i memorised the mitochondrial coded in sparrow bones before i could name my own nervous tremors & the problem is not sorrow but storage — where to house the moments that overheat the cerebellum & melt the tongues of consequence into language i no longer consent to speak out loud there's something parasitic in wanting to be understood & i've carved myself down to a hypothesis of limb-shaking semi truths just to resemble a girl who isn't entirely an aftermath
my skin not my own but a borrowed textile of warnings i didn't listen to — flayed logic cross-stitched into the soft dermis of thought & now the blood vessels act like tendrils of bad memory like he touched me & i said nothing but what matters more is the way i dissected the moment afterward preserved it in airtight jars & swallowed the lids to remember where i buried the silence
my femur contains a barcode of compromise — scan it & the scanner says you should've known better & i did but i didn't have the language to reframe compliance as a refusal & what kind of vertebrate unlearns resistance before speech my throat a shut tunnel echoing with the laughter of men who never meant to kill anything but still did & their apologies (if they existed) taste like copper pennies tossed into the gaps between pelvic bones
do you know the trick of severing yourself mid-thought? it's all about rhythm — let the breath stutter let the lungs misfire let the oxygen riot & maybe then they'll call you delicate instead of deranged maybe then your body becomes an acceptable hypothesis of shame & the shame a shape you can at least fuck yourself into believing is real
& when they ask how it felt — say not pain but temperature: 37.5 celsius and rising like a warning not registered in time & the stench of certainty peeled back from the throat like wet gauze this is the part where i almost say im sorry but the synapses beat me to it they've already recited the confession like liturgy no one survives intact
Summary: When you and your secret lover make plain to Feyd-Rautha your wishes for a life together, despite the proposed arranged marriage, he surprisingly acquiesces. But he can't let you go so easily, can he? Loosely based on the song from Hadestown.
Word Count: 1.6k
TW: manipulation, Dark!Feyd-Rautha, arranged marriage, NONCON elements, gore, violence, she/her pronouns, female!reader, tragedy, star-crossed lovers, songfic, not quite a happy ending (oops), dark dark dark interpretations of Hadestown and the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who read If It's True and liked, reblogged, or commented. I appreciate every single one of you. As always, I would love some feedback, likes, comments, and reblogs if you can :)
This is Part Two to my Feydestown trilogy (I'm so sorry for the pun). You can read Part One here.
AO3
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Dune properties, characters, or storylines-- nor do I own anything related to Hadestown. The images used in this are not my own, and any similarities to stories or events other than what are directly referenced are strictly coincidence.
The devil takes this Orpheus
And his belladonna kiss
“So you wanna get married? Take away the woman I just offered my hand to, to whom I all but have legal claim?”
Your beloved’s replied words of affirmation to his words hold the slightest tremor, but like a dog to fresh meat, Feyd-Rautha sniffs this out immediately. Another smile graces his face. Feyd speaks to the crowd now, “Yes, I was promised the Lady’s hand in marriage. But! I am a benevolent figure, so I guess I’ll let the lovebirds go.”
The crowd starts to give polite applause, while your knees grow weak at the news. You can go? Has love really prevailed on this day?
“However,” and with that, your heart drops “I have some conditions for these… nuptials.”
You could sense the air growing thick with tension as the reality of the na-Baron’s ruling twists out of your favor.
“Conditions?” You whispered.
“Of course, my darling! I can’t make this too easy on you, now can I?” Feyd paces back and forth on the steps from which he speaks, making your eyes dart back and forth with each step he takes. Vigilance overtakes your body in case of any rash decisions.
“You two can leave the city, but it won’t be hand in hand. This pair will have to walk in single file, with the boy in the front and my darling Lady at least thirty paces behind. No ships, no speeders, no running. Walking.”
The energy of the room starts to grow more electric as the points of this term seem to set in.
“The Lady cannot speak out or make any indication of her following behind. You’ll be faced forward the whole journey. Once you reach the edge of the city and passed the threshold, you can be together for eternity.”
Your breath hitched. Seems easy enough, right?
“But, if the boy so much as turns his head to check and see if the Lady is following, the deal is off. She’ll return to me, and we will be married.”
Nothing makes a man so bold
As a woman’s smile and a hand to hold
“Is this a trick?” Your beloved asks plainly.
Feyd tilts his head, pacing down the steps to ground level. “Now, what makes you say that? I’m being generous. I’ve set my terms.” He is now nose-to-nose with the man attached to you.
“Now meet them or face the consequences.”
The hand holding yours is now pooled with sweat. You quickly and subtly jerk the arm of your beloved when he starts to protest, not recognizing a gift when he sees one. You bow, the picture of poise and grace that you were raised to be. There is still time to leave with all of your limbs intact, you could not afford to slip up now.
“We offer our most sincere gratitude, my Lord na-Baron. Thank you for this most auspicious opportunity. We will not squander it.”
Your beloved gives a clumsy bow to match yours. Feyd’s manic smile grows as he clasps his hands together. The sound echoes through the hall.
“So it shall begin!”
But all alone his blood runs thin
And doubt—doubt comes in
The pair of you hold hands, side-by-side, at the entrance of the palace gates. A crowd has followed you to the edge, with onlookers from the outside spectating the unexpected appearance of a noble. Occurrences like this did not happen often, if ever.
“You heard the terms. The Lady must walk thirty steps behind. She must not speak to you.” Your hands reluctantly separate, following the orders you were given. You can feel your heart pounding with each step that you take away from each other.
“Some of my guard will accompany you, to ensure that you comply to the letter.” Four Harkonnen warriors step forward and encase you in a square formation, leaving the love of your life alone and vulnerable. He looks back towards you, fear and doubt creeping into his eyes. You nodded at him, believing that you could succeed in your task. That you would prevail.
“You may begin.” Feyd voices, and with that—you start your journey. Step by step, you walk further through the foliage that immediately surrounds the castle gates and into the city square.
Once you and your beloved reach the horizon, Feyd turns to walk past the crowd and back into the corridor.
Your father, the Duke, bows quickly and offers his gratitude, but is ignored as the younger Harkonnen goes to gather his blade and shield. With a yell, he summons his guards to formation. As Feyd checks the integrity of his weapon, one of the Baron’s advisors tentatively steps towards him.
“My Lord, perhaps you should consider letting them go—” In the blink of an eye, the man is silenced with a swift slash to the throat. Blood spills through the advisor’s hands as he struggles to put pressure on the opening. His body flops to the floor and Feyd carelessly steps over the writhing body to march forward.
“Let’s go fetch my bride.”
Dangerous this jack of hearts
It had been almost an hour of walking by this point. There had been almost a dozen times where you wanted to give any audible indication to your lover that you were here. A whisper, a whistle, a stomp of your foot. Anything. But now you could see the edge of the city, you could almost taste it.
A life with your love was within reach.
The guards accompanying you shifted inward, almost boxing you in. You were hopeful, but nerves were creeping in.
This was going well. Too well.
The grand arch signifying the edge of the city was above your lover now. The field that you used to meet at in secret lay just beyond it. You’re almost there. Just twenty more steps and you could be together, forever.
He steps over the threshold, you see his shoulders lift and fall in an exhale. Then, the man you had fallen in love with— who you wholly believe in— slowly turns his head to lock eyes with you. A pale figure steps out from behind a pillar accompanying the arch.
The growing smile on your face immediately falls. You call out his name.
Oh no.
The na-Baron tsked and shook his head, as if scolding a child. Harkonnen troops flanked the area, giving Feyd-Rautha enough berth to have his fun. The three of you were surrounded, but only one really had the advantage.
“You were so close!”
Your beloved held out a hand, “Wait, wait! I made it over!” He started to back away in fear, unarmed and exhausted from the long walk. Colorful, ripe foliage brushed his legs as he back into your field.
“Ah, but she didn’t. So, face the consequences.”
Then his blade pierced the man you love.
Your ears started to ring, throat working itself raw as you wailed. Tears blurred your vision, you could hear the gurgles of the blood leaving your fiancé’s mouth and the slosh of his newly disemboweled entrails hitting the lush field before you.
With his kiss, the riot starts
His body made a sick thud on the floor, and your body jumped along with it.
You ran towards your dead lover, cradling his face and sobbing for the soul that was just ripped away from you. He didn’t deserve such a violent end. His only crime was loving you and being loved in return.
A chuckle sounded from above you, and you turned your tear-stained face to the brutal Harkonnen. He was covered in the blood of your lover, his spoils of war staining his pale skin. Black teeth on full display, his shoulders gave a slight shake as he expressed his humor. His laughter sparked a rage in you like you’d never seen before. It didn’t matter what bonds you may or may not have formed over the conversations you had the last week. He’s a monster. He needs to pay for what he’s done.
Red flooded your vision.
With a roar, you lunged for the man. His laugh grew more manic as you smacked, punched, kicked, and hit every visible part of him that you could identify. In your grief, every ounce of training that you received flew out the window. He took every blow with a smile, as if he enjoyed the punishment you were attempting to bestow on him.
