your gaze to him as his voice bounces. 

Around your neck, the new reflective metal of your new dog tags glint. Your heart skips when he speaks to you, but he still doesn’t look your way.

“That an apology?” Deadpanning, your unimpressed gaze glares into his face as his hand strangles the chair. 

The room returns to strained silence. You huff.

“Pretty shitty one there, asshat.” Ghost’s shoulders roll under his gear, a great sigh quickly exiting him. Everyone had noticed the tension over time—it was becoming a detriment to the team.

The Lieutenant’s blue eyes darken, and in his body, a great heat was beginning to burn. Just looking at you provoked lucid and vulgar thoughts, and as the dim light from the projector makes shadows on your face, Ghost traces them with a chained desire. Being away from you was a physical pain to him, but he also knew that being around you was worse. 

All of Ghost’s problems may have started and ended with you, but they also grew in his own head. They’d been there in the back corners ever since he’d given you your nickname; found out he liked the way your face was wet with spilled blood and sweat. Your body. Your hands on the hard flesh of his upper thigh…trailing up... 

Ghost’s pants get tight as he stares without saying anything. Watching you scribble on your notepad. Glaring. 

“Why can’t I get you out of my fucking head?” Your ears twitch at the low growl as if coming from a beast; seconds later, your brain catches up to process the words. Your pen stops its pointless scrawling just as your breath does. Ghost spits out, seeing your form straighten in the chair, “Every bloody thought, you’re right there!” 

His boots stomp to the floor, and before you know it a hand is trapping the back of your head, fingers carding through hair to angle your chin up. Your breath gasps out as your wide eyes lock on Ghost’s, his hold tight but not uncomfortable; as if he knows the perfect amount of pressure to make your blood surge and your pupils expand.

You stare into volatile blue with silver flecks, a skeletal mask stained from dirt and blood. Ghost’s thumb digs into your scalp. 

“Answer me, Masque,” he grunts, accent so thick you momentarily struggle to string the words together in your stupor. 

Ghost’s nose is close to yours; breathing in each other’s air as the temperature rises. Your throat bobs with a swallow. Below you, you feel your legs clench together as the Lieutenant's fingers lightly pull on your roots when you don’t respond—small sparks of electricity run down your spine that make it straighten instinctually. A soft purr flies from your lips; face on fire as your lashes flutter. Your hands clench at the dull pulse in your lower body.

The Brit’s dead eyes stare down at you, glinting; studying you deeply with growing satisfaction in his heart and tension in his boxers. 

You both glare half-lidded, panting, and flesh heated. 

“Is this your apology?” He tightens his hand and you bite your lip, small whine meeting his ears as he represses a groan at the sound. Your voice was breathy but smug. 

“You fucking wanted this, you naughty little beast,” Ghost growls, moving even closer to tower over you. “You’re playin’ me.” You mold into him as you still sit in your chair, your chin set onto his upper abdomen as the midsection of your breasts presses into his crotch; brushing against his hardened bulge firmly. 

You shiver at the feeling, your core leaking out slippery fluids to stain through your pants one second at a time. Every twitch of his fingers leaves you wanting to arch into him. Feel him.

Ghost feels your hands go to wrap his open thighs, nails digging into the back of his pants as his mouth opens under the mask to force out air. 

“You liked me in between your legs, didn’t you?” Your tiny, teasing, voice serenades him as he quickly begins to lose control of his composure. 

“Shut it,” Ghost grunts, mind yelling at him to move away, “Shut your damn mouth.” 

Those pupils were so wide his eyes were almost entirely black, feral chest moving quickly. 

“I already know why you snapped at me…” One of your hands travels back to the Lieutenant’s front, skin tingling at the scratch of a belt and the rough fabric of his cargos. You leave it over his crotch and add a tight amount of pressure; mouth lightly opening at the weight and size of him as Ghost grunts deeply, thighs jerking forward. 

Blinking at his glassy eyes you breathe out into thick air and the veiled threat of something more. His hand in your hair is so tight that you feel your pulse under the tendrils—you enjoy every second of this cat-and-mouse game. 

After all, no one knew who the mouse was yet.

You rub your hand up and down and watch Ghost’s clothed dick, feeling his muscles straining to keep himself in control. He lets you continue as he watches with a clenched jaw, his pants getting gradually wet with precum; hips twitching. 

“...You can’t get enough of me touching you, can you?” Your statement ignites something immediately, and you’re being grabbed by your shoulders and forced to your feet. 

Staring wildly, you cringe at the soaking patch under your clothes but let Ghost place your backside on the table. He presses into your hips to keep you there—legs opened and feet planted to the floor below on their tip-toes.

The man breathes like a lion, nose in front of yours. You slightly smirk at the far-off haze in his eyes, lust and pleasure blending and bleeding into the almost bruising hold he uses to press you down.

He watches you for a minute or two—taking in your scent and the rabid instinct that infects the both of you now that everything was on the table. 

You knew you were right; he knew you were right. Licking your lips you look down and stare at his blatant hard-on hungrily. Your brow raises slowly.

“You going to let me take care of that, Ghosty?” He’s up and locking the door after he slims it shut.

“This is it,” Ghost grunts, “one time, Masque. That’s fucking it, you hear?” 

“Awe,” You cue, swishing your legs as he stomps back over, hand grasping his belt and whipping it off with a flex of his forearm. Your core tightens, hips trying to press back into the table. “That's so cute. You think once is enough.” 

A hand captures your jaw, “I said,” he breathes, the other hand going to shift up the bottom of his mask up to his nose. You gasp at the sight of blond stubble and milky scars. A strong jaw wound like a spring. Ghost’s musk invades your nose and you feel your palms so clammy. “...Shut it.”

Hard lips slam into yours.

Like some game between the two of you, your mouths fight one another with aggressive grunts stuck in your throats, sharp inhales of air between partings. Ghost’s lips mold and conform to yours, clinging around the supple flesh—there’s a deep-rooted intensity, a hunger, and a desire mixed with sweet stubbornness. The tang of metal and old canvas opens to you just as your mouth does when his teeth bite down at your skin.

Quickly sucking down breaths, you feel his tongue push past layers and slip into your awaiting clutch; Ghost groans lowly and explores as his hands bare down into your hips, one making its way to grip at your hair again. Your own dig into his waist as he leans over you. 

He latches onto your hair and peels you back from him, tongue sliding out of your mouth as he moves to nip at your chin—angling your head whichever way he wants to. Your skin burns as the man bites down at your neck, hot saliva stuck to your lips as your chest pants fast with a low whine at the mixture of pain and bliss. 

Below you, your legs are wide to allow Ghost to stand between you, his firmness leaving your hips canting at every hickey he leaves behind and how he shivers into you as you move against him. It was addicting to him—your taste and how your flesh yields to him as he clamps down on it ruthlessly and rapidly. In no time he’d traveled the length of the area behind your ear and down the swell of your shoulder; shirt pushed back by his nose.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, eyes glassy as you blankly stare into the far wall over the Lieutenant’s shoulder; your panties are soaked through and the evidence can be felt. A long whine exits your chest when Ghost licks at the deep marks he left behind, blown eyes coming back to stare at you head-on as if in a trance.

His lips are red and swollen, mouth open with silent, fast, breaths. His large chest moves quickly over yours. He orders you in a hoarse voice; strained, “Get on your knees.” 

Licking your lips your widened gaze stays locked on his, the hand in your hair tight and keeping you away from slamming your mouth back to his. The air is electric, both of your bodies yielding to one another's even if you don’t realize it. 

As much as you wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at the comment, to make him apologize to you for what he’s done, you realize that your body has already complied with the request. Slipping off the table, Ghost watches like a hawk and backs up two steps—feet splayed as you move for him. Your knees slowly lower you down to the floor, connecting with the carpet as you sag, fists clenched and shaking. 

There’s a small, heart-pounding, pause. “...Good girl.”

Your jaw drops at the smirk on Ghost’s face and those flashing dead eyes of his, blood thumping with a newly ingrained need. You swallow and feel your throat bob; legs shifting to push back the inner-body itch that grows by the second. 

“Now you can listen to me, yeah? Such a slut for it.” Ghost’s hands slowly trail to his pant’s zipper, sliding the piece down the teeth with barely audible metal on metal. Your fingers twitch at every small pop; how the zipper itself had to move forward with the strain of his sizable erection. You can’t even look away from it—how his pants are stiff against tense thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rucked up to show the black ink of tattoos.

Ghost had tattoos. 

When the teeth had run out and the man’s hands grappled for the waistband of both his cargo and his boxers, you’d found out you’d been staring the entire time, pupils so wide they matched Ghost’s and the black stain of his face-paint. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Masque,” he grunts, knuckles white and going still, “bet your pretty little cunt is soaked and I ‘aven’t even shown you my bloody dick yet, eh? Well, the thing’ll ‘ave to wait, I’m puttin’ that mouth to good use first. Teaching it who to listen to.”

You startle back, blinking away the burning heat on your cheeks that leaves you uncharacteristically stuttering at the vulgar degradation. But Ghost doesn’t notice, doing what he can to move the various straps along his thighs and his upper hips to be able to free himself quickly—eager and dripping to be down your throat. 

The throat and mouth he’d fantasized about for ages. 

Stiffing down a whiny moan, you finally see the veiny girth of Ghost’s cock as it comes free over the top of the tight white cotton of his boxers; a happy trail extending up his visible abdomen when his wrist snatches it out. 

“Put to good use?” You breathe out, “Christ, you’re going to make me fucking mute, Ghosty.” 

“Well, Sweetheart,” he breathes a sigh of relief as he plays with the leaking tip with his thumb. Your hands itch to brush against your achy clit, the pressure in your chest almost enough to make you sob at the sheer nothingness. Sweat glistens over your forehead. Eyes glare at you as you watch thighs tense and loosen. “That’ll be fine by me. Don’t need you speaking when I’m paintin’ your damn cunt with my cum, do I?” 

Jesus, you both were in the fucking meeting room. Going to fuck in the meeting room. 

You lick your lips and stare as Ghost stalks close again, gripping your chin and opening your jaw with his thumb and first finger. His dick was right in front of you, and you can smell sex and sweat like an animalistic aphrodisiac as it coats your brain with lust as you moan out. 

Your arms tense with a want to reach and touch it, watch as Ghost falls apart below the twist of your wrist. It was so addictive you feel yourself clench at the visual, your body shivering violently. 

“Oi, fucking focus.” Your tongue sneaks out and licks Ghost’s finger and he feels his grip tighten on you with a puff of hot air. “Little brat.” 

He stares into your mouth and breathes deeply as a smirk peels the edges of your lip. Blue swirls with anticipation. 

“Keep it open, then.” Ghost’s hand drops from you and you easily keep your mouth open as his hand goes back to his cock, grasping it firmly as the other finds the top of your head. You shiver and shift your thighs under you, your body striking like a drum to oxycontin and adrenaline. “That’s a girl…” The Lieutenant growls, and the tip of his dick slips into your saliva-dripping mouth with hidden fever. “Fuck.” 

Your eyes flutter at the taste, letting him maneuver your face closer to the base as your hands snap to his thighs—nails digging in and eliciting a sharp inhale as you press into the two-week-old wound under his pants. Ghost curses under his breath but watches in flooding pleasure at the image of his cock disappearing farther and farther into you. Inch by inch you tell yourself to breathe through your nose; feeling the make of his veins and the mushroomed tip traveling farther and farther back. 

Moaning in the base of your neck, Ghost instinctually jerks his hips at the sound, feral grunts trapped in his chest. Your eyes go wide with the prickle of tears, not from pain but from the surprise as you gag. His hold on your hair tightens and you mewl as he continues to lose himself to the feeling of your wet heat. 

He was so big it was like your throat was ripping new sinews just for him, and you reveled in every moment of the feeling of his predatory gaze.

“So bloody tight for me—can’t wait to be in that cunt of yours…can’t be better than this. Have to test it.” He talks more when he’s horney. 

Slightly gagging again at the sheer size, his palming hand presses you deeper and you take him as well as you’re able, still space between your nose and his pelvis as your knees dig harder into the ground. Ghost groans gutturally, head slightly lulling back and panting like a dog, looking down at your red eyes and far-off gaze. Your hands kneed his upper thighs and he smirks slowly. 

Without another word and with sweat staining him under his uniform, bits and bobs from his gear start to clink together and dance as his hips set a rough pace; you find your head being puppeteered back and forth with his thrusts as your scalp flames from his hold. Tears burn immediately.

“Yeah, that’s it—such a good little slut for me, Masque. Gettin’ it down, fuck,” Ghost pants, as you hollow your cheeks, back arching into you and leaving your nostrils flaring to take down air for your spasming lungs. The sight above you was sinful. 

Your Lieutenant in full gear, pants and skin-tight boxers stretching and shoved down just under the clutch of his crotch. With every back-and-forth motion, the zipper grazes the underside of your engorged throat as every vein can be undoubtedly seared into your esophagus like a brand. 

Ghost’s eyes flutter and flinch, but never once does his hazy gaze leave your mouth as he continues to jerk your head back and forth. Saliva drips drown your chin and the nearly painful burn in your navel lets you know how true this was a relief not only for Ghost but for you as well. You wanted to touch yourself, but you can’t stop touching the Brit—not for a second. Shit, you think you could fall apart just by looking at this; you were sure Ghost was thinking the same thing. 

“Look at that, makin’ such a fucking mess of you.” His abdomen tightens and rolls with every jerk and rut, and your eyes roll back with a deep whine in the back of your throat when he hits the back of your throat. Sweat splatters down your temple as the air is steeped with animalistic desperation. Ghost whines thickly in answer and seems to speed up as your hands claw at his thighs. “You like that, pet? Huh? Being my little cock-sleeve.” 

Your nails dig deeper into his flesh and he shivers wildly; eyes flash at the sight of himself disappearing into you and exiting just after as the slap of wet skin reverberates. The tension in his chest increases and he starts to desperately kneed at your hair. 

