Tragic in the sense where I was born in a house that was already aflame.
Beautiful in the sense that I’ve been able build a small little home far, far, far away from that terrible place; a home where I can feel safe, without worry of someone barging into my room to yell at me in front of my tutors, my friends. I see the privilege that I grew up in. But it has never fully felt like privilege. Everything has always come with strings attached. It felt like a death sentence, for lack of better word. It felt like I was trying to negotiate with the devil, terrorists, it felt suffocating.
I was a weed growing in between the cracks of concrete that tried to suffocate me, that tried to dictate the life I should live, that tried to dictate the way I should live my life. I was searching for the sun, I was searching for ways that I could feel the wind on my face, music in my ears, honey on my tongue, a warm touch on my skin. I don’t think that’s too much to ask for. I just wanted to feel alive. Like I mattered. That I was important. I ask for very little to feel okay in this life. And they couldn’t even do that.
My friends say that it’s really easy to make me happy. That I smile easily. But they’ll never understand what it took for me to get here. The people that I’ve had to leave behind. The relationships and friendships that I’ve ruined due to not having a proper handle on my own traumatic life experiences.
You can’t force someone to love you. I will rest the meat on the counter, and if they choose to eat it, they can. But I cannot force their hands.
Mafe says that it makes sense that my heart feels hardened. I feel like I often walk away from situations with thoughts of how I don’t need them. That I’ll be perfectly fine on my own. That I am emotionally capable of taking care of meeting my own needs.
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Am I no longer able to connect with other people, where every possible instance has lead to a series of numbness and empty moments.
I feel good for a second, but then I completely lose interest in the other person. I don’t care about Hayden, or even Max. I just wish I could feel something again for something. I miss being able to feel something. I feel numb and empty, hollowed out, as if my innards have been scraped and dragged out of me by the fistful, entrails trailing behind me.
I feel empty. And meaningless. Like my existence inherently has no meaning. Do I even bother to try to remediate this? Is it even worth it? Does the only meaning in life lie within one’s own capabilities of productivity measured with the amount of effort that is able to yield one dollar value?
Maybe I’m just a deeply broken person where it won’t matter what I do. I have this gaping chasm where my heart should be, and no matter what I do, I’ll never be able to fill it up. There is no suitable prosthetic to supplant it. Maybe I’ll never be whole. But maybe it’s still possible to accept who I am, even accepting the parts of myself that are missing. The parts of myself that I wish were there. But perhaps that’s all that it is - purely wishful thinking where it won’t matter how desperately I may wish for it to manifest. It’ll just never come. There may be always be something about me that makes people feel uncomfortable, that makes them feel the need to look away for if they look upon me for a second too long, they will also feel their own hearts either disappear or turn into stone, or simply completely dissipate into thin air as if it never existed to begin with.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. And I always feel like there will always be something wrong with me.
Maybe that’s my curse - to be constantly full of love, but the type of love I have is mangled and twisted and makes others around turn dark, casting a heavy shadow on their otherwise sunny disposition until they themselves feel compelled to melt into my shadows. And they realize that. So they leave. They don’t want to be as dark as me, they don’t know how to handle this gloomy abyss where I spend the majority of my time in, where it has become my primary residence and I am only able to vacation in the sunny areas of my mind. It scares them and rightfully so. It scares me as well. It’s difficult to be scared of one’s own self. How I wish I could my vacation home into my primary residence.
There is a void, a blackhole that consumes everything it comes into contact with. Maybe that is why Isaac left me. He felt this darkness within me and he saw how willing I was to succumb to it. To give in and surrender myself to it. To allow myself to be swept away by the murky undercurrents threatening to drag me under. And I wouldn’t have fought against the ocean. But maybe I did that in a pitiful attempt of radical self-acceptance. Maybe that’s just who I am. And maybe that is who I will always be. Just a hole for others to pour their darkest fears and anxieties to only make themselves feel better. And I am unaffected by it because it could never compare to my own.