“There we go, my darling. Show me your pain. Your rage!”
Your mind started to clear with the more hits you landed. With a quick swipe, you had the weapon that killed your beloved against the naBaron’s neck. The Harkonnen soldiers immediately stepped forward, but Feyd stopped them with a wave of his arm.
“Ah ah ah! Leave her be.” His grin almost split his face in half, specks of dried blood making a painting of his face.
“Do it. Go ahead, come on.”
He pressed his neck forward, purposefully putting pressure on his own blade. Fresh blood started to trickle down his neck, adding to the gallons already spread all over his uniform.
The shock of his willingness to put his life on the line made you hesitate, which made him cackle in your face. Your anger made you draw the blade back and slice it across his chest. A groan left Feyd’s mouth,
“Good girl.”
An unexpected thunk to the head made your vision start to spin. Feyd’s arms braced around you, slowly lowering you to your knees and down to a lying position. He cradled your head as if you were a precious commodity, when he leaned forward and captured your limp lips with his.
As black started swallowing your vision, you heard him say,
“Don’t worry, my darling bride. It’ll all be alright. You won’t feel a thing.”
Laken Riley, a bright 22-year-old nursing student, was brutally murdered while jogging on the University of Georgia campus in February 2024. The killer? Jose Antonio Ibarra, an illegal immigrant from Venezuela who crossed our porous southern border under Biden's watch and was released into our communities. This monster beat her to death, shattering a family's world and exposing the deadly consequences of open-border insanity.
Yet, where were the massive street protests from the left? No BLM-style riots, no celebrity outrage, no demands for justice echoing across the nation. They scream for criminals like George Floyd but stay silent on innocent Americans slaughtered by illegals they've welcomed in droves.
This hypocrisy reeks of agenda-driven politics that values votes over lives. Time to seal the borders, deport the invaders, and hold these enablers accountable before more blood stains our streets.
Benn Beckman noticed that first—not the coastline, not the harbor, not even the absence of a proper fortification—but the riot of reds and pinks that crept along the cliffs like living fire. Hibiscus flowers, hundreds of them, blooming wild and unapologetic, clung to stone and soil as if daring the sea to tear them away.
A quiet island, he’d been told.
He narrowed his eyes, cigarette resting unlit between his fingers.
Quiet, Benn had learned, was rarely simple.
The small ship drifted into the natural harbor with little resistance. The water here was clear enough to see the sand below, pale and unmarred by anchors or shipwrecks. No navy flags. No pirate insignia. Just wooden docks worn smooth by years of honest trade and barefoot traffic.
Good.
Benn secured the boat himself, movements practiced, automatic. He slung his coat over his shoulder—not out of fatigue, but intent. He wasn’t Benn Beckman of the Red-Haired Pirates here. He was just another traveler with sharp eyes and too much patience.
The island greeted him with warmth. Not the oppressive heat of the Grand Line, but a steady sun softened by ocean breeze. The air smelled faintly sweet—salt and flowers and something herbal he couldn’t place.
He walked.
The town was small but alive. Open stalls lined the main path, their canopies dyed in vibrant hues. Islanders moved at an unhurried pace, voices low but animated, laughter easy. No one reached for weapons. No one stiffened at his presence.
They glanced at him, yes—he was tall, broad-shouldered, scarred in subtle ways—but there was curiosity, not fear.
That alone told him something important.
Kalypso Isle didn’t live under threat.
“Oi—watch it!”
The voice was sharp.
Benn stopped just in time to avoid colliding with someone who had stepped backward without looking. A basket of red fruit wobbled dangerously before steadying.
The woman turned.
She was… striking.
Morena skin kissed warm by the sun, dark hair pulled back loosely with strands escaping to frame her face. Her eyes—focused, intelligent, and currently narrowed in irritation—snapped up to meet his.
She looked him over in a single, assessing sweep.
“…You walk like a man who expects the world to move for him,” she said flatly.
Benn blinked.
Then, slowly, he raised an eyebrow.
“And you walk like someone who doesn’t expect consequences.”
A beat.
Her lips pressed together.
Then she smiled—tight, sharp, unimpressed.
“Ah. One of those.”
Benn almost laughed.
Almost.
He glanced at the basket. “You stepped back without checking.”
“You stopped without apologizing.”
“Didn’t hit you.”
“Didn’t excuse you.”
They stared at each other.
Something crackled—not tension exactly, but awareness. Benn recognized it the way he recognized a drawn blade before it struck.
She was smart.
Annoyingly so.
“I’m busy,” she said finally, shifting the basket onto her hip. “Try not to loom at anyone else today.”
She turned to leave.
Benn spoke without thinking. “You always this pleasant to strangers?”
She paused.
Looked back over her shoulder.
“Only the ones who look like trouble.”
Their eyes met again.
This time, her gaze lingered.
“…You’re not from around here,” she added.
“Neither are you,” Benn replied.
She snorted. “Born and raised.”
“Then you should know better.”
Her smile widened—genuine now, dangerous. “And you should know Kalypso Isle doesn’t belong to men who think they can read it in a minute.”
She walked away.
Benn watched her go longer than necessary.
Then he lit his cigarette.
He learned her nickname before he learned her name.
“Hibiscus?” Benn echoed, glancing at the elderly shopkeeper who was carefully wrapping dried leaves.
The woman nodded knowingly. “Ah. You met her.”
“That obvious?”
“You still look irritated,” she said kindly.
Benn huffed smoke through his nose. “Why Hibiscus?”
The shopkeeper smiled. “Beautiful. Stubborn. Thrives in harsh sun. Refuses to wilt.”
Benn considered that.
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Oh, very,” the woman said cheerfully. “But good for the island.”
Benn paid and turned to leave.
“Careful, traveler,” the shopkeeper added. “Hibiscus has a way of getting under people’s skin.”
Benn smirked faintly. “Not likely.”
They met again three days later.
This time, she was knee-deep in an argument.
“No, you can’t reroute the water like that—are you listening to me?”
“I’ve been fishing these waters longer than you’ve been alive!”
“And I’ve been fixing your mistakes for half of that!”
Benn leaned against a post, observing.
She stood at the center of a small crowd, arms crossed, jaw set. The fisherman she argued with was twice her size and red-faced with frustration—but he wasn’t winning.
She dismantled his points calmly, efficiently. No raised voice. No insults. Just relentless logic.
“…If you divert it there, the eastern crops dry out. We’ve done this before. You know the numbers.”
The man grumbled. “…Damn it.”
“Try again next season,” she said, already turning away.
The crowd dispersed.
Benn approached.
“Impressive.”
She glanced at him, unimpressed once more. “You again.”
“You seem busy.”
“I am.”
“Still arguing with the island?”
“Someone has to,” she muttered.
He studied her more closely now. The calluses on her hands. The faint ink marks on her fingers. The way she carried responsibility like a familiar weight.
“You run things here?” Benn asked.
She scoffed. “I help run things. Big difference.”
“Seems like a lot for one person.”
Her eyes flicked up—sharp. “You offering?”
“No.”
She smirked. “Didn’t think so.”
They stood there, the silence less awkward than before.
“…You staying long?” she asked, finally.
“Undecided.”
“Figures.”
She turned to leave, then paused. “Don’t get involved.”
Benn frowned. “In what?”
“In anything,” she said firmly. “Kalypso Isle doesn’t need saviors.”
He watched her walk away again.
This time, he didn’t light a cigarette.
Over the weeks, their paths crossed with infuriating regularity.
At the docks. The market. The cliffs overlooking the sea.
She argued. She organized. She helped.
She laughed too—rarely, but genuinely—usually with children or elders. Benn noticed she softened around those who needed it most, and hardened like steel around anyone who didn’t listen.
She noticed things about him too.
That he paid fairly. That he never drank to excess. That his eyes were always moving.
“You’re hiding something,” she said one evening as they stood watching the sun bleed into the ocean.
“So are you.”
She hummed thoughtfully. “Fair.”
The space between them was careful. Measured. Neither stepped closer.
Slow.
Burning.
The island called her Hibiscus.
Benn Beckman found himself thinking the name suited her perfectly.
And for the first time since he’d left the Red Force behind, he wondered—
Not what chaos awaited him out at sea.
But what might happen if he stayed right where he was.
chapter synopsis: after getting drunk at a Bonney rager with Nami, you're nearly busted by the cops... good thing a sexy, green-haired stranger was there to save you.
cw: high school/college au, violence, underage drinking, parties, mature themes, profanity, sports, reader is on the volleyball team, zoro is in kendo, you and zoro are both seniors and eighteen, etc.
"Damn it! These boots are impossible!" you drunkenly whined, stumbling slightly as your foot caught a raised chunk of sidewalk.
You knew you should've done the run test before leaving Nami's.
Now you were paying the price.
Behind you, the signature er-whoop of a cop car echoed, the sound sending a pang of fear through your heart as the world seemed to feel like it was closing in, the swirling red and blue lights bounding off the buildings and surrounding you on all sides.
'Someone just had to snitch!'
