You Met Katsuki Bakugo In Middle School When You Had Moved Into The House Next Door And Transferred To

BNHA ! Bakugou Katsuki

WC: 1.7k

TW: NSFW, noncon/dubcon, kidnapping, captive darling, gross Bakugou

Thinking about hermit forest-dweller Bakugou who lives alone in his lodge…

You got a little lost off the beaten track and were so relieved when you happened upon his homey red-wood cabin, spotting smoke from the chimney and feeling your stomach gurgle from the promise of warm food when knocking on his door.

You’re so terribly sorry to bother him – but your phone has no cell reception, and the map you brought with you had gone pasty and torn in the rain and you have just no idea where you are or how to get back.

He’s rather handsome for a loner, you think. Rough around the edges – hairy and reeking of beer and barnacles. He grunts out a “come in” after you’ve explained yourself, and you follow with a relieved smile, already thanking him.

But only a short second after you’ve taken a step over the threshold comes a hard cack to the back of your head. And for a cloudy moment, you’re something akin to numb all over – only barely registering the harsh feeling of splintery wooden floors against your cheek where you’d fallen to – slowly succumbing to the darkness that forced your eyes to glide close – but not before you could recognize and curl your brows to the big pair of black mountain boots in front of you.

When you wake up, you’re in a bed. It’s a welcomed softness – a warm pleasantness against your wintered skin after you’d wandered aimlessly around in the cold rain – now getting toasty from the heat of the fireplace. 

But there’s something more – something not right. 

You’re not wearing any clothes. And your hands have been roped behind your back in a strict knot, keeping them locked tightly together. 

And you’re being rocked against the sheets – back and forth, back and forth – and you can barely breathe because of it.

And there’s something on top of you – and something fat and wet stuffing your cunt from the back, fucking your taut hole while your eyes flutter with sleep and the start of a pounding headache.

You try screaming when it dawns on you – try twisting your arms free – try getting up, but your mouth has been filled with what you think is your underwear and only muffled cries manage to escape it.

He gruffs out something like, “Quiet, whore.” Planting a harsh slap against your ass while keeping his rhythm steady, thrusting his thickness inside the wet welcome of your quivering little cunt as it seeps with slick for him, soaking him so sweetly it’s even trickling down your thighs in slim lines.

You cry, feeling the stranger touch and fuck you, his heavy hands gritty from work groping the soft fat of your ass while his booted feet kick yours further apart once you try pulling them closed – punishing you with another mean slap to your plush. 

The ache in your belly tells you he’s been at it for a while. Having fucked your tightness sore with his girthy meat – shoving it so hard it bends in order to fit all of him inside. His heavy-hung balls swing beneath him, clapping with wet slaps against your budding clit – making your cunt squeeze and suckle him despite your efforts to ignore it.

He groans at the feel before thrusting in all the way to the hilt in one harsh jab – spewing his gross warmth right into your womb. 

You’re shell-shocked. Eyes terror-wide, drying as you stare into nothing – waiting for it to make sense – but it doesn’t. A stranger had just spunked inside you and you can feel the warm fatty liquid trickle down your cunt and thighs once he pulls his chubby member out.

“S’been a while since I had my balls emptied like that. Good puss’ milked me dry.” He grumbles with satisfaction, lifting his pants from the pool around his boots and buckling himself back up – giving your puffy cunt a wet slap before he’d quite simply just walked off and gone about the rest of his day – returning to use you later.

From then on, you wear nothing but an old red flannel shirt – it smells of man sweat and other things and is so well-worn all the buttons are gone. The clothes you came in were used as easy firewood. He’d burned it all – every article in your backpack except one – the panties you’d worn – which he instead nailed to the wall like it was another pelt or the head of an animal he’d hunted down.

He keeps you on the floor most of the time. You’re leashed with a fat metal chain meant for a rottweiler – and a leather collar kept snug around your throat with a lock and a tag that reads Pup. He must’ve had a dog at some point, but you’re guessing it died – and you’re its replacement – and whether you want it or not, he’s going to train you into being his proper bitch.

During morning news, you take care of his morning wood – sometimes with your cunt and sometimes with your mouth. He’s still cuddly after waking up, needy for warmth, wanting you skin-to-skin – mostly seating you down on his lap, bouncing you lightly on his cock with his chin resting in the grove between your neck and shoulder. Groaning tiredly while pawing your tits. 

If he doesn’t blow his load before the news is over, he’ll bring you with him in the shower. And in the steamy heat, he’ll wake up to give you a real pounding. Your face mushed against the tiles – chin and cheekbone bruising from the force of it while he holds your arms behind your back and rams up into your cunt faster than the droplets fall to the floor. Quick juts until finally creaming inside you, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades while dumping every last drop in deep.

After a long day, he likes when you suck his balls while he drinks his beer and eats his dinner, watching sports. Licking the sweat off the back of his cock, no doubt tasting the dried piss from when he’d taken a leak in the forest. Sometimes he’ll say it. “Suck it clean, slut- be happy I didn’t take a shit, or you’d be tonguin’ my ass with that pretty face too.” Always threatening you with something gross that’ll kick you into the right gear – motivating you to be his little cock-eager whore – down there on your knees with your hands bracing against his thighs, throating his length while he holds a firm hand at the back of your head, fisting your hair so tight strands rip free from their roots while you desperately try and will away your gag reflex in order to please him – eyes squeezed tight with slobber making spit bubbles down your chin.

You’re not allowed dinner before swallowing his load. Dinner – being the leftovers he’ll scrape off his plate into a dog bowl. The first time around, you’d looked up at him like he couldn’t be serious, and he’d only squeezed your face rough and said, “Be happy I don’t piss in it, slut.” And then he’d spat on you, once on your face, then once more in your mouth. It was thick and tasted of brown nicotine and ash and you haven't gotten rid of the taste since.

He’ll throw his feet up on your back while you bow down to eat out of your bowl – using you like a warm footstool until the game is done. If his team wins, he fucks your cunt like usual – but if they lose, it’s your assthat’ll pay the price.

When you’re allowed on the couch, he likes sitting opposites so you can take his muddy boots off and massage his feet. They’re still clammy with sweat from work when you peel his woolen socks off. Chipped dry toenails and scaley callouses, the skin yellow and cracked and rough where you dig your fingers in. 

He’ll take his cock out after a while and gather your smaller, softer feet around it – rubbing himself through them while you keep rubbing his soles. When you’re busy with one, the other rests heavily on your tit, pawing it. Sometimes, he’ll even bark at you to suck on the toes.

But it's only until the news is over. After that, he has you crawl over to rest on his chest, nose stuffed with the musk of sweat, wood oil, and leather while he sinks his fat erection all the way up into your womb – storing it there, where it will stay nestled and warm while you watch a western or hunter’s documentary.

He’s hairy like a bear and it makes you feel extra naked. Feeling it tickle your soft skin while he rests an arm on your back – a hand absentmindedly twiddling with your pretty hair.

When he’s not outside cutting down trees and hunting or inside on the couch with a beer, he’s in the meat locker – skinning animals and sectioning flesh. He often fucks you in there. Bent over the cold metal slab, your face in the stags' blood while he growls at your ear how that’ll be you on one of them hooks if you don’t squeeze his cock harder. 

But he’s not always so mean.

He’s nicer to you when you act cute for him. When you lie belly-up, raising your thighs and keeping them spread wide for him – covering your gash with your hand while you work it into a nice glossy welcome, wet and ready to get fucked like a little breeding cow. Pretty words on your pretty lip while you beg him with pretty pleas, asking him to stuff you like one of those animals he’s mounted on the wall. 

Rich city sluts like you need to be taught you can’t fuck around in his forest without paying your dues. And you’ve learned your lesson – riding him like he’s a mechanical bull from the rodeo like a good tramp should – jumping on his fat shaft with your perky tits bouncing in his face. 

