𝐀 𝐇𝐘𝐌𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 || 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

TW: anger issues, abuse, angst

gn reader

Thinking about boyfriends with anger issues…

How it’s okay in the beginning because your relationship is still fresh, and you’re both trying your best to be perfect for each other. How it’s enough for you to tell him he’s being silly with a sweet kiss to his grumpy cheek when he’s acting grumpy and insisting on having some type of fight with you over something unimportant. It’s enough to defuse him at that point—your unnerving smile and kind eyes, how you’re able to touch him even when he feels nuclear. The knots untangle within his head, and he calms down. He doesn’t apologize, but he gets sheepish and plays dumb until he’s cracking you up with some dumb joke—so you forgive him anyway.

The fights get worse over time, but so do the good times. He’s so perfect when he’s good, you forget about the bad. And you’re still able to disengage, at least most of the time. You can leave or ignore and dismiss—you can even agree to be wrong sometimes, even when you’re not. It doesn’t really matter. Those arguments are never about who’s right anyway—it’s just about fighting to see who can outlast the other. You swear, sometimes it feels like you’re the accused on the stand in a courtroom, but the judge has vacated, and it’s just you against the lawyer hurling pointed question after question at you.

Oh, but then he brings flowers, makes you smile and laugh, does something romantic, and tells you sweet nothings that make you blush. It feels right when you move in together. You love him. And you know he loves you. He still doesn’t ever apologize for his behavior—at least not with words—but he tries making up for it otherwise. After particularly nasty fights, when you go to sleep without him and without sharing another word, he’s on his best and brightest behavior the day after—makes you breakfast, drives you to work, offers to pick you up, suggests you do something fun later.

It's soothing that he knows he’s in the wrong. It makes it easier to forgive him. Makes you believe he’ll change.

Only he doesn’t.

The bathroom becomes your escape, a space you can retreat to when you’re on the brink. You don’t want to cry in front of him—he can get so mean sometimes, and the tears just egg him on like it’s some game he’s winning. It doesn’t really dawn on you that you’re hiding from him. If you admit that to yourself, nothing would make sense anymore. If you admit that to yourself, you wouldn’t be able to defend staying with him. And so you can’t. You suppress it. You’re not hiding from him—if he were to come knock on the door to let him in, you’d let him in. So you’re not hiding from him. No, you’re just in there for a quick breath of your own and to give him a little space.

But though you deny it, he feels you slipping away—and it only serves to make him more combatant. Raised voices turn into roaring—you fear the neighbors might complain. Nothing works anymore. If you walk away, he follows angrier than before. If you agree to disagree, he’ll only use it against you. If you cry, he laughs.

The time you get as ugly as he gets and start fighting back with your own insults is when he puts his fist through the wall right next to you.

The house shakes for a moment, then stands still. All is silent. Neither of you moves. You’re as stiff as a mannequin, and your eyes have never been wider—and yet you don’t look at him. Your gaze is fixed at nothing in particular as if unable to look anywhere else. You have a hand against his chest—it shakes. He feels it, and it’s a gross feeling—worse than the pain in his hand.

And he knows. He knows he’s ruined it. He knows it’s the exact moment he’s lost you.

No, actually. He probably lost you a while back…

He pulls his fist out of the drywall—the thin plate follows him before he drags it out with force. Dust and fibers stick to his skin in blotches where the blood coats his hand, seeping from the splits on his knuckles. It stings, but it isn’t the worst. No, his chest feels worse.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely through the strain in his tightening throat. “I’m sorry.” He can never repeat it enough for it to be enough. Fuck, what’s he done? What can he do? There’s a gaping hole in the wall he has you pressed up against, and it’s about to swallow him up.

“You’re bleeding,” comes your voice—as from the break of light in a stormy sky that reminds him it’s still day. “We need to disinfect it.”

He doesn’t dare protest, even as it confuses him how trivial you are about it. He just trails after you as you take him to the bathroom and clean him up. Holding his damaged hand in both of yours while you guide it under the tap, rinsing off the debris and blood, letting it all go down the drain. He didn’t even know you had a first aid kit, but you seem well-versed for some reason—how you dab the cuts with alcohol-soaked cotton, then tape shut the deeper slits before wrapping it all in a strip of bandage.

