Greetings again! As promised, another chapter in the same day~ Before reading, I need to place this WARNING here: This chapter is quite lengthy and includes material that may trigger some people. Without too many spoilers, it is psychologically heavy material, and there is detailed description of transgender body disphoria in the context of sexual situations that flirt with abuse and masochistic tendencies. It is emotionally intense, so if you feel that you may not be able to handle these themes, please refrain from reading. I did mention this at the beginning and in the fic description, but thought I'd reiterate since this chapter is particularly heavy in the inclusion of these triggering themes.

Now that I've successfully scared you (hopefully not; it's not that bad, in my opinion ^-^), enjoy!

2-D:

His weight suddenly feels suffocating, and you just want him gone.

No.

You just want him.

But you're so ashamed you could just die. Wishing you could shrink back into the sofa and disappear entirely; you gaze intently down, to where your underwear fits your anatomy improperly. You can't tell if he's deciphered the situation entirely, and you give up, your body limply sinking into the ratty, puke-green cushion. You just want to cut. You deserve it for lying. You feel dirty, vulnerable, and disgusting. A freak. Your head is spinning, and you've come off your high entirely, are have become completely and dreadfully aware of the situation at hand. This is why you shouldn't have allowed him to get so close. But it's your own bloody fault for being so sodding horny and needy. You shouldn't have touched him, inviting a sequence of events you'd rather CRL+Z. You figure you can't avoid him forever, as he isn't making a move to leave. You slowly lift your head, your hollow eyes meeting his. You open your mouth and make a small sound, as if you're going to speak, but no decipherable language comes forth. His eyes are dumbfounded and full of questions. You sigh heavily, the binding tightening with every breath, digging mercilessly into your flesh. You kind of want to not care. To let him rip it off. Just so you can fucking breathe. You shake your head violently at the thought, your azure hair hanging in dull, matted strands in front of your face.

That's when he reached out to touch your shoulder. It's a gentle touch, but you're still hesitant to accept it. Your eyes meet again, but this time he speaks: "Stu…what..? Are you okay? Did I hurt you that badly?"

Oh.

He thinks the bandage is there to conceal the bruises he inflicted on you. You feel even more sick, your stomach doing summersaults within you. You feel empty and worthless. "No," you manage deadly, still looking into his eyes. Why is he still maintaining eye contact? You're a monster—those eyes terrify everyone! And yet he doesn't break the gaze. He frowns, his fingers making a move to the hem of your shirt. You're panicking, but there's nothing else to do. Just let him. You feel him lift the shirt up slowly, cold air making contact with the exposed skin of your abdomen. You involuntarily lift your arms up, allowing him to tug off the offending garment. The bruise from the other day has turned a deep purple, but is not covered by your bandages. He looks at them, then back at your eyes, as you feel your chest rise and fall in a nervous internal frenzy. "Stu, what's going on?" He immediately notices the cuts and scars littering your arms, and you try to hide them behind your back, shame flooding your entire being. You shake your head. No more tears. "Nothing, I'm fine. Sod off!" You try to sound strong and defiant, but your tone falters and your voice cracks awkwardly.

He traces the scars gently, his finger mapping out the complex pattern of scrapes, cuts, scars and bruises etched or inflicted onto your skin. "For the love of Sweet Satan! I know you did this…why?" His tone attempts to be comforting, but it's also concerned and jarring. You also don't know how to respond, so you shrug minimally. "Nothing," you repeat. Not the answer he wanted.

THWOMP!

And you feel blood drip from your nose, and grab at it immediately, but it dribbles through your fingers, the crimson liquid staining his pants.

Fuck.

You're panicking. He's going to kill you this time, for sure! The entire scenario for your own funeral plays in your head as you desperately look around for a tissue, finding only your shirt. You reach out to pick it up from where it lays quietly and innocently on the sofa, but he grabs your arm. "No." His voice is firm. And he sounds pissed.

Then suddenly, that hostile emotion fades and he sighs heavily, taking the sleeve of his own shirt and wiping your nose caringly.

"Now tell me."

Shit. He's still at it. And you're still not willing to disclose.

"I a-already told y-you," you stutter. "I'm fine." You slouch hopelessly as you know he's not buying your bullshit. Not this time. "It's my shit to deal with, got it? And no bloody wanker's gonna help me!" You're almost yelling, you realize, and cover your mouth with your hands.

He sighs again, touching his hand to your binding. "No, you aren't. What's this?" he inquires firmly, tugging at the bandages. Your hands fly to his, stopping any further motions. "Don't," you state through gritted teeth. "It's my problem. I already told you, now sod-"

Too late. He's found the end piece and has begun to unwind the bandage. You gasp, covering your face, flushing a terribly unflattering shade of sickly green. You want to throw up.

"You…don't really want to do that, Muds. Please…stop…" you ask, half-heartedly. Though part of you—an increasing part—just wants him to know already. Your heart races as the binding comes undone, the fabric eagerly unwinding to his gently coaxing as Murdoc's eyes begin to widen. You can breathe easier with every passing moment, but you feel a knot in your throat. As the last few inches of the bandage flutter off and fall limply down on your abdomen, your "chest" is revealed—or rather appendages you'd rather not acknowledge yourself. He just stares at them stupidly for a good few, nerve-racking minutes.

