⪩ · · · author's note : indulgent as hell. not proofread. practice fic, i guess? (helpful criticism are appreciated). scent kink and taste kink ／ (lil) oral fixation. i wrote this in class, i feel a little shy doing that. nsfw nsfw nsfw, you have been warned enough.
smth smth abt the permanence of smelling like acrid gun power, cheap cigarettes, aged liquid spirits that had dribbled down ghost's chin to collarbone, the grimiest element of scorched earth on his leather, war – marred complexion — combined with the thickest masks of layered testosterones, unrelenting yields of musk which were long liberated since the second he stepped afoot into warzones; there is only so much power in the threats of his virility that he is yet to violate upon you.
and yet, on the contrary, you have no idea why but such an odor evokes an emotion so motherly yet so submissively towards the soldier ／ it feel likes like suffocation of excess praises · yearning — desire — · worship · fidelity that you think he is worth the merit of. just from the fragrance of war — to others, it is repulsive; it is a horror no civilian couldn't fathom to keep on walking on two sturdy war - marbled legs.
but you? you've wept on his skin, the nakedness of your mouth had tasted the rust of ironclad horror he was made to shoulder — it was unpleasant, it was angry, it was tar ... your tongue has stroked places where death almost marked him for the taking; it cared for him in abundance, the kind of sympathy that is natural baptism — yet it never washes away his sins, his sorrows, his sorrows, his hells . . . | but, in your own way, devours it with the feathery softness, tenderness ghost couldn't bear to seek from another soul; his odor embedded in your memory alongside torrid tang that burns your tongue, turns your throat into a greedy furnace.
you are the kind of greed ghost cannot believe that exist in the form of the babiest motherly girl. insatiable, if not just your drive for procreation running amok in the forefront of your mind.