A few moments earlier, you were having the time of your life—dancing, drinking, and partying to your heart's content with your best friend in the whole wide world.
The problem was that you weren't exactly the legal age to be drinking, and it was just your luck that Eustass Kid—absolutely sloshed out of his mind—managed to tee-pee the house next to Bonney's and forced them to call the police.
So a riot began when the cops pulled up on the lawn, everyone scattering like roaches in fear of being caught.
Which was what you were supposed to be doing with your ginger gal pal.
But when the two of you nearly got cornered, you both split up, and, unluckily, you were the one the squad car chose to follow.
Now, to be fair, Bonney was known for throwing outrageous ragers at her house with little to no consequences, so all of this was bound to happen someday.
'But why'd they have to do this todayyyy?'
"Shit!"
Your shoes were holding you back from your full speed, forcing you to run awkwardly, while the alcohol pumping through your system made everything seem as if it was moving in slow motion, most of your attention focused on keeping on your feet.
Haphazardly, you attempted to cut a nearby corner, teetering to the side a little bit before you stabilized and continued to flounder down the sidewalk.
Despite the sharp pain in your heels, you pressed on strongly, knowing full well just what would happen if you were caught.
Out of all the people at the party, you were probably the one that could afford getting busted the least.
It was your dream to be the best volleyball player in the world, after all.
Because of your stellar performance as an outside hitter during your freshman year, you were whisked away to a special training camp across the country, where for two years you built up your body and honed your skills in hopes of returning senior year to be recognized by an international club.
Once that happens, it will be a straight shot to the top, ending with you going down in history as the greatest outside hitter volleyball has ever seen.
But, of course, all of that would fly right out the window if you gained a criminal record.
Your brows furrowed, feet picking up speed at the thought, even in your drunken state.
All that time...
All that work...
It would all be for nothing.
Suddenly, a pair of strong hands grabbed your shoulders, yanking you into a nearby alleyway covering your mouth as you let out a tiny yelp, eyes widening and blood running cold.
No!
You could've sworn the cop was still in the car...
How the hell did he get out so fast?
Yet as the squad car passed, the man holding you ducked into the shadows of the alley, watching closely as the police officer cruised past—the cop having stuck his head out the window to get a better look.
"Coulda swore she was right here..." he grumbled under his breath, brows furrowed.
He had a large scar stretching from his hairline to just above his cheekbone, two cigars hanging out the corner of his mouth as his eyes scanned over the area.
The mystery man's brows furrowed at the sight, body turning rigid.
Smoker.
'Shoulda known...'
He and Luffy had run into him a few times before.
The white-haired cop paused, giving the space one more once over before settling back in his seat, picking up his radio with an annoyed sigh.
"Tashigi, I lost her. Gonna circle back to your position and look for the redhead."
Your eyes widened, knowing exactly who he was talking about.
"Nami!" you whimpered, forcing the the man's calloused hand to press harder into your face to muffle the noise.
"Quiet," a deep, rough voice ordered, tone leaving no room for argument.
He held you with an iron grip, not budging even an inch as you began to squirm in his grasp.
He wasn't gonna spend another night in the precinct because of some girl who couldn't hold her liquor.
Suspicious, Smoker glanced in your direction, narrowing his eyes at the darkness as he looked directly at you—though he didn't know it.
Your heart stopped, your entire body freezing up as both you and the man behind you stayed still as statues, pressing firmer against the wall of the alley to avoid being revealed by the lights of the siren as the officer pulled off.
And once he was completely gone, you both let out a sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping as the tension finally oozed out your back.
"Are you stupid or something?" the man spat, curtly, the two of you stepping into the moonlight now that the cop was gone. "You could've gotten us both caught."
You turned around, raising a brow as he stepped closer, his chest about an inch away from yours.
Yum.
As your eyes adjusted to the better lighting, you couldn't help the warm buzz growing in your stomach at the sight of the absolutely gorgeous man in front of you.
He had a strong jaw, which looked like it could cut through stone, with sharp features and dark eyes that could bring any woman to her knees.
Eyes raking over his body, you might as well have been drooling, your expression not hiding your thoughts at all as you admired the prime slab of grade A male beef standing before you.
You were surprised you didn't notice just how large he was until then, six feet of chorded, hard-earned muscle, with a certain air that just made you want him to put you in a headlock.
'And then some...'
Not to mention his cute, soft-looking green hair.
"Are you that stripper Bonney tried to call?" you giggled, twirling a lock of your hair between your fingers as a lousy attempt to flirt.
Surprised, Zoro's breath hitched, a faint tinge of pink dusting the apples of his cheeks.
What you said had caught him completely off guard, and confirmed his suspicions that you were completely hammered.
Now, he wasn't a good Samaritan by any means, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to ditch the dead weight and go back to finding Luffy—they had gotten split up, too.
But as he watched you look up at him, eyes glazed and lidded, feet having a slight wobble even as you stood still, he knew he couldn't leave.
You were a young, defenseless woman who was in the middle of an empty street alone at night, drunk as a skunk.
If he left you alone, it'd bother him for the rest of the day.
"Do you know where you are?" he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Uh... no?" you pouted, taking a moment to slowly look around, indeed realizing that you had no idea where you were.
"Great," he huffed, grabbing your arm. "Do you know where you live?"
"Whyyyy...?"
"'Cause I'm gonna take your ass home."
"Woah, sir... how about you get to know me first?" you giggled, body swaying back and forth.
Eyes wide, he froze, turning red as a beet.
"It's not like that! I'm just giving you a ride—!"
"Listen, Mister Hot Guy," you interrupted, index finger digging into his hard chest. "You might've saved us from the police but that doesn't mean you can just have your way with me. We have to go to dinner first."
Taking a moment to pause, the man looked at you in disbelief.
Never in his life had he ever encountered such an idiotically stubborn person.
And not only were you stubborn, but you were also fucking beautiful.
While he was a man who prided himself on self-restraint and respect, he couldn't help but let his eyes rake over you as your arms came up to cross over your chest.
Sexy, tanned skin accentuated under the complementary blue of your jean tube-top, your jean mini-skirt just long enough to tease, while making your ass look fantastic.
Your lipgloss made your plump lips so soft and inviting, and your eyes were so warm he felt like they heated him from the inside out.
A date didn't sound too damn bad—
"That's enough," he shut down, talking to both you and himself as he began to tug you down the street, leading you to his car.
"Woah-hey! Let me go! This is—!"
Your small fight to wriggle out of his grasp was interrupted as you lost your balance, feet slipping and body flying backward toward the ground.
Luckily, that same pair of strong hands grabbed your waist with a death grip, forcing a gasp out your lips as your hands shot up to cling to his broad shoulders.
Zoro sighed in exasperation, picking you up and tossing you over his shoulder as if you were a sack of potatoes.
"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, continuing his trek down the street until he turned the corner and reached the safety of his pickup.
He'd be damned if he had to deal with a drunk you and a drunk Luffy at the same time.
So, he settled on setting aside an hour of the night trying to find your house, or a friend to drop you off with, then he'd hit up Luffy and grab him at whatever restaurant he managed to clear out.
Foolproof.
"Hey! This is kidnapping!" you squealed as he tossed you in the backseat, shutting the door behind. "I'll call that cop back to get you!"
"And get arrested yourself," he said with a slight chuckle, plopping himself down in the driver's seat and starting the engine.
Glancing at the rear-view mirror, his eyes took another moment to look you over.
You really were beautiful, and seemed close to, if not the same age, as him.
And your little outfit wasn't too bad either.
"Like what you see?" you teased with a smirk, slightly leaning back to give him a better view.
He scoffed as he rolled his eyes, not willing to give you the satisfaction.
"Put your seatbelt on," he ordered.
And although his tone was serious, you didn't miss the tinge of pink on his face.
"Can't," you shrugged, simply. "You're gonna have to help me..."
You giggled, wiggling your eyebrows and puffing your chest so that the man could get a nice look at your cleavage.
Unluckily for you, he knew better that to trust it, letting a tired hand rake through his hair as he realized how much of a pain in the ass this ride was going to be.
"Before, you said you knew a Nami," he grunted, resting his hands on the steering wheel. "That wouldn't happen to be Nami Nami, would it? Y'know, long orange hair, money-hungry, debt collecting?"
You gasped, eyes turning starry, "You know Nami?!"
The man let out a groan, dropping his head onto the horn, the car letting out a long beep as he just sat there, honestly amused by the circumstances.
Why was he not surprised?
Of course you and Nami were friends.
Annoyed, he shifted the truck into drive, pressing his foot on the gas and pulling off in the direction of Nami's house.
Now, not only did he have to drop your ass off, but he also had to pay back Nami the fifty dollars he owed, and then still go back out and grab Luffy.
And it was all thanks to you.
He grumbled to himself, resting his cheek in his palm as his other hand rested on the wheel.
'If I ever meet this woman again, it'll be too soon...'