There is a darkness inside of me and no matter how bright or cheerily I may act, no matter how hard I may try to cover it up, to bury it, it will always, always, always be there. I cannot run away from myself for it is impossible. I am who I am, and I will always be who I am no matter which way I dice it. And I must accept that even if it means condemning myself to a life of solitude and loneliness; for isn’t that better than a life of pretend and make-belief? Of charades and temporarily suspended belief that will always inevitably lead to a harsh crash back into reality. A life of farces and facades conjured up to decorate the passage of time in a feeble attempt of wearing a costume that at best only vaguely resembles superficial notions of normalcy. It is simply a thin shroud that is easily torn and shredded as I walk through the dark forest, tugged at and pulled on by the outstretched spindly branches that try to trap me in its sharp grasps and prickly embraces. As if the dark forest is trying to tell me where I truly belong.
Maybe I should give in and allow myself to melt into the forest, the forest that has always been there, the forest that has always followed me no matter where I have travelled to. This is simply a part of who I am. No matter what happens in life, this forest will always be there. And because of it, I will always be lonely, but truly never alone. I will be able to seek shelter within its branches, shielded from the occasional heavy rains and protected from the strong blustery winds that threaten to blow me away. But maybe one day I will be brave enough to step out of the forest. There is a safety to be had and appreciated under the cloak of darkness, where no one else is aware of my darkness except for myself. But that knowledge alone weighs heavily on my spirits. It merely acts to further isolate. I wonder if it is possible to burn down this deeply overgrown forest, to truly set myself free and never look back, to never miss all the alcoves and nooks and crannies in which I had once sought shelter within. Maybe one day I can grow to love this permanent forest that emanates from my heart, threatening to consume the rest of who I am.
What’s the point of bettering myself when this is who I will always irrefutably and inevitably be?
I should just give up. And cave in. No matter the effort I put in, it will only ever amount to a net zero. I will never leave with more than I initially came in.
“ngh that’s not fair!” you whined, clasping your hands with satoru’s who was over your body, looking down at you with that stupid grin of his. “you know martial arts, i don’t!”
“sounds like a skill issue, sweetheart. you’re so weak.” he teased.
this was normal for you two. you enjoyed having your pillow fights with your best friend every time a sleepover happened.
the only problem? you’re ovulating today.
and your best friends bare chest has never looked hotter.
“cmon, don’t tell me your giving up already?”
you quickly shifted your hands to his waist, tickling away. he immediately began barking out a laugh, begging you to stop.
“shit, this isn’t..! fair-“ satoru wheezed, dropping on his back to floor, trying his hardest to catch his breath.
“i win!”
“you cheated..” he managed to let out.
you stuck your tongue out at him, ready to sit back up when suddenly you got attacked with the tickles too.
“two can play at that game.” he watched you laugh, gripping onto his shirt as if that would help at all.
you shifted on his lap, feeling his arms wrap around your torso to lay you down on his chest.
“i win..” he whispered in your ear.
the current position he has you in was awkward. why the hell was it making you wet?
you gulped quietly, wanting to get off of him but he wasn’t letting go.
“what’s wrong, pretty? sad you lost to the amazing satoru?”
you glared at him.
satoru hummed, letting one hand leave your waist to rest on your neck.
your eyes widened, neck and ears flushing pink.
that’s when you felt it.
the very prominent bulge that was poking at your backside.
“thought i wouldn’t notice my best girl was horny? you’re practically dripping through your pjs baby.”
your mouth dried out as both his hands roamed your body, pulling down your shorts to prove his point.
your panties we’re drenched and you didn’t even know it.
“see?”
he coo’ed, teasing your clit with a feather like touch.
“satoru..” you whimpered out, being able to do nothing but watch him toy with you.
“let me help you out, okay?”
your thighs were then pushed up to your chest by one of his arms while the other reached his pants pulling them off to release his cock.
it was no surprise that he was long and thick. veins adorned his shaft and his pink tip was already leaking.
“and these go off as well.” he ripped your panties drawing out a moan from you.
“that’s it..”
he carefully aligned himself with your entrance, placing his chin on your shoulder to get a better view of him sliding right in.