“If I’d known you’d take it down like this, I’d-I’d have made you hate me sooner, yeah?” Tension fizzles up his jaw and you know he’s close by how he bites down into his lip and tilts his head back. 

Instinctual tears travel down your sweat-slick face, the thought of being used like this vulgar and as dirty as the sounds that echo in your throat and strike down your spine. 

“Fucking hell,” Ghost gasps, and his pace stutters as he twists your locks. Your teeth graze along his flesh as you dig your thumb into his wound to steady yourself. Whining loudly, the action seems to get to the man using your mouth for his pleasure, as not three rough thrusts later the warm feeling of his cum splatters the back of your throat in thick, hot, spurts. 

Choking for a moment, the widening of your eyes meets Ghost’s fluttering lashes from above. His free hand goes behind you to slam onto the tabletop; back curved over you as he shakes and sputters as he rides out his high. 

Cum drips out of the seams of your stretched lips, and with a deep breath through your nose, your hand lowers from Ghost’s thighs as you carefully pull your face back from his pelvis. The sensation of his cock leaving your mouth and bringing saliva and his fluids with it was animalistic at best, they spill to the floor and off of your chin like a small river. 

Licking your lips, you swallow what you can and try to catch your breath as your chest rages. Blinking rapidly, your eye twitches as you bring a hand up to your sore and ragged throat, Ghost’s heaving body stiff and hunched as he stares at the table blankly. Sweat dribbles down the side of his nose, sneaking out from under the top side of his mask. 

There’s a long minute of nothingness as you both try to breathe and understand the gravity of what you’ve both done. And then you both lock eyes and stare. 

The air stills over as Ghost’s large pupils stare at the mess on your face—seeing it drip down your throat as you tilt your chin up to him. His chest purrs like a cat and you don’t even think he realizes that he does it. 

Two seconds later you’re being manhandled up to the top of the table, backside hitting it as a hand goes to your belt. Lips connect with yours and groan at the taste, the clinking of metal hitting your ears as you submit to his prodding tongue as it licks along your inner flesh. 

Your fingers snap to trail around Ghost’s neck, moaning into him as he slips his hands into your pants, pulling back and ordering, “Up.” Eager and filled with lust, you raise your legs and he rips them down to your knees, dragging you closer to the edge. 

“Good girl.” He smirks, black-smeared eyes creased. If you could speak you’d tell him to shut up and fuck you already. 

Your slick skin meets the air and you gasp, Ghost’s hands waste no time trailing up the flesh of your hips, pitching to make you jump. Glaring, you try to drag him back into you but he’s built like stone, clicking his tongue. When his fingers collect the fluids that drip out of you, you whimper at the stimulation—two calloused fingers getting entranced by that as they stop at your clit. You stare desperately into amused blue eyes as he pressed deep, your thighs tensing as they jerk. 

“Any more of this and you’ll stain the table, won’t you, Sweetheart? I get you this worked up, yeah? Bloody hell.” You pant, and lines form on your forehead at the indecent circling of his fingers; not being gentle as he sees your mouth open and your lungs gasp. Sharp spikes form in your thighs, and they move in tandem with Ghost. “Look at that…” 

Deep chuckles mock you, but you both know this has to be fast—and with how worked up you were, it would be. 

“Alright, then, brat,” Ghost takes his hand away and you whimper before he grunts and grips you by the shoulders. Your lust turns to confusion. “Suppose you did well. Let’s make this quick, eh? Got work to do.” 

Flipped around, you squeak as your clothed chest meets the table, ass presented as your feet scramble to connect with the floor. Surprised, you whip your head to the side to stare back at a highly smug Ghost as one of his hands goes to grab onto your supple flesh, massaging it before it sneaks to your hip. 

“Easy with it, I’ll take care of you, Masque.” In little to no time he’s lining himself up with your dripping pussy, so wet it’s easy except for the fact that he’s huge enough to make you mute by a blowjob. Your back arches into the table with a long moan as the length slowly spears you open, instinctually widening your legs as best as you’re able. 

Closing your eyes, you press one of your hands to your mouth to stifle your noises, thighs spasming as Ghost curses under his breath; gear clinking into each other.

“So bloody tight.” With a swift thrust and a knock of your pelvis to the edge of the table, your eyes burn with the feeling of holding Ghost in your most intimate area and the knowledge that he would completely wreck it for anyone else. Your lungs fight for air, but a long mewl exits your fingers as the man shakes over you with restraint. “Christ.”

Tight wasn’t the way to describe it—you were like a fucking noose. Your sensitive walls know every vein and bulge, the scrape and dig, far more intimately than your throat ever could. Like a carved stamp, they’re reforming to Ghost’s dick every second. 

Tapping the side of your forehead to the table, the man can’t help himself anymore and starts to thrust into you; feral squelching and fluids staining the top of his pants. Your face burns, the rocking of the table hypnotic as your toes fight to stay on the ground. The sensation of being so full truthfully made your mind go blank, fingers twitching as Ghost continued to palm at your hip—his other hand going to press into your spine, keeping you stapled to the table. 

His gear slammed and rubbed into your ass, bruising it no doubt, but you found you didn’t care at all. Pleasure rocked down with every ruthless intrusion. 

“Can feel ya ‘round my cock,” you keen at the words, tears dribbling down the side of your face as you try to hold back sobs of pleasure. Ghost increases his pace, rabid slapping echoing off the walls as he feels his sole focus on your mind-shattering bliss. “Can’t have ‘em hear how loud you are, now, can we? Can’t let ‘em know I’m shagging you in their meeting room like a little fucktoy, eh?” 

He angles his hips higher, pushing your farther up the table as his hands only drag you back. Every moment leaves your core tightening even more; molten heat pooling as the edge gets closer. 

Footsteps echo down the hall outside, but both of you are too focused on the other and the ache that only increases like a pair of cuffs. Your mouth lets loose insistent gasps and moans while Ghost breathily groans at every other interval of his ravaging cock as it brushes your cervix. 

You whine loudly, spine arching and legs desperately trying to close. Ghost chuckles and your reaction spurs him on—hitting that same spot over and over again as you sob. 

“Right there, yeah? That it, Masque?” You nod rapidly, and the Lieutenant's grip tightens with a loud grunt, “Fuck, that’s it, bloody slut.” 

The coil in your gut gets tighter, shining with desperate shakes of your body and the numb way you try to meet Ghost’s thrusts before you entirely lose the plot of reality. 

“You’re close,” he breathes, feeling your pussy trying to keep him in, slick trailing down the insides of your thighs and transferring to the Brit’s clothes. His boxers were soaked. “C’mon, then. Don’t disappoint me, Masque. Lemme see you cum on my cock before I fill you up like the good girl you are, yeah?”

Your body spasms, thighs tensing and toes curling at the floor; fingers scratching down the table as you press over your mouth harder in a last-ditch effort to remain in control of yourself. The coil snaps and suddenly you’re digging your forehead into the wood below you, orgasm ripping through you like a knife as cum paints Ghost’s dick as he continues his relentless chase of his second release.

“There it is, fuck, look at all that, Love. Paintin’ me like a naughty fuckin’ portrait.” Ghost gasps, a hand coming up to connect to the table by your head, feeling you completely flood his pelvis—he doesn’t stop even when you whine in overstimulation, fucked-out eyes wide and mouth dripping drool into a small pool. The milky ring at his root grows and grows. With a loud moan, he looks down and watches the vulgar sight rabidly, pounding into your heat as his own end gets closer and closer. 

“Shite,” His forehead hits your spine, taking the skin into his teeth and biting hickeys as his open mouth leaves trails of saliva. “Took me so bloody well, cunt was made just for me.” 

His body shakes and with one last shove from his hips, he spills into you with a loud whimper muffled into your flesh. Teeth biting down so hard that you moan in turn, the spent releases dribble out of you like a stuffed bird. You feel his chest atop you as he places his weight slowly down; the fast-panting mirroring your own. 

Sweat connects the two of you as it bleeds through your clothes, the smell in the air and the scent of delirious sex staining your bodies. 

Your mouth remains open and hoarse, scraped dry. Ghost above you moves delicately as he pulls back up, moving back to peel your messy hair away from your blown eyes. After a moment his small voice hits you—the accent deep. 

“All good?” Your eyes slowly rove to him as he kisses your forehead, shivering violently as he slips out of you; the wet drip of cum hits the carpet in the still silence as you whimper at the feeling. “...Masque?”

Dull concern emanates from his tone and you blink back. You clear your throat and utter in a torn voice, “...P-pretty good apology, Ghosty…S…shit.” 

Smugness burns in his orbs, but the roll of his eyes hides it quickly. The puff of his chest couldn’t be hidden from you, though. 

His hands reach down and hike up your panties and cargos—both items completely wrecked. The large splotch on Ghost’s own clothes showed you that you weren't alone in that aspect. 

As he carefully flips your limp form back over and pulls you up by your arms, you groan in annoyance but shut up when his hands go to zip your zipper and clip back your belt. 

“Couldn’t have had a revelation in your barracks room?” You huff, itching at your throat. “You’re buying me cough drops, you ass.” The state of your voice was laughable. Anyone would know what happened if they spoke to you. 

Ghost sighs and begins with his own clothes, stuffing himself back into his boxers and growling at the chilled fluids on his pants as he pulls them back up. He goes and retrieves his belt before walking back. 

“Acting like you weren’t beggin’ for it.” He slides you a smirk before he grabs onto his mask and begins to cover his jaw. 

Your hand snaps out and stops him. Ghost startles, eyes flashing before his muscles stiffen. You raise a brow and he slightly calms. 

Scoffing, you lean in and place a final kiss on his lips—a tinier and tender kiss. Gaze wide, the man stares off as his heart starts to beat fast again at the firm press. After you’re done your hand goes up and grasps the fabric yourself, carefully re-shrouding the mystery of a man with a smile. 

He watches blankly.

“We okay?” You ask, tilting your head as your lower body aches when you shift on the table. “I miss my annoyingly gruff Ghost. This new one’s a jerk.” A small laugh graces your ears, and it makes you beam. “I know why you did it,” you admit, and hold out a hand between your bodies. “But pushing me away will only hurt the both of us. Let's try this, Ghost. Please.” 

“...You’re makin’ it seem like a good deal, Love…is it?” He holds out a hand of his own, large and scarred hands that had gripped you so tight before utterly loose and awaiting. 

“No clue,” you admit with a smirk, “Wanna figure it out?” Ghost watches as he always does and always will, searching into your eyes for any hint of hesitance or denial. 

“Always liked a challenge.” He grunts and encompasses his hand with yours. You squeeze it and nod, chest light as your normal breath comes back.

“You know what a real challenge is? Trying to take down your fucking dic—” The meeting room handle jiggles and you both snap into action. 

Ghost tosses you your notepad and you slide a shoved-away chair his way on shaky legs, slipping into a free seat with failing knees. You both sit side by side on the opposite side of the table, shoulders bumping and faces hot not three seconds later. Ears twitch at the sound of a key entering the slot. 

You try to act normal and begin messing around with your notepad, stealing a pen from Ghost’s gear as Price opens the door. At the sight of the two of you, he pauses and stands in the doorway.

“Ghost…Masque.” With a squint, Price looks around the room slowly, confused at the rod-straight spine from his Lieutenant and the way you awkwardly scribble nothing onto your pad. 

“Price,” Ghost utters as you look up and fake smile, waving as you tighten your hips under the table in an attempt to hide the evidence spilling out of you. 

The Captain continues to stare, scrutiny in his eyes, for at least a full minute. 

“Problem, then?” The Lieutenant asks. Price’s lips thin and he gains a sheen of deep annoyance. You groan under your breath and knock your head to the table at the next comment.

“In the fucking meeting room?!”

TAGS:

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[sscarletvenus]

ptj truly created THE siblings of all time like???

one of them is a greasy depressed manic junkie, a cannibal, a trigger-happy psychopath serial killer who has committed patricide, has consistently worn sanguine biker leather and denims for almost a decade, and is the lecherous and weird and off-puttingly attractive boss of a cartel in Mexico, with quark-shattering daddy issues.

and the other one is a gentle and beautiful "gang leader" who wears old money monochrome suits and trousers, who also hates his dad, wanting nothing to do with him but cannot seem to extricate himself from being entangled with the eerie circumstances of his father's demise. he is so wretchedly honorable and empathetic and self-sacrificial while simultaneously being like. insanely manipulative. and superficially charming. his face evokes the image of golden fields of rice as vast as the eyes can see, his visage as fertile as the banks of the nile, an autumnal apple orchard. but he's also depressed and lost and disillusioned with an unhealthy obsession for an older man who got him involved with gangs in the first place.

one of them really likes red velvet cakes and fruit flavoured bubblegum while the other likes raw, red meat still pulsing with vitality.

both are so similar and so in opposition to each other. truly two parts of gapryong's whole, an intelligent evil and an arbitrary goodness. one of them is his light, the other his rot, his capacity for evil (why else would he play with women and abandon them, neglect his children, or intend to join politics?) . and you know what? these parts are not in complete exclusion of each other. we have seen jake breach moral thresholds for the one he treasures, similarly, gitae also eliminated gapryong which is an ironic justice to himself and those that suffered because of gapryong.

post getting too long so i will just end by this : i love you toxic pernicious wretched doomed by the narrative siblings. i am obsessed with you.

[chiharuhashibira]

What about a shorts featuring your fave Kimetsu No Yaiba teacher?

But make it Professor X Student 👀

Hey guys~ As promised! I am here again in one of my... favourite masterpiece 🤭

Thank you for answering the poll we had before~

So this will be the plan for the NSFW Series, I will finish our Special Class: Chemistry with Obanai then proceed with one chapter of the Tsugoku X Hashira and one chapter of the Oiran X Hashira.

Hope it works with y'all. Love yah hoho

Honestly I am so happy that I writing for this series again 😍

Anyways, let's start. You are very quiet 22 yo graduating-student. Obanai is 29.

𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

𝑺𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔: 𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒚

𝐊𝐲𝐨𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐨 𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐤𝐮 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐳𝐮𝐢 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐆𝐢𝐲𝐮 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐤𝐚 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐎𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐢 𝐈𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫>

Content Warnings: ProfessorXStudent/Age Gap/Suggestive/Curse Words/Matured Content/18+/Sexually Explicit/Mentions of Death/Angst/Tragedy

Minors DNI.

🌸𝑶𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒊 𝑰𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒐🌸

(Images are not mine, credits to the rightful owner)

"Is that all you've got?"

Your chemistry professor, Obanai Iguro, spoke, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. Feeling the biting pain of his apathy more than any harsh criticism, you grimaced inside as you heard his remarks. His intense scrutiny pressed down on your already fragile self-assurance, forcing you to look downward.

"I... I'm trying my best, Iguro-sensei." You felt your insides tremble as you spoke with a low voice, which could barely be audible under the quiet hum of the fluorescent light inside his classroom.

You're usually the jolliest and most active student in all science classes, particularly chemistry, because you want to be a chemist. But then, everything changed four years ago when the woman you regarded as an older sister passed away because of her dedication to science and education.

You hated science. You barely make an effort at it right now because it triggers you so much. But, of course, you don't want your professor to know that. Especially because of the rumours about his "allergy to women" and so on. Of course, he wouldn't understand your pain.

With his visage frozen in place, Obanai studied you dispassionately, as if you were a specimen in an exhibit. He repeated, "Your best?" He spoke with an acidic undertone of doubt. "Well, Y/N-san..."

You gulped.

"Your best? It seems severely lacking," Obanai added, his comments cutting through your delicate self-esteem. "Perhaps you should reconsider your actions before I end up failing you this semester. Chemistry's not for the faint of heart."

After saying that, he looked away, shifting his focus elsewhere, leaving you to grapple with the aftermath of his heartless disregard. However, one could not help but detect a hint of warmth and longing concealed beneath the academic dispassion that adorned their facade of indifference.

"I heard another student cried at Shinazugawa-san's classes earlier."

"I know, right! Someone also cried at Tomioka-sensei's. What's wrong with these professors?"

"I don't know. There's another professor, though, who is a terror. That... that weird face mask guy."

"Oh, Iguro-sensei."

"Yes! I'm glad I'm not in his class."

"Yeah, me too. We're lucky that we're in Rengoku-sensei's classes all day. I wouldn't ever complain. He's a ray of sunshine!"

"Uzui-sensei too... He's handsome, too. We're so lucky!"

"DAMN YOU KIDS! YOU'RE SO NOISY! GO BACK TO YOUR CLASSES!"

You watched as Shinazugawa-sensei stepped out of his class to yell at those two talkative students. You gulped, feeling scared that he might yell at you too. But fortunately, he didn't. You can't bear having additional stress today, especially after hearing Obanai's words earlier.

But then, you clearly remembered your earlier encounter. Looking into his enigmatic eyes, you can't help but wonder about that sudden flicker of emotion that he showed you. It's hard to believe, but it seems like there is more than meets the eye when it comes to Obanai. And yes, you're kind of curious to know what that is.

You didn't know that Obanai was secretly watching you on the corner. He's used to hearing students complain about him, so it's surprising that you didn't escalate the situation after hearing them. Especially considering what he did earlier.

"Am I too harsh again, Kaburamaru?" He asked the harmless snake, who was just busy slithering on his shoulders. No answer came, of course, so then Obanai just went back to his lonely classroom.

In the days that passed, Obanai's harsh words still haven't left your mind. But yes, even if you wanted to do your best, his subject is just so hard to deal with, not because you find it hard, but because of the sad memories that it brings you.

As you sit and listen to him in his classes, you can't help but find yourself grappling with a tumult of emotions. So one afternoon, you were astounded to feel a presence beside you, only to discover it was the chemistry professor. You were startled to see his heterochromatic eyes fixate on you with an intensity that took your breath away.

"Y/N-san," he said, his voice more muted than you'd ever heard before, but with an understated strength in its tone. "May I have a word with you?"

Your heartbeats were quickening at the unexpected invitation. "Of course, Iguro-sensei," you replied, your voice tinged with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

Obanai led you to a secluded corner of the hallway, away from prying eyes and wandering ears of the other college students. As you both stood there, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light, you couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in Obanai's demeanour—a concern that belied his usual stoic composure.

"I've been watching you, Y/N." Your chemistry professor began with his heterochromatic eyes, meeting yours with unwavering curiosity. "You seem to be more lost than when I first talked to you. Is there anything you need to tell me?"

"As far as I know, there's none, sensei."

Obanai raised one eyebrow at you and crossed his arms, only to reveal Kaburamaru, who was hiding beneath his oversized lab coat. You blink in confusion at what you are seeing right now. You have heard the students talk about Iguro bringing his pet snake to the university a lot of times. However, you regarded those as purely rumours.

But seeing the white snake right now, you can't help but be amazed. You also had a pet snake in the past, which you and your best friend used to take care of. "Oh, what's its name?"

"Kaburamaru."

"I see. It looks beautiful..."

"Oh? You're not afraid of him?"

"No. I'm not. He reminds me of the snake that I used to see on our garden before."

"Oh..."

"Yes, sensei. Hmmm, when I was just 5, I used to see a white snake in our garden. I even tried to touch it."

The oozing tension and unwelcoming aura that Obanai used to blanket himself with seemed to fade as his eyes widened with what you said. He looked amused right now, and that kind of calmed you down. 

"I see..."

It looks like he wanted to ask more, but then nothing came. So, you decided to get straight to the point.

"Iguro-sensei, I've got to go. I'm so sorry if I always disappoint you in class. I really do."

You said you felt guilty for letting your emotions always take hold of you. But before you could go, Iguro handed you something.

"A notebook?"

"Yeah. Try to study with those notes. Perhaps it could help."

You took the white notebook from his hand and gave him a small smile. "Thank you, sensei."

You swear that before Obanai turned around, you saw his cheek turn pink. That left you dazed, but then, it's none of your business.

Despite the amusement that you have felt for knowing Obanai has a soft spot, you can't help but not believe yourself for what happened. Why did he give you this notebook? Why is he observing you in the first place?

It kind of made you shiver, as you felt like one wrong move and bad things would happen with Obanai. Interpreting that moment as a sign of his concern for you, you chose to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps...

After showering, you sat on your study table and looked at the innocuous photo in front of you. It was your best friend and non-blood-related older sister, Shinobu Kocho, who had passed away. How you've missed her and the time when she's just there for you. You loved the girl so much that you wanted to be like her.

You never would have thought that one day you'd end up hating something you love for taking someone away from you.

"Shinobu-san, I'm sorry for being a failure. I... I'll try my best to bring back my passion."

You whispered in the air, realising that, yes, if the woman is still here, she wouldn't want you to fail.

With that sudden flame igniting inside you, you opened the notebook Obanai had given you. Goosebumps formed on your body as you traced his handwriting. He has good handwriting, and you can't help but smile because of it.

It reminded you of Shinobu's wonderful handwriting, which you have always adored but also sort of didn't, as Obanai wrote in cursive.

And with that, as if by magic, time passed. You didn't realise that it was actually two in the morning when you finally stopped reviewing. Yes. It has been the first time again that you have let yourself get too absorbed in anything related to science for more than an hour.

It kind of felt overwhelming. Yes, it is overwhelming, as suddenly everything started to make sense again. All the things that you studied before came back. And perhaps it is due to the simplicity with which Obanai explained things in that notebook.

It seemed as though he had specifically designed it for that purpose. To make chemistry simple, which is too different from how he explains things in class.

For some reason, you felt a bit happy. Even if Obanai may appear nonchalant and harsh, he seems to really care. This simple gesture unlocked so many memories.

And even your promise to Shinobu before came back to you, pushing you harder to do better this time.

This is all because Obanai has made an effort to kind of talk to you at the uni this afternoon. And yes, he is cold but that gesture had gave warmth to your frozen heart.

A few days had passed, and one Saturday night, you found yourself sitting in a public library, reading the notes from Obanai's notebook. After the night of your realisation, you felt your passion for science spark again. And yes, it reflected on your grades.

However, Iguro still didn't speak to you after that day. No praise, not even a bat of an eye. You're just there again, invisible, despite doing your best.

Feeling a bit low, you decided to ditch the library and head towards the nearest coffee shop. All you wanted now was to chill and perhaps let your mind rest for a while.

But before you could reach the coffee shop, you accidentally bumped into someone. Without wasting time, you bowed down to apologise, and there, a familiar voice came into your senses.

Your eyes widened, and then, when you looked up, you met those familiar and enigmatic eyes. "S-sensei?" you asked, wondering why in the world would fate bring him to you tonight.

You were trying your best to forget him and his nonchalant attitude towards you, which is really weird after he gave you that notebook. Yes, you were expecting him to be a bit nicer, but he became colder.

"What are you doing here?"

He's still wearing his mask. I wish I could just see his face. You thought as you proceeded to take in his presence. Clad in a striped hoodie and black pants, Obanai could pass off as a university student. He looks young for a professor in the first place.

"Hey, I'm talking to you."

"Oh sensei. Sorry, I was—"

"Spacing out. I know. It's okay. I know it's surprising to see your professor around here."

You were astounded when he talked casually to you. He never did that at school. Oh well, that's because he's apparently your professor. You wanted to slap yourself for your foolish thoughts.

"What's up with you?" Obanai added, which made you blink in surprise. He wants to know what's up with me.

"Nothing much sensei... Just—"

"I'm going to cut you there." He said, and suddenly leaned in on you, which made you blush. His voice went out as a whisper as he told you,

"We're outside the university. It's Obanai, okay? I don't want the people around getting the wrong idea."

"Sorry sen— Obanai-san..."

He straightened up and crossed his arms, piercing you with his fierce eyes once again. "So you were saying?"

"Oh, I was just reviewing. Just heading to the coffee shop now to grab a coffee. How about you?" You said, trying to hide your nervousness from your casual tone. Obanai scratched his chin and shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing much. Just another Saturday night in the pub, I guess."

WHAT? HE DRINKS? You couldn't hide the flabbergasted expression on your face as you heard those words coming from his mouth. You never thought of Iguro as some guy you'd see in pubs. So this information is shocking to you.

Obanai saw this expression and raised an eyebrow. "Is it weird to hear a grown ass man going to a pub? Why are you looking at me like that? Prick..."

"Sorry... I'm just... weird sometimes. Don't mind me."

"Okay. So, you heading towards the coffee shop? Want me to come with you? It's quite dangerous to walk alone in these streets at night."

This night is definitely getting weirder... in a nice way?

Obanai, asking to walk with you? The stern and cold-hearted chemistry professor, caring for you? You bit your lip and felt a bit flustered.

Yes, he's your professor, but he's also a guy. And it's the first time that a guy has ever offered you this. You know that it isn't too much. It's most likely lower than the bare minimum, but then a part of you started to flutter. You know it's wrong, and it's weird... but... For some reason, you just didn't care.

"Are you sure I'm not going to be a bother with you and your pub appointment?"

"No. I'm kind of thinking to drop the pub thing tonight, actually. Can I join your coffee appointment instead?"

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just want to? Is that an enough reason?"

"Yes, actually."

You found yourself sitting face-to-face with Obanai in your favourite coffee shop, wondering why he was here in the first place if he wouldn't order at all. Feeling a bit conscious, you fixed your braids and decided to take a sip of your coffee.

"Why didn't you order anything? If you want to go to the pub, it's okay."

"I just... don't eat much. And I hate coffee."

"Then why did you go with me here, sensei?"

"Obanai."

"There's no one around. And you're my sensei; we can't hide that fact."

"You're pissing me off."

"I'm not trying too, though. It's just..."

"Why did you stop? It's just what?"

Obanai's voice suddenly sounded a bit offended and sad. You gulped and looked down, stopping yourself from saying that this looks weird because somehow you wanted the company.

"Nothing"

"You can tell me directly if you don't want the company. I just came here to... to make sure you'll be alright. But I guess trying to be nice doesn't always pay off?"

You felt guilty as you watched Obanai stand up from his seat. So then, letting your intrusive thoughts win, you grabbed his hand and pulled him down. "Stay." You didn't care if his allergy to women would be triggered by this contact. All you wanted to do now was kind of comfort him.

Obanai looked at your hand and back to you with question marks almost becoming visible on his face. "Y/N..."

"Sorry..."

"It's okay. I'm used to it."

"I want the company. So stay, Obanai."

The facade of emptiness in Obanai's eyes was shattered after hearing your words. It seems like a memory has suddenly been unlocked inside of him. But then, no words came out of his lips. So you spoke up once again, trying to lighten up the mood.

"So... where are you going after this?" You asked innocently, which made the guy shrug his shoulders again. Obanai isn't speaking again.

You realised that he was looking at your hand, which was still holding him, so you pulled away and tried your best to hide your blush.

After you had let go of his hand, Obanai finally got the strength to speak up. "Walk you home."

"You're not pissed off with me anymore?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Okay."

And there... Again, you found yourself ending the night with Obanai walking you home in silence. Yes, it was awkward, but for some reason, it felt a bit warm. And you kind of felt happy.

Yes, he's your professor, but for this night, he made you feel like a normal girl. And yes, it is special, as you haven't felt that in a long while.

Actually... you have been feeling this for a while. Wanting his attention and care so bad and you didn't know when it started. It just sparked again after he lent you the notebook.

But you know you shouldn't feel this so, you forced yourself to stop. And you'll do it again this time.

On the other hand, Obanai found himself slithering back to the pub, letting his loneliness get a hold of him. Yes. He's lonely. And yes, he regretted what he just did. Just because you reminded him of something so important before doesn't mean that he should be as vulnerable as at that time.

You're his student. And yes, he reminded himself of that. You're just his student now. And it should stay that way.

Days have passed, and here we go again. As if that night never happened, Iguro didn't talk to you that way again. It kind of hurts because even if you wanted to hide your feelings so bad, you still wanted him to look at you and speak to you, the same way as that night.