You take him to the bedroom, but neither of you speaks. He’s afraid to. And yet, both of you say goodnight while lying on opposite sides of the bed. He doesn’t know what feeling it is that simmers within his chest, but it makes it the worst night of his life.

And still, he must have slept soundly.

You’re gone in the morning—you’re essential things with you.

It’s strange, but he isn’t even angry. No… You left a note for him, but he can’t read it—not through the swelling of his eyes as they burn with salt and water and regrets that know no end.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks, Enji, Shinso ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Megumi, Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Kageyama, Iwaizumi, Sakusa, Ukai ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin ♡ AOT – Eren, Levi ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

ahh i love your writing and your dark!peter fics are the best, could we get a darkfic of peter bullying/harassing the reader and then things escalate if you know what i mean ??

rude boy | peter parker

[Warnings] dark peter parker x reader, bully peter, verbal/physical harassment, noncon/dubcon, fingering, public sex, mentions of intercourse/oral sex, peter being a jerk, fish sticks

A/N: I combined your ask with another bully peter request I got! I’ll post that asks right after this. Hope you like this!

In which Peter can’t make up his mind about whether he loves or hates you. 

word count: almost 3k

Your gaze fell down to your lap as he entered the classroom. Everyone else’s seemed to lift, admiring their classmate who famously saved the world several times. It was safe to say that the fame had gone to his head. You nervously played with the ends of your skirt as you waited for the commotion in the room to die down and for the class to start. 

That didn’t happen because an unfamiliar person slid onto the stool beside you and you lifted your head to see Peter. He gave you a bored look as he looked you over, “What’s up, fish sticks?”

Your eyes shut tightly as you winced at the name. He knew it got under your skin and loved to watch you squirm. He nudged your arm, “Hmm?” 

Everyone remembered that time in fifth grade, on the trip to the aquarium, where you threw up your packed lunch on one of the employees. Your mom had packed you fish sticks and, as you sat through one of their fun presentations, one of the presenters picked you to come up to the stage. You were shy, even back then, and as he asked you something you learned that day, you completely lost your lunch on his shoes. This all led to one of your classmates shouting, “She barfed up her fish sticks!” and laughter ensued. 

Even Peter seemed to think it was still funny, “You’re not my partner, Peter,” You said, not meeting his eyes. 

“Now I am,” Your heart skipped a beat as you heard him, “I can’t work with Ned anymore, he sucks at cooking and I need a good grade in this class.”

You looked back at Peter’s normal seat to see your family and consumer science partner sitting with Ned. You liked her and she always did her fair share of the work. You were sure the opposite would be true for Peter. 

Peter faked a smile at you, “So what are we cooking today? Fish sticks?”

You took a deep breath, your hands tapping nervously at the table, “You could try looking at the board,” You felt him scoot his stool closer to you, his body leaning over the counter. 

“I think I’ll just look at you instead,” Your breathing hitched in your throat as he leaned into your ear. Just as he did, your teacher entered the room. You thought she was a good teacher, she graded easily, and Peter must’ve been a complete idiot to not be doing well. Clearly, this wasn’t his subject of expertise. 

The room was set so each station had its own oven, stove, and appliances. This unit was all about cooking and today you were making dessert. Your teacher gave you a list of instructions before adding that you should all make sure you’re following safety protocols. 

You stood up from your stool, mostly just to get some space from Peter and walked over to grab an apron. 

The assignment went much worse than you expected. Peter refused to even lift a spoon or even wear an apron. He sat by as you did all the work, only offering to lick the spoon clean when you were finished with it. The times he got off his butt were to walk over to Ned’s table to chat with him. 

“You’re good at this,” Peter said, as you poured the batter into a cake tin. You were a little out of breath from running around to grab supplies, “You should come over and make me a sandwich sometime.”

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, trying to keep yourself from responding. 

As soon as you got your cake into the oven, you took a deep breath, taking a look at the clock to see if you were going to finish on time, “Can you chill? You’re stressing me out.”