“oh my god!” you gasped.
he gripped your thighs using them for leverage, beginning to thrust in and out getting deeper each time.
“fuck..” he moaned. “didn’t ever think you were this tight.”
he tightened his hold on you to the point of bruising, inhaling sharply.
“oh my god.” he rasped out, voice fucked out from how you were clenching around him.
“my cock ain’t gonna fit in you if you keep clenching like this baby.”
“m’sorry..” your head fell back, landing on his shoulder.
His thrust stutters at your soft apology and when you arch against him harder.
His hair’s even more of a disaster than usual, sweat-damp strands sticking to his forehead as those ocean-blue eyes stay on you.
"Fuckin’ hell," Satoru grits out between panting breaths before suddenly flipping you over in one brutal motion. "wanna see your face"
“b-but i liked the other position..” you bit your lip after admitting to that.
The devious grin he flashes is all teeth before driving into you again deeper this time just watch those pretty noises fall apart for him instead.
“we’ll go back to that one in a bit. just wanna see ya.”
word count : 900. doggystyle, light spanking, brat tamer dynamic, rough thrusting, deep penetration, size kink, tons of moaning / squealing, overstimulation
you’re squealing—loud, breathless, high-pitched sounds tearing out of your throat without your permission as clark slams his dick into you from behind, fucking you so deep the wet smack of his hips against your ass echoes through the room in filthy, rhythmic bursts.
his thrusts are heavy and relentless, dragging obscene noises out of your pussy with every deep stroke.
slick splatters down your thighs, the force of each movement pushing little gasping moans out of you faster than you can catch them. your hands claw at the sheets, your spine arching, your breath stuttering when he lifts your hips just a bit higher to drive into you at a sharper angle.
“clark—ohhh god—clark—” you cry, voice breaking when he hits that spot inside you again, your moan turning into something helpless and squealy, something that makes his breath catch behind you.
he sounds wrecked—frustrated, desperate, worn thin with concern and restraint.
his fingers grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, like he’s terrified you’ll act cold again if he lets you go for even a second. his voice is low, breathless, strained from holding himself together and barely succeeding.
“two weeks,” he groans, hips snapping forward harder, dick pistoning in and out of you with wet, messy sounds that make your whole body tremble, “two weeks of you shutting me out, sweetheart—i’ve been going crazy trying to figure out what i did.”
you try to gather your breath, try to steady your voice long enough to give him something—anything—but the next thrust knocks another moan out of you.
clark’s grip tightens on your waist, his breath hot against your shoulder as he tries again.
“talk to me,” he pants, his voice all breath and gravel, “please—just tell me why you’ve been acting like you don’t want me anywhere near you.”
your brain is scrambled, cunt clenching around him so tight your words trip on your tongue—but something petty, something sharp, something bratty bubbles up before you can stop it.
“maybe i just—” you gasp through a moan, “—don’t like being hovered over all the time—!”
the sentence ends in a squeal when he drives into you harder, the force jolting through your entire body.
his groan is low, deep, almost pained.
he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, his thrusts turning sharp and deliberate, each one landing like a rebuttal.
“hovered?” he breathes, voice tight, “sweetheart, i check on you because i care—”
you cut him off with a breathless, whiny bite of attitude.
“yeah? well sometimes it’s just—too much—!”
he stops holding back.
his hand smacks your ass in a hot, stinging slap that makes your knees buckle, your pussy clenching around his cock like you’re trying to pull him deeper.
he grabs your hips, pulls you back onto him hard enough to make your mouth fall open.
“too much?” he repeats, breath trembling through his teeth as he pounds into you harder, deeper, the bedframe creaking in protest.
you choke on a moan when he slams into you again, your voice splintering as he sets a new brutal rhythm that leaves no room for snark.
“gosh… you sound so sweet when you’re not snapping at me,” he murmurs, hips picking up speed, thrusts turning sharp and deep, “is this what you needed? is this why you’ve been acting this way? wanted me to work it out of you?”
you try to deny it, but your pussy clenches so tight around him that he moans, a soft, broken sound, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder before he gathers himself and fucks into you even harder.