But you have no choice. Even if you had the urge to bring up how confused you are, you didn't. You can't speak to him that way again. Like what you said that night, he is your professor and you cannot hide that fact.

So, you just did your best in his class, trying your best to focus on your promise with Shinobu, trying to fix all your mess.

Little did you know, but the chemistry professor has noticed how you've changed since the day he lent you those notes. You've turned the tables, as if suddenly you were his star student.

He had grown fond of seeing you answer his questions correctly. Especially when you started leading chemistry projects and stuff.

And beneath those observations, Obanai can't help but also adore how beautiful your confidence looks on you. Yes, he was dying to talk to you. But he can't bring himself to do so. He just can't say it but there's tonnes of things that he had been wanting to tell you.

"Iguro-sensei. Thank you for this notebook. I've finished studying them all, and it helped me a lot. I will return it to you now. Sorry if it took me too long to do so."

Obanai was astounded by your voice and presence. He looked up at you with an empty stare and simply nodded. After putting the notebook on the desk, you were about to go when, suddenly, Iguro spoke up in a soft tone.

"No worries. You actually started to do well."

With his words, your face lightened. Feeling your heartbeat race, you fought the urge to smile as you knew that things would not end with him praising you. You still need to pass the class. You need to make Shinobu proud, even if she's gone.

But then, cutting off those thoughts, Obanai stood up from his seat and walked in front of you. You were astounded by the sudden closeness, but of course, you didn't move.

The chemistry professor's heterochromatic eyes pierced within your soul, forcing you to look away. Heat crept up on your face, and you felt that the atmosphere had become a bit more intense.

A sudden, foolish thought had managed to escape from the cages of your mind.

Is Iguro-sensei going to kiss me?

Yes. Rising again from deep within your frustrations on his subject and the pain that it causes you is this feeling. And it is slowly burning you into ashes.

That's why it hurts more when he tells you you're not good enough. That's why you didn't get angry at him when he did so. That's why you hated those people who spoke badly of him.

That's why you wanted his attention again like that night when he made you feel like a normal girl.

Yes, Iguro can be so difficult, but he somehow brings this comfort to you. You have no idea why, but it's like you've known him forever, and you've been longing for his presence.

He feels familiar, but he also does not.

Obanai's hand felt warm on your cheek. The chemistry professor suddenly found the courage to caress your cheek, which made you blush. But then, his next words killed those flusters in just a blink of an eye, rubbing salt on your scars.

"You did well, Y/N-san. Keep it up, okay? You'll make Shinobu proud."

Those words. That name.

You almost found yourself shutting down. Now, all you can think of is: How did he know her? And if he has known her for a long time, why is he just telling you this now?

Turning to look at him with wide eyes, you've witnessed how Obanai took off his face mask. Yes, this is the first time you've seen him without that.

And yes, for the very first time, he looked so familiar that seeing his face now brought back your old memories from the foster home to haunt you.

Flashback:

"Shinobu-san, who's that boy with Mitsuri-san? Is he new here?" 

"Oh, I don't know his name but yes, he's new. Don't approach him, though. He seems to be afraid of girls. I don't know why, though."

"Afraid? That's weird. He seems to be okay with Mitsuri."

"I know, right. Enough questions. Let's just study inside. Ne-chan told me that you'll be a Kocho soon! So you'll need to learn lots about science!"

"Hey. That snake will bite if you hold it that way."

"Oh! Sorry— Um, you're Mitsuri-san's friend, right? You're not afraid of me?"

"Oh..."

"Oh..."

"Anyway, don't hold it like that. Aren't you afraid of it?"

"No..."

"Hey! Why are you playing with a snake?!"

"Oi Shinobu-san! Mitsuri's friend was—Oh, where is he?"

"Huh? That boy? He's not supposed to be here... Perhaps he ran away. I heard he had been adopted. But you know what? Let's just go inside. Leave that snake alone."

"Shinobu-san! I know that guy..."

"Yep. He's that kid from before. He's all grown up too. I guess, we'll be co-workers now? He'll be volunteering here as well to teach science with me. Anyways, Mitsuri's also here, she'll be teaching art. You should meet with her soon!"

End of Flashback

"Iguro-san? Y-you look... familiar..."

"Yes. You've met me and Kaburamaru before."

"You are kidding right? You can't be that boy from the foster home. Mitsuri-san's friend? My sister's co-worker? You died... You're already dead... Like them..."

It seems like your words have stunned Iguro. Regret started to paint on his face as he looked away from your wondering expression.

But here you are now. Answers. You need answers. If he had known you all this time, he must have known the trauma that you experienced when you saw the foster home getting burned with Shinobu, Mitsuri, and that unknown lad, who is apparently him, as they tried to save the children that they had been teaching science four years ago.

Why is he here now?

You shove Obanai away and glared at him. "This must have been a sick joke, sensei. You can't be that boy with my sister... No one has escaped that fire that night."

"I did, and I'm sorry I wasn't able to save your sister and Mitsuri."

"It's all too much for me now. Can I go?"

Tears suddenly escaped your wide eyes, and there, Obanai felt his chest tighten. He had expected you to react this way, but no matter how he practiced it, he could never prepare himself for the real thing.

Just like how he wasn't prepared to see his first love get burned to ashes before.

"Y/N, I'm sorry." Obanai tried to touch you, but then you swatted his hand away and gave him a glare.

Your passion turned to anger as you felt betrayed. All you can think of is why. He should have been honest. What other things is he hiding from you, then?

"Y/N, I never knew at first that you were Shinobu's sister. I heard she has siblings, but I didn't even know who they were. I and your sister barely had any encounters before except when we were teaching the kids at the foster home. How could I know?"

You didn't speak. You wanted to hear more.

"I mean, it just dawned on me when you told me about your memory back when you were 5. That's the only time I managed to fit in the pieces."

"What do you mean?"

"You're that little girl I saw when I was 12. The girl whom Kaburamaru almost bit. You had Shinobu's surname, so you got adopted by them. So that's also why you were gone when I came back to visit. Y/N... You were here with me all the time. It was all late when I realised it."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

Obanai's eyebrows creased in frustration. "What should I say then? 'Hi, I'm Obanai, the boy from the foster home who also didn't manage to save your sister from the fire. How are you?'"

Sarcasm was obvious in his tone, which offended you a bit, so you decided to just leave. Perhaps this conversation shouldn't be happening right now. You want to move on. You're moving on, for goodness sake!

And now you're back to square one again.

𝓘 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓲𝓽'𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓠𝔀𝓠

But I swear, it'll be sweeter soon!

And yes, this will be in two-chapters as it is too long and too heavy than I anticipated XD

So see you soon on the next chapter!

Feel free to reblog, comment, and send a request! Will appreciate that my loves~

Wuvyouuuu! Just be on the lookout to our next series and of course, the ending of 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮!

MDNI!

Ja ne~

~𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓾-𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷🌸

𝐊𝐲𝐨𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐨 𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐤𝐮 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐳𝐮𝐢 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐆𝐢𝐲𝐮 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐤𝐚 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐎𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐢 𝐈𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫>

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Ok but…what about the reader being like provocative to the yandilf but she does even know it like for example she reaches over to grab something like across the counter in the kitchen?? Tbh fav genre 🫣

Anon, you're enabling my Yandere! DILF brainworm 🫣 <3

TW: Implied Smut, Victim-Blaming, Creepy! Dominic, Perverted! Dominic

♡ Given that the only times you're ever at Dominic's house are to babysit his sons, it's safe to assume that the two of you aren't alone when this happens. As such, Dominic has no way to act on your perceived act of provocation, nor the opportunity to deal with the aftermath of it.

♡ But you'd best believe he's going to commit the visage of your bent figure to memory and use it as fuel later on.

♡ Give Dominic an inch and he'll run a mile.

♡ He has nasty fantasies about acting on his instinct to ravage you when he had the chance, to press your face into the counter as he found a way inside you - one way or another.

♡ Sometimes, that idea is the only thing that can get him off. Especially since the windows of time in which he sees you are usually slim, making your interactions that much more profound and memorable to him. Especially ones of such a promiscuous nature.

♡ Dominic never thinks he's in the wrong.

♡ Ever.

♡ Consequently, he never feels guilt when he uses the image of you obviously trying to get his attention as the object of his self love sessions.

♡ Any shame he would feel gets directed straight into the 'You were asking for it' pile (his IRL spam email box).

♡ Whenever he knows you're coming over, he likes to keep things as out-of-your-reach as possible, knowing that your inability to attain that which you need will lead to either you: a.) bending/stretching to get it again, or b.) asking him to get it for you, which gives him the perfect opportunity to squeeze in behind you, feel the curve of your body against his while allowing you to feel how well-endowed he is (caveman peacocking instincts go craaazy).

♡ But he'll never tell you that. Rather, he'll let you feel it.

Masterlist Yandere AI Masterlist Masterpost

AO3 Wattpad Tumblr Backup Account

[carnal-lnstinct]

hi renee hi!! For the event, I'm curious about how you'd write yandere!goku 👀 in my mind, he'd be villainous while still remeaning his easy going and cheery self, but I wanna see your take on him! What would he do to have his beloved all by himself, you know? Thank you, I adore you!

〖 GOKU X READER 〗 ✦✦Content: M/18+. MINORS DNI. possessive!farmer goku, established friendship / coworkers, secret pining.  ✦✦Warning: yandere character trope. implied murder. canon-typical violence. blood

He’s been bad again, forgetting his virtues in favor of an impulsive and selfish retribution.

He has been changed because of you. It’s fine, of course, what you don’t know has never hurt your image of him in your eyes. You’re just friends, after all. His friendly visage is not allowed to be different from the man you’ve been working the farm with, he isn’t in a position to show he wants more from you. Yet you being friendly with other men makes his jaw clench. The smile he wears so easily becomes a strain to hold onto.

Goku is always good at reading another’s intentions and he sensed nothing but a greedy, one-sided motive in the eyes of the farmhand you were currently talking to. Just another face at the farmer’s market whose come to try and get with you. Another self-serving jerk whose cock drove his actions when struck by your alluring presence. He could see all the signs in the man’s body language, and though the saiyan outwardly smiled in his cheeky, playful way, letting you know he’d finish loading the trailer himself, the crates were cracking under his grip. Goku’s nails carved into the wood as he walked the unsold vegetables back toward his tractor—nothing in his mind but the perverse intent of the farmhand drooling over you.

No one should be allowed to think of you that way. He doesn’t even know you. He just wants to put his dirty dick in you. And you’re laughing at his corny jokes, you’re laughing with him. Like you want him...

The saiyan lets out a deep breath after setting down the now fragile crate.

You hear the trailer bed shut loudly letting you know that Goku finished packing the rest of the vegetables. After you bid farewell to the friendly market stranger, you approach the tractor to find Goku nowhere in sight. He finished for sure, but you didn’t see that familiar head of spiky locks anywhere. You waited a bit and leaned against the tractor as you glanced over your surroundings. A sound hits your ear from a distance but it doesn’t linger in the air long enough to be deciphered. It must be a bird.

You waited for as long as you could but then figured Goku must have gotten caught up speaking with someone else in the farmer’s market too.

As you push off the tractor and turn to leave you bump into Goku suddenly approaching you, the saiyan fumbling with a crate of beets before successfully steadying them. You didn’t see him coming at all, you didn’t even hear him coming, but you apologize profusely for your neglectful eye as he only laughs it off.

“It's no problem. Thanks for not leaving without me.” He humored, crossing in front of you and making his way over to the attached trailer. 

“What’s that on your hands?”

After setting down the beets, Goku looked over the back of his hand and saw the red stains smeared around his knuckles, a drip flowing down the pinky side of his wrist. He smiles at it and gives you a slight giggle, answering.

“Beet juice.” He punctuated his casual lie by giving the stain a lick and playing up a sour reaction. “Guess one’s rotting.”

He’s been very bad again.

None the wiser, you giggle at his misfortune and shake your head. “Guess we better hurry and get those on ice. Are you sure we got everything?”

“Yep! Unless you’re lookin’ to bring your new friend.” Goku teases, making you fold your arms at the playful jab unable to resist grinning at it.

“No luck for me here. We did exchange numbers, but I’m not holding my breath on it. I never hear back from anyone I meet here. Guess you’re stuck with me a little longer, boss.”

Goku’s smile slowly grows wider. Another day that starts and ends with just the two of you. “I already told ya, you can just call me Goku. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

[eelnoise]

seraphim

roronoa zoro x afab!reader c/w: bloodlust, consensual bloodplay, zoro bites, you scratch, religious themes, body worship, slight breeding kink, piv sex, creampie, manhandling, praise, post-murder sex (reader and zoro just killed a bunch of marines), public sex a/n: ? idk what even to say. i like my men bloody and i like when they bloody me. this is a rewrite of a previous fic which you can find here so if ur like "ive read this b4..." its because you kinda have banner by the lovely @buggyandthebartoclub!

Zoro isn’t a religious man.

No, he finds the very notion of reverence visceral.

Though as he turns back toward you, he’s dumbstruck. You face away from him, pulling the blade of your sword deep from the torso of a fallen naval officer and watching as the light fades from his eyes. Both of you had emerged victorious after a merciless and surprise assault from a group of marines in the middle of an open town square on some island that neither of you can remember the name of, where a large statue stands tall in honor of some long-forgotten hero at its center.

The scene is heavenly, you there - surrounded by the wages of spilled blood that pools beneath your feet, the remnants of singing steel permeating the now hallowed ground upon which you stand. There’s a certain beauty in chaos, and never has Zoro felt it quite as clearly as when he watches you tear into your foes with reckless abandon. The image makes him shiver - not in fear or revulsion, but something far more primal, deep within his gut.

He’s speechless as he observes you wiping the excess carnage from your blade, a sensation akin to delight igniting in his veins and fixated on you like a hawk. It’s beautiful, truly, a stunning vision that he couldn’t even dream up. 

“Well, we took care of that little rat problem, hm?” Your words are heavy with pride and exertion, but the sound of your voice only spurs him from a daze that he didn’t even realize he was in.