You rested your hands against the counter, “I’m …” Your voice raised only for a moment before you lowered it, “I’m stressing you out?”

Peter noticed your frustration and smirked, “Awe, I’m joking fish sticks. You’re doing great,” He winked. 

Maybe you could talk to the teacher, tell her that you and Peter were not a good fit together. She’d ask you why you didn’t want to be partners and then you would have to tell her … and facing Peter after that would be a nightmare. You shook your head at the thought and convinced yourself you could go the rest of the semester doing the work all by yourself. 

+

You were going to get into a good school, especially with the number of clubs you were a part of and the one that you created yourself. A book club because you loved reading and school was lacking one. There were four members in total including you and your friend Jess. If you wanted your club to seem serious on college applications then you needed more members. 

Jess had the idea of hanging up banners and flyers during the free period and, of course, you were all in. 

You went around the school with a ladder the janitor lent you and hung up your homemade posters. You were hanging a large banner towards the front of the school when the bell suddenly rang, ending the free period. 

“Just a few more inches to the left,” Jess instructed you and you slowly moved the poster to the position she wanted before Jess reached up to hand you the tape. 

There was something about you that Peter couldn’t quite wrap his head around. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to you. It was something about the snooty, preppy way you dressed that he a distaste for but turned him on to you at the same time. You were so intelligent but corruptible still. It was quite frustrating knowing you’d only see him as a nuisance. 

He watched the back of your legs, your skirt slightly rose as you taped up your poster. He thought about those baby pink panties you were probably wearing. 

You were admiring your work when suddenly the ladder shook and, for a moment you thought you might fall back until you barely caught yourself. A sharp shriek left your lips and the hall went silent until everyone was staring at you and then chuckling. You felt your cheeks warm as you quickly stepped down the ladder. 

You looked around the culprit and found Peter walking backward in the other direction. He smiled, “See you at book club, fish sticks!”

Your hands formed a fist at your side as you gave Jess an incredulous look. 

“Sorry,” She apologized, but you were already marching away. 

+

Two weeks later, you were in a crowded subway car heading to school. Some soft pop song was playing in your headphones and you were swaying your head slightly to the music. Your eyes traveled around as you people watched.

You had done this route every day but you found yourself getting nervous now when you thought about school. Peter had seemed to take a special liking to you and wouldn’t leave you alone. He made you do all his work in family and consumer sciences and he’d make sure to shout something embarrassing at you when you saw him in the hall. 

A few days ago you were heading to your lunch table with your tray when he walked up to you, “Sit with me today,” He had told you, eyes more serious than you had ever seen them. 

“Why?” You asked.

“Because I said so,” He continued and you raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think I can take any more fish stick jokes,” Anger settled over his features and it scared you, “No, but thank you.”

Any day before this, you would’ve said yes just because of how much he scared you. He was a superhero and what were you? Nothing. And everyone saw you that way. You were just tired of him torturing you. 

You should’ve trusted your instincts because as you walked around him, you lost your balance, and tripped over his outstretched foot. The cafeteria went quiet and you moaned in pain as you pulled yourself up. Your spaghetti was now staining your bright colored sweater.

Peter leaned down, “Forgive me for trying to be nice to you, Y/N,” He held out his hand for you to take and, you only stared at him, before standing up yourself. Jess rushed over, napkins in hand, but you were already running from the cafeteria, tears stinging your eyes. 

You shook your head as you tried to stop thinking about it. As if you had unconsciously summoned the devil, you felt a hand on your waist. You jumped, of course, and thought some middle-aged man would be standing behind you but it was even worse. 

“Turn back around,” He spoke huskily in your ear and you shook your head. His arm wrapped around you, his hand wrapping around your throat as he pulled you back into him, “Don’t struggle. Wouldn’t want to make a scene, right?”

How long had he been watching you? How long had he been following you?

Your eyes darted around, looking for anyone who had noticed what was happening to you but you saw no one. Everyone so packed together and clearly focused on whatever was going on in their busy lives. Peter’s other arm wrapped around you, under your arm, and settled on your stomach. 

