Classic American comics from the '80s often follow a pattern: the protagonist, a victim of school bullying, gains superpowers and stays true to their roots, saving the world.
But that's too fantastical. As we know, superheroes like Superman or Spider-Man had solid family upbringings, keeping them on the straight and narrow.
If a normal person endures prolonged negative treatment, constantly a victim of violence, they're likely to become the aggressor once they gain power.
Except for someone like Uzumaki Naruto, whose subconscious was altered by Asura's chakra.
As a modern "four-no" youth—no house, no car, no savings, no partner—Shiraki would never do anything to disrupt social harmony.
Amid towering skyscrapers, the unquenchable lights burned with the brilliance of civilization.
In the neon‐reflected night sky, a figure darted through the air, weaving erratic paths, soaring at breakneck speed around the bustling city.
Reverie had slept for 485 years, her energy and vitality at their peak, fueling Shiraki's unrestrained joyride.
From a bird's‐eye view, after touring Tokyo's meticulously planned nightscape, Shiraki arced through thin clouds.
Feeling the night breeze carry the scent of distant ocean waves to his cheeks, Shiraki's expression grew dreamy.
Dispelling the wind sustaining his flight, he let himself plummet from the clouds, free‐falling from ten thousand meters.
The icy high‐altitude night wind was, to a Mezaranth, no different from a warm spring breeze. With his bangs fluttering wildly, Shiraki sank into thought.
What should he do next?
With power in hand, Shiraki wouldn't choose to be a "Superman," nor would he become an aggressor.
Of course, if someone harbored ill intent toward him, he wouldn't mind playing the Homelander.
In the Elemental Gelade world, Reverie had a promise to fulfill!
When Reverie's soul merged with Shiraki's, her memories and will didn't vanish but fused completely with his.
Reverie was Shiraki, and Shiraki was Reverie.
But before that…
Landing in a deserted area on the outskirts of Tokyo, the gale subsided, and the Blade of Verdant Wind dissolved into a holy breeze. A dreamlike figure materialized beside Shiraki.
Her face was exquisitely crafted, as if by divine hands, with long lashes like butterfly wings. Her deep green eyes shimmered like a gentle breeze.
Azure hair cascaded like soft, precious silk, covering skin as fair as fresh snow.
She exuded an ethereal, untarnished purity, a sense of standing aloof from the world, like a princess stepping out of a fantasy.
The black skirt swaying in the breeze was so beautifully surreal it felt dreamlike.
Like a hammer striking his heart, Shiraki's pulse raced once more.
This time, it was because of Reverie herself.
Silently, Reverie reached out, placing her soft hand in Shiraki's. The warm, smooth sensation made his palm tremble faintly.
To be honest, this was his first time formally holding a girl's hand—and a super‐beautiful one at that!
Yet, this girl was "himself."
Conceptually, Reverie and Shiraki holding hands was no different from one person clasping their own hands.
But the intimacy, far beyond sibling‐level closeness, resembled a couple strolling hand‐in‐hand. Shiraki and Reverie walked side by side.
From the desolate suburbs into Tokyo's main roads.
Along the way, Reverie's dreamlike appearance drew unavoidable attention.
A 2D beauty in a 3D world—this was a dimensional strike!
Not only was the head‐turn rate 100%, but they were approached multiple times.
"Wow, little miss, what brand is that wig? It looks so real!" chirped a sunny, outgoing girl.
"Is this a cosplay of some character?" asked a lively young man, clearly a normie.
Cosplay wasn't unusual in a city like Tokyo.
"Is that… Reverie, Reverie Mezaranth? It's so spot‐on! H‐Hi, can I take a photo?" stammered a blushing, shy young man, clearly an otaku.
A bit socially anxious, he'd never approach cosplayers alone at conventions, but this coser was just too stunning!
He recognized me? This guy's a veteran otaku!
"It's not a wig," Reverie replied calmly, politely declining the photo request.
As a fellow nerd, Shiraki understood the guy's excitement, but since Reverie was the "real anime heroine," it was better to pass.
For the first time, "Shiraki" experienced being noticed for his appearance, a strangely nuanced feeling.
Calling an Uber from his phone, on the way back to the apartment, even the middle‐aged driver, around forty, kept sneaking glances at Reverie through the rearview mirror.
As they say, men remain boys until they die, and boys naturally adore young, stunning super‐beauties.
With both bodies in one space, their stacked senses made Shiraki and Reverie hyper‐aware of every gaze.
Reverie's beauty made attention inevitable.
The driver's glances were discreet. To him, Shiraki looked like a wealthy second‐gen—sneaking peeks at someone's girlfriend could spell trouble.