“i’ve been asking what’s wrong,” he whispers, “and you won’t talk to me… won’t look at me… but now—” he slams into you again, harder, your moan punching through the air, “now you’re moaning for me like this.”
another thrust.
another squeal.
another helpless whimper into the sheets.
“sweetheart…” he breathes, voice almost shaky with the mix of desperation and satisfaction, “i shouldn’t have to take you apart like this just to get the truth out of you.”
he grips the back of your neck gently, guiding your face down into the mattress so your hips stay lifted, your pussy wide open for every deep, sloppy thrust he gives you.
he rolls his hips forward, grinding into you until the head of his dick drags slow and thick against your sweetest spot, forcing a long, uncontrollable whine out of you.
your voice is nothing but moans now.
your attitude gone.
your bratty edge melting into a needy, wet mess under him.
clark hears the change—feels it in the way your cunt squeezes him, in the pitch of your moans—and a soft, almost relieved exhale falls from his lips as his thrusts get rougher, more sure, more punishing.
“yeah…” he murmurs, smacking the side of your ass with his palm, groaning when you jolt forward and clamp around him, “there she is. that’s my girl.”
you whine when the next thrust drives his dick even deeper than before, your voice dissolving into broken gasps as he finally gets what he’s been needing for two whole weeks.
﹫𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑒𝑒𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟
i’m open to requests !
check this post’s hashtags to see who i’ll write for
his dick is heavy in his hand, flushed and leaking, the head slick as he runs it slowly through the slippery mess between your thighs. your folds are swollen, twitching with every brush of his tip.
his voice is rough when he whispers, “gonna ease it in, baby… s’gonna feel big. you tell me if it’s too much, alright?”
but you’re already nodding, legs spread wide, cunt stretched open and aching for him. the first inch pushes past your entrance and your body clenches around him immediately, sucking him in with a wet, squelching noise that makes his whole body jolt.
“oh—oh, sweetheart…”
his dick is so fat it forces your walls to stretch around him, snug and slippery and tight, and he’s biting his lip hard to keep himself from rutting deeper too fast. the air’s full of heat and moans, your gasps high and breathy while his are low, cracked, almost desperate.
he’s panting into your neck, trembling from restraint as he feeds you more. your pussy gives a sticky noise each time his hips nudge forward, and you can feel the drag of every vein along your inner walls, your muscles fluttering like you’re trying to spit him out but pull him deeper at the same time.
by the time he’s halfway in, your nails are digging into his back and your thighs are starting to shake. there’s a thick pressure deep in your belly, like your body’s being filled too full, and when you glance down, you can see the faint outline of him under your skin, stretching you out from the inside.
“just a lil’ more,” he groans, voice cracked. “you’re taking it—so good, baby, so soft down there, you’re squeezing me real tight…”
you whimper as he finally bottoms out, dick buried to the base, the thick root of it pressed firm against your overstretched entrance. he doesn’t move, breathing hard against your cheek, both of you dizzy from how deep he is.
your cunt pulses around him, dripping mess down onto the hairy base of his cock.
his hand finds your lower belly, palm spreading over that swollen spot where his dick bulges inside you.
“look at that,” he murmurs, in awe. “my sweet girl’s stuffed so full.”
he doesn’t even need to move. just the feeling of being buried inside you for the first time, the sight of your pussy stretched wide around him, your gasping mouth, your fluttering lashes, your slick dripping onto his thighs—it’s all too much.
he grinds in once—just to feel the way you tremble—and you both moan at the same time, breath tangled, filthy and flushed and soaking the bed.
and when he finally pulls back to push in again slow and deep, your whole body arches.
“there you go,” he groans, voice ruined. “that’s it, baby. open up f’me.”