Eat local. Put your girl on the counter

In my art school au kirishima works with metal and you’ve never met him before but one day denki asks you to go by his studio for him to give him back his notes and when u do kiri is huge and tall with bulging muscles and big hands and he’s got a welding helmet on that makes him look sort of scary but when he takes it off and gives you that boyish grin you feel suddenly weak in the knees

Sufferance [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Sufferance [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: Patience is a thread. Eventually, it snaps. You should have minded this with someone like Chrollo Lucilfer. Commissioned piece. 

word count: 3000+

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, rough noncon sex, sexual assault, degradation

You love books. You always have. As a child, you would curl up under your covers, flashlight in your mouth or propped up carefully with dirty laundry, reading page after page until you heard the creak of your mother’s footsteps in the hallway and had to flop down like a fish, pretending to be asleep. As a teen, you devoured books on the bus, in between classes, sometimes during classes much to your teacher’s irritation. 

Your love of reading led where it sometimes does as an adult--to the library. You were just an assistant--shelver, pamphlet folder, read-books-to-the-kids-every-Tuesday-morning--but it was enough for you to be in the building.It wasn’t a particularly lucrative job, and you had heard from friends and family time and time again that you really ought to go back to school and aim for something higher. Time and time again, you shook your head, smiling, and said you were happy to be there.

Now, you wish you had listened to them. You wish you had put in your 2 weeks notice and went back to school or hell, just quit and taken a job somewhere else. Anywhere else. Preferably in a backroom. A warehouse. Somewhere that wasn’t visible to the public and therefore visible to people like him.

Somewhere that didn’t have you sitting quietly behind a desk, processing books, double checking inventory, darting here and there to help patrons or put something back on the shelves. 

Because that is exactly how Chrollo Lucilfer found you.

You met him once… twice… three… four… five times at the library. At least, five times that you know of; thinking back, you wonder if he watched you secretly. He must have, to know so much about you. You push that thought away.

He left an impression, but how couldn’t he? He was handsome and rather intimidating, with a casually professional outfit and an intriguing bandage wrapped around his forehead. His voice was soft and polite, inquiring, curious. 

He came back a few times. Struck up a conversation. Helped you reach a tall shelf, a low shelf. Offered to carry a stack of books that you had to put away without the cart because it had gone missing. 

At first you appreciated another kind patron--but there was something about him that you didn’t like. Something which seemed to seep out of him as time went on.

Oh, you couldn't have pinpointed it if you’d been paid in solid gold. It was something innate. Something primal. Something deep in your gut that told you to stay away from him, like a rabbit catching a whiff of a predator in the woods.

So you started avoiding him as much as possible, running into the stock room whenever you saw him come in, pleading with a coworker that you weren’t feeling well and needed to swap out. You thought if you ignored him, he would leave you alone, move on. 

Chrollo, on the other hand--if his own words told to you later are to be believed--fell absolutely, maddeningly for you.

So he waited to see if you could come around (you didn’t) and he took matters into his own hands.

That is to say, he kidnapped you. 

You had asked him why, just the once. He shrugged and mentioned that he couldn’t stay in this town forever, and he had to take you before he left. If he didn’t have to go, perhaps he might have tried to court you, but ah, it simply couldn’t be helped.

“Couldn’t be helped.” That’s what he said. It couldn’t be helped that he stole you from your life, your friends, your family. It couldn’t be helped that he stole you. Took you away from everything you’ve known and has decided to keep you with him. Like a pet--no, not that. Like a treasure. Something to be admired and touched at his whim.

And that is where you are now… 

Well. More or less.

Just because he’s kidnapped you doesn’t mean you have to give in to him. At least not outside of the fact that you can’t get away from him, and you know that there’s no point in trying to run or fight or desperately beg hotel concierges or passers-by for help. Because no one can help you. 

What you can do is fight, in little ways. Ways that dig under his skin and keep you from completely drowning in horror and misery. 

The best way to dig under the skin of the seemingly almighty Chrollo Lucilfer is to ignore his attempts to woo you. And oh, they are temptations, there is no doubting that. He has offered so much at your feet that you sometimes wonder why he simply doesn’t find someone who might be open to his advances and do the same. You’ve told him as much, and he’s murmured sweet nothings (emphasis on nothings, in your opinion) about how you’re the only one who’s ever really caught his eye and his heart. 

He’s offered you a veritable library of books, including treasures that you’re sure (even if he won't admit it) were stolen from some priceless collection. He’s taken you to bookstores and told you to have your pick, anything you want--it’s yours. He’ll even read it with you. 

He suggests getting your favorite meals--sticky and spicy rice dishes, homey pasta from the local restaurant, pastries with sweet cream. Whatever you want, whenever you want. He’s collected all of your favorite films (the fact that he knows which were your favorites makes you feel sick every time you think about it) and watched them with you, but there’s no enjoyment in the scenes. Just as there is no enjoyment in the jewelry he clasps around your wrist, your neck; the rings he slides on your fingers. 

You reject the intention behind them all, verbally or physically. Except the food, but only because you need the energy to keep up your struggles for another day. 

You refuse to accept this as normal. Any of this. 

That’s why he still ties you up when he has to leave, whether it’s a short leash that keeps you on the bed or a long chain around your ankle, keeping you away from the front door of wherever you’ve been stashed.

Sometimes you’re tied up when he’s here, too, if you’ve been too ornery. You refuse to let him touch you or kiss you, though God in heaven knows he’s tried. You’ve bitten him in the past, and got gagged for the trouble, but it was worth it. It’s not like you wanted to talk to him anyway. 

He can kidnap you, but he can’t make you love him. He can’t make you let him love you, either, whatever version of “love” he believes is in his heart.

But.

But.

But.

Patience is a thread. Eventually, when pulled too tight, it snaps.

You might have paid more attention to this fact, if you knew what was coming.

--

You shouldn’t be surprised when you exit the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in clean sweatpants and a lounge shirt, that the apartment has been transformed. It’s not the first time Chrollo has attempted a romantic evening.

But you weren’t expecting it and tonight, he’s pulled out everything in the book. Lights. Music. Food. Mood.

On the table of the hotel room are some of your favorite dishes, all neatly arranged on top of a crisp white tablecloth. There are glasses of wine, probably expensive. In the background soft music plays, something nice, relaxing, elegant. There are candles on the dining table, on the coffee table, above the fireplace. Flickering and dancing, giving the room a dreamy effect. 

And there is Chrollo, of course, standing as casually as he can (which is not very much at all) in front of the table. Staring at you with unspoken expectations in his eyes. 

“I thought,” he says, slowly, after a while, “that you could pick our movie tonight as well. Anything you please.” 

You don’t answer. You look at the table and then at him, but you don’t answer.

He sighs, and you see--just for a moment--one of the hands at his side clench and release. He walks toward you, and you’ve half a mind to turn around and lock yourself in the bathroom, but he’s quicker than your thoughts. 

One hand goes to your chin and you set your jaw together as tight as you can, lips pursed, ready to spit venom if he should try anything. 

“Darling,” he whispers. “I wish you’d let me treat you.” He pauses. “I wish you’d let me kiss you.” 

You can feel his breath on your cheek. It smells like mint. He probably popped one while you were in the shower. Asshole. 

He leans in, and it’s not the first time he’s tried to kiss you but it’s the most audacious in recent memory, and you yank your jaw away and take a step back.

You breathe in through your nose, wishing hot fumes could come out to represent how you feel inside. But they don’t. 

So you settle for words.

“Fuck. You.” You spit them out, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. “Fuck you and your ‘date’ and if you think I’m ever, ever going to let you… let you…” Kiss me, touch me, have anything from me except poison and hatred? You can’t finish.

The words aren’t enough. You need something more, something that lets you kinetically toss all of this anger and helplessness out into the world. 

Ah. The table. 