How did he reach that conclusion?
Shiraki's plain looks paired with a girlfriend that gorgeous? Either money or an elite background, maybe both.
No kidding—that guy didn't say a word to his girlfriend the whole ride, just sulked on his phone.
Yet, despite that, the dreamlike beauty sat obediently beside him, her fair hand playfully tugging at his palm, her delicate fingers poking his cheek cutely, even massaging his shoulders, her lips curling into an increasingly radiant smile…
Sour!
So sour!
Lemons on the lemon tree, and I'm the only one beneath it!
Imagining returning home to a menopausal, irritable wife, the driver's envy and jealousy nearly ground his molars to dust.
He'd bet anything: if Shiraki wasn't from a wealthy family, he'd eat his own shoes!
It's 3202—where the hell is love anymore?
Shiraki, unaware of the driver's inner turmoil, would've just chuckled if he knew.
He didn't have a habit of talking to himself, so he didn't chat with Reverie.
But the driver wasn't entirely wrong.
Forget Reverie's level—even a girl with half her looks wouldn't date an ordinary guy.
"What's with this driver?"
After getting out, Shiraki watched the driver, teeth clenched, speed off like his car was on fire, utterly baffled.
But soon, he brushed aside the random encounter, entering the apartment complex.
Under the stunned or fiercely envious gazes of passersby, Shiraki held Reverie's hand and returned to his rental.
Closing the door, the indoor lights cast a warm, cozy glow.
Shiraki gazed at Reverie, whose expression mirrored his slight daze. He reached out, gently stroking her hip‐length hair, his fingertips lingering on its warmth, her peerless face.
An inexplicable emotion arose, spreading like wildfire to every corner of his being.
Taking a deep breath, Shiraki grabbed two fresh towels and strode into the bathroom.
The shower lasted 20 minutes—twice his usual time, scrubbed with unprecedented care, especially certain areas.
After drying off, he tossed himself onto the bed, shifting most of his consciousness into Reverie's body.
This is my own body. I can do whatever I want with it, and there's no issue, no matter how you look at it!
Right, no issue! The girl nodded affirmatively, stepping lightly into the bathroom like walking on cotton.
No shame in admitting it—Shiraki wasn't above traditional "handiwork." If he and Reverie… cough, it'd just be like switching "hands" to reward himself.
Her soft, fair feet touched the cold tiles. Reverie deftly unbuttoned her clothes, slipping off the pure black dress.
Vast swaths of luminous skin were revealed, delicate curves barely concealed by close‐fitting fabric, her slender waist exuding a supple beauty.
Her delicate fingertips reluctantly traced the fine texture of her fair skin, wandering toward their intended destination.
Reverie's fingers, gracefully curved, hovered near the source of gravitational waves, sinking into soft, snowy flesh, rising and falling gently with her breaths.
Through this, she listened to her own heartbeat. After… not groping, I mean, feeling a slight chill, she turned on the shower.
Warm water, adjusted to a comfortable temperature by Shiraki, poured over her. Clear streams slid down her cascading hair, droplets tracing her flawless, graceful curves, dripping onto the floor, splashing in tiny bursts.
The specifics of the washing process can't be described, naturally.
Let's just say Shiraki's understanding of female primary sexual characteristics took a qualitative leap, such that the bedsheet covering him arched upward, refusing to settle for a long time.
Twenty minutes later…
Reverie reached for the towel on the bathroom wall hook, slowly drying her body.
Perhaps because it was her first time bathing this body with a male consciousness, her mind and body grew sensitive. Soft, almost imperceptible moans spilled from her lips, adding a touch of ambiguity to the small bathroom.
Under warm white light, her snow‐white skin glowed with a faint flush. Her bare face, without a trace of makeup, was breathtakingly radiant, ethereal, and otherworldly.
After drying off, she casually tossed the towel aside and reached for the "bathrobe" on the wall—Shiraki's white dress shirt.
Slipping it on simply, the shirt's hem just covered her pert rear. Her flawless, slender legs were exposed, their translucent skin shimmering with an ivory sheen.
Her collarbone traced a clear, elegant line, offering a smooth visual flow. The subtle dip of her clavicle exuded refined allure.
Reverie gazed at herself in the full‐length mirror, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes.
Her smooth soles touched the carpet as she padded barefoot to the bedside. Under Shiraki's gaze, she climbed onto the bed.
With the shirt's buttons undone, Reverie spread her lotus‐like arms, pulling Shiraki's head to her chest.
Then…
Both bodies tumbled onto the bed!
No way, right? No way!
No way!
No normal guy, given a super‐beautiful girl's body, could resist that thought, could they?