Then you turn to him, visage tattered and torn and stained with crimson. Zoro’s mouth goes dry, and words fail him, tongue tied tightly in a knot that he can’t seem to unravel. You’re immaculate, and for the first time in his life he’s fighting the urge to exalt, to sing your praise, to deify you.

He mutters something that’s beyond your field of hearing as he continues to stare at you like a starved man would a feast. Zoro’s seen you wield that blade countless times, watched on as you cut down enemy by enemy without effort or ailment, but never have you looked as angelic as you do now. Standing amid a symphony of battle and gore, covered from head to toe in splattered blood that’s both yours and that of the deceased around you, the look of delight and self-satisfaction twinkling in your eyes as you grin at him from across the square, fuck, it’s all too much. 

You’re right, of course, the two of you can and did handle these sin and sinew wrapped rats with ease, but the more pressing matter is the effect that you’re currently having on his heart. Zoro takes a step forward, taking in the beauty of your face, bloodied and bruised but not conquered.

Curiously, you leer at him, head tilted in question as you sheath your sword along your back, taking note of the lack of the usual snarky remark from the swordsman. “Zoro?”

His eye flickers to yours, lips parted in what could only be described as awe. He looks at you as if you’re a muse, descended from on high to grace him with your presence, one that’s stunned him into near silence. “Yeah?” Zoro manages to reply quietly, tone raspy and voice a barely audible whisper against the breeze - a timbre you only hear from him when he’s injured or exhausted, a weak and feeble inflection that almost has you questioning if the man was actually hurt.

Zoro’s jaw visibly tightens, his one open eye alight with the same burn that he eyes an opponent with, expression twisting into one that you know all too well. The face he only makes when -

He wants you.

Your war-torn, bloodthirsty appearance has overwhelmed Zoro, the innate desire etched on his expression like a fool in a daze. Lips twisting into a devious smirk, you’re keen on taking advantage of this rare opportunity of power that you’ve been given over him, and you know exactly how to proceed. With a step toward him, you do something he doesn’t expect, something that has his nails digging into his palms.

You lick blood from your lips.

Zoro’s blood blazes, a carnal, raw emotion swells in his throat with urges he cannot fight - will not fight. Ever a man of action, he’s upon you faster than you can react. Large, calloused fingers envelop your waist, pulling you close in an instant and slamming his lips onto yours in a starved, feverish, messy kiss. The metallic tang of blood on his tongue mixed with the taste of you drives him increasingly wilder each second you stay locked together in the embrace, hastening him further into devoted bliss.

You writhe as he leaves your lips to trail down your neck, lapping up the viscous liquid that coats your flesh in his wake. Zoro is fully prepared to kneel at your altar, to partake of and rejoice in each beautiful proverb that befalls from your sweet tongue, to bathe in every hymn you bestow.

Zoro's hands roam over your body, feeling the contours of your curves beneath the fabric of your torn clothing, tracing the delicate lines of your collarbone and shoulders before coming to rest on the small of your back, holding you firm against him. He feels like he could drown in this moment, in the warmth and passion that courses through his entire being.

Zoro grins wildly, a feral expression on his face as he feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the heat of your breath against his neck, and the sound of your voice washing over in melodic harmony. He wants nothing more than to revel in this moment, to lose himself completely in the intensity of the connection that you share.

“You wouldn’t believe how good ya look like this,” He growls into your skin, his chapped lips dancing across your collarbone and up to your shoulder. “I feel like I shouldn’t even be allowed to see ya. Feels…” words wane into a series of open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and into the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling the intoxicating scent of blood, sweat, and battle on your flesh, “...wrong.”

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you,” You purr, allowing a soft, pleased sigh to slide from your throat when he adds his teeth to the wet assault upon your skin, gently nibbling and grazing at you in a manner that grows hungrier and more sporadic with every passing moment. 

“We both know I ain’t much of a rule follower.” Zoro’s husky voice is hot on your ear, his warm breath sending a jolt of longing right through your nervous system. The hand low on your back begins to wriggle its way through tattered tendrils of threads that once made up your shirt, fingers spread wide as it skims up your pliant softness, tracing along your waist and up between your shoulder blades.

Zoro's touch isn’t quite tender, a clear indication of his burgeoning lust you suspect, but there's honesty, sincerity in his newfound charge. He knows that you aren't fragile, the evidence fresh and red around you speaking well enough on its own, so why stay the hand that plys the sword? 

Men fall to their hands and knees in prayer to gods they’ve never seen, begging for mercy and crying out for deliverance that will not come.

But you - he can see you, he can hear you. 

He can touch you.

Taste you.

You're divine. A paragon of a twisted and bloodied form of justice. It's you that's stupefied him, luring him into a deistic high that has Zoro practically foaming at the mouth with innate desire.

His painfully hard cock strains against his thigh with means to worship you wholly, to partake in his own ideals of perverse, distorted devotion. He breathes in your salty-sweet scent once more and groans in longing, the taste of your crimson essence on his lips makes him feel like an offering to an idol., and every drop that drips down his chin only serves to heighten his senses even more.

He looks up at you through an eye glazed over with depraved adoration, and all he can think of is how good you look, how delicious you are on his tongue, how much he wants to please you, be consumed in your immaculate presence, and to offer himself up as a sacrifice to the darker and more nefarious desire within him.

The urge to claim, to take what he wants from you and find salvation surrounded by your benevolent hold. To act upon the impure aspiration that pulsates in his mind in ways that would make even the most vileindividuals gawk. He yearns to clean the blood from your sacred, championed skin, a lust filled ritual to send you both into sacramental euphoria. 

He’s in a frenzy, feeling and touching each curve and crevice across your body while pulling you impossibly closer to him. Before Zoro can even think, he’s sinking his teeth into your shoulder, overcome with enlightened debauchery and biting down until that deathly addictive taste of your blood is fresh on his tongue once more - a testament to the depth of his obsession and the power of your shared experience.

The pain burns hot, but brief - quickly dissipating away into a cry of raw pleasure, a moan so salacious and so absolute that Zoro feels the very last of his will slipping through his fingers. He laps over the decently deep mark, his saliva mixing into the cuts like kindle to flame and earning him another woefully delightful wail of exasperation.

He thinks himself safe for the interim, that he’s pulled some sense back from the brink - until you say the one thing that shatters him to pieces.

“Do that again.”

He doesn’t deny you, and without hesitation he obliges by drowning his teeth back into your shoulder, pressing deeper into the wound and savoring the way your blood flows across his lips and into his mouth, painting his face red in the process. He grinds his hips against yours in a primitive display of dominance, while his fingers dig into your flesh with bruising force as you dig your nails into his back through his sweat and blood damped shirt.

Despite the danger posed by your actions amidst the threat of more marines, there is something undeniably beautiful about this dance of life and death. In this fleeting moment, Zoro and you find a kind of transcendence - a place where boundaries blur and limits vanish, leaving only pure, unadulterated passion in its wake.

His lips return to yours, and soon enough you feel yourself being whisked off your feet. The open air of the square leaves little room for privacy, but you know he doesn't care. Zoro walks with you in his arms, lips locked together in a messy, bloody, passionate kiss, your legs tight around his waist before he eases you down onto the lip of nameless hero's memorial upon which he plans to ravish you.

Zoro releases his hungry attack on your lips and rips the remnants of your shirt in two, leaving you bare to him as if an offering of communion. To feast upon your body, to drink upon your wine.

You gasp, wincing just a little from the shock of the fresh air upon your chest. “Zoro-” you begin, his name emanating from your breathless lungs as you watch the fabric fall to the ground around you. 

“Y’can have mine,” He replies, leaning forward to pull one of your nipples into his mouth. “After I’m done with ya.” Zoro’s mouth suckles greedily, teasing your sensitive nub with his tongue before biting down hard enough to make you squeal and arch your back, but not draw blood.

His free hand traces down your side, finding respite upon your inner thigh and squeezing tightly onto it, growling as the fresh wound on your shoulder trickles down your chest and right onto his lips and eliciting an absolutely lewd groan from Zoro as he laps it up.

He gazes up at you with an intensity that borders on madness, his eyes burning with an unbridled lust that has you keening. “Ya taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls between his assault on your chest, “God, I can’t get enough.”

“Then take as much as you want.”

And fuck, he does. In an instant does he pop his lips from you to slide your pants away, somehow careful enough to not rip them to shreds - something you’d have to thank him for later. Without even removing his swords from his hip, let alone his own pants - Zoro simply rushes to undo the clasps and push the waistband down enough to free his length, thick and leaking, to bounce out against your pelvis. 

You can feel it even through your underwear, warm heat radiating from what you desire most in this world at this moment. Zoro looks at you, gaze lingering on yours as he slides the fabric shielding your sex to the side and grips your hip with one hand and his cock in the other. He teases it over your slickness tantalizingly while sliding it between your folds and inch by inch are you filled so wonderfully, stretched and stuffed so marvelously full that each tense or twitch of him inside you makes the edges of your vision blur and has you wailing in pleasure.

As soon as your hips are flushed against one another, he gives you but a moment of adjustment before rutting his hips into you quickly, a rhythm so ruthless and wild that leaves you able to do little more aside from gasp out breathlessly and brave his savage ruin. You’re not even sure when your nails crept up his shirt, or when they burrow sharply into his shoulder blades until they’re etching down his back, the crescent shaped lines running his skin raw and bloody, scathing scores fueled by ferocious, crude passion.

He folds you then, one of his hands coming to grip over both of your wrists to pin them above your head as an arm forces your thigh downward. Zoro leans over you, your ankle now bouncing wildly next to his ear while he plows into you at a newer, deeper, more luscious angle. 

Skin slaps against skin in company with brazen indulgence, a foul yet righteous lament for the fallen mere feet from you. From this more cramped position, you’re all but forced to keep eye contact with him - and he’s looking nowhere else but at your face, enraptured by every sound and move you make as you squirm in his hold.

Your desperate pants mix, leaving patches of sweat to pool between your chests. Zoro’s increasing gasps and snarls of ecstasy ring loud in your ear, the sounds echoing through you like a quake and causing you to flutter around his cock. He hisses, harsh and shrill in your ear and with a throaty grunt he pulls out of you, letting your legs fall to the stone pavement and releasing his grasp on your wrists to firmly twist you by the shoulders, spinning you around and sprawling his hand on your lower back to shift you forward into an arch.

He’s sinking into you again, fingers tight and stinging at your waist and burying himself fully inside of you once more. There isn’t even a moment given for reprieve, the man continuing to fuck you as if he hadn’t even left your dripping heat and making you cry out in hypnotizing delight. 

Zoro smacks your ass, relishing in the ripple effect in your pliable flesh left in the wake of his blow. “Shit,” he exhales, adjusting his machinations of impurity to wrap his arms around your waist and lifting you from the ground, holding you in place mid-air and thrusting into you with less and less fluidity by the second. “Feel so fuckin’ amazin’, always do but god damn do you feel so fuckin’ incredible right now.”

You reach back to lock an arm around his neck seeking any leverage to keep yourself upright amidst his onslaught. You’re moaning something incoherent, words neither of you recognize due to the lust-filled haze that fills your minds, feeling the pull of release pit low in your belly as his balls slap against your clit at a rapid pace. 

Delirium bids its toll upon you, tears prickling at your eyes as the climb to your closely approaching high reaches its limit. Drool slides down your chin and onto your neck, and in an instant Zoro catches it with his mouth, once again dissenting on your flesh and gnawing his incisors into your neck - sucking and biting with brutal obsession and marking your angelic skin in devout defiance. The growing familiarity of the warm flow of blood trickling from the bruised indents in your skin makes you crack, flying over the edge with a scream of his name.

He doesn’t slow as you ride out the waves of pleasure coursing through your body, still slamming into you a breakneck speed. You twitch and twist in his arms, the hard beating of his cock keeping a state of hyperstimulation over you, the whimpers and cries of weak will and breathless joy beginning to tip him over the edge. 

The only thing in Zoro’s fogged head is his need to flood you with his spend, to pack you to the brim with his cum until it drips out of you and onto the stone below. He doesn’t even care if you’re bred full of his brats after this - if anything it would show just how he reveres you, claiming you as his own personal magnificence. 

His jaw tenses, still attached securely on your neck, as he cums. Loud groans and grunts and sighs of relief vibrate against your skin, Zoro’s dick leaking and draining into you as your walls milk him for all that you can manage. 

A few final, slow motions and he slides out of you, gently placing you on the ground and instantly rolling his shirt from his shoulders to hand it to you. “As promised,” Zoro says, a deviously weak grin on his face, moving to wipe his brow after you’ve taken the clothing from his outstretched hand. “Want me to patch ya up when we get back?”

“If you don’t mind, yeah.” You reply as you toss the shirt over yourself gently, minding the wounds that line your body as you do so.” Would rather not be asked any questions I don’t want to answer.” Zoro nods, chuckling softly before helping you clean up, using scraps of your ruined shirt as makeshift bandages and rags before he lifts you into his arms for a third time, though this one with the intention of carrying you safely back to the others - a soft apology for his brutality on your flesh, but one he knows he doesn’t need to say.

[charseraph]

The River Jordan and Sweetpea are electric engines on the first railway on Mars.

River Jordan was the first one built, being the product of a collaboration between the nations who established the colony.

Sweetpea was donated by a coronal aerospace guild and assembled onsite. Her parts were imported and her blueprints were crownmade, so her visage is coronal.

Visage and the nature of living transport

Engines take the image of their creators. Their faces are not organic, and are more like a vessel for helpful senses and communication tools.

They come alive soon after they are built, once out of eyeshot for any moment. Attempts to stare at a new engine to see it stir are foiled somehow (blinks, saccades, CCTV malfunction, momentary lapse in attention). Not all engines come alive, as their animacy is often (but not always) decided by the intent of the builder.

Living engines can assess their circumstances and make judgements based on them. They are useful in volatile situations as an expert second opinion on conduct and design, and are capable of sensing external and internal problems quickly.

In calmer periods, they may not get adequate stimulation, and their personalities may interfere with their efficiency. For this reason, railways have their preferences when they build and purchase engines.