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misogynist incel Bakugou hates women and naps reader purely to use her as a fuckpuppet, he's so mean and so gross, but then eventually he becomes more and more attached because she's just so baby >-<
Bakugou Katsuki
TW: NSFW, noncon/dubcon, misogyny, incel rage, captive darling, mentions of anal, mentions of piss-play, and other signs of rough sex, stages of deterioration, Stockholm Syndrome, mind-broken reader
fem reader
That’s how it was the first month or so…
The sex was fast, rough, and scarring. Nothing loving about it. Only harsh hands and even harsher thrusts. Mean fists bunched up in your hair, pushing you face-down with an arm bent up between your shoulder blades, taking you hard from the back – making you cry against the sheets with thighs shaking. Other times with his hand enclosed around your neck – keenly glaring down your eyes while they trembled with tears, pinching your face between course fingertips, often spitting in your mouth instead of kissing you. Doing anything to make you feel used.
Only one or two-worded commands – kneel, get up, strip, lie still, spread, open up, swallow, shut up, etc.…
Anything to humiliate you. Pressing the cruel head of a wand against your clit, strumming the pearl with strangling vibrations intense enough to make you shake when cumming on his cock, often multiple times a minute. Grinning whilst mocking you for what a dirty fucking slut it made you – slapping your bouncy tits where they perked from the overstimulation, also smacking your poor pussy until the swollen thing got extra welted from his handprint – inner thighs always decorated with swells and bruises and rings of teeth, and all your limbs chronically lined with rope burns from his sadistically tight bindings.
He'd also use a marker on you. Writing down his cruel nicknames – whore, cunt, slut, cumrag. Keeping a scoreboard on you with tally marks – the number of times he’s fucked your cunt written bellow your belly button, how many times he’s fucked your butt written on your asscheek, how many times he’d fucked your throat written on your forehead, and so on and so forth... Tally marks on your hands, your tits, your feet… until there was hardly any space left.
Other times, when he was feeling especially mean, he’d put you in front of the mirror to pick you apart. Your tits are too small, your ass is too flat, too many stretch marks. Rubbing your clit until his hand was wet with you – a grin on his face while he rubbed his clothed bulge against your rear – keeping you pinned tight to his chest with his other hand squeezed tight around your throat until you were gasping for breath.
He’d put his lips against your ear, whisper hotly, his tone cruel – talking about what a slutty body you have – never any words of adoration, just pure sadistic enjoyment while he humiliated and shamed you to the point you wanted to tear your skin from your flesh.
Saying – bitches like you are only useful for one thing- you all ought to be free-for-all sex toys to contribute to the world in some meager way. Just look at that slutty face of yours- with those lips, you were practically made for sucking his cock. And any words that come out of you are so stupid he ought to muzzle your mouth anytime he’s not using it.
When he was done having his fun, he’d throw you down on the floor – make you kneel by his feet as he looped his belt around your neck and twined it tight around his fist – using it to keep you still when lodging his cock down your throat unforgivingly deep – keeping you close by jerking the makeshift collar while bunching your hair in the other mean fist.
One time like that, he even released a stream of hot piss down your guzzle – telling you to be a good piss-slut and drink it all up. Amused when you finally managed to struggle free, coughing and gagging like you were stuck between drowning and throwing up.
He’d make you wear only short slutty skirts and tight tops without any underwear beneath, seemingly purely to make fun of you – calling you a trashy cheap whore. He’d also make you put on lipstick and mascara for much of the same reason – only to smudge the red across your cheek and laugh when seeing the black rub off around your eyes, running down your face with tears.
He'd only feed you leftovers from his plate after he was finished – if there was any left. If not, you went without. He’s got to keep you on a diet, he’d say, but if you’re really that hungry, you could suck the nut out of his balls if you ask nicely.
You stopped hesitating sooner than he thought. Started doing everything he asked just like a real pet. Too overwhelmed by just how cruel he could be, you didn’t have it in you to be any sort of cruel in return.
“Tch- aren’t you ashamed?” He asked once, leaning his head on his hand, tilted while watching you and your round eyes look up at him, kneeling on the floor by his feet with your face dipping into the cup of his hand, eating out of it like a dog.
You’d only looked at him with cinched brows and asked, “Ashamed of what?” as though it wasn’t obvious, as though what you were doing had become natural to you.