Reader with insomnia, not trusting the strange new group they're stuck with, after almost dying at the hands of every group they've been a part of before. They volunteer to keep watch. They don't sleep even when it's their turn to rest. They avoid everyone like the plague, unless it's training or scavenging.
And then one day they disappear.
No trail leading away from camp, no note, no signs of a struggle, none of the pet monsters ate them. They're just gone.
Everyone panics.
Meanwhile, Reader sleeping in a small cave they found, the entrance a sliver of a crack in the wall near the hot springs.
They wake up a day later, rested, and dazed stumble out and back to camp.
Someone tackles them, and they're coughing out dirt as the turtle on their back chirps that he found them!
The entire camp gathers. No one is happy, save for the teenager on their back who is about to crush their chest from how heavy he is.
(What was everyone's reaction Reader going missing? What did they do to try and find them? What are the consequences for Reader?)
(All the hugs for you 🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂)
With punk If someone he holds dear goes missing he genuinely freaks out thinking their dead, looking everywhere for them and getting very aggressive towards the rest of the group.
With Riot, he tries to stay calm but is just as if not more aggressive towards others, looking everywhere he can think of.
Echo stays as calm as possible but he genuinely can't stop thinking of the worst that could happen to you.
Nex freaks out genuinely worried and can't keep calm, he goes through several stages of worry, he doesn't hide it it's like a child looking for their lost blankie
Mantis is worried and asks her mom if she can smell them or even feel their presence.
April is like an animal so she basically thinks danger, but with her sense of smell and the ability to sense people she isn't worried.
Casey just gets pissed off and looks everywhere.
Irma is very calm, she doesn't seem to care much but she will look for you everywhere and everyday just in case
Pairing: Ghost x F!Reader
Tags: SMUT 🔞🔞🔞 Literally just unadulterated, deranged filth, plot is there for decoration. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Mutual pining, sexual tension (duh), blood & injury, p in v sex, oral sex (m receiving), mutual masturbation, cum all over the place, light humiliation, dirty talk, some praise, swearing, mask stays on, fluffy/reconciliatory ending.
Summary: Reader is a Task Force 141 operator and a terrible brat (and suffers the consequences of it later). Enemies to lovers/toxic relationship that takes a healthy turn in the end.
Read PART 1 here
"Wha' a good girl you are now…"
His first words hit you like a moan-inducing massage, but you stay silent and steady in your resolve.
"Good soldier, too. We just need to get you to follow orders so that you don't get hurt," he speaks gently.
There it is, finally – a good girl and a good soldier. You have to mentally bind your hands behind your back and place an imaginary gag in your mouth not to chirp and bounce up from joy. It's pathetic, but it's also harrowing: Ghost never meant to fuck with your head; he only wanted to keep you safe. But then he causes another riot in your brain with the next thing he says.
"Such a beautiful sight… You'd make a fine pet."
- - - - - - - - -
You go to offer your apology the next day after sleeping on it.
You feel like you're the most horrible person in the world. And yet, when you knock on his door and call yourself in when only a silence answers, the scalding gaze that locks into you like the sights of a gun remind you why you said what you said.
It's like the man has struck a knife in you, and twists it just to see you squirm. And you do: it's a telltale sign that you've been claimed when you kneel in the middle of his office while he sits behind the same desk he rutted you on less than 20 hours ago.
He says nothing. You wait, equally as quiet, like you're waiting for a pardon from Caesar.
The atmosphere is mellow: his shutters are closed but one window is creaked open, allowing birdsong and summer wind on trees to pass through to his otherwise stale office. It stirs the softest, small smile on your lips as you look at him, adamant and all locked up.
Your knees hurt, but he eventually breaks first: something you hadn't even calculated might happen. The brimstone of his eyes steal a breather to the side, then come back to you with a tinge of confusion in them.
Then he lifts his chin, lifts a hand, a command for you to approach.
Your smile only softens as you go around his desk, and he pushes the chair away with one foot, turns to meet you as you fall on your knees again, then on all fours before starting a slow crawl to him.
His eyes go wide, his head draws back as if you approaching him like a housecat is the most threatening situation he has ever been in.
You have planned this through, and he has the instincts, the sixth sense of a seasoned hunter as he opens his legs wide to make space for you.
He certainly doesn't stop you as you free his erection from the sturdy cargo pants and offer your apology by taking him in your mouth.
He knows what's coming but still gasps and grabs the arms of his chair with white knuckles. You're on your knees, seemingly domesticated, but he's the one begging for mercy before you have even begun. He's heavy in your mouth, but you welcome the weight with greed and a hot tongue.
His thighs travel wide and far, just like yours did last night. The first moan is divine. He eases into the chair while the muscles on his stomach and thighs twitch and shudder.
A pair of boots echo in the hallway behind the door, the sound soon disappearing into the distance. Anyone could walk in at any given moment, and the notion makes your head feel dizzy.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't disclose in any way that he is considering forgiveness.
But eventually, he starts to melt upon your tongue like a snow-covered mountain ridge basking in the sun. Something in the way with which you work him slowly and with gusto makes him send a hand on your head. It strokes your hair softly.
"Wha' a good girl you are now…"
His first words hit you like a moan-inducing massage, but you stay silent and steady in your resolve.
"Good soldier, too. We just need to get you to follow orders so that you don't get hurt," he speaks gently.
There it is, finally – a good girl and a good soldier. You have to mentally bind your hands behind your back and place an imaginary gag in your mouth not to chirp and bounce up from joy. It's pathetic, but it's also harrowing: Ghost never meant to fuck with your head; he only wanted to keep you safe. But then he causes another riot in your brain with the next thing he says.
"Such a beautiful sight… You'd make a fine pet."
You give him some teeth for that. Just the lightest scrape as you arrive near the base of his cock. He hisses, then laughs.
"Careful, love."
It's the first time ever you've heard him properly laugh. The sound implements itself into your core, your spine, your DNA. It's genuine and hearty, and the summer brushes past the open window to your face in a reviving breeze. Combined with the dark musk of his laughter, it makes your heart flip, and a small, tickling giggle bubbles inside you too. It arrives muted against his cock, but it's a magnificent moment – you two laughing together, even if for a second, even if yours is just a huff of an exhale against his pelvis.
"You don't like the idea?" He asks you a question as if you didn't have your mouth full of him.
His offer is alluring – of course you'd like him to take you as his pet. You could get good food and caresses, get to curl next to him when he goes to sleep. He could show you off like a domesticated animal if he wanted to. He could parade you down the street on a leash, and you would only purr as you go.
But while the proposition is enticing, you leave him with no answer, knowing it will only intrigue him if you don't say yes.
"I would be good to you," he starts to slip, and you up the pace a little. Open your jaw as far as it can go to accommodate him as much as you can, the soft hood of his cock meeting the back of your throat.
"So good– nh..." You can almost hear how his head rolls back, and you catch yourself worrying if he might hurt his neck because the chair has no headrest.
You do it again, and again, almost choking while trying to show him how good you are, how well you can take him and what your tongue can do too. You nearly stumble while you're at it, so lost in him, and you have to reach for support to prevent yourself from falling.
Your hand finds his leg, clutches the khaki that hugs a broad thigh. You flinch when a hard, heavy palm descends on top of yours. It brushes a thumb over the back of your hand as his sighs travel through the stagnant air, rampant and unchallenged through the fabric of his mask.
"Be my pet, sweetheart," he prays, growing weaker by the second. It's like a charm that transforms you into a priestess, a Babalon whore, a scarlet woman who adores men before sending them off to war.
His hips buck, he starts to clutch your hand like you're a rope that's going to save him from drowning. The other hand is more gentle in grip, but mercenary in demand as he grabs a fistful of hair to guide you along his length. Your gag reflex almost shoots him out of your mouth, but he is relentless.
He knows you can take it.
"That's it–that's it, luv," he rasps, and every other noise gets shut out of your brain as you go deaf to the sonic world. You can feel his thighs bunch and tremble around your head, the earthquake under your fingers pressed against hard, lifeless textile when they should be scraping his skin instead. He opens like a woman, massive legs spread hungry and wide as he shoots a load in your mouth. Ample, abundant, even if he just filled you to the brim not too long ago.
You drink him dutifully, greedy for the praise of a job well done, but such a thing never comes. He just breathes heavy over you, sounding happy, the happiest man on earth. You lick him clean, although there's really nothing to clean except your own saliva. The cock glistens, jolts happily one last time after you're done.
"I can make you scream on that desk," he offers while his hands release their death grip on you. Your hair gets tucked behind your ear, he even squeezes your hand briefly like you're his most trusted companion. His cock is flaccid, so you assume he's offering his fingers, perhaps even his mouth to you.
You'd like nothing more than to know if he has a stubble under that balaclava. To see if he would kneel on the floor too to shove his face between your legs while you're splayed over that desk. If he would forget about the door too, making it possible for anyone to catch him with his nose up your cunt. For Soap or Gaz or even Price to see how the broody commanding officer is just a thirsty hound dog on a bowl.