You don’t think before you do it. You just do it. Your hands grip the pressed white table cloth and you yank, hard, sending all the carefully set glasses and dishes flying to the floor. The candles, fragile things, sputter out in the process.

For a few moments, it is mostly silent, punctuated only by a soft dripping that you assume must be spilled wine and your own rapid breathing.

And then you look back at Chrollo and feel your stomach drop out from underneath you.

He’s staring, not at the mess you’ve made, but you. And he doesn’t look angry at all, which isn’t quite right--because you know he’s angry. You know it because the air feels heavy, rancid, like you’re being pressed down by mere emotion. 

“I’ve been kind,” he says finally, voice soft and calm. You want to scream--kind?!--but the feeling in the air keeps you from speaking. You don’t want it inside your mouth, this air. 

“I’ve been kind,” he repeats, “but enough is enough.” 

If you were a rabbit, you would have run. But you’re not, and so you’re standing perfectly still when he takes slow steps toward you and grabs your wrist.

Now, you do try to pull away--but for once, you can’t wrench yourself from his grip. You always had been able to before. But this is different--he’s different. It’s like he’s a stone statue, and no matter how you pull, it makes no difference.

Only he’s not as still as a statue. His hand returns to its earlier position, but instead of gripping your chin, he continues upward, tracing lines across your jaw, up your cheek.

“So lovely,” he says. “A pity that you haven’t let me admire you.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, venomous air be damned. You pull as hard as you can, your socked feet sliding on the floor. You wrench and yank and squirm. Stupidly, it turns out, because it doesn’t work.

He smiles at you. It’s not a nice smile at all.

“That is the plan, dearest.”

Your stomach lurches ahead of you, like a sudden stop on a roller coaster.

“What?” 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he begins to walk, pulling you behind him.  Your feet skid and slide, but it doesn’t matter. It’s like you're made of nothing, a doll, a toy, that he’s pulling along without resistance.

“Chrollo--what?” You ask again. 

He’s silent as he drags you into the bedroom, and it’s then, your toe bumping against the threshold on the floor, that you realize where this is going. 

“Wait, wait--” The words tumble out of you like water, but there’s no stopping the pull against your arm, or the gravitational force when he gives you a push onto the bed.

The softness of the mattress has you sinking into it, but you manage to scramble backwards before turning yourself over.

“Wait--” 

He stands over the bed. He looks at you for a few long, awful moments.

“No more waiting,” he says. Simply. Coldly. Goosebumps run up your arms and you want to run but you feel stuck, frozen, like something is holding you to the bed. You can’t tell if it’s something real or your fear keeping you there.

And then he’s crawling on the bed, his body over yours.

“I’ve been patient.”

His hand reaches out and grabs your wrists, which feel limp and useless; he pins them above your head.

“I’ve been kind.”

His other hand goes to your chest, but not to touch you. He grips the fabric of your shirt and pulls. It rips like paper. The air must be cool because goosebumps immediately dot the flesh of your bared chest, sending a shiver through your body that almost covers up the sense of dread within you.

There’s a sense of finality to those goosebumps. Because he’s not going to stop at taking off your shirt, is he? 

Your mouth twitches as you 

“No, I don’t want--you--you--you can’t.”

There’s something that changes in his expression, then. You don’t know what it is, and there’s not enough time to really focus on it. Not with adrenaline pumping through you, making you start to squirm, making your breath start to come fast.

He leans down, close to your ear, that damned smell of mint wafting into your nostrils again.

“I’m a thief, love. I can take whatever I want.” 

He lets go of your wrists, and both of his hands grip the waistband of your sweatpants. And that’s exactly when panic truly sets in. Your leg kicks--you hit him, you think--and your body flails, hands flying. Every muscle in your body is tight and tense and screaming to get away.

“No, no, no, no!” 

At your panic-induced fury, he merely hums, and it’s the most awful sound you’ve ever heard. 

You feel the shift in the air before you see the book. You hate the book. He’s never used the book on you, no, that is true. But you’ve seen it used on others. A warning towards you, but you didn’t heed it well enough.

He murmurs something and your hands fly up towards the headboard. You try to move them but you can’t. It’s like they're held together by some invisible rope. It doesn’t stop you from kicking your legs, twisting and turning, spit flying as your breath comes in ragged gasps.

At this, Chrollo merely uses his free hands to pin down your thighs.

And he waits.

He waits until your body is exhausted, too exhausted to kick or flail or fight him. Not that it did you any good, with your hands bound. And with his own strength in the mix. 

When your body ceases to do more than squirm pitifully against the bed, and your breath has gone from spitting and ragged to merely heaving, he smiles down at you.

“There, now. That’s better.”

You don’t want this.

“Please don’t,” you say, voice cracking.

But it doesn’t matter what you want.

Your sweatpants are pulled down first. He doesn’t pull them all the way off, and somehow, this makes your stomach squirm. Then he pulls down your underwear, bunching it along with your sweatpants down by your ankles.

You squeeze your eyes tightly and will yourself to be anywhere but here.

You hear his breath hitch at the sight of your bared body, at all the things you’ve kept hidden from him until now.

“Beautiful,” he says, a crooning reverence in his tone. “Simply lovely.”

Something desperate and stupid pushes you to open your eyes, to look at him, gaze shining with oncoming tears.

“D-Don’t,” you force out. “Let’s do--let’s do something else, okay? You can kiss me, or… or…” Your mind scrambles for some substitution.

Chrollo smiles down at you with indulgence, then presses a finger to your trembling lips.

“Hush now. You had a chance--many chances, in fact--but they’re gone now. We’ll do this a different way.”

And then he finally unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down, along with his boxers. You immediately look up, afraid and unwilling to see what’s underneath. 

He leaves his own shirt on, and the sight of that makes you angry, somewhere, deep down. Goosebumps on your chest give way to righteous flushing, hot, angry. 

There’s a moment where the two of you merely look at one another. You, with your eyes watery and wide, naked, bared. And Chrollo, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, filling up his own hollow spaces with what was prone in front of him.

And then his mouth is on yours, wet, warm, insistent. 

For the briefest of moments, it occurs to you that while you can’t move your wrists, you can still move your mouth. You can still bite. 

He pulls back only to speak against your lips, sensing your throats.

“Don’t bite,” he murmurs, in between pressing his lips to yours. “I can be so much worse than this.” 

And just like that, the thought of biting recedes, stuck behind the cold fear of what else Chrollo could do. Would do, if you pushed him to it. 

But that just leaves you and him, on this bed. 

He murmurs something in approval and begins to kiss you again. HIs tongue finds its way into your mouth and you want to retch. It’s wet and warm and awful. There’s pressure on your chest--his hands, resting at first, then kneading your breasts. 

Your entire body wants to recede into the mattress. To simply dissolve into it, down to the floor, and possibly beyond.

You don’t want him touching you, but he is.

He pulls away from your mouth, and you can’t look him in the eye, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“I can’t wait any longer, my dear.” 

You know what he’s talking about but it doesn’t make it any less terrifying when his hands drift away from your chest, trailing down your stomach, until they finally reach between your legs.

It’s a light touch, at first. Something you could blink away. But he has no patience to take it slow, and in a moment his fingers are inside you. You’re dry. It hurts. But he says nothing when your breath catches in your throat and you let out a pained wheeze. 

Your inner walls squeeze him, not to keep him in but in an attempt to push his digits out. It’s an instinctive gesture, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t bother you about it. 

He pulls his fingers out and there’s relief for a moment,  until you feel  his thumb rubbing your clit. There’s too much pressure, an electric sort of tingle. You can’t tell if he’s experimenting or trying to get you wet or something else entirely.

You stare up at the ceiling. The ceiling has tiles. You could count them. You could count them and pretend you’re not here, and that this isn’t happening. 

Yet it’s too hard to do that, when you can feel him. Feel his thumb rubbing your clit and his pressure on the body and hear his breathing.