You hate being stared at. Especially those parts, so you attempt to cover them with your hands, but he stops you, grabbing your wrists, and pinning them back on either side of you against the sofa cushion. You're panicking and you want to scream, but before you can, he leans in, crushing his lips against yours. You moan a bit, but melt into the kiss.

He pulls away for a second, looking at you. "So. You've been hiding this from me." He sounds disappointed.

"I'm a boy!" You protest, in a pained scream, flailing uselessly against his strong grip.

"I know," he responds matter-of-factly.

You blink. "W-what?! But…I have…"

"A nice chest," he jumps in before you manage to finish. "Better than most blokes," he teases, smirking.

You blush, a wild shade of crimson overtaking your cheeks. "You're not…mad?"

He frowns. "Why would I be, Stu?"

"I lied to you…" you begin desperately, but he cuts you off, bringing his lips to yours again briefly before moving his ministrations to your neck, trailing small bites and kisses down to your collarbone. "Less talking, Faceache, more fucking." The word causes goosepimples to cover your skin, your legs spreading apart and wrapping around him. Then you pause a bit, voice resigned and serious. "You're not even gonna take me seriously, though, are ya? You're just gonna fuck me like some broad!" Tears spring forth from your eyes.

"No. I was planning on fucking you like a man. And hoping you'd take it like one. So what if the machinery's a bit different; the mechanics are essentially the same: my dick, your hole…" He smirks, the last few words dripping off his tongue lustfully, his one hand making contact with your chest, gently pinching the small pink nub of your nipple between his thumb and index finger. You moan, closing your eyes, and tilting your head back. "A-are you…sure? That your okay with fucking a man…" He doesn't stop what he's doing, and whispers lustfully into your ear, "Oh I'm more than okay with it, Stuart. I've always wanted to fuck you." He draws back to look at you, your face flushed a beautiful pink.

"And there's no reason think of yourself poorly. I never told ya this, Faceache, but men turn me on." He grins. "The thought of my dick inside you makes me hard."

Fuck. FUCKFUCKFUCK.

You're suddenly incredibly horny and you murmur something incomprehensible as one of his hands travels to the hem of your underwear, playing with the elastic, snapping it teasingly against your skin. You moan, tightening your legs around him in a needy want. "Muds…" you manage, breathlessly, and he knows. Slowly, his fingers slip under the elastic, and he's got one finger inside you—the spot you despise so much. But it feels so good. You gasp as he inserts another finger, scissoring the two digits deliciously.

"Take them off," you say quietly. He smiles, tugging your underwear off, then his own trousers as well, pushing you down onto the sofa so that he is on top of you, his lower half settled between your legs. He grinds his hips against you and you moan at the sensational friction, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. He leans down to flick his tongue over it, lapping up the blood eagerly, as your hands reach around to grasp his back, your jagged nails digging into the flesh. He inserts his fingers into you once again, slowly pumping them in and out of you, before curling one around to your g-spot. Your entire body responds, back arching wildly. The room is spinning and your mind is racing, body beginning to perspire a bit as he works his magic touches on you. You buck your hips up against his hand, dripping and begging for further encroachment. His scent is an odd yet deliciously intoxicating mix of tobacco, alcohol, and a fading hint of weed. It sounds disgusting, but you're actually enjoying it.

And then you begin to feel him slipping his member inside you. You have no idea when he removed his underwear, but you feel a tight, uncomfortable pinching sensation in your nethers. You wince a bit, and he licks his fingers, savoring your wetness as his tongue winds around the digits erotically. He leans down to kiss you softly, and pulls away, whispering, "Just relax, Stu…"

"NO!" You practically scream.

You've feared him raping you so many times. Cruelly invading that taboo privacy you cherish. Or cherished. But in the moment, you want that. "I'm not a sodding bitch!" You hiss, through gritted teeth. "Now, fuck me." Your eyes squeeze shut, a single tear trailing down your cheek as you feel a burning pain at your entrance. "Hard."

He pauses, panting. "Are..you sure.."

As hard as you can!" you add desperately, smirking and raking your nails down his back some. He pauses, and then suddenly, you feel something tear inside you, a painful gasp escaping your lips as he rams into you mercilessly, again and again. It's finally gone. That motherfucking part of you that you hated so much. It's over. It'll never hurt like this again, right? You feel your muscles tight around his dick, pumping it, in and out; in and out, with increasing speed. You feel something seeping out of you and between his grunts and your moans, you can't decide if it's cum or blood—or a mixture of both.

And then it begins to feel good. He has built up a steady rhythm, your bodies rocking back and forth in unison. You're both sweaty and panting. Nothing else exists.

And that's when it happens. Your mind goes blank and you see fucking stars as you tighten around him, his name escaping your lips in ecstasy.

Seconds later, he moans your name loudly and you feel something warm fill you.

Hope ya liked! I'm really sorry if I triggered anyone, but I did warn you~ Reviews would be lovely!