You started to shake your head as his fingers trailed against the top of your skirt but his grip on your throat tightened, “What color panties are you wearing?” He whispered in your ear, “Hmmm?”

It was clearly rhetorical because, with every word you spoke, his grip tightened. You had to keep still in order to breathe. His hand slid between your skin and the waistband of your pastel skirt and he felt between your legs. A small whimper left your lips as his fingers rubbed your sex through your panties. 

His nose pressed into your hair and he took in your scent as he began rubbing circles against the fabric of your underwear. 

Peter had to see for himself if you were really what he wanted and he was tired of hiding his attraction. The confusion and tension in his mind had finally stopped. He was going to have you.

You had rarely even touched your private parts yourself so, the feeling rising in your core, felt completely foreign. A second later, he was dipping his fingers in the fabric of your panties. Your face completely warmed and you couldn't help how your body flinched at the sensation. 

“You’re mine from now on, to do whatever I please,” You ran from the feeling, from the pleasure, for as long as you could but Peter’s fingers worked like magic. Your chest heaved up and down as your breathing became more erratic. You were nearing something and that scared you even more. Peter held you steady and kept you from going anywhere and you were forced to face whatever he had unleashed inside you. 

“There you go, that’s it, Y/N,” It was a giant explosion deep inside you, and Peter moved his hand around your neck to cover your mouth as you orgasm. 

You were shaking as his fingers still played with that sensitive bulb in your panties. When he finally released you, you felt more disgusted at yourself for feeling such pleasure. 

Peter turned you around and you were so dizzy that you couldn’t even push him away as he slammed his lips against yours. Anyone around you would’ve saw it as annoying PDA by a couple of teenagers but, really, a predator had just sunk its teeth into its prey.

+

You sat with Peter at lunch from the day forward. You decided it was better than him humiliating you in front of the entire student body. 

You weren’t sure what exactly you were to him. He seemed to want a personal punching bag as well as the intimacy you could provide. He’d tease you constantly, especially in front of his friends, but he’d want to make you cum right after being the jerk he was. 

He’d invite himself over to your house so you could help him with a school project or rather have you do it for him. Then he would … use his tongue against your private parts and make you lay with him for hours. 

One weekend, while you were walking home from a late-night study session at Jess’s house, a figure landed right in front of you. You hated how he loved to make his entrances by scaring you. Completely clad in his red and blue suit, Peter looked you up and down, “Why are you out walking so late?”

You took a cautious step back, “My apartment is three blocks away.”

“I’m aware and that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Can I at least have the weekends to myself, Peter?”

Peter cocked his head to the side and you wished very much to see whatever devilish look was. As he took a step forward, you took another backward, which caused him to laugh, “I’m offended, Y/N. I’m just a friendly neighborhood spider-man trying to help a poor, lost girl find her way home. There are sickos out this late.”

“Peter-”

Peter suddenly raised his hand and you saw a web shoot out into the distance. Before you could follow where it led, Peter’s arms were around you, and you were flying with him in the air. You squeezed him for dear life, your lungs unleashing every scream within you, as your stomach rose and fell with the swinging motion. 

When you finally landed on your feet, you were standing on the fire escape just outside your bedroom. You lost your balance but Peter was there to catch you again. Peter pulled off his masks and you saw his tired face and messy hair beneath it. 

He smiled at you, “Gonna puke, fish sticks?”

You tried to pull away from him, anger boiling up inside of you, “I-I hate you! I hate you, Peter!”

Tears were streaming down your cheeks and you were punching at his chest. It had no real effect on him and he simply grabbed your hands and held them in place. He pulled your hands down and pulled your forward, kissing you hard. 

You seemed to calm as his soft lips moved against yours. You hated it but it did. Your hands calmed and he let them go. Peter’s brown eyes narrowed into yours when he finally pulled away. He grabbed your face then, “I’m sorry to hear that, Y/N,” He wiped a tear away from your face, “But I don’t think I can let you go just yet.”