The facial material ends at the surface of the machine and is inscrutable in composition—the material appears to be made of itself, and is unusable for any other purpose besides as an engine’s interface with the world. If damaged, the material heals. If removed, it disappears. The conceptual self-referentiality of engines’ faces, souls, and senses deter scrutiny.

Living machines exist as a fact of the universe. Their animacy is cloaked in an analysis-averting antimeme.

Human Engines

Engines designed and built by humans possess dual-pinhole pupils that dilate into an elliptical shape, granting them a broad field of view and tolerance of rapid changes in light levels (such as in going in and out of tunnels). Deep set zygomata allow them to look directly to their sides, and with the dual-pinhole setup, they maintain some depth perception in monocular sight. Their pupil shapes are hidden by their black irises, which absorb glare. They can see clearly to their front and sides, but can’t see up or down very well. A tapetum lucidum retroreflects incoming light back through their retinas, granting them vision in darkness. The nictitating membranes and long eyelashes protect the eyes from dust.

The chemicals engines are capable of detecting are relevant to their purpose, e.g. distinguishing coal, gasoline, diesel, and wood fires from their smoke but not being able to distinguish or detect food smells. Similar to how cats, obligate carnivores, have lost their ability to taste sugar due to its absence in their diet, but can taste ATP for its presence in meat—engines can parse environmental and industrial scents, but will have wildly varied responses to food and fragrant compounds, often being unable to notice them.

To investigate an aroma, they slightly lower their bottom lip to take air into their vomeronasal organ located behind the upper incisors.

Engines do not require oxygen, but if debris enters the nasal passage, human engines will sneeze to:

Ensure their voice resonates properly,

Keep their olfactory facilities clean, and

Indicate to engineers that particle buildup may have occurred in other places, such as the boiler tubes for steam engines.

Crown Engines

Just as the tongue is the only colored object on a human engine’s face for distinguishability, so are the teeth on coronal engines. The positions of the upper and lower jaw indicate tone, functioning in communication similarly to eyebrows.

Coronal engine eyes consist of an armored cornea surrounded by a cuticle and muscular eyelid. The cornea moves with the help of the embedded eyestalk supporting it. The cuticle is lubricated with an oil-based film and is less susceptible to irritation than the aqueous solution on human engine eyes. The undersides of the eyelids and surface of the cornea are covered in setae, preventing chafing and reducing airflow on the cornea. The hairs catch debris and are combed out by the lids with a puckering motion.

To make up for unenhanced vision by human engine standards, coronal engine hearing is advanced, allowing the listener to pinpoint sound sources through triangulation of the four inner ears. Coronal engines, too, channel sound through their incisors and into their internal ears via the acoustic windows at the hinge of each jaw.

Coronal engines achieve their sense of industrial smell through the gustatory papillae that line their choana and pharynx. They supplement their olfaction by introducing cool air behind the heat pits inside their nares.

Coronal engines’ thermoception is more efficient than living crowns, as coronal engines’ faces do not produce heat nearly proportional to their mass.

Conversely, the tines heat up significantly hotter than the crown average for unambiguity in temperature tones. The origin of the tine thermal energy appears to be redirected from excess produced by the machinery, or from the face’s temperature directly.

Extramodal senses

Engines are capable of listening from within their cabs with greater acuity than mere conduction of sound through the body would suggest. Other unsubstantiated sensory abilities include:

Discernment of water/fuel quality within the framework of taste though intake alone

Somatosensory awareness in the entire body, not just the face

[semischarmed]

Exterior

You lick your lips and let out a soft breath.

“Goddamn, what a looker,” you mouth silently.  

A thick crown of chestnut hair frames a strong face with angelic features. Brown eyes glint with a hint of olive in the sunlight.

You’ve seen him before, you think- at the airport after break. Probably an athlete for the university.

Sure, he was hot at the airport, but everybody always is. Seeing him out here though, out in the real world? Really fucking hot.

You struggle to remain inconspicuous as your eyes greedily stay on subject. As if sensing your stare, his brow furrows as he looks in your general direction. You dodge glances last minute, cursing your lack of self control.

Anyone looking at you could probably see the longing in your glance, the hunger, the desperation to stay fixated at his visage. Anyone looking would see lust clouding your mind, the hint of a dangerous smiling painting your face, hiding the untold horrors in planning. But, you were never one to be seen, to be perceived. Always a background character in someone else’s story. He would be correcting that.  

When the coast was clear, your eyes rush back to feast on his image. He sits with some friends, adam’s apple gently bobbing up and down as he chatted, hair waving in the breeze like hands beckoning you inside. Everyone in the group seems relatively loose and relaxed, aside from him. One makes a joke, causing the rest to laugh. He gives a grimace, mimicking a smile. Though likely off-putting to some, that hardy exterior only manages to drive your lust deeper.

Another pats him on the back, and your heart stirs. Somewhat deceptive given his limber form, you only note how dull the smack sounds. It’s a confirmation to you. A confirmation that this man is dense and packed to the brim with muscle. Your mouth watered at the sight of that musculature tensing before relaxing. A brief glimpse in the raw power brimming inside that cute bundle of flesh.

“Peter, c’mon… lighten up bro,” they say. Peter. Aha, so that was his name. You repeat the name softly under your breath. “Peter…Petey…Pete”. It has a nice ring to it. In your mind, you relay the events with his friends instead directly calling *you* Peter. Your mouth pulls into a smile as your dick stirs. You rub it lightly, feeling a little pre leak at the thought “Mmmhmm. Peter. Call me Petey. Has a nice ring to it”

After several more minutes of jokes between friends, you finally catch one to break his facade. There it was. A genuine smile. A beautiful smile. A delicious smile.

You had to have it.

- - -

You sneak into the locker that Saturday. As you do, you slowly close each door, locking it. Ensuring none could block the consummation your life and Peter’s.

Like a snake in the grass, you slowly make your way to the lonesome Peter, sitting on a bench and panting after a game. A slight scent of flowers drifts through the air. As you move closer, the scent of his laundry fades and makes way to the damp, drying sweat soaking his shirt. Must have been a tough match.

His musk feels divine. If you could, you would have stopped time to just lay there, drunk in the scent that was Peter post-match. But you would have all the time in the world to bless yourself in that sun-drenched Peter flavor you craved. Plus, you knew you had to be quick. A body- especially an athlete’s body like this would be  incredibly resilient. You need to do this now, while he was sore and immeasurably tired.

He takes a swig while you approach. Putting down the bottle, he pants and looks up at you through sweat-stained vision.

“Uhhh.. can I help you dude?” He asks.

“I just wanted to say, I’m a huge fan”.

“Thanks bro,” He says.

“Just looking at the way you fly through the court. Amazing.” A bold-faced lie, having skipped his match to prep this empty locker room.

“Thanks,” he states plainly.

“And the way those hot, hot muscles propel you forward…”

You motion to hug him. He tries to pull away but you’re quick to embrace him. He feels a prick in his shoulder as you dose him.

You feel his post-game sweat drip off his skin and over yours, and lust overrides reason. You can’t help but squeeze tighter and tighter.

“The way that perky ass jiggles when you walk... I bet you’re packing too, aren’t you?”

His face, initially cringing in awkward tension, now shifts to disgust as he tries to push you away. Blind in pleasure, you inch even closer and wrap your legs around that ass, as he feels your dick sandwiched between your two torsos harden.

“And that face… goddamn what a face. I bet it’d be amazing to wear it. To look at your friends through it and hear them call me your name.” In frenzy, you begin grinding your stiffened dick into the heat of the closeness of your two bodies pressed together. “…to hear your own mother call me Peter. FUCK! I can’t wait to be Peter!” You whimper as you felt cum shoot out, staining your shorts and his. As a bit of your cum lands his flesh, he is finally able to shake off the initial shock.

“Sick fucking FREAK!” He spits at your face as he pushes hard, leaving you several feet away. It draws blood and immediate pain, but you could only feel the hunger to have that might as your own to wield.

You corral the spit onto your tongue, sucking and savoring the taste of your future mouth.

“Man… fuck… so that’s what kissing us would taste like” you tease. You could practically taste the vitality brimming from his body.

He looks as if he’s about to gag, and begins to gesture moving away. He panics when he feels his movements slow.

“Honestly, with that tight fucking bod, I’m not sure how long before you break free of this.”

You begin to prep, stripping both your bodies naked. His head attempts to shake in defiance when he sees you pull two syringes from your pocket. You wink before jamming one into your arm and one into his.

The effects are instant, you feel your senses dull. You also feel your own body begin to soften as you move towards the naked Peter. After a few moments, your senses start pick up and explode and blend together. Every heartbeat, blood vessel, and neuron. You feel intimate control over every piece. It was overwhelming at first, truly feeling every bit of yourself. Looking at Peter, you knew you didn’t want to wait any longer to feel every bit of his.

You line your cocks together, pointing at each other. You then knead your dick slowly. Slit touches slit before inside begin to touch inside. Resistance bubbles in him as you see his arms clench and unclench, and his face wince at the foreign intrusion.

You sigh for a moment, admiring your handiwork. Peter’s dick appeared to be swallowing yours. That was partially true. You knew what you had actually done. Inside Peter’s dick lay your own, turned inside out so that both your insides faced each other.

He tries to scream, but can’t muster a sound beyond a low moan as you continue to knead and push and overlay more of your insides into his, your body turning inside out in the safety of his body. He sees your malleable form appear to deflate as more of your innards took flow in his.

“…aaaaAAAAAA. FUCKK.. FUUUUCK” He screamed. He starts to wiggle out the confines of his paralysis.

You know time is limited. In a rush, you use your nerves to commandeer his, swallowing all control of his dick as your own.

He screams and kicks in horror as he watches his own cock swallow inch upon inch of you like a worm. It happens in moments, and the force of the intrusion rocks his hips back, as his body makes room for you. His belly distends from all the added mass, causing him to lose balance and collapse.

“Oh god, oh god” he whimpers, as he gently feels his new belly, afraid of what was now inside him, what he could now no longer reach.

In the safety of your future body, you slow down, feeling yourself dissolve into a mass of parts.

Peter feels it in his legs first. Like millions of threads beneath his flesh, burrowing into his sinew. You don’t leave a crevice in the man untouched. In every part of his powerful legs, you weave and intertwine your fibers into his. He thrashes them in a tantrum, but the movement only causes him further displeasure, as he feels his own taught skin and muscle squeeze into wriggling masses. Into fusion.

You make quick work of his arms as well, greedily swallowing and interlacing whole pieces of Peter’s dense muscle fibers into yours. He screams as he feels his muscles in his biceps tear and repair themselves, fortified and irreversibly bonded to your fibers. With the half control you now had over his arms, you run them along his body and defile himself, dancing his fingers across and feeling every inch of your future self.

You make a quick stop at his heart, embracing it with your flesh to feel its power. There was a warmth in knowing this would soon be yours. He really was an athlete. You could feel the sheer energy in every pump.

After admiring your future core for a few moments, you decide to hijack it for yourself, pumping Peter’s heart full of your threads. Like a virus, you flood into his bloodstream, carried by the very organ that gives Peter his power. He’s unable to do anything aside from watch, as every vein and artery of his being pulse and writhe with you inside them. It takes a just a few pumps of the athlete’s heart to leave every juncture of his flesh connected to you. At last, you feel yourself in his own blood, coursing through him. If you had lips, you would lick them in anticipation at the last bastion of the old Peter- his head.

He squirms and smashes his head into the floor repeatedly, as he feels your fleshy mass slowly traveling up his vascular neck.

“I’m me! I’m me!” He repeats as he feels your brain touch his.

He grips his head in pain at first contact. Inside, your brain folds begin to slip into his, coalescing. The process is acutely violating for him, as he feels your thoughts inside of his own mind. Like a thousand needles, you inject every piece of your mind into his.

He pulls at his hair while trying to shake you off when he feels your sick perversions course inside him, then begins to get lightheaded as they start to come from him. He retches as he feels the thrill of possession, of violating his own flesh come from his own mind. Still, you made sure to keep the original Peter strung up and intact inside your shared mind. Something about keeping every bit of him tethered to you only riled you up further.

Breaths ragged, and screaming turned feral, he shouts one last war cry, as the last individuated pieces of yourself and his join and merge into one.

- - -

Your eyes blink open, woken by afternoon sun peering from the skylight.

You stand up groggy in the locker room as you try to piece the day’s events.

As you do, some stray hairs fall in front, and you see their gentle curl glow caramel in the filtered sunlight. “oh my god… oh my god,” you moan.

Upon hearing your velvety new baritone, your moan upgrades into a soft scream. You look down, seeing your new, long legs pushing you towering over your previous height, and the sun-tanned Peter-flesh and hairs now encapsulating them. ‘Fucking Stud’, you bite his lip.

Even standing, you could feel them brimming with power. You swing his arms back and forth, relishing in the control and precision they now had. Virile. Absolute god bod. You glance at the rest of your new, permanent meatsuit- Dick, already rock-hard and pulsating, abs, defined and glistening in the afternoon glow.

You slap your new cheeks, feeling them flush and jiggle with youth. Your Peter face pulls into a smile, wider and wider.

“I’m me, I’m me” you mock. “Welcome home, me”. You make him say to you.

His resilience, his power, his fucking body… yours.  

“FUCK! Oh God! Yes! Ugh… Fucking Mine. You’re all mine!” You scream. The pleasure is overstimulating, and you fall in a pool of your new body’s sweat.

His body. Yours. All muscle underneath. All at your whim. Molded, corrupted and rewired to betray its original owner and keep you forever locked safe inside.

His brain, his thoughts- last remnants of resistance that you keep as a souvenir. His own agency now tied to you. Through his brain, you feel Peter try to reign control, and in amusement you feel these thoughts pass through you.

Outside, his body spasms as he slowly regains sovereignty. He struggles to get up, body aching from the violation his insides endured. As he gets back up, he walks to the locker room mirror with worry in his eyes, trying catch anything out of the ordinary. He checks his face first, turning his neck from side to side. Slight relief paints Peter’s face.