“Look at me, darling,” he says, light, crooning. Like he wasn’t keeping you tied to the bed and touching you unwillingly. Maybe while you’re trying to count tiles, he’s imagining that this went a different way. Maybe.

When you meet his gaze, he keeps it there. 

“This will hurt, I imagine.” 

He stares at you as he thrusts inside you and he’s right. It does hurt. You’re a little wet, maybe, but not really prepared. It feels like your breath gets knocked out of you, like something is stuck in your lungs, all the while a rough stinging against your inner walls brings tears immediately to your eyes. There’s an awful soreness where the two of you meet.

Tiles, tiles, tiles--who can count tiles while this is going on? 

Chrollo, still wearing his damn shirt, begins to thrust inside you. Your breath comes back just in time for it to hitch at the roughness of his thrusts, at how unusually wild and uncontrolled he seems. 

It’s painful. It’s humiliating. You don’t know how long it’s going on. Tears trickle down your cheeks, but they feel cold. A startling contrast to the painful heat between your legs, the uncomfortable dryness even as he thrusts inside you. 

“Oh, you’re cruel,” he says suddenly, voice tinged with just a touch of breathiness. 

His words make something inside you begin to crack. A fissure line ready to spread. 

“I’m cruel?” Pain chokes your voice.

He presses against you, leaning down so that he can kiss your jawline, peppering kisses on  your tear-tracked skin. 

“Yes.” His breath is hot against your cheek. “For denying me the pleasure of this feeling for so long.” 

Some part of you, some dull dragging part, wants you to ask what feeling he means. All you feel is pain and humiliation and this awful helplessness that feels like your guts are being scooped out while you’re still alive. 

“How awful of you,” he continues, uncaring of whatever thoughts might be racing around in your head. He presses a kiss to your lips. “But I’ll forgive you, in time. Starting with this.”

You shake your head against it all, and he only chuckles, pressing a sickeningly chaste kiss to your cheek.

And then he begins to thrust harder, and there’s added torment to it. More pain, more stinging, an awful feeling of stretch. Another feeling, too, something hitting you--again and again, timed with his thrusts. You realize, with a humiliation that makes you actually cry, that his balls are slapping against you. 

There’s an awful lewdness to it, and it’s something you’ll never forget. 

Now and then, you feel a thumb brush against your clit, and you jolt from it. But there’s no pleasure, no warmth, no seeking out his lips and arms to meld together in an embrace. The sweat you feel against your back makes you feel dirty. 

But all you can do is clench your fingers, wrists bound by some invisible cord, and wish for it to be over soon. It would be a mercy.

You don’t know how long it takes. Time drags and hurts. But eventually you feel him speeding up, catch a crack in his expression that tells you with certainty that he’s going to reach his peak. He leans down again, gripping your chin, and kisses you deeper than he has before.

He groans into your mouth as you feel him still, as you feel wetness inside you. It’s warm and thick and you want to vomit it up, even though it’s not in your mouth. You wish you could spit out the sound of his moan. You imagine brushing your teeth a thousand times and never ridding yourself of it.

In time, Chrollo pulls away from you, and removes himself from between your legs. Liquid seeps out of you, slow and warm. 

You will think, later, of birth control. Of asking for a pill. Your stomach will clench and you will throw up with worry that you could be pregnant. He will give you a pill and that worry, at least, will disappear. But that is later. 

Now, however, all is silent. Or almost silent. Your ragged breathing and somewhere on the wall, a soft ticking of a clock. Dim sounds from outside, but maybe that is only rushing in your ears. 

Your thoughts are not so silent. They are buzzing, going from thought to thought. He hurt you. It hurts. He made you kiss him. He fucked you. 

He’s taken everything from you now. Everything you tried to keep, stubborn, stupid thing that you are. Is it any wonder that more tears come, when this thought slams into your brain? 

And is it any wonder that Chrollo gazes down at you with something like reverence when you do? He drinks in  your expression, and when he leans in, you think for a moment--and only a moment--that he’s guilty. Or sorry. Or something almost like those two human emotions that everyone should possess. 

But what he whispers is nothing so human. 

“This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t denied me for so long, well…”

He nuzzles your neck. His touch feels like sandpaper, but you can’t bat him away. How long will he keep your wrists bound like this? Another minute? Another hour? All night? 

He sighs against your skin. 

“Next time will be better, won’t it? No need to repeat this?”

You would like to go into the bathroom and flush everything out of you with scalding hot water. You would like to drink pure alcohol to rid your mouth of his taste. You would like to down pain pills, to address the pain between your legs.

But you’re tied to the bed and can’t do any of those things.

So you nod, absently. Your eyes go from his face--though his never leave yours, watching what you do, taking it all in--towards the ceiling. 

Oh, the tiles. 

One of the tiles on the ceiling is cracked. 

Someone should really fix it. 

He is so sweet and manly it hurts!

kirishima manhandles you so easily without trying. just moves you out of the way with his hands on your hips, picks you up and places you on ledges, sweeps your legs out from under you to carry you bridal style, drags you to the edge of the bed by your thighs, gets you from sitting on his face to lying on your back in a motion so quick and fluid it has your head spinning. and i don’t think he really knows he’s doing it, it’s not like he even has to think about it, it’s natural for him to throw you around like a ragdoll with how strong he is — one day you tell him you love the way he manhandles you and he’s like “i… manhandle you???”

Hiii just thinking about Bakugo x reader where reader’s in danger from a villain attack and Bakugo saves her heheh. And then the media’s eating it up like 😭😭

this is such a cute idea!! ✨

Accidental Damage

『♡』  pro-hero support fem!reader x pro-hero bakugo ╰➤ ꒰ pro-heroes au | secret bf/gf ꒱ ♡ katsuki bakugo masterlist ♡

summary: you've been swamped with work as a pro-hero support engineer, pushing 80 hour weeks over the busy season, and finally have a day off! bakugo, however, isn't so lucky and ends up getting called in for an emergency patrol during your movie date. instead of sitting at home, you decide to treat yourself and head out into the city. turns out, you probably should have stayed home...considering the fashion district you frequently visit was the villain-of-the-week's choice of attack. tags & warnings: mild violence, anxiety, cursing | lovers (bf/gf), fluff, emotional comfort, physical hurt, protective bakugo, reader doesn't have a quirk, reader's a badass, accidental pda, oops the secret's out now, bakugo treats reader like a princess a/n: wanted to change up the dynamic a little and make reader & bakugo secretly date from opposing sides of the hero world! i'd love to see more of the support class tbh ꒰ Ao3 version | word count; 2,890 ꒱

It’s your day off! After working endless hours for the past month, you’re finally free of the frenzy of Support Request busy season. Spring is often the time that most heroes submit their upgrade and repair requests to their agency’s support team, resulting in a non-stop effort to get through everything in a timely manner. The agency doesn’t want to be responsible for a hero not being able to perform their patrol duties from malfunctioning hero attire.

The original plan of the day was to spend it in your apartment, watching movies with your bombastic hero of a boyfriend - Dynamight. Unfortunately, just like 9 out of 10 other times, he was called out on an emergency shift to cover for someone else.

Being the girlfriend of the number 6 hero wasn’t easy, especially because no one knew you two were even together.

The two of you attended UA High together in separate classes - Class A and Class H. You knew of one another, but never had a chance to talk outside of the occasional ‘hey.’ After graduating from UA, the two of you happen to be hired to the same agency in Tokyo as you were assigned to his support team. A few late night dinners, long phone calls, and plenty of flirty banter later, you started quietly dating the explosive hero. It’s been about two years and you’re happy as can be - secret or not. It wasn’t for any purpose other than to keep the media out of Bakugo’s personal life and focused on his hero career as it was common for the public to become judgmental and fans to get…protective, to say the least. The last thing you wanted to do was to risk his ranking or public image for the sake of labeling him as "taken."