He doesn’t really know when it all stopped making sense… when he started looking at you differently.
But… sometimes he’ll feel this urge to kiss you. Though he never does. Suppressing the thought, he’ll instead spit on or slap your face instead – quashing it before allowing the feeling to take root.
But it’s getting harder and harder…
You’re just this soft little thing that warms his bed at night – snuggling all preciously into his side with dulcet moans and snores. Making his chest feel all types of flighty and all types of heavy at the same time, looking at you with furrowed brows – trying to will himself into hating you.
But you do everything so gently. Not a single mean bone in your body.
Of course, he knows half of it is due to your fear of him, but… he can't help but notice how you’ve started doing things for him that you don’t need to. From how you hand him coffee to how you message his muscles – kissing him softly, small hands stroking him gently, your voice speaking to him only in sweetly careful words.
All you ever do is comfort him and hope he’ll comfort you in return. And seeing you flinch at his harsh words, how you cower beneath him and beg his forgiveness, doesn’t ease the turmoil in his chest anymore.
You make him feel bad now with the way you pout – how you cast your eyes down when they begin to brim with tears – picking at your nails until the beds bleed. It all tugs at his heart in gross pains, leaving his head heavy.
Calling you terribly ugly names and seeing you nod your head in agreeance just doesn’t seem right. And seeing you flinch gives him chills that don’t feel good at all anymore.
Even sex doesn’t make him feel good anymore.
The way you tremble when spreading your legs – sucking your teeth in pain – your whole face grimacing as you try hard not to cry at the rip when he splits you apart and fucks you selfishly, chasing his own peak at your expense. Seeing the way you ball the sheets in tight fists, gripping it for purchase while stifling your whimpers – praying for it all to be over so you can curl in on yourself and find refuge in your sleep.
While it used to give him a sense of accomplishment to see you lie there, hiding your face in the pillow with braced shoulders and his handprint freshly branding your ass – now it just leaves him feeling some type of empty.
Your crying gives him migraines. He’ll bark at you to shut up and it’s awful how you try your best to oblige him, saying, Yes, Katsuki- I’m sorry, Katsuki – using his name like a fucking bullet.
He’ll choke you to make you stop.
One time, a little while ago, he choked you so bad you only had but a few last weak breaths left – almost dying – with his hands around your throat and his cock inside you. But he’d let go in the last second.
You hadn’t been able to speak for a couple of weeks. And anytime you tried, it made his ears grate. He tried forcing himself to believe the regret he felt was for not going through with it, but he knew that wasn’t true, so he started avoiding you.
“Oh no- Katsuki-” You rushed over when he came home, eyes wide and already about to cry seeing him decked head to toe in bloody gashes from a particularly nasty fight he’d had on patrol. “Are you okay? That looks bad- are you hurt?”
Your voice is still a little fucked, and so is the bruising around your throat – and still, you’re here – asking him if he’s okay with that awfully biting look of concern painted all over your face.
Immediately his chest feels tight and he shuts his eyes to try and hide from it. But you’re still voicing your worries, doting on him like he’s some fucking child and you his fucking mom.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He bit out, first in a growling whisper but then in a shout. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
You shrunk away. Surprised at first but then ashamed shortly after. Bowing your head with toes turned in on each other. “I’m sorry, Katsuki. I- I was just thinking-”
“That’s the fucking problem, you dunce!” He cut you off. His hands holding his head like he was afraid it would crack soon. “Bitches don’t think- I've told you this a million times, but you never fucking listen!”
“I’m sorry-” You repeated, trying to take another step back but not before his hand flew out and grabbed you by your collar, thrusting you against the nearest wall – holding you up on your tippy-toes with his face scowling down at you.
“Get it through your fucking skull! I don’t want a fucking housewife-” He spat, making you flinch at every word like it was a lash from a whip. “Stop trying to be anything but the worthless piece of meat that you are.”