He lifts his arms next, checking if they still listened to him. He begins to think he overshot the movement as his arms continue moving. Instead, horror begins to dawn on his face as his own hands run through his hair before landing on the back of his head. He trembles as he again wrestles for control. In concentration, drool escapes his lips and sweat dots his furrowed brow as his arms continue to shake but steadily move into a new position. Your position. They lock into a flex.

Slowly, Peter’s eyes blink close and face crinkles before wordlessly screaming into uncharacteristic pleasure. Then, those beautiful brown eyes with a hint of olive stare back, those beautiful lips smile back as you breath Peter’s air into the mirror, fogging it up for a moment before revealing his face swimming in perverse pleasure.

“…I-you-we feel fucking amazing. You think I’m ever leaving this fine, fine piece of ass? Bro? Bro… get real. I am never fucking leaving.”

Peter’s hands cup his own plump ass, squeezing tight. His vocal cords relay your moan, stifled by the slight pain.

With that, you reign back control of every cell and strand of sinew of your new flesh. You tune back into the folds of your brain inside of his, into his very thoughts and let his unburdened rage wash over you. Rage turns to revulsion as he promptly feels his own dick betray him and begin to throb. You love the feeling of his inner turmoil, his endless perseverance. Interspersed was the euphoria you felt in controlling his body, in wearing it as your own.

You also love it because these were his heightened emotions, raw and intoxicating, now turned internally, redirected. You fuel those very same emotions to his insides, causing them to tighten and squeeze the parts of you bonded to an eternal internal embrace even tighter.

A flex of the now-drenched hand and a slight scowl of triumph paints Peter’s face. He’s yours.

Everything he ever was, is and will be. Yours at last.

- - -

A few days later, a dormmate comes to your room. Apparently, the entire dorm had some form of event in a nearby beach.

You turn around and begin to remove your shirt before his eyes. As you do, you feel Pete’s struggle manifest as a muscle spasm. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF ME, I’M NOT EVEN GAY” He shouts and screams in defiance. You moan internally. In truth, you could tell his dick didn’t budge for men. Doesn’t matter. You pant softly as it hardens anyway, forced against its very nature into your own whims. This was your fuckstick, your cum to do with as you pleased. It felt fucking good to have him inside there with you fighting. Like a constant reminder that he was yours. You never wanted to take this divine body for granted.

“W-Why me?” He whimpers internally.

“Honestly bro? Something about you just felt right, your-our face. And that body? As soon as I saw it. I knew we were meant to be one.”

He’s silent after that.

Outside, all one would see is a single tear, escaping your new set of eyes, and you take a moment to relish his angst. As if to taunt him, you lick the tear, closing your eyes and smiling seductively. Internally, you grab Peter’s sense of self, snuggling into his personality as you feel your face externally begin to adopt his serious demeanor. These moments were always the best. When you were truly enveloped by Peter in all levels. Like when you called your new mother and father for the first time, and heard them call you their son. It was an actualization of your new identity. And it always made your stolen dick throb.

“So, uhhh, anyway… I’m Nate” The dormmate stammers as he stares at your defined musculature. The blushing Nate was quite a looker himself. You look back with disinterest and a cockiness previously uncharacteristic of Peter. Nate’s face looks disheartened.

Using your athlete strength, you rush him to the ground, grinding Peter’s sweaty bod into his and forcing your spit-lubed tongue into his gasp of surprise.

With your expert control over every piece of your new body, you snake Peter’s tongue over Nate’s, constricting it like a python. Likewise, You snake your new powerful arms and legs over his, locking him into your grinding hips. You tear away from the kiss savagely with a pop, and breath right over his face. “My body’s fucking hot isn’t it?”.

“F-fuckkkk” Nate huffed as his eyelids fluttered. You spot a growing stain on his board shorts and laugh callously in a way that just felt natural in body like Peter’s. “Bro, we gotta work on your fucking stamina”.

“Oh yeah… call me Petey,” you giggle, before pulling your lips into a wide-brimming smile.

-End-

Aaand that’s a wrap. What’d you think?

If you liked this story, surrender your body to me- work just keeps getting busier and busier, I swear I need another body or two to keep up with all of it haha.

[ofdeedsglorious]

Emrys, Gareth, Gawain, and Bors-

made here

[ofglories]

thank you prototype materials book aaaaaaaaaaaa

[bittersweetresilience]

author's commentary part one

now that we've reached the end of the fic, i will finally explain the beginning.

i named this piece after 大鱼, a song whose title means big fish. in the fic, jing yuan references void songs twice, which i imagine are the sounds that void song whales make. if you remember, yukong talks about these whales in her visitor dialogue. they swim freely through the stellar seas while their sibling species on the luofu has disappeared into history.

whale songs. dream fish. the call of the void. the language of longing. to me, renjing.

author's imagery only the most important bits

the sky is freedom and departure, and it is jing yuan, eventually. the sea is the dissolution of the self and the thing that will swallow him, and it is yingxing. the lightning is the portent of death, but also the electricity of being in love. the wine is the representation of shared wishes and togetherness and history. the starskiffs are the memorials of the past and the vessels into the empyrean. the fire is desire and destruction. the ink is the color of blade's hair and the sincerity of the letters jing yuan writes. the bandages and the iron are blade and the violence of his existence. the paper birds are the fragility of jing yuan's memories, which cannot be buried. the nightclothes are the vulnerability he will shed in the morning. the string is the red string of fate between renjing, but also the strings that tether jing yuan to the luofu and to his ending. the womb and the egg are the places of rebirth and the representation of returning to the beginning. the sun is the stellaron, and it is jing yuan before the sky and the sea consume him, and it is the end of the dream.

author's commentary part two

below is my translation of the song.

大鱼 big fish

海浪无声将夜幕深深淹没 the waves soundlessly submerge the night 漫过天空尽头的角落 rising over the corners of the edge of the sky 大鱼在梦境的缝隙里游过 the big fish swims in the rifts between dreams 凝望你沉睡的轮廓 watching your sleeping visage

看海天一色 听风起雨落 seeing the sky and the sea in one color, hearing the winds stir and the rain fall 执子手 吹散苍茫茫烟波 holding my son's hand, i blow away the hazy ripples of smoke 大鱼的翅膀 已经太辽阔 the wings of the big fish are already too vast 我松开 时间的绳索 i let go of the thread of time

怕你飞远去 怕你离我而去 afraid you'll fly far away, afraid you'll leave me 更怕你 永远停留在这里 even more afraid you'll stop here forever 每一滴泪水 都向你流淌去 every tear flows toward you 倒流进 天空的海底 flowing backward into the ocean floor of the sky

(...)

看你飞远去 看你离我而去 seeing you fly far away, seeing you leave me 原来你生来就属于天际 so you were born to belong to the sky all along 每一滴泪水 都向你流淌去 every tear flows toward you 倒流回最初的相遇 flowing backward into our first meeting

without this song, this fic wouldn't exist. every part of the two was intimately interwoven. in particular, the line about the thread of time was what made me certain it would be a nonlinear narrative and the mixing of the sky and the sea was the image that created the entire story.

i further drew from the lyrics the most important imagery, the idea of ending on the beginning, and the son's hand as not only yanqing but everyone jing yuan leans on today in order to support himself against the weight of history. i drew the themes of dreams and reality, the dialogue on leaving, and the breathless, surreal atmosphere of melancholy and yearning. but in addition to all of that there is a double meaning in this song to me.

the first time you hear it, you think it's about jing yuan. and it is, of course. everything is about him. he is the holder, the sleeper, the one submerging. but by the last verse, you realize it is also blade, talking to him as he walks into scalegorge waterscape. trying and failing to call him back from within the endless dream.

both of them were born to belong to the sky. only one of them truly died in it.

author's dictionary

rèn, 刃, word for 'Blade' (lit. 'blade's edge') jiāngjūn, 将军, word for 'general' gānbēi, 干杯, word for 'cheers' (lit. 'dry cups') mèngdié, 梦蝶, word for the shortness of life (lit. 'butterfly dream') (this was not said explicitly but alluded to in the first dream) shīfù, 师父, word for 'martial master' bàitáng, 拜堂, word for the act of bowing to the heavens and the earth, the parents, and then each other in marriage (this is what the high-cloud quintet was joking about) yǐnyuè-jūn, 饮月君, word for 'Imbibitor Lunae' (lit. 'moon-drinker') nàihé qiáo, 奈何桥, word for the Bridge of Oblivion where souls drink Meng Po soup to forget the memories of their past life in preparation for reincarnation húlu, 葫芦, word for 'gourd' (this is what bailu uses to dispense medicine) qīng, 卿, word for 'senior official' (this is the honorific jing yuan uses for fu xuan in light of her position as master diviner) xiàngqí, 象棋, word for 'Chinese chess' (this is what starchess is based on, where my vision designates aurumatons as cannons, starskiffs as elephants, and cloud knights as pawns) gē, 哥, word for 'older brother' (this is a casual term of address for older men) shíhuǒ mèngshēn, 石火梦身, word for 'Starfall Reverie' (lit. 'sparks in stone, body in dream')

author's references

all of the xianzhou trailblaze missions. all of the relevant characters' character stories and companion missions. character dialogues. visitor dialogues. battle dialogues. battle mechanics. lightcones. relics. readables. item descriptions. character designs. character messages. the new trailblaze continuance. area maps. chinese voiceovers and their english translations. character trailers. combat guides. animated shorts. possibly more things i'm forgetting to mention. my wealth of insanity.

author's appreciation

wiki editors who came before me. people who upload youtube videos of different dubs of each trailblaze mission. spouses and ssswips. my beloved commenters. the composer of 大鱼. renjing.

[vespaer77]

The Memory of Her Scent

Inspired by this post

A drop of ink fell from the tip of his quill. It landed on the parchment below, leaving a blot separate from the whole. A form without intention.

Solas cursed a sharp, old word under his breath.

How long had his mind gone wandering? Aimless, like the lost foal of a mother halla? What was it that had stilled his hand, leaving it paused, poised with potential?

He studied the symbols he'd been scribing. They now seemed foreign, their meaning nebulous like the images that had skirted his periphery just a moment before. Little figments of his imagination they were, plucked and placed with purpose by the Fade. Little ghosts of memory come to haunt his tired eyes.

He replaced the quill to his inkwell and sat back in his chair, gently massaging his temples and the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he was working too hard. Perhaps he feared the noise in his mind that screamed at him when he didn't. If he was asleep, he could indulge his meandering thoughts, as dreamtime was a time for contemplation and self-reflection. Introspection. Processing and gathering facts, investigation. Understanding and compartmentalization.

But the waking world was for focus. For drawing conclusions, and watching possibilities coalesce into clarity. Yet it was clarity that proved so elusive, like the fickle scent of a hare on a rainy day.

He peered down the length of the corridor before him, his eyes straining in the grey, joyless, dismal dim, lit only by veilfire - the memory of fire. And probably not a very good one. It was a pale imitation, like everything else in the Lighthouse. It performed a utility, and no other characteristic beyond that.

It gave no care for what he wanted. It was simply what it needed to be.

Yet even now, as his gaze poured endlessly through the wan light flickering down the long line of plaster frescos and the shadows that lie between them…

He could smell her.

Read the rest here on AO3 or

And not the smell she carried when she was sweating beneath the pounding sun, stumbling through the shifting sands west of Val Royeaux. Neither was it the smell of her when she was combing the char of dragon fire out of her hair, after a bath with sweet herbs and lye soap. It wasn't even the smell of her as she stalked the Emerald Graves, all moss and loamy earth, when the visage of the Inquisitor peeled away from her like old paint to reveal what lie beneath, the graceful and cunning Dalish hunter who slipped silently between trees and stepped lightly over stones. Though that one was close.

It was instead the smell of her when her armor was hung and her staff was stowed, her business concluded and the Anchor forgotten, and all that was left to her was herself. Her truest self. The self that he knew best.

The self that knew him best.

And if he let his eyes unfocus, let the Fade around him win and let his edges blur and soften, he could almost see it.

The red flutter of a leaf as it tumbled in lazy somersaults, falling slowly to the ground.

The soft swirl of steam rising from the teapot he'd brought to share, which wasn't full of tea.

The light rustle of pages, the book in his hands teased by a playful mountain breeze.

And her just there in her garden, in her castle, humming an ancient lullaby that he was too old to know. She'd cast a spell over him with it, a bubble of quiet, banishing the murmurs of other voices off into nothingness somewhere far, far away.

His eyes swam as he relived the memory, and he watched it play all around him, a perfect pantomime of the past. It was the only time in his life that he could recall having ever truly known a moment of peace, though there was likely much of his existence he could no longer remember. It filled him with an ache so big it left no room for breath. Yet even as the air left him, sucking him dry as the vacuous void in his heart, he could smell her.

Because she smelled like him. Like them. When they were together.

A blend of ingredients, harkening from a precious pinpoint in time, each one carrying its individual note of significance. A thread in a tapestry, a tile in a mosaic.

There was the sugary scent of qunari spiced chocolate, still bubbling in its little teapot. It was a recipe he enjoyed, so she'd learned it. And she'd taught him. And then there was the musk of the leather binding the storybook he'd brought to read to her while he kept her company. His words had danced with her melody, carried aloft by the intoxicating aroma of rotting leaves, overturned soil, and blooming flowers.

From her garden. Its fragrant bouquet was as heavy as the late afternoon sun, lush with embrium, crystal grace, and dawn lotus. Amrita vein and arbor blessing, and even simple, useful things like spindleweed, felandaris, and elfroot.

And then there was the buttery smell of warm bread when she took off her gloves and sat down beside him, spreading tart wild berry jam across two slices of toast.

And the dewy puff of breath that kissed his cheek when she'd laughed at something he'd said. He couldn't possibly conjure the words now. He likely didn't even know what he'd said then either, as ceaselessly dumbfounded in her presence as he'd often found himself. She'd bewitched him, mind and body, and a part of him remained her thrall even now.