───

"Oh god fuckin' dammit," Bakugo cursed as his phone rang on loop, vibrating to the edge of the coffee table. Removing his arm from your waist, he frustratingly snatched it from the table before the final ring. You caught a glimpse of the caller ID before he answered and left the couch.

AGENCY EMERGENCY LINE

Aww...we just started the movie, you thought, disappointed in the timing.

It was unavoidable, though, considering he was in the top 10 of the pro hero circuit in a record amount of time after graduating from UA. He was damn good at his job and worked his ass off to get where he is today. You're so proud of him and all he's accomplished, but that doesn't mean that you hate how often they pull him back into work on his days off. He hates it just as much as you do.

You overhear a bit of the conversation as he moved to the hallway to take the call.

"Dynamight, we need to you to assist..."

"Spare me the damn formalities and just tell me where the hell you're sending me."

"It's downtown, sector 24, you'll be going along side..."

That's all you heard before he was out of earshot.

You never held it against Bakugo whenever this would happen, it wasn't his fault at all, he had a job to do and he was needed - that's all it was.

He returned from the hallway, a scowl on his face as he plopped onto the cushion next to you. You already know what he's about to say.

"I'm sorry sweets, I gotta go back to work." He leans over and plants a soft kiss on your cheek. "What a fuckin' week. Been lookin' forward to finally sitting at home."

You frown as you squeeze his hand reassuringly. "It's okay, the world needs the great Dynamight."

Bakugo groans in defeat, leaving the couch to run for the door. He's about to put his shoes on and grab his keys before he pauses, dropping his boots in the entryway and skipping back over to the couch. He bends over the arm and sits awkwardly on it as he grabs your chin, turning your face to his. He places a kiss to your lips and it leaves you breathless, like always.

“Love you, sweetheart,” he purrs, finger brushing along the top of your cheek.

“Love you too, Kats,” you respond quietly as his hand leaves your cheek. “Be safe, text me when you head home.”

He grabs his keys and wallet from the entryway, shuffling through it and placing his credit card back onto the table.

"Leavin' my card for you to take, baby. Go buy somethin' pretty for yourself."

And just like that, he's out the door and on his way back to the agency for the fifth time this week.

───

Bakugo had a habit of not letting you pay for almost anything, no matter how much you protested against him - it was one of his ways of showing his love for you. He would often scold you for having somewhat of an overspending problem, but your motto was always “money comes back!” He’d roll his eyes and hand you his credit card, preferring to spoil you instead of letting you drag yourself into debt. You learned to stop refusing his offer to pay for things a few months into your relationship, knowing full well he'd never back down after he'd steal your card out of your hands or swap it for his when you weren't looking.

Might as well take him up on his offer and go shopping!

Strolling down one of the main streets of the fashion district, you pop into one of your favorite clothing boutiques to browse around. It's busy for a Sunday afternoon, but the crowds don't bother you. Whenever you came here, Bakugo would often wait a street or two over to avoid said crowds. He hated them, but never wanted to leave you alone, so he'd tag along in ways that made him comfortable.

You're flipping through a sales rack outside of the store when a sudden rumbling in the street catches your attention. An earthquake, maybe? A couple of people around you notice as well and stop what they’re doing to focus on the vibrations. A moment later, the street becomes riddled with panic as the entire crowd is rushing in the opposite direction.

Of course a villain would show up to ruin your shopping trip.

You always make sure for these type of scenarios that you keep a spare gadget in your bag for protection. Bakugo wasn’t satisfied with you carrying just a normal self defense weapon, so he helped (more so forced you to) craft a device that would allow you to “save your own quirk-less ass” if push came to shove. He knew how talented you were and dedicated to your craft, always thinking up new gadgets and drawing plans off the clock. He wanted to encourage you to create your own genius contraption rather than solely making things for the heroes around you.

Digging through your bag, you grab onto the make-shift object that resembles a pair of bracelets. You slip them on and push the buttons on the underside of each bangle - activating the mechanism inside. They cover your hands in a binding of metals that resemble armored gloves and crawl up your forearms and end at your elbows.

Time to see what these babies can do!

You laugh to yourself at the thought of calling your creations "babies." It fondly reminds you of Hatsume and how she would be ecstatic over her piles of support items she's constructed, constantly flailing around the support classroom with glee.

Your attention is roughly brought back to the villain landing a few stores away from you as a giant gust of wind forces remaining civilians out of his way. He's sporting a jetpack-like bag on his back, motorized arms poking out of it like a spider. He spots you out of the corner of his eye, immediately curious about your support gear.

"Oh? What do we have here?" He questions, gesturing in your direction. "Those look too high and mighty for a girl your size. Are you even a hero?"

You know he's trying to antagonize you and get under your skin, and unfortunately, it works. But if you can keep him distracted until a hero shows, he'll do less damage to the area and you can prevent unnecessary causalities.

"Who needs a hero when a 'normie' like me can kick your ass with my bare fists?" you instigate, praying that'll convince him to shift his full attention to you. It does, aggressively launching himself in your direction with his...spider legs?...and lands in front of you, bending over to level his eyes with yours.

"Those are some brave words for a bug like you."

You take a deep breath, steadying your stance before landing a swift right hook to his jaw, sending him soaring into the street. Your gloves make a soft hiss as they release the energy stored inside them.

Yes! God, that felt good. Is this how Kat feels?!

The villain clamors to his feet, seething with rage as he readjusts his set of translucent goggles.

"You little bitch!"

You brace yourself for impact by crossing the gloves in front of you, summoning a temporary energetic barrier to guard against his attack. The force sends you stumbling backwards, falling straight on your ass as you roll out of the way of a robot leg slamming down next to you.

Just keep moving, don't stop moving, remember what Kat taught you!

You're extremely thankful in this moment that Bakugo practically forced you to train with him. He was adamant on you having basic fighting ability - hand to hand combat, some karate, self-defense moves, and more importantly, staying in shape to outrun any villains. He didn't think you were incapable of handling yourself, he just wanted you to be able to kick some ass while doing it.

As you're zigzagging the villain, dozens of cameramen and reporters are flooding the scene, desperate to get the 'first look' on the details of the commotion. Your tunnel vision on the current threat in front of you keeps you busy, not noticing the massive media crowd forming around you on both ends of the street.

The villain jumps up, catching you off guard as he lands behind you, smacking you in the back with a robot arm with a loud thwap that sends you careening into a clothing rack on the street. A collective gasp is heard from the peanut gallery, clamoring over your safety for 'views.'

You may or may not have hit your head - unsure if you're dizzy from the fall or a potential concussion. Shaking yourself out of the haze, you scramble away from a follow-up attack from one of his mechanized tendrils.

"Aw, are you backing away from the fight you started?!" He taunts, arrogantly laughing at your defensive maneuvers.

In the distance, you begin to hear soft booms echo through the air, steadily growing in volume. You knew exactly who was rushing to the scene.

Oh buddy, now you're fucked.

You can't help the devilish smirk that crosses your lips, anticipating your hero boyfriend to show up and blow this guy into the pavement. In the interim, you have one final trick up your sleeve - literally - to give this guy a pre-beatdown of your own.

"Nah, just wearing you down so I can knock your ass out!" you boast, channeling your best "hero" speech.

With a few taps of your fingers on the metal gripping your forearms, the gloves begin to channel energy into the palms of your hands, lighting up with blue sparks as it charged. You needed an extra 15 seconds before they were ready to burst. The villain notices, swiping at your feet to knock you down before you can properly dodge. The breath is knocked from your lungs and leaves you gasping for air.

Boom, boom...boom!

You can tell Bakugo's almost here as the explosions get louder with each burst.

Just 5 more seconds...

"Yo, spider-freak!" Bakugo roars from atop a nearby building. "We can do this th' easy way or hard way. Your choice, jackass!"

He hasn't noticed you yet as your gloves begin to beep, signaling the charge is ready for use.