Whatever others might do, with Reverie this gorgeous, Shiraki sure couldn't!
Charge!
Full speed ahead!
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T/N: You should add description author.
(Read this if you're not content with suble description of author, skip if you don't want to… I can't put it into author's note as it has 800–900 characters sorry—masen.)
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In the dimly lit room, the air hung heavy with a mix of sweat and a faint floral scent—her scent, wild and intoxicating—wrapping around him like a second skin.
The sheets beneath them were cool at first, but quickly warmed as their bodies pressed together, his muscular frame overshadowing her softer, feminine form.
Her azure hair fanned out in a chaotic sprawl across the pillow, and the gem on her forehead—a sensitive, shimmering beacon—glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with her quickening breaths, a silent signal of her mounting excitement.
He felt a storm of emotions as he hovered over her—his female self, a mirror and yet a stranger.
There was a surreal familiarity in her curves, her scent, the way her skin yielded under his touch, as if he were exploring a part of himself he'd never fully known.
His chest tightened with a deep, almost aching connection, a sense of wholeness that bordered on reverence.
But beneath that simmered a raw, physical hunger, a need that pulsed through him, urging him onward.
His heart thudded hard, not just from arousal but from the dizzying intimacy of merging with this other half of his soul.
Every touch, every sound she made, sent a jolt through him—pride, curiosity, and a possessive thrill all tangled together.
His rough hands gripped her hips, steadying her as he positioned himself between her thighs.
She was wet and warm, her readiness evident in the slickness he found there. He teased her entrance briefly with the tip of his erection, feeling her heat against him, the anticipation coiling tight in his gut.
Then, with a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered her.
The sensation was immediate and overwhelming—her tight warmth enveloped him, inch by inch, a perfect fit that made his breath catch.
He felt her inner walls grip him, a pulsing resistance that gave way as he pushed deeper.
She gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him in until he was fully sheathed inside her.
The connection was electric, a fusion of their bodies that sent a shiver up his spine.
He paused for a moment, savoring the fullness, the way she molded around him, before he began to move—each thrust a measured rhythm, building friction that stoked the fire in his veins.
His hands slid upward from her hips, tracing the gentle curve of her waist before finding her breasts.
They were soft and full, fitting perfectly in his palms, and he marveled at their weight, their responsiveness.
His thumbs brushed over her nipples, already taut and begging for attention.
She arched into his touch, a soft whimper spilling from her lips, and that sound alone sent a rush of heat through him.
He teased her further, rolling one nipple between his fingers, feeling it harden even more under his touch.
Then he lowered his mouth to the other, his tongue circling the sensitive peak before he closed his lips around it.
He sucked gently at first, tasting the faint salt of her skin, then harder, drawing a sharp gasp from her as her body tensed beneath him.
Her reactions fueled him—every hitch in her breath, every squirm, made his own arousal spike, a feedback loop of pleasure tying them tighter together.
As their rhythm built, his lips left her breast and trailed downward, kissing a path along her collarbone and up the slender column of her neck.
Her skin was soft, flushed with heat, and he could feel her pulse racing beneath it.
She tilted her head back, offering more of herself, and he couldn't resist.
He nipped at her neck first, a light graze of teeth that made her shiver.
Then, driven by the rising tide of his desire, he bit down harder, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh just below her jaw.
The pressure was firm but careful, enough to leave a faint mark without breaking skin. She moaned, a low, trembling sound that vibrated against his lips, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if anchoring herself against the sensation.
The act felt primal, possessive, and her response—her surrender to it—sent a surge of satisfaction through him, amplifying the intensity of their union.
Throughout it all, the gem on her forehead remained a focal point, its glow intensifying with their passion.
He pressed his lips to it briefly, and she jolted beneath him, a sharp cry escaping as the gem flared bright, its heat searing against his skin.
Later, as their movements grew frantic, he rested his forehead against hers, trapping the gem between them.
Its sensitivity magnified every thrust, every touch, linking their pleasure in a way that felt almost otherworldly.
When she climaxed—her body clenching tight around him, her cry echoing in the small space—the gem blazed, bathing them in a fierce, pulsing light.
He followed soon after, the overwhelming rush of release crashing through him as the gem's flickering mirrored their shared peak.
When it was over, they lay tangled together, her sweat‐slicked hair plastered to his chest.
The gem had dimmed, its surface cool and calm once more, as if it had never flared to life.
His breathing slowed, his body heavy with exhaustion and a strange, quiet fulfillment.
There were no grand epiphanies, just the raw, physical reality of their connection—a collision of self and other, desire and discovery, fading into the stillness of the dimly lit room.