And it pained him. Nearly to the point of capitulation, once. Even then, as he'd sat on that bench beside her, in her garden, in her castle, filling her cup with chocolate and watching the wind tickle her nose with her hair, he'd considered giving it all up. Placing his principles aside.

For a time.

Time enough for her to rally her troops and march against her enemy. Time enough for her to restore hope and peace to a broken world. Time enough for her to shape the legend that elven clans would tell of her to their children, one thousand years from now. And time enough for them to celebrate their success, and savor the serenity of a life well-earned. Together. In love, in their harmony. In their quiet home nestled within a quiet garden, that smelled of flowers and the wind in the trees, and of leather-bound tomes and freshly baked bread and qunari spiced chocolate.

And then, time enough to watch the first sheen of silver streak through her long, dark hair. To watch the first lines of laughter linger too long at the corners of her mouth.

Until one day she would wonder why she grew old and he…

And he was always old to begin with.

How long could he live the lie?

And it wasn't that he was never truly the man she knew. Quite the opposite. She'd freed from within him a man he'd done his best to lock away. And his love for her was a truth so fierce and so monstrous it threatened to devour the rest of him entirely. The lie was the preposterous notion that he could ever have afforded himself the luxury of love at all. That the man she knew could ever, at all, be given the chance to flourish.

For as long as Fen'Harel ignored his duty and strayed from the lonely path he walked, their People would continue to die.

She would continue to die.

And then one day… she would leave him, anyway. She would sigh her last and close her eyes, drift off and away like a leaf on the sea to make her journey across the Fade, leaving ripples of memory behind her that spirits like him could cling to as if they were somehow more real than veilfire. And then she'd disappear, no longer to wake from dreaming, off into that great mystery that lie on the other side, beyond. Forever. To join the others that had gone before her, all of the others that had left him, long ago.

To go where he could never follow, and leave him behind.

Alone.

No matter what he did, he was always destined to lose her.

So it was best he let her go. He was glad he did it, even. It was cruelty for them both. And he was glad he did it years ago, so that nights like these came fewer to him. Nights when the memory of her scent swelled on the tides of dreams to crash against his shore, in the crossroads between the waking world and the Fade. He was glad for every night he summoned strength from solitude and resisted the urge to prowl the edges of her dreamscape, like a drug that masks a pain. Because what had begun as surrendering to succor had started to shift into something that seemed more like… surveillance. And it stained the context of their shared history. So he was glad he no longer needed this touchstone of her scent, and that he no longer needed to worry over how he'd feel should he watch the warm spice of her dewy breath one day kiss the cheek of someone else.

He watched a teardrop fall onto the parchment, to dilute his little ink blot. It swirled in diaphanous little spirals as grey as the cold and empty hall he called his ho… his living space. His lips twisted into a bitter smile against his will and he laughed a sharp, sad sob. Even after all of these many, long, long years, he was still such a terrible liar. So he crumpled the parchment in his fists, fell back in his chair in defeat, and used a sleeve to dry his eyes.

There was time enough to continue wrenching his plans into fruition tomorrow. There was time enough to let his slow yet inexorable walk of death delay for just one day. He would not risk intruding upon her dreams tonight, though. The time had come and gone for that. Time moved differently for her anyway, he was probably a stranger to her now. At the very least a memory.

He would, however, make a pot of qunari spiced chocolate. Perhaps he'd read a book, to clear his head before turning in for the night. Perhaps he'd try to recall a lullaby, to sing himself to sleep.

And perhaps tonight he would dream about a castle with a garden.

And the kiss of her breath on his cheek.

[wordy-little-witch]

Transfemme Buggy who never realized until a certain disease is transmitted and spread on an island she and her crew visits.

Blackboard and his ilk had been there before, and Buggy had just so happened to show up within a week of the other leaving. Damages were minimal overall but the marks of their presence was there, everywhere, in the pale faces, the new graves, the sickness and fear.

It was a typical stop, supplies and information gathered in equal measure. Tasks delegated, Buggy is among a group chatting up the locals, and that layer of ignorance self consciousness is there, as it always is, when eyes catch on the captain's visage, but way that Buggy is being watched changes between one minute and the next. Someone comes into the shop, a young woman at a glance, who sneezes. Buggy doesn't think much on it, a charming smile and offered handkerchief the only response. The gazes go from wary, warming up to them, to suddenly wild and fearful and there's a shout and-

Buggy chokes on air, feeling the moment something latches in his lungs. His Devil Fruit is useful in ways few can fathom, in ways he cannot explain, but the introduction of something Foreign and Unapproved is a feeling the jester knows well, one which is often a mere reflex to Chop off of his cells, but this one adheres, latches, and Buggy can feel it seep and spread and-

Between one moment and the next, Buggy blinks past the sudden vertigo, genome shuffled and reverted and inverted until the swimming in his vision pauses, Cabaji's wide, panicked face swirling into focus. The blue haired pirate squints, confused tilts a dizzy head, and then freezes at the ambient wave over sensitive Haki, terror and guilt and panic which chokes and screams and wails.

Buggy moves to stand and freezes.

He looks down.

That is... definitely new.

A gloved hand touches his chest, the breasts straining under the striped top. "Huh," the clown captain says after a moment. "I did not have 'Sudden Sex Change' on my 1565 bingo card."

There's laughter, and Buggy preens a little as the negative emotions begin bleeding off, replaced by cautious amusement. Once tempers have calmed enough, there's a moment of questioning, where clarity is sought and then relatively received.

It's a change, certainly, and one which is yet another echo of Teach's group having been on that island. Buggy isn't upset - it isn't their fault after all, the town is just as hit by this as he is - but he is.... contemplative about it.

The crew is overall relatively calm about it. Gender equality is something Buggy does enforces heavily on the crew, assigned sex at birth or otherwise. Barring a few others, some more well renowned than most, the Buggy Pirates are the most progressive and open minded of pirates.

So after a quick explanation, things are back to business as usual - and Buggy is happy about it, obviously, the respect is there and it's perfect, the normalcy is fine.

It's the way he feels that throws a wrench in it all.

It takes a while to realize, because it's There, but it's just beneath the surface.

It starts when Buggy puts on a little weight.

All in all, that's not a big deal - but to Buggy who has a long standing problem with food and eating, it's notable. It's not uncomfortable. It's not like there's an Issue with eating or bodily image issues, it's the lack of time, of desire, of enjoyment in it. Buggy had always been on the slimmer side, never packing on muscle the way of the men and women in his life early on. Buggy was built slim and willowy, no less strong but less visibly jacked. It suited him just fine, that method of muscle, suited to aerials, to agility and speed. It fit and Buggy was adaptable.

Only now, Buggy isn't as preoccupied. There's less of a desperate, cloying need to fill his every waking moment with tasks and duties and activities. It's subtle. It's the slightest of shifts. It starts when he gains a little weight.

Then it becomes casual comments from the crew. "You look so healthy," some say warmly. "You look happy." And Buggy is. Buggy IS happy. And Buggy feels healthy. And it's strange, so strange, and it's wonderful and confusing and amazing, and it all comes to a head as things do with Buggy by sheer happenstance.

They dock at an island. Buggy and Alvida are restocking on makeup. A clerk calls them "ladies". Buggy waves it off, both the butterflies and the referral, and then that same clerk responds to a question the captain asked with a warm "yes, ma'am, absolutely"

And Buggy is having a realization in a small cosmetic shop on a tiny no-name island in the New World.

As they leave, she catches Alvida's sleeve and he - she - asks a question. "Could I... be a woman?"

And Alvida, sweet Alvida, blunt and brutally honest Alvida, snorts. "Fuck if I know. If you want to, sure, but your body doesn't determine that. If you're a woman," she pokes her friend in the chest, above the clown's heart, "then this is all that needs to be a woman. Is it?"

And Buggy breathes shakily. "I... yes. Yes? Yeah. I. I think so."

"Then you're a woman. Now come on, sister, we still need to find a foundation for me."

Buggy comes out to the crew casually though not without nerves. They get back and she just drops it with all the finesse of a bull in a China shop. "Surprise, it's a girl! And by it, I mean me."

The only response for a moment is silence, then someone asks about pronouns. And Buggy is bathed in the cacophony of her crew screeching their happiness for her, thanking her for trusting them, singing her praises, and she's a puddle, truly, she is melting into a pirate puddle.

Accepting it makes things fall into place a little easier. She's comfortable in this body in a way she never was before. The center of gravity fell in a more natural way to her senses, lower and steadier. She isn't any less strong, and she's not at all interested in the stick-thin-sensational body type, though more power to people who rock it. She is herself, and she never expected to be all that different. She's still got the musculature of an aerialist, the corded muscle of a knife fighter, no amount of hormone changes will take away that. She distributes the weight differently like this, filling her clothes in a way that looks and feels better to her. It's like she was assembling a puzzle in her heart, blindfolded, and she never knew a piece was missing until it fell into her hand, knocking the rest into place like a domino effect. Unexpected but undeniable, she was happy.

She felt beautiful in a way that she never had before, she felt more confident, more at home, more at ease in this skin of hers now that it finally was molded into a better form.

And with that contentment came freedom that she hadn't had the time for in what felt like eternity.

Freedom to experiment, to train, to explore. She felt better, so she could be better, could do better, and so she became better.

And the Seas quaked as a result.

[madness-combat-confessions]

Homeboy let me tell you on this one, I didn't know there's a madcom specific confession blog out here its quite surprising which. oh brother (gender neutral). you would loooovvveee this particular gossip that had been navigating its way to the dark tunnels of my mind back and forth like a wandering ghost about to get fucking tazed by someone who's reeling in power trip in the distant northern region of britain because buddy, do you know that feeling of self discovery plundered about with self resignation? I've been WAITING to confess this my whole life, I'm like a sinner in one of those confession box and you in your awesome fit is listening to a year long obsession crumpled into few paragraphs with no way of knowing who I am or where to exorcise me. ehhehehehe. AHAHAHAHHAHA.

I FUCKING HATE PHOBOS. IHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIMIHATEHIM—

OBSESSION SO FIXED IT IS A BLESSING IN FORM OF FAILED LOBOTOMY. HE'S BEEN ON MY LIFESPAN UNBEARABLY WELCOMING LIKE THE GRIP OF AN BOXER,

I HATE. HIM.

HIS EXISTENCE IS NOTHING SHORT BUT AN MIRACLE TO MY BLEAK EXISTENCE, OF WHOM HAD FILLED MY TORMENTED COMPLEX WITH A LITTLE BIT OF JOY THAT IT. HURT. IT'S A SENSATION OF RETURNED LOSS WHENEVER HE MADE HIMSELF AT HOME WITHIN MY TORMENT NEXUS AND IT SPEAKS OF AN UNSPOKEN RESIGNATION TO A DEATHLY WORSHIP, A FIXATION SO BOUND SO BLINDING ITS LIFE RUINING YET SO FUCKING REWARDING. MY MUTUALS, MY DEAREST BELOVED MUTUALS WHO HAD KNOWN ME FROM MY MADCOM PHASE (if y'all see this and recognize me somehow, hey man), SEES ME AS— you know what they see? THEY SEES ME AS T.H.E PHOBOS ENJOYER. THEY CAN S E E ME SCRAPING HELL TO BACK FOR A REMINDER OF HIS IMAGE ON THEIR WINDOWS AS IF I WAS THEIR NEIGHBOR GOING MAD AND DIGGING A HOLE OVER IT BECAUSE I HATE HIM SO MUCH

HOWEVER... I LOVE HIM AS A CHARACTER TOO BECAUSE OF HOW MUCH HE HAD OFFERED ME TO GROW AS A PERSON AND THAT UTTERLY WRECKED ME.

THIS VISAGE OF A BARREN EMPIRE, HE HAS BROUGHT ME TO TEARS AS MUCH AS HE HAD MADE ME BARKED. HE HELPED ME UNLIKE ANY OTHER IN MY FUCKING LIFE AND ISN'T THAT JUST DISSAPOINTING YET BEAUTIFUL? ITS HIM. HIM THAT MADE ME REALIZE MY HUMANITY.

He's a reminder of what I could've be if I don't step up to care for my mental health, and as hot as the idea of me being a CEO there's no fucking way I'll fucking bootlick the horrors beyond my comprehension especially when I have the corporate power not to. I wanna fight those thangs, I want a war not power. Its because of this very reason that he's my existential horror that I don't mind worshiping. A welcoming hand to my new world as a human being instead of a piece of nothing, and I don't know if I should be thankful or be angry that it was him instead of tha hottie sweetie Sanford. But. Its undeniable of what he had done to me. There's a piece of me in that wretched soul, I can't help but to care but for the HATE I have for him this care has been translated in the same manner of how people treated Spamton G Spamton. Violence all the way, a beautiful blend of loving violence. I'll worship him from hell to back if it meant that I could beat the ever loving FUCK outta this mf, I want his blood in my kidneys and for it break down the animalistic copper from my taste buds into nutrients so that my arteries can intimately understand how much I have come to HATE him since he decided to break into my psyche all those years ago. He made me understand myself, I find that beautiful.

Its been one year since the obsession wore off you know? I don't gone mad no more baby, the sin of gluttony and wrath no longer traced the ceiling of my mind because all is there is ORDER. A calm acknowledgement of what he had done to me as a person. But no laws can tame the most shitheads of them all, you won't hear me saying this if it had won the internal war back here in my frontal cortex.

I love him, your honor. And because of that I desire so greatly for the act of violence both to him and in his name as a honor to myself, whole and bare, which eventually circles back to him again.

The complexity of my opinion on him were a beautiful tapestry of my own personal growth, a careful blend of colorful care. I no longer feel indifferent towards myself and its all thanks to him. He's my most beloved blorbo, he saved me from a life of neverending agony. I pray every day that I could get a job just so that one day, ONE. DAY. our lord Krinkles turned him into a marketable plushie. Just so that a visage of him can complete the shrine I'm about to build for him as I whisper promises of violence for him and to him.

Yeah... He's my blorbo ♥

I'm gonna start getting therapy appointments for you guys../j