Perfect timing.

Getting to your feet is more of a struggle than anticipated as you're still recovering from the previous strike. Wobbling on jelly legs, you plant your feet solidly on the pavement to the best of your ability, bring your hands up in front of you and aim your palms at the villain. Your loud cackle catches Bakugo’s attention, sending a panic coursing through his veins as he finally sees you - shaking like a leaf with a grin on your face.

What the fuck is she doing?!

His train of thought is interrupted by your gloves firing off a massive burst of energy, hitting the villain square in the chest and slamming him into the ground, shattering his robotic accessories in the process.

Holy shit, those fuckers work after all.

Bakugo can't help but snort at your ballsy attempt to hold down the villain, feeling simultaneously proud and scared shitless that you'd put yourself in the middle of harms way for strangers - just like himself. He's blasting off the building and down to the street to wrap up what's left of this D-lister villain.

The blowback from the gloves, however, is way harder to handle than anticipated. As the gloves emit vapor and a sharp hissing noise, you're sent teetering backward, tumbling across the street until your body skids to a halt.

───

Everything fucking hurts.

But holy shit, that was exhilarating.

There's sirens in the distance while you lay there, signaling that they're more than likely surrounding the asshole and taking him into custody. You groan and grumble while sitting up, propping yourself up on your elbows as a loud thud lands at your feet.

You know the sound of those boots anywhere.

"Dynamight?" you feign, pretending to be distressed after the fight. "Oh, you showed up at the perfect -,"

He cuts you off with a sharp quip, his voice gruff with a playful tone. "Shut the fuck up."

Bakugo crouches down as he's grabbing your wrists and hoisting you up onto your feet. He holds onto you for a moment while you get your bearings, wobbling like a baby deer. Once you're steady, he pulls you flush to his body and cups your chin in his gloved hand. Before you can protest his movements, he swoops down and your lips meet.

He's kissing you.

In the middle of the street.

In front of every single press company in the city.

In public.

You squeak against his lips, putting your hands on his chest to create space between the two of you as you pull away. He's perplexed at your hesitation until the realization whips him back to reality.

"Fuck!" Bakugo snarled, a pink blush creeping up the back of his neck. He was too caught up in the moment with adoration over your bravery that he...forgot he was on duty.

Cameras and reporters are rushing over, shouting a million different questions at the two of you.

"Miss! Are you a hero, too? What's your name?"

"Are you Dynamight's side-kick?"

"Dynamight, you saved the city once again! Who is this young lady in relation to you?"

"Are you worried this will affect your reputation with your supporters?"

"God, the agency is gonna fuckin' hate me for this," he growls.

Oh no. You just inadvertently tainted his reputation. He might get demoted...if only you had just stayed home today.

Bakugo turns toward the thousands of camera flashes and video cameras, arm slung around your shoulder.

"This is y/n, she's a support engineer from my agency and saved your asses today," he says confidently. "And she's my girlfriend, so don't get any wrong ideas about it."

What?!

The mob of media personnel begin speaking all at once to Bakugo again, shouting question after question.

"How long have you two been together?"

"Is she in training to be a hero, too?"

"That device was impressive! How did you manufacture it?"

"Do you have a quirk?"

You're standing there, dumbfounded that Bakugo just openly admitted to your relationship on live TV and to news reporters. You can't help but flush red over the barrage of questions, not used to this kind of interrogation in your line of support work.

He sighs, shaking his head as he removes his arm from your shoulder and moving to hold your hand.

"Quit it the questions, we're leaving."

With that, he parts through the crowd with you following behind, crossing over to the other street before letting go of your hand.

"Katsuki...are you sure you’re okay with this?" you ask timidly, aware that you can't take back what he said.

"Idiot, I don't lie about things like that. Now I get to show off my perfect princess."

You say nothing in return, just quietly squeal and do a little happy dance.

Perfect princess.

"Let's get your stubborn ass to the medical team, you look like shit," he teases, poking you in the forehead. "And we should probably tone back the output on those gauntlets, that coulda killed somebody - or you."

You hum in acknowledgement and follow him down the street, heading back to the agency together.

think of the gloves as, like, ironman suit type gear? how you can just pop them on and use them as enhanced fighting gear. hehe, a cute little panic fluff is always fun. thanks much again to @queenpiranhadon for the prompt!! 💜

Divider by : @/saradika

My Boy is so HOOOT 🔥🔥

Title: Loving Suffocation.

A Continuation Of This Piece.

Written for a very lovely, very indulgent anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Loid x Reader x Yandere!Yor (SxF).

Word Count: 4k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Slight Somnophilia, Spanking, Sex Toys, Breeding, Mentions of Pregnancy, Medical Malpractice, Oral Sex, Obsessive Behavior, Slight Gaslighting, Bruising/Marking, and Overstimulation.

You never did get to see your opera. A lack of oxygen turned your cramped world blurry and abstract, and you faded in and out of consciousness while Yor fussed over your ruined dress and gathered you up in her arms, the strip of fabric she’d tied around your neck and stuffed in your mouth – not quite a gag, but enough to convince your uncooperative vocal cords that calling for help wouldn’t be worth the effort. Sometime between being pulled against Yor’s chest and slipping out of that sex-saturated storage closet, you blinked and by the time you could find the strength to open your eyes again, you were in your apartment, in your own bed, your makeshift gag gone and your wrists bound  behind your back with a generous amount of duct tape. You briefly considered calling for help, but you were past the point of screaming. Even if you tried, the Forgers were your only neighbors close enough to hear, and you’d seen enough of enough of that family for a lifetime.

Just as exhaustion began to overwhelm your better judgement, you caught stifled footsteps in the near distance, heard the door to your bedroom creak open and shut with enough force to shake the drywall. This time, when you closed your eyes, it was in a deliberate effort to will yourself to sleep. An effort that was, of course, rendered futile by Yor’s hand on your forehead, a soft hum too tender to be purposefully deceptive. “I think they might be asleep. The poor thing could barely hold their eyes open.”

“That’s fine.” Instantly, your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach. He spoke quietly, keeping his voice low and airy, but even in worst dreams, Loid seemed to be able to carve out a place for himself. It made sense for him to make an appearance in this nightmare, too. “Can you show me where the damage is?”

You held your breath as Yor’s hand drifted from your face to your thigh. After a moment of hesitation, she nudged you onto your back, pulling the ragged remains of your skirt up to your waist. You fought not to bolt up as cold air washed over your exposed, abused cunt – not to ball your fists as you felt Loid’s narrowed eyes pry into you the way they always seemed to when you passed each other in the hall, when he got home before you could find a reason to get out of the Forgers’ suffocating apartment. You managed to hold yourself still as he clicked his tongue, edging that much closer to the foot of your bed. You could picture him leaning over you, perfectly styled blonde hair falling ever so slightly out of place as he took long, agonizing seconds to evaluate the bruises lining the inside of your thighs, the crescent-shaped marks Yor’s nails had left pressed in your hips, your waist. Calloused fingertips brushed over your ankle, but further restraint was deemed unnecessary as his attention shifted back to his wife. “And you said you found them…?”

“Unconscious,” she filled in. You could hear her shifting her weight, feigning concern as her husband evaluated you. “In front of our building. I tried to wake them up, but they panicked, and I remembered the treatment you told me about for—for hysteria.” She paused, swallowed. “I thought I could help, but I’m afraid I might’ve just made things worse…”

Loid’s response was delayed, put off in favor of inching that much closer to you. The mattress dipped as he rested a knee on the foot of your bed. Don’t move, you repeated to yourself, despite the ever-growing urge to get up and run gnawing violently at the back of your mind. If you pretended to be asleep, you’d only have to tolerate a few minutes of his attention before he got tired of leering at your conscious body. If you pretended to be asleep, they’d leave and you could start to forget this ever happened.