You shut your eyes under his roaring, nodding your head in a panic. “You’re right, Katsuki- I’m sorry-” You winced, whole body trembling against the cold marble at your back – crying now, that awful way you do to make his chest tear, and he nearly decided to put his fist through your ribs to keep it from happening. “I promise I’ll learn this time. I won't disappoint you again.” You continued through the tears, trying to stifle them with a bite to your lip, and he wondered if maybe he should make you wear a bag over your head to keep him seeing your face.
But instead, he let go. Letting your drop along the wall into a little shaken heap.
He didn’t understand why his eyes were stinging, he just knew he needed to keep you from seeing it. So he walked away…
You became quiet after that.
And he’d never felt more awful.
When he wakes up now, you’re on the opposite side of the bed, curled in on yourself. You don’t come to him. You don’t say sweet-nothings or ask him about work. You don’t say anything at all, only when he asks.
You don’t do anything at all unless he asks.
All day, you just sit and stare into nothing like you’re a puppet waiting for your strings to be pulled. You don’t eat, and when he makes you, he can hear how it all comes up again when you’re in the bathroom. He hears you crying in there as well…
Sometimes he’ll catch his own eyes leaking – just when doing simple things – thinking about you in every waking moment, having nightmares about it those times he dares shut his eyes. The loneliness hits like cold nails being hammered into his heart and it’s so unbearable he dulls it by getting his knuckles broken in some poor B-list villain's face.
He’s having issues with eating as well. Only forcing down the bare minimum. He hasn’t slept in days. And when the agency forces him into taking a break – they justify it by saying he hasn’t been thinking straight lately.
And he supposes they’re right.
When he’s home alone with you, he can’t grasp how long the days are. Slow quiet hours that make him feel like tearing his hair out – but you’re just sitting there. So still and so quiet, if he could pretend you weren’t there, it would have been easy.
But it’s not easy.
“What are you doing?” He broke the silence.
You turn your head slowly – supposedly having just then noticed he was standing there. Blinking softly up at him – taking your time before answering as though you’d forgotten how to speak for a moment. “Nothing. Do you… want me to do something?”
He shakes his head lightly, then asks what he’d actually been wondering, “Why are you sitting there?”
You look confused by the question, visibly mulling it over in your head with eyes blinking as if sitting there was the only natural place for you to be.
“You’re allowed on the couch.” He said then, in hopes it would clarify the question.
Your eyes widen at that. And then you do something so wrong as smile at him. “That’s really kind of you, Katsuki. But no thank you. I’m happy here.”
He swallows thickly. “Why?”
You blink again, then give your lip a bite. “It’s the last place you touched me…”
His nose scrunches at the reveal – and he feels a little sick after.
“You don’t touch me anymore…” You continue – eyes getting glossy as you look down at your feet while picking your nails like you so often do. “I know I made you angry… I’m really sorry…” You sniffle, then look up at him – bleary-faced and gut-churning. “Is there- is there anything I can do to make you forgive me? I’d do anything… please, Katsuki-”
He can only stare. It all makes him so uncomfortable he feels stiff – nailed to the spot. But then he remembers the plate of food in his hand.
He clears his throat. “Eat.” Lowering himself while handing it out to you.
You look confused again – now teary-cheeked with bloated lips looking extra pouty. “But I haven't-” You argue, but he cuts you off.
“Just eat.”
Still, despite the encouragement, you resist. Shaking your head. “No, thank you- I don’t deserve it.”
It makes him grimace, the sigh. “God-fucking-damn it-” He’s already here, trying his fucking best, and you’re making it so fucking difficult. “I’m ordering you to eat, so fucking eat!” He barks, and in the heat of the rage, he lifts the plate and throws it down, smashing it on the floor between you.
You jump. “I’m sorry, Katsuki-” Then you bend forward, on your hands and knees in the glass, bowing down to eat like he’d said.
“No! Fuck-” He stops you, getting down on his knees as well – the broken plate and wasted food underneath him. “Don’t- don’t eat that.” He says, grabbing your wrist from picking at the scraps.