But then again, you just worked yourself up to a shattering orgasm. Two times, actually – deliberately, before you came here. The taste of his cum on your tongue will have to suffice; hell, it's almost better than him finally fucking or licking you into a deranged bliss.
You sense another opening, can't just help yourself…
"Thank you, sir. But that won't be necessary."
- - - - - - - - -
You begin to fear that you're the narcissist here. The way you make him twist and turn like a corkscrew, the way it makes you feel to see how he spirals deeper into madness. Even your eyes are too much for Ghost, who avoids your stare on missions but hunts you down at the base.
"What does it take?"
He ruts you whenever and wherever he can, in the toilets if need be, too busy to haul you into his room after a mission. You just so happened to pass him by, and it was the nearest space with a lock on the door.
"What the fuck does it take?"
The static hum of the bright, unyielding light and the smell of chlorite oozing out of tile seams is everything but a romantic setting as he drives into you from behind and watches you through the mirror on top of a small sink – watches how you give him nothing.
You're trying to take support from the white porcelain even though he's holding you firm against his chest with that inked arm wrapped around your middle. You want to spread your legs for him but can't, since he barely had time to rip your pants down before getting himself out as well to fuck you, so you settle for admiring how vulnerable he looks while he tries his all to please you.
"Do I have to take the mask off? That it?" He's far from a calm and collected lieutenant as he sweats black paint and despair. "Ya want my mouth? Just say it. Promise I'll make you cry."
You laugh at him through the mirror. It's an involuntary, spontaneous action, and you can't really help it. The man is absolutely adorable… And here you have been, fearing him for weeks without realizing he's just another lonely soul.
He doesn't know your strategy. He doesn't know that it's just you and your hand that are his worst enemy.
"What're ya laughin' at?"
You bite your lip, allow him to see mischief and a quivering smile, wet, adoring eyes paired with simple silence. He could force and command and bully you, but he doesn't do it.
Who's the pet now?
"Obviously, you like my cock," he grunts. "Always wet 'n' ready to go, like a fuckin'–"
It ends in a huff before a potential slur comes out.
Truly a gentleman…
"You let everyone 'ere have a go at you?"
He ticks like a time bomb inside you.
"I'm the last to get to fuck you? Huh? I get the fuckin' scraps, is that it?"
He doesn't need slurs to tear you down, but on the other hand, Ghost only reveals more of himself with the insults and assumptions he hurls at you.
He's desperate, crying for it, longing to be the one who makes you cry and scream and purr. Be your one and only.
"No," you hum. "I'm all yours, Lt."
He blinks a few times, exhausted lids fall to cover most of his eyes, and the stare tells you he has entered a dreamworld.
"I'm–," he groans with a broken voice. "I'm… Fuck–"
You shiver with ecstasy – his orgasm is a better reward than anything else he could ever give you. He collapses again, even more humiliated than the day before, or the day before that. He doesn't seem to care anymore. His hips press you against the cold sink, and you fear the porcelain is going to break under your combined weight. He doesn't slip out. Instead, Ghost tucks his mask on top of his nose to catch breath.
He has a shadow of a stubble, a stern jaw, and the notion makes your walls pulse. Thin lips part to gasp for air, his blazing chest heaves behind your back, threatens to topple you all over the sink and against the mirror already misty from your mingled heat.
And the mask was lifted for a whole other reason than to catch some precious air.
He presses his lips against your bare neck, breathes you in with mouth slightly open. Pants, like a tormented beast.
"You almost got killed," he whispers on your skin. Your heart leaps, and he still doesn't slip out…
"Took that blast and those bullets f' me."
Your heart flutters; it competes in rapidness with the blinks of your lashes. He's gentleman enough not to raise his head as you swallow some panic.
"Why did you do that?"
You can't tell him it wasn't even that heroic. That the ultimate reason was just to get his attention. To get him to proudly acknowledge what a good, talented little soldier you are. His girl.
The thick, softening heat inside you is too much. It shouldn't be this close, he shouldn't be this close. Tears are not allowed; they would be the end of you. The end of the fucking world. Your doom.
Claustrophobia makes it a shaky business to tiptoe him out of you, to slither and struggle out of his embrace and yank your pants up, fight your way through the cramped space and out of the door.
- - - - - - - - -
He suspects something.
And of course he does: the man is not a clandestine operations expert for nothing.
You usually do this in the morning, knowing you won't get another chance before he steals a moment with you. But this morning, you slept in and know that you're in the biggest danger ever. If he catches you before you're satisfied and immune, you're dead.
Everything's been fucked up ever since you met him. He's like a sickness, and you've fallen ill. You're practically bedridden because of him.
You have to use a toy because your hand is not enough anymore, and you fear that one of these days you will climax while he's inside you.
The funny thing is, you forgot to lock the door.
Maybe it's a subconscious wish – to end this sickness and receive some healing.
And the perfect healer walks in like he owns the place. Owns you.
Your heart shoots up your throat at the sound of a door opening to your most sacred space while you're most relaxed, spread naked on the bed, nipples perked up and pointing to the sky.
You forgot to lock the door…
The chant arises right before he emerges like a dark mountain after opening that weak, thin piece of plywood that separates you from civility and prudence.
You forgot to lock the door you forgot to lock the door–
He freezes the exact moment his eyes hit on you. He's a northern slope that never catches sunlight while you're at your weakest, most vulnerable, leaking around a toy made out of plastic, trembling naked and full of goosebumps from the sudden cold he emits.
"You fuckin' little…"
His chest rises and falls, then he slams the door shut, locks it without ever taking his eyes off you.
He understands the mystery to the full. It unravels before him clear-cut like the steps of a mission he knows by heart before even entering the field. You can't move, can't speak, but you clench around the lifeless substitute of him, far smaller and a thousand times more tame than what he has on offer for you. The throb is simply a reaction to how he looks at you while he realizes the entirety of the childish trick you've managed to pull, a game – some stupid little antics of a stubborn, lovesick girl and nothing more.
"Alright then. Let's hear it."
"Mhm-"
He takes a step, chest puffed up and shoulders wide, eyes burning under the chalked white skull.
"Go on then. Get on wit' it."
You obey like never before. He watches how you push the lavender-colored toy fully inside, up to the hilt, and let out a shy, sad whimper. The first of many cries to come.
Ten soldiers in one man approach your bed, stand tall all around you as you gaze up at him like he's a god. He's panting by the time he gets himself out of his jeans. His eyes scourge you as he takes his cock in hand and starts to pump in sync with you.
He makes more noise than you do at first. You make him falter by changing the speed from slow and languid to shallow and quick. He tries to keep up with you like it's a race, eyes darting from your quivering mouth and wet stare to your soaked pussy.
You sigh and moan, fuck yourself sloppy, dirty, and he looks like he's about to lose his mind and burst.
"Good girl," he says with a charred voice, a soft rasp that hits you with a delicious heat. "Such a good fuckin' girl."
You swallow tears and love, give him moans and sighs, even a high-pitched mewl or two.
Somewhere along the way, you notice you're following his cue and rhythm instead of your own, and the way the angry bulge of his tip disappears into and reappears from his fist dries your mouth right up, makes your eyelids heavy. You're breathless and incoherent, far too close to the mountaintop — already were before the actual mountain even walked through that door.
You have to slow down to brace yourself for the pleasure that swells.
"Oh– oh my god…"
Your sigh is a final admission: how he is a literal god to you. His hand claps against his balls as he pleasures himself, angry as fuck and as relieved as anyone could be when they find out that their heartthrob is just a delightful little minx instead of a cruel, heartless woman.
Everything shakes and quakes and shifts, your insides shudder, your walls grip lavender when they want to grip a man. The skull tilts, the man who compels you is like an avatar of death, but his eyes are hazel longing.
The scream is celestial, wreathed in needy pain, and his shoulders sigh and shake as he watches you come for him.
"Yeah… That's it, fuck that's sweet." He doesn't slow down, quite the opposite: he beats his flesh like a maniac as you slowly but surely come down, squirm on the bed, still clutching the toy as your pussy throbs around it. If it was his cock, you fear the grip would never release him.
"Here comes," he gives an announcement, weak and breathless, rough and mean. Ropes of cum hit your breasts, neck and face, and his eyes are those of a fallen angel. Your chest rises and falls in shock and adoration as he works himself to the last of it, drips of heat dropping on the sheets, the last spurts not powerful enough to reach you from where he is standing.
When he's done, he raises his hand, like the strings of hot lust are some sort of an art piece you're supposed to gawk at.
"There ya go luv," he wipes his hand clean with you, on you. The sticky semen coats you from face to navel, and you half expect him to smear it all over you.
But he doesn't.
He forces the heavy, teary cock back inside the confine of his pants like he's mad at himself and not you.
Then he drops down like a shadow, making you quail again – one hand sinks with a fist on the pillow next to your head, the other sweeps all gentle across your belly and down over your mound. He takes hold of your hand, uses it to ease the toy slowly out while leaning over you, keeping you as a prisoner with his hawklike stare. He pulls more than just the small, harmless toy out of you: a moan or two, a final confession, but he's not pleased. You two are far from even, and he knows it, and he's fucking done. You can see it in his eyes that he's ready to quit.