It got harder to be so rational as he reached out, running two fingers over your slit and splitting apart the lips of your pussy, giving himself a better view of your abused clit, your entrance – still pitifully drooling slick. You tried to remember what kind of doctor he was, but any specialties that might’ve come to mind were immediately forgotten as his gloved fingers slipped inside of you. You had to bite back a quiet hiss as he scissored open the sore walls of your cunt, his touch probing and experimental. At least Yor had the decency not to draw it out. “You reacted swiftly and efficiently. Even trained paramedics leave residual damage.” He drew back suddenly, and you fought not to jolt at his callousness. “Can you show me what exactly your…” He trailed off. You could practically hear the curiosity in his voice. “…your treatment entailed?”

Yor made a noise you couldn’t decipher. Loid moved away from you entirely, but Yor was quick to take his place. She settled into the space between your legs, her hands – shaking ever so slightly – taking up your hips, her fingertips near-perfectly aligned with the dark bruises pressed into your skin. You felt her breath ghost over the inside of your thighs, the flat of her tongue run gingerly over your slit, and you bolted upward on instinct, mouth open and ready to—

—ready to have your scream stifled and suffocated by Loid’s palm as he forced his hand over your mouth and shoved you back into the mattress. Unable to claw at his arm, to pry him off of you, you thrashed under his steadfast hold, but he didn’t seem to pay you any mind. Rather, his eyes met yours for all of half a second before flickering to his wife, sparing her a slight nod. “Patients usually react with some level of resistance. You can go on.”

Yor’s eyes widened, but any shock she might’ve felt seemed to melt away at her husband’s assurance. She was more nervous, now that she was performing for an audience rather than assaulting you in the privacy of her chosen hideaway, but the little, tentative movements of her tongue got braver over time, her eyes closing as her hands drifted from your waist to your thighs. She nudged your legs onto her shoulders and latched onto your clit, suckling with just enough force to draw a reaction out of your burnt-out nerves, to leave you trembling and struggling to swallow back pained moans and pathetic whimpers. It hurt – more than anything, it hurt – but she had your body trained, knew just what points to hit to get what she wanted out of you. More than that, your body knew that it wasn’t going to end until she reached her goal, until she had you cumming on her tongue for the— god, how many times would this make? You’d lost track after the first dozen, but even if you hadn’t, it would’ve been impossible to tell, impossible to know what she’d accomplished the first time reality started to blur and consciousness was rendered more of revokable privilege than something you’d ever be capable of holding on to without help. In less than a minute, you were grinding against her tongue involuntarily, the movement of your hips stilted and jerky. You couldn’t have called it a real orgasm, not when any pleasure you could’ve felt was so overshadowed by a searing sort of ache, but Yor seemed satisfied – drawing the back of her hand over her chin as she lifted her head, sending Loid a sheepish smile.

“I just, uh,” she started, drumming her fingers over your thigh. “I just did that until they calmed down. I’m not sure if it helped.”

“I see.” Loid, for his part, failed to let his air of stoic professionalism so much as waver.  “And how many times did the patient reach climax?”

“…thirty?” Yor let out an airy, nervous laugh. “Maybe more. It… It was a little hard to keep track, in the moment.”

“And they’re still so unruly.” He was kind enough to feign concern, to let his tone soften and purse his lips into a thin frown. For a second, you let yourself believe that you’d just stumbled into a bad situation – that he and his wife were under some shared delusion and genuinely thought they might’ve been helping you, but then you caught a spec of crimson on the collar of Yor’s dress out of the corner of your eye and thought better of trying to humanize them. “Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

The question was posed to Yor, not you. “Please do, you’re the doctor here,” she spouted, hurrying to get out of Loid’s way. Loid was more hesitant, his palm lingering over your mouth as his eyes found yours. He was cold at the best of times – his expression often hollow when he thought your attention was elsewhere, his touch enough to send a chill down your spine on the rare occasion he found an excuse to put his hands on you – but the look he sent you as he uncovered your mouth was nothing short of frigid. The threat was clear, albeit ambiguous. You had no idea what Loid was capable of, let alone what extremes he was willing to go to.

But, you knew what Yor could do – you’d caught her in the act.

And you weren’t eager to find out what’d she’d do to you at her husband’s request.

When his hand finally fell away from your mouth, you didn’t make a sound. Rather, you dug your teeth into the inside of your cheek as Loid wrapped an arm around your waist and hauled you onto his lap – his thighs cutting harshly into your stomach. The position was enough to leave your cheeks burning and humiliation tying knots in the back of your throat, but whatever embarrassment you might’ve felt was multiplied ten-fold as his hand ghosted over the buttons lining the back of your dress and your only remaining protective barrier fell away – mutilated fabric now limp and useless beneath you. You started to writhe, but the heel of Loid’s palm found the small of your back, pressing into the base of your spine with just enough force a pained whimper past your lips. Reflectively, Yor moved to reach towards you, but Loid shook his head. “It’s important to test for reactiveness,” he explained, tone flat and steely. “I can take care of bruises and cuts, but lasting nerve damage will make things—” He paused, clicked his tongue. “—difficult.”

“Oh!” Yor clapped her hands together. At least she seemed to sincerely believe that, even if she wasn’t helping you, her husband might be. You couldn’t tell what Loid was thinking, but it couldn’t have been so benevolent. “Is that what you’re doing now? Testing for reactiveness?”

“Exactly.” Loid flashed her a smile. You felt him shift, fish something out of the pocket of his suit jacket. Aching numbness had put you at a distance from his invasive touch before, but Yor’s mouth had done away with that – resurrecting the buzzing sort of hyper-sensitivity that meant you weren’t able to hide the way your hips bucked against his thigh as he slid something sleek and metallic into your drenched pussy. It was oddly shaped – one end tapered and the other flat, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand but still big enough to leave you squirming uncomfortably as Loid pulled back. “Normally, I’d use more intricate equipment, but there are a few experiments I can run on my own.”

You heard nails against metal, a soft click muffled by stiff machinery. After a second of delay, the object inside of you let out an abrupt pulse of pure vibration – harsh and sudden and awful. Your reaction was reflexive, undisguisable. You threw your head forward as you bit back a bubbling, broken moan; waves of intense reverberation beating at the walls of your cunt. There was no time to brace yourself, to grow into the piercing sting – it was already too much. The walls of your pussy clenched around the source of your agony, and before you could think to stifle your reactions, to give them as little as you possibly could, tears were blurring your vision, dripping down your cheeks. Yor cooed, kneeling in front of you and cupping your cheeks. “Poor thing…” she mumbled, before looking up towards Loid. “I don’t think they’re enjoying it.”

Another wave of pulsing reverberation, a jagged cry forced past your lips. “P-please, turn it off, take it out, I can’t—”

It took you a second to process the sound of a palm against flesh, how it might’ve been connected to the bright flash of pain just below the curve of your ass. When you could bring yourself to glance over your shoulder, his hand was raised, his expression stern. The sight was enough to make your heart ache in your chest – a sensitivity which surprised you. You hadn’t thought there was anything the Forgers could do to hurt you more than they already had.

“We’re going out of our way to help you.” It was the same tone he used with Anya when she refused to do her homework or threatened to drop out of her upper-crust academy. Whatever genuine sympathy he might’ve had for you was buried beneath a heavy layer of practiced stoicism and nearly totalitarian authority, turning the words cold where they should’ve been comforting. “It’s unfair to be so ungrateful when Yor’s already sacrificed so much of her time for the sake of your health. Why don’t you apologize to her?”