Fresh tears run down your face again as you look up at him – lips blubbery. “But-”
“Listen to me.” He stopped you – voice sincere – his breaths heavy as he hung his head forward, needing to look away from your face – glaring down into your lap instead while he composed himself.
Soft silk rimmed with pretty lace – a babydoll just long enough to cover that place between your thighs but not long enough to hide the scars from his many bite marks and the times when his slaps had split the fine skin.
The sight makes him shudder now.
He swallowed thickly again, feeling heavy – so heavy he had to drop his weight against you, resting his head in your lap with his arms held around your tiny waist. Feeling the glass crunch beneath him.
But he didn’t care. He deserved it.
“Let’s forget about it.” He mumbled.
And muffled into your stomach, you don’t hear the teary sound of it.
You just tilt your head, looking down at him burying himself against your bosom where he kneels on the floor in front of you. It’s an unfamiliar and confusing sight and makes you feel a little anxious. You want to put your hand in his hair and pet him, you want to ask him if everything’s alright – but you know you shouldn’t – it’s not allowed – it’s not your place.
“Forget what?” You asked instead – a little hesitantly in hopes he wouldn't punish you for not knowing.
“The whole thing…” He answered – his tone getting even quieter against you. “The rules, the…” He mumbled further but stopped himself with a heavy breath.
You wait expectantly when he pushes himself up again. On his knees in the chips and shards, he holds you by the hips and bears an expression you’ve never seen before.
“You’re not a bitch, a’right?”
You heard him clearly now, but still… what he was saying didn’t make any sense.
You nearly ask him to repeat it, but you bite your tongue. Shifting from looking into one of his eyes to the other before bowing your head as though you weren’t allowed to look at him for too long.
“I’m not?” You warbled unsurely. Hunching your shoulders as if the idea of it made you feel vulnerable.
He waits, trying to assess what you were thinking, what you were feeling – a little taken aback when he spots a new tear slip down your nose and drop into a dark stain on the silk below you.
“But… if I'm not a bitch…” You sniffled, looking up at him again. “Wh- what am I then? Nothing at all?”
Your eyes are full of something so vividly hopeless – so heartbreaking it breaches his chest like a stabbing.
“No-” He argued, but you’re spiraling.
“Don’t you want me anymore?” You sobbed, now with tears rushing fat down your face once again, though this time, even more fiercely – eyes lost in a swirling blur, unable to focus on anything other than how fast your heart was hammering from the free-falling panic consuming you.
“No, no- look at me-” He grabbed your face, both hands trembling when holding your cheeks, feeling the warmth soak his fingers. “I want you.”
It’s the first time in a very long time he’s looked at you up close.
Pale moons dent the plush of your cheeks in those places he’d dug his fingertips too harshly. A print of teeth also rings your chin along other scars he can’t explain in any way other than that he’s fucking evil. Because otherwise, your face is flawless. So pretty his heart churns in his chest when he loses himself looking at it.
“Do you promise?” You ask him – words but a prayer, so desperate it rattles him.
“Yes-” He answers breathlessly.
Relief washes through you then – because suddenly, you giggle. Beaming from eyes to lips stretched over a wide smile.
“Oh- Katsuki, thank you! Thank you-” You gush, pouncing from your sullen place against the wall to sling your arms around his neck, making him fall back on his palms – his face warped by shock and something that’s both a little terrified and pained and guilty for how terribly deteriorated you’ve become because of him. “Does that mean you’ll start touching me again?” You ask while nuzzling against his neck and it’s like another knife being twisted in his gut. “I feel so useless when you don’t…”
Even further crestfallen, he peels a sweaty palm up from the floor and places it lightly onto the small of your back – slow to begin rubbing circles there while his mind spins to formulate an answer.
“I’ll touch you…” He eventually says. A little disgusted with himself that it’s the only thing he’s able to comfort you with.
But feeling your body relax with bliss in return, he repeats it.
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lilo was PEAK weird little girl representation like. all “weird” disney characters just fall under quirky cute no lilo was IT. she gave peanut butter sandwiches to a FISH because IT CONTROLLED THE WEATHER. the range
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