He leaves you empty and barren, with just a toy to keep you company, heads for the door like a storm cloud.
"Simon…"
He walks away, much slower, but still. Leaves a memory of your shared hate and love on the doorknob as he turns it, as you start to panic.
"Don't leave," you wheeze.
Don't leave me.
Tears prick and burn your eyes as the room turns into a dismal, empty space at the very thought of living without him from this day forward.
"Please."
He opens the door a crack. Probably to let the ghosts out, because after opening it and hearing your heart-wrenching, helpless sob, he closes it.
By the time he turns and walks back to the bed, you're crying like a baby. Finally crying for him, utterly exposed. It's not the way either of you had meant for things to go, it's not the sobbing and wailing he wants.
Still, you expect him to feast on your tears as well, watch with glee how you curl into a fetal position while covered in his cum. You don't want to see it, so you close your eyes before he rapes you with his stare.
"Sweetheart."
But his voice shatters a heart. So tender that it washes over you in waves as you repeat it inside your head like a lullaby.
"Sweetest…" he trails off into somewhere, some obsidian space that stretches out before you, between you, until you cross that space with no effort at all. Meet him in the middle.
"Yes, love..?" Your own shaky voice is a mirror of his compassion as you pledge yourself to him. A warm hand brushes your cheek not seconds after, dries a tear away, adds to the heat that pangs on your face.
You open your eyes to dare a peek up. He has the same wet look in his eyes as he did when he found you in the rubble, bleeding for him.
"You did well today," he says, voice laced with love. You don't know if he means you did well at work or on this bed just now. What makes the praise scary is that it's authentic, the way he adores you with both word and touch. It breaks you into smaller pieces still, and your voice comes out as a needy whimper.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
You hope he would take you in his arms, just the way he did weeks ago. You still remember how it felt to succumb to his warmth and the soft tang of gun oil and smoke that always surrounds him. Now you're only shrouded by the scent of tears and salt.
"Must be due to a good leader," you whisper.
He cocks his head, the hand halts, hovers over you, a last suspicion.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Your hands are crossed over your chest, palms on opposite shoulders, shielding you from him. But you open them as he lays down and settles beside you, takes you in his arms, and presses your head to rest on his heart, underneath his chin. The massive palm covers half of your head, but the predatorial weight is gone. He only feels like home.
"Look at you, ya silly little thing… Always gettin' yourself into trouble." He brushes your beef off with a few words and an imply that you're just a blameless, stubborn little thing who he can't be mad at even if he wanted to. And it feels like the sickness finally starts to pass, that it was just an odd inflammation, a passing fever that made you so delirious. You anchor in, slither an arm under his to take support of the bedrock of his back.
He caresses you, makes you sob in his shirt from the sudden overdose of gentleness. His cum dries somewhere between your skin and his clothes as he swallows, then asks you about the mission that went wrong.
"Why did you do it?"
He's not an idiot. Surely he knows why by now. He only wants to hear it because he's stubborn like you, but also in desperate need of love and affection.
"I think you know why." You're exhausted, only able to breathe through your mouth, but the bitterness from your tone is gone. Lost, somewhere in his shirt that smells of ferrous solitude. You wonder what your combined scent, your togetherness, will smell like. It must be something sweet. Promising, like a refreshing summer rain.
"Yeah."
He caresses you slowly now, until his hand comes to rest on top of your head, making sure you won't escape his sanctuary.
"Never do it again," he commands, so soft, voice only a smoked whisper. "Love. I need you to promise me."
"Mh."
"Promise me."
You're feeling sleepy and spent, and he's to blame for it – he simply feels too good. You decide that your first kiss can wait just a little while longer. It's only wonderful; to have something lovely and pure to wait for.
"I promise…"
You drift off to sleep, cradled by the safe slopes of his mountain.
So I'm a big fan of this furry dating sim called the Smoke Room. I've even recommended it on this blog before. I would say it's probably one of my top 10 furry visual novels, or FVNs. So I was very shocked when I found out the main writer, George Squares, was removed from the studio developing it, Echo Project. And in the fallout, I began to become incredibly disappointed in George and began to understand exactly why he was removed. It became abundantly clear that extremely unprofessional behavior, entitlement, and harassment is what led Echo Project to kick him out. He certainly was controversial and divisive before, but what was just unfounded speculation started to feel a lot more plausible now that he was more openly displaying it in the aftermath.
Some stuck by his side, but... while I may have given him the benefit of the doubt before, this was beyond a betrayal of good faith for me. And while I may have tried to still enjoy TSR, the bitterness of that betrayal left me focusing so much on all the minor nitpicks I had mostly ignored. Eventually I just quit following it until recently. I read the few updates that were posted since then and I liked them. It reminded me why I first fell in love with it. But still, I can't ignore George's past behavior, so to really delve into things, we'll start with a history lesson.
History Lesson
In the early 2000's, a group of Japanese furries on a forum were voicing their frustrations at the lack of dating sims featuring anthropomorphic animals. Some of them channeled that into brainstorming ideas for a hypothetical dating sim like that. This would eventually develop into an actual dating sim called Morenatsu. Years later in 2013, an unofficial English translation of it started making its rounds around Western furry spaces, mainly as a curiosity as its characters had become a staple of Japanese furry art for years by that point. This then inspired a Western furry dating sim called Blackgate which then inspired another one called Echo, written at the time by Howly. Echo would eventually become one of the most popular dating sims in the furry fandom. But eventually Howly decided he wanted to branch out. He started handing off writing the remaining routes to his friend McSkinny and brainstormed ideas. He decided on two. A scifi romance visual novel set in its own universe called Adastra that would eventually surpass Echo in popularity and inspire a whole movement of FVNs. The other was the Smoke Room, TSR for short, a prequel to Echo set in the tail end of the Wild West Era concerning a mass hysteria event only mentioned in Echo. He envisioned the Smoke Room as a group project where one author would write one route each. He added McSkinny to the project as well as Redd, who had written some side stories for Echo and would go on to co-direct Glory Hounds, and George Squares. Despite not having worked on anything Echo related, George was a fan who also had experience as a professional writer, which gave him quite a lot of practical experience in writing outside of fanfiction and personal erotica.
The plan was this. The protagonist of TSR would be the guy who possesses the protagonist of Echo back when he was alive, Samuel Ayers. He was a gay prostitute who killed a mine worker in self defense but hid his crime due to the fact he was a gay prostitute in the US over 50 years before the Stonewall Riots. To help protect him, he seeks the aid of one of his former or potential clients, each with their own route. Howly would write the route for William, the coyote sheriff of Echo who helps protect Sam from legal consequences for his work. McSkinny would write for Nikolai, a Polish mining badger who saw Sam injured on the day of the crime. Redd would write for Clifford, a wealthy Dutch stoat weasel who was planning an anthropological trip to a nearby Navajo reservation which would be perfect for Sam to use to run out of town. George was the last addition and created his own route character, Murdoch, a fox who works as the crime scene photographer.
George's Reign
As development progressed, McSkinny dropped out as he was getting busy with his personal life and was uninterested in the project due to the fact he wasn't into badgers (that's seriously the only justification I could find). Howly would only stay on for the prologue, but left very early on due to his own personal stuff and the fact he was working on three visual novels and needed to focus on the two main projects, Echo and Adastra. George took on their parts of the VN, meaning he was writing 3 of 4 of the routes. Now Redd would be the last to drop out and part of it was because of his own personal life but he did also say that harassment from George was a major contributing factor though not the only one. By this point, George had gained a mildly controversial reputation, though most of it was behind the scenes. He was regularly starting fights with McSkinny and had appointed his own boyfriend at the time as a mod for the project's Discord so he could more thoroughly police people he didn't like. He also had been really mean to one of his programmers, Orion, who would go on to work on Remember the Flowers, one of the more popular and well-received Adastra clones.
He quickly became a very divisive figure. He has many controversies but the problem is some are pretty valid while others are not. For two related examples, at one point, he removed a sprite edit from TSR's SFW fanart channel for being "fetishy". It was simply a sprite edit where Murdoch was overweight. Not even particularly that fat even compared to other TSR characters. People got mad at him for being fatphobic and it even inspired a semi-viral furry meme about how some furries will thirst over muscular characters who are overweight but claim any art of overweight characters who aren't muscular is gross fetish material. But he also had another controversy where someone posted in TSR's NSFW fanart channel art of one of his female characters. He allowed it, people got mad at him for it, and he called them out for being exclusionary, which was the right thing to do. This would simultaneously help build up communities of anti-fans and stans for years.
This is a pattern for George Squares drama that would continue for a while. But for the most part, it was just petty Discord drama and behind the scenes squabbling, with some of it justified and some of it unjustified. But what would become the catalyst for the beginning of the end was... surprising.