Again, you heard that same soft click, and the vibrations pulsing out of the object in your cunt doubled in intensity. You let your head fall forward, clenching your eyes shut as you struggled to spit something out. “I… I’m sorry, Yor, I didn’t mean to—”

You were cut off by a sharp moan, the feeling of Loid’s fingers tracing over your slit. Soon, the pad of his thumb found your clit, pushing dull circles into the sensitive bundle of nerves. He let out an airy chuckle as you withered into yourself, your legs spreading involuntarily as your feet struggled to find purchase on carpeting that seemed to be just an inch too far, to ground yourself on something that Loid didn’t even have to try to keep just out of your grasp. “Don’t strain yourself,” he muttered, your unwanted reward for your easy compliance. “How does this—” He pushed a rough pattern into your clit, drawing out a wavering cry. “—feel?”

Miserable. Torturous. The worst thing that’d ever been inflected onto your poor, spent body. You deflated, your chest flattening against Loid’s thighs. “…it hurts.”

This time, he let you finish before pulling back, his palm striking your ass with twice the force he’d used before. You cried out, the noise uneven and anguished, but your pain didn’t seem to rank very high on his nebulous list of concerns. “I’ve already told you not to be so ungrateful,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you know what would’ve happened if we weren’t here to help you?” Another strike, another ragged sob. “You’d be suffering on your own, in excruciating pain and spiraling into your own delusions. If we hadn’t been there to correct you so quickly, you would’ve been unrecoverable.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You were babbling, now, your apologies clumped together and nearly unintelligible. Loid cut in, pointed as ever.

“You’ve already apologized.” Two digits slipped into you, splitting your pussy open. Somehow, the added stimulation only seemed to make his device’s vibration more unbearable. “Now, it’s time to tell Yor how thankful you are.”

“Thank you—” There was no hesitation, no resistance. If you’d been able to, if you hands hadn’t been bound, you would’ve clung to her, dug your nails into her shoulder and your teeth into Loid’s thigh, anything to feel like you weren’t about to fall apart altogether. “Thank you, I’m so— I can’t— Thank you—”

It was Yor, this time – her mouth crashing against yours as her hand found the back of your head. Her tongue slipped past your lips, raking over yours with a ginger sort of tenderness and raking her fingers through your hair, drinking down every little moan and whimper her husband forced out of you with enthusiasm. She lingered there, lips moving gently against yours, as you reached your next climax – the number completely lost on you, now. When she pulled away, eyes glazed over and a dark blush painted over her cheeks, Loid hummed approvingly, fishing his bullet-shaped device out of your pussy and switching it off. Slick dripped down the inside of your thighs, your chest heaving stiltedly against his lap, and you noticed, for the first time, something large and stiff pressing into your stomach. For your own sake, you decided you weren’t going to think about it.

But, like always, Loid was quick to tear even the comfort you found in your own mind away from you.

“You did what you could,” Loid started, with heavy sigh. “But their condition is worse than I thought. It might take more than the usual treatment to set them back on the right path.” A lengthy pause, an arm looped underneath you. With more care than he’d seen fit to show you all night, Loid repositioned you on your back in the center of your bed. You were too exhausted to so much as try to protest. “For cases like this, insemination is the only known cure.”

Yor blinked up at him, more curious than confused. “Insemination?”

“Pregnancy,” Loid filled in. “It can be done artificially, but for cases this severe…”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. Weakly, you tried to sit up, but it was Yor that stopped you, this time, pressing her hand flat against your shoulder and pinning you down effortlessly. “If that’s what’s best,” she chimed, her smile wide and brilliant. “Can I help?”

For the first time, Loid’s expression seemed to warm. “Of course.”

Less than a full minute later, you were slotted against Yor, your head resting on her chest and her arms loosely wrapped around your midriff. Loid had reclaimed his position in the space between your open legs, one hand on your hip and the other toying with his clothes, shifting the waist of his now-wrinkled dress pants down just far enough to free his flush cock – already hard, already leaking pearls of arousal. The sight, paired with the breathy sigh he let out as he wrapped his fist around his shaft, was enough to dash any hopes you might’ve had of a last-minute change of heart.

You squirmed in Yor’s hold, your fists balling around your own near ruined sheets as Loid aligned himself with your entrance. You didn’t realize you were talking until you heard your own voice, fragile and desperate, nearly too broken to be comprehensible. “Please don’t, I—I’m not sick, please don’t—”

It was Yor who hushed you, this time, smiling as she pressed a fleeting kiss into your cheek. “He’s going to help you,” she whispered, tone simpering where you wished it would be sterile. “You can just sit back and relax while we—” She paused, squeezed you against her playfully. “—make sure you’re alright.”

There was a beat of silence, of stillness. Eventually, you managed to stutter out, “I don’t want your help.”

Loid let out an airy chuckle, tracing the flushed tipped of his cock over your slit. “You don’t have to want anything.” He bowed his head, leaning down far enough to rest his lips against the top of your head. “You’ll need all the help you can get, in a few weeks.”

You didn’t have time to protest, not before he thrust into you – sheathing himself to the hilt in a single stroke.

You tried to scream, but Yor’s mouth found yours in a moment, swallowing any fractured noises you might’ve been able to make. Loid didn’t seem interested in giving you time to adjust; immediately falling into a rhythm just as forceful and just as cruel as anything else he’d done to you. It wasn’t a question of if it would hurt, anymore, but how badly. The feeling of his not inconsiderably length splitting open your aching pussy alone was enough to bring tears to your eyes, and his rough thrusts, his shattering pace – all of it only working to agitate the few parts of you that hadn’t already gone numb to his assult. You clenched your eyes shut, willing yourself to go completely numb, but Yor cooed, one of her hands falling away from you only to find its way to the curve of your stomach, her palm soon pressed flat against your skin. “Miss Anya did mention wanting a younger sister,” she muttered, nuzzling into the dip of your shoulder. “It’ll be difficult to hide, ‘till it’s over with. There used to be a single mother working at city hall, but the State Security Service paid her a visit and…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “But I’m sure that won’t be an issue for you!”

“Of course not.” Loid’s voice was breathy, his attention mostly elsewhere. He did his best to stay composed, to maintain that painstakingly professionally air, but you could feel him twitch inside of you, feel his hips stutter as his pace grew that much more brutal. “We’ll be taking care of you. When you start to show, you’ll move in with us, and—” A groan, a pair of tired eyes allowed to close. “—and if you cooperate, we’ll make it so you don’t have to worry about anything aside from the baby. Any added stress will only make the pregnancy more difficult.”

Loid’s hips pressed against yours, Yor’s mouth on the curve of your neck. “Our little family is growing so quickly.” You could feel her grin against your throat, fangs ready to clamp down at the first sign of resistance. “I can’t wait until you’re better. You’ll be so happy, when you’re in your right mind again.”

Your mouth fell open, but anything you might’ve said died in your throat long before it could ever reach your tongue. There was no pleasure to it, no stimulation other than the same grating sensation and the pinpoints of pressure where Loid’s fingertips dug into your waist, but if your comfort mattered to Loid, he would’ve stopped as soon as he saw what his wife did to you. He cursed under his breath, throwing his hand forward and hauling your rigid body that much closer to his. You didn’t have a chance to brace yourself, to trick your pain-addled mind into believing there was anything you could possibly do to get away from him before he went still, something thick and searing flooding into your unprotected cunt. He lingered there, his cum leaking out of you despite your pussy’s futile attempts to cling to his cock, and for the first time, you let yourself think about what they were taking about – insemination, pregnancy, growing families and new siblings. You let yourself acknowledge the weight of Yor’s hand against your stomach, Loid’s hips against yours. You let yourself breath in, holding the air in your lungs for a moment before exhaling and going limp against Yor.

Fuck.

If you never saw the Forgers again, it’d still be a day too soon.

Yor started to pull away from you, but Loid stopped her. “Conception can be fickle,” he started, fighting not to pant audibly. “It’d be for the best if we were…” His eyes dropped to you. “…thorough.”

“Do you hear that?” Her hold grew that much tighter, her smile that much brighter. Her lips ghosted over the shell of your ear. The feeling might’ve sent a chill down your spine, if you still had the strength to be afraid of them.

“Loid’s going to take very good care of you.”