Achilles' Wolf
Throughout William's route, Will meets a bounty hunting wolf named Kane. Eventually this culminates in a sex scene between the two. The first public version of this scene though was poorly written and had some unintended implications of sexual coercion. It was rewritten to fix this issue in the next update, but the damage was done and now drama is spreading outside the Discord, as during the ordeal, people began discussing some past drama. This controversy however didn't actually hurt his reputation much. But it made people more aware of who he was outside of his writing and more importantly, it made people aware of his social media activity as that was where he primarily discussed the controversy, which will be relevant later.
Anyways, this would lead to two... very poorly timed callout posts from a former composer on Echo, Hop-Skip and the Chewtoys. Both were posted around the same time. One exposed George's extensive history of infighting, harassment, and bullying towards other members of Echo Project. The other exposed that 15 years ago by then, he had done an erotic roleplay with his then husband where one of them played an underage character. This was a shitshow. Most people focused on the far less damning roleplay callout and plenty of people were not siding with Hop-Skip. For one thing, Hop-Skip has himself written publicly available erotic fanfiction of even younger characters from My Little Pony only a few years ago. And the people who were siding with him were being dismissed as whiny puriteens who were also complaining that TSR was too sexual. But regardless, both sides almost completely overlooked or trivialized the other callout. It certainly didn't help that many of the other Echo Project members mentioned in the callout didn't respond or corroborate anything except Orion and George's ex. However, the ideas present in the callout were still put in people's minds, but unless Echo Project did something like fire him suddenly over an overall minor controversy, people weren't going to really believe it though.
Cienie
So an FVN called Cienie was featured in a social media post by Itch.io, the platform that hosts most FVNs. George wasn't happy about it. He said that the only reason it was able to get acknowledged like that is it was SFW. This is a weird claim as other more popular SFW FVNs like Remember the Flowers had never really gotten this treatment either.
Not only that but he claimed the developers of it had tricked readers into thinking it was NSFW before pulling the rug to get followers and patrons. His evidence? A few pieces of NSFW art on the artists' personal accounts and one suggestive piece of art posted by the VN's social media account.
This is ridiculous. Furry artists who work on SFW comics or VNs have been drawing NSFW personal art of their characters for years. Rick Griffin has drawn plenty of NSFW art of his Housepets characters, and that comic dates back to the Bush Administration. Paintfox who does the art for the mostly non-sexual VN Arches repeatedly has drawn porn of its characters, and Arches is an Echo Project VN. It's even set in the same universe as TSR. It's also unprofessional. George is a bigger and more popular VN writer going after a fairly new and much less popular VN with creators who have far less clout. Thankfully, he was rightfully called out for this, though that doesn't mean Cienie's developers still didn't receive a lot of undeserved harassment.
This even led to Echo Project hinting that they were looking into disciplinary actions towards George. However, almost everyone was shocked when Echo Project announced George was removed from their team. They also announced they wouldn't be continuing work on TSR. George said he was in talks to discuss if he can get control of TSR. Keep in mind, this went down in 2024. George basically took over the project in 2020. By this point, he'd already reached Nikolai's bad ending and the next build would be the one that would complete his route and every other route was very close to completion. The only parts of it that weren't written by him were the first half of the prologue and some early parts of Clifford's route that he'd already rewritten.
So the there were a few options Echo Project had:
Remove all of his writing and start the whole project over. In this case, George would have to heavily retool the game to replace most major characters with his own and remove all references and ties to Echo if he wanted to finish his version of TSR
Give George joint ownership and put writing their own version of TSR on the back burner
Just give it to George so they can be rid of him
They chose the last one (or at least that sounds like what their decision was based on George's testimony), though apparently George disagrees with this framing saying he owns the characters and the IP anyways. The problem is that all of the main characters aside from Murdoch were created before he was brought onto the project. So if Echo Project were to let this mess devolve into lawsuits, they would have a strong case. But most likely, Echo Project didn't want that because they don't make much money and most of their developers are doing this as a side gig. So as much as George tries to deny it, Echo Project wasn't forced to give up their IP, because he was entitled to it. They willfully gave it to him so he would finally fuck off and because they didn't have any plans for it. Maybe in 3-5 years when Howly has finished Khemia, he'll rethink whatever deal they had and try to write his own take on TSR and hopefully George will know better than to be a bitch about it (though given he still has a habit of attacking creators of SFW VNs, I doubt he'd have the good graces for that), but for now, George can take his time to finish TSR. But let's consider a hypothetical.
George Squares Digivolve to Ken Penders
So under normal conditions, determining ownership in copyright is simple. If you create a thing, you own it. For example, I own this essay and the blog I'm posting it on because I and I alone created them. Things get more complicated when something is made by multiple people or involves an overarching IP with multiple creatives making work for it. In such cases, deals are usually worked out to determine who owns what in case someone leaves or tries to make a competing work. But in cases where no formal deal is made or the deal gets nullified for whatever reason, then the creator is entitled to ownership of their personal contributions. That is what happened with TSR as far as I've been able to piece together. Unless George actually somehow convinced Redd, Howly, and McSkinny to sign an agreement saying ownership of TSR would transfer to him in case of departure, there was no formal agreement, meaning we have a Ken Penders case.
For those who don't know, Ken Penders was the main writer for the Sonic the Hedgehog comics at Archie Comics for a significant portion of its run. Normally, when a writer is contracted to make supplemental material for an existing IP, any new characters or settings they make for it are the property of the owners of that IP. However, when Ken Penders sued for ownership of his contributions, Archie had surprisingly lost that contract. So Ken Penders got to keep his OCs (which he had a LOT of) and the event forced the comic to reset the timeline to kill off all of those characters.
But let's say the new writer wanted to risk it and bring a few back. Who could he get away with? Well Ken had created a character called Evil Sonic. It was just an alternate Sonic with a leather jacket and sunglasses. However, after Ken left, Evil Sonic was transformed into Scourge with new green coloring, red sunglasses, and distinct scars on his stomach. In the story, he's still just Evil Sonic, but in terms of design, he is a new character. If Ken were to argue he owns Scourge, he would have to argue that he owns the concept of a Sonic-like hedgehog wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses or owns the idea of Sonic having an evil doppelganger. As ridiculous as that sounds, he has threatened legal action over Knuckles having a dad, so I'm sure he'd still try. There's a problem though. Both concepts are so vague and derivative that almost any court would balk at the idea and say that the new writer's version constitutes a new original character while Ken's does not.
What I'm getting at is that a lot of creative ownership is determined by concept and design, not by who utilizes them the most. The only way you could come into ownership of a character after they were created without a formal agreement is by changing the character so much that they become a functionally new character with a new design, and then you would own them, but only in their new form. That isn't what George did with the characters. William, Nikolai, and Clifford have basically the same designs from before George was brought on and the overall premise was conceptualized by Howly and Co as well. Not to mention, Howly created the setting.
George might not even own the rights to the name the Smoke Room. McSkinny included a location of the same name in Echo in August of 2018 and the announcement for what was then Project 1915 being renamed to the Smoke Room wasn't until May of 2019, 9 months later. 2018 is the year George joined development on TSR, but it's unclear what time in 2018 he joined or if McSkinny took the name from name suggestions at the time. My theory is that McSkinny was extremely uninvolved with TSR development even when he was on the team (as he stated multiple times) and he independently came up with the location name with no plans of it being TSR's title, then the 1915 team decided they liked the name and adopted it. After all, you could say the Smoke Room in Echo gets its name from the fact it's a room full of smoke. Meanwhile in the Smoke Room, the name of the room is just a code for Sam's room that only comes up in the prologue. The code could be anything in that regard. Regardless, George would be entitled to Murdoch, the various side characters he created, and possibly but possibly not the name, but that's it.
So to George or any of his stans, no, Echo Project didn't give TSR to him because he was legally owed it. You can argue whether or not he should have it from a moral perspective and then we can get into copyleft discourse, but from a legal standpoint, George was never owed TSR. It was given to him as a last act of good will and if Howly and Co were richer and pettier, they definitely could have sued for the rights to it.
Now it could be possible that ownership wasn't formally transferred over and Echo Project could still sue, but I doubt that would happen and based on how each party has acted in this situation, I think it's more likely George would sue then Echo Project. We'll just have to see if Echo Project ever does anything with TSR at some point. So let's move on.
Furry Visual Novel Deep State
Now George... did not respond well to the fallout of this situation. On social media, he was stoking conspiracies about how his ex and Orion were plotting against him (Despite the fact neither were part of Echo Project nor seemed particularly close to any important figures in Echo Project). He kept attacking Cienie and blamed his firing on puriteens who didn't like that he wrote sex scenes. He kept making claims about his copyright ownership that didn't seem plausible.
This is what prompted me to basically give up on the Smoke Room and George. That is until recently when I decided to play the most recent update. And... I kinda liked it.
Gotta Give Credit Where It's Due
So I've shat on George and his writing a good deal, so I think I should admit that my actual feelings towards his work skew overall positive for a few reasons.
Despite how, on social media, he can be regressive and exclusionary and generally politically immature, the Smoke Room is surprisingly pretty progressive and politically nuanced especially compared to other FVNs. For one thing, it has a lot more distinct, interesting, and likable female characters with a lot of presence than most FVNs. Cynthia, Samuel's friend at the brothel, plays a major role in the prologue and all four routes, even the one she disappears from halfway through because it still massively involves her background as a member of the local indigenous tribe. Murdoch's route alone has more major female characters than all of Echo. TSR is one of the only FVNs that passes the Bechdel test. And unlike a lot of Westerns, it actually acknowledges the important role prostitution played in the Wild West. On top of that, although it's mostly carried over from Echo, characters are also more racially diverse than usual. Several major characters are Chinese, Latino, and Native American. There's also a heavy amount of hard hitting political commentary. Nikolai's route centers around the tension between a miners union and the local mining company which eventually ends with the national guard being called in to violently end the miners strike. Clifford's route is about how he's tasked with convincing the nearby Native American reservation to agree to having a railroad built from their reservation to Echo. You can even choose to see the difference in how the population reacts differently depending on whether he asks if they'd want it or he exposes that the mining company already plans to do it. And TSR actually tries to explore how homophobia affected people in pre-Stonewall America in some pretty dark ways.
George is certainly a great writer and I only point out his shortcomings as one, because I can easily tell he could learn to grow past them if he just dislodged his head from his own ass. It's so frustrating to see him do fantastic work and then watch him pause the climax of Murdoch's route to have a forced "interactive" scene where the characters meticulously search an empty school building. Certainly doesn't help that he paused the climax before this point already for a long sex scene that was forced in. And it's for minor characters who already had a sex scene.
It's baffling he fumbled the climax this hard, because in Nikolai's route, the climax was just fine even if the bad ending was pretty unsatisfying. But otherwise it was well written. I liked that the good ending was actually happy and emotionally satisfying. I was really not looking forward to the idea any of the endings were canon to Echo, especially now that TSR has officially been cut out of the Echo series, and I'm glad George allowed the story to end however he wanted. I can only hope he'll correct course when he finishes Murdoch's route and do even better with the rest of the routes.
George does have his flaws as a writer, but he is still overall really good. He knows how to properly incorporate and explore themes, how to make compelling and interesting characters, how to write multiple women, and how to explore sensitive subject matter in an intelligent and thoughtful way. He's really good compared to most FVN writers. But that doesn't mean he isn't still an asshole.
Conclusion
For a while, I struggled with thinking about how to square away my feelings about art made by problematic people. Usually when I find out an artist I admire is shitty, I find it hard to enjoy their work. Flaws I might have overlooked because they felt too minor drain on the experience when I can't accept them in good faith anymore. But what do I do when the work is still so good that I can't help but admire it? I'm not one to say there's an objective moral way to feel about problematic art or artists. I think actions matter more in that regard. I'm just stating my own feelings and technically speaking, what George has done is not that bad. He hasn't groomed a minor or supported genocide (as far as I know as of September of 2025). He's just kinda unprofessional, terminally online, narcissistic, and too drama-hungry. So for me, I'm going to do what I can to enjoy the Smoke Room on my own and tell off his dick riders. Speaking of that.
Echo Project's Sins
There's a pretty small but extremely vocal segment of the TSR fandom who started being overly critical of Echo Project after kicking George out. So let's go over some of that. One of the biggest issues these people have with Echo Project is that they update slowly and George was the only one releasing builds consistently. Here's the issue. There are no full time workers at Echo Project. They don't post exact numbers, but let's look at some other VNs that do and estimate the money Echo Project brings in. If you take the monthly earnings per paid member rate for Santa Lucia, Where the Demon Lurks, Burrows, and Cleaved and multiply that by Echo Project's number of paid members, you get an average of $6429 with a range of $6033.98-$9013.46. Now that would put Echo Project at earning far more than any of these projects, almost double what all of them make combined even at the lowest estimate. But here's the thing. If a full time worker is paid the equivalent of $15/h for 40 hours a week at around $2400 a month, that means even with the highest estimate, they'd only be able to afford 3 full time workers. They have 3 project leads, around 7 artists, and one main composer. If the earnings are split evenly, there's only around $600-$900 in earnings for each of them. This isn't counting a Role To Play, which is so sporadic with releases that I doubt anyone working on that gets regular cuts. Technically the leads could get full time pay, but that's assuming the maximum estimate is true which is the biggest outlier in the data set already and that those wages are actually enough for the areas and situations they live in. The lowest average livable wage for a US state in 2025 is $19.43 in West Virginia. With that in mind, all of the project leads would have to be making below the lowest average livable wage in the US AND be able to afford commissions on all their sprites and background art and music. So really it's not feasible to make them full time. Maybe Howly could take a full time cut, but he's also the primary caretaker for his mentally ill sister so even if he's using Echo Project as his primary source of income, he still likely doesn't have the time and energy to actually work on it full time and there's going to be times where his available free time will vary. So no matter what, no one can afford to work on Echo Project VNs full time. And regardless of all that, the capacity to create even under ideal circumstances will vary heavily by person and situation. Hence, the sporadic release schedule. But also, the release schedule is not that unusual. It's pretty typical for VNs to go through periods where they only release a build every 3-6 months. George was a massive outlier releasing builds around once every 1-2 months. But George is also a professional writer, meaning he likely has more time to sit down and write than usual. Even then, he's been slowing down recently himself to around what Echo Project releases. Also, his releases were honestly a bit too frequent. Every update would have very little happening to the point individual ones would feel pointless. And he'd often have to fix sections that were written poorly because they were rushed, like the Kane scene I talked about earlier. It would end up fine in the end usually, but following each update was tedious and he honestly should have realized sooner it'd be better if he released builds half as often.
Now let's move on to Echo Project's other sins. Howly VNs are bad. This is wrong. They are actually really really good... Well that was easy. Honestly, I'm not gonna bother with the criticisms of Howly's writing. They're extremely nitpicky or often born out of bad misreadings of his work. One of his most shat upon VNs is Arches despite being his most polished and tightly written one so far (I suspect the hate comes more from the fact it doesn't have any sexy husbandos to thirst over than anything having to do with quality). And worst of all, the same standards are almost never applied to other FVNs. Adastra gets shat on all the time for supposedly bad pacing. But I've seen some of these same critics praise and defend some of the worst paced FVNs in the scene. Howly isn't perfect, but he's the most lauded for a reason. He has done more than enough to earn his place in this scene and that doesn't mean other people don't deserve to be on his level. So we'll move on.
Lastly, some George fans think Echo Project were the ones being unprofessional in how they ousted George. Personally though, I think they handled it the best they could. George had been a liability for years and they were already close to having a good chance to remove him once before that hadn't worked out (and they had more than enough reasons to privately want to kick him out). They took the first decent opportunity they could find and it was a bigger risk to keep him on as long as they did anyway (George feels like one of those fandom celebrities who's arrogant and stubborn enough that it's only a matter of time before they would do something extremely stupid, refuse to apologize, and tank all their credibility, like Pepper Coyote who coincidentally has made some music for TSR). So relative to their other options, it was a smart move. It probably would have been better if he were ousted much earlier on when he had a lot less clout, but having missed that opportunity, they handled it the best they could. And even though George tried really hard to make it seem otherwise, they made sure the transfer of the project was smooth enough to keep further drama under control. They were a lot nicer to George than they needed to be. They could have yanked the whole thing away from him and dragged this out into messy legal disputes, but they just graciously let him have it and didn't even require any changes to make sure future builds of TSR respected their copyrights like maybe changing some names around at the least, though the fact George hasn't even remotely attempted to implement any of those changes himself just in case speaks massive volumes about his arrogance.
I know there's a lot of people who feel Echo Project is "overrated" and a lot of people including myself who think TSR is great. But you shouldn't let your own media preferences inhibit your ability to hold creatives accountable. My favorite FVN is Shelter and if there was a serious community push to callout the creator for using AI art, I would also callout that creator. Because it's not about defending my faves or attacking people who make stuff I don't like. That is toxic and it shouldn't be normalized. I want to see people whose work I enjoy improve themselves both artistically and personally. And sometimes that does mean criticizing them.
I'll end this off by crediting my sources. On top of reading George's posts when this all went down, I also consulted the Echo Project Patreon and Circles: An Oral History of Echo by Thiger which documents the history of Echo's development which partially crosses over with TSR's development. It's really a fascinating read on its own for any Echo fan. Also consulted a lot from ChellayTiger's Substack article about the George Squares drama and while I disagree with some of Chellay's personal takes, they did a good job documenting a lot of the drama including a lot of the private infighting, a lot of which was part of Hop-Skip's callout, but people weren't into that much at the time. I also strongly recommend all of Echo Project's VNs. Echo, Adastra, and Arches are all finished and you can read for yourself why Howly's such a lauded VN writer. Also check out Glory Hounds which is co-written by Redd. It's comparatively a lot more fun and silly, but it's really a great VN all around. And I encourage people to still read the Smoke Room. It's a great VN despite its author's problems.