He kissed you again and you started to move your lips against his. It was easier that way. You stayed there for a long time, your lips on his, as your tears began to dry. He wasn’t going to leave you be so you thought you might as well enjoy it. The most popular boy in school, in New York, wanted you. Shouldn’t that make you feel good?

Peter moved to open your window, “Peter … my parents.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Peter insisted as he slipped inside. You did the same and you watched as Peter slowly shut it back. 

You moved over to the bed, taking off your backpack, and preparing for what Peter usually wanted to do. You looked up, surprised when you saw he was taking off the suit … all the way. 

“Peter, I’ve never-”

He shushed you, “I haven’t either,” That surprised you to hear. He approached you on the bed, only wearing his boxers, and your eyes raked in his exquisite physique. A lot has changed for him in the last few years, “But I’m sure I can figure it out.”

He kneeled down by your feet and took his time removing your shoes and then your socks. He wanted to take his time admiring you and this made you feel like a piece of art, “Why me?” You asked hesitantly.

“I have this awareness of my surroundings, like something in the back of my mind,” You weren’t expecting an honest answer but Peter’s eyes were completely earnest, “When I’m around you, it goes haywire and when I don’t have it, I’m vulnerable. I hate that.”

“So you do this to me b-because you hate me?”

Peter stood up, leaning forward as he pushed you down towards the bed. You slowly moved back towards your headboard as Peter crawled on top of you, “Not anymore. I like feeling certain things … when my defenses are down.”

His face was hovering above yours now, his fingers trailing over the waistband of your underwear. He started to pull them down and you stared with wide eyes because he didn’t even look away from you.

“Oh,” was all that left your mouth as he spread your legs. Everything about him confused you but it was useless to argue with him. You reached up to touch his shoulder which surprised him, to say the least. You touched the skin there and then the hardness of his chest. 

Peter tossed your underwear to the side, positioning himself between your legs. His eyes darkened as he looked at you and, suddenly, he was pinning your hands above your head. He kissed you as he used his other hand to pull down his boxers, letting his member spring free. He rubbed its tip against your sensitive bulb, trailing it up and down to tease you. 

When he finally entered you, it was slow and patient despite the hungry look in his eyes. He watched as you winced and moaned in pain as he stretched you for the first time. He’d bury himself deep inside of you for the rest of his life if he could. He’d make you tighten around him as he gave you orgasm after orgasm. 

“You make me feel human again, Y/N,” Peter grunted into your ear. After all, he had lived through and what he was meant to go through now, he’d use you to bring him down to earth. You were a toy, a tool, but maybe you could learn to enjoy the closeness. The intimacy.

Human. 

Peter both desired and despised the feeling. 

+

I hope you enjoyed this! Please be sure to like, reblog and let me know what you think! Check out my harryspetrequests tag for more of my requests and my master list for more dark peter fics!

no bc sex with bakugou is so insane with you on top. he's got his hands behind his head, gripping his pillow, and it's making his biceps so taut and round and it's pulling on his obliques and he's breathing hard so his abs are contracting and he just looks so tight. and you're staddling his hips, stuffed full of him, and your movements are so measured, slow and careful so that he's grinding against spots that make both of you shiver and tremble. and his whole face is flushed, his chest and his ears, and he's got sweat gathered in his hairline and dripping down his temples, and i think eye contact for him is so important but it also overwhelms the shit out of him and he can only stare up at you in awe for so long before he's pressing his face into his bicep because it's too much and and and

you don't know how much comfort your dragon king bkg drabble has given me ever since you posted it!! i keep reading it i love it sm 🥹

as it turns out, the man bakugou is — a bit harder to handle.

he sleeps like a heathen; you once thought the dragon bakugou to be a bit lazy, with how often he tended to curl up in the fields of grass, warm under the sun, but now — it would seem his little human form needs significantly less rest.

almost up all hours of the day, and when he does finally lay down, he's everywhere. a mess of limbs: one thrown carelessly out to the side and the other bent at an angle you can't believe doesn't hurt his joints. his head stays tucked into you somehow, either buried in your neck or pressed against your ribs — or you'll wake to find him nose-to-nose with you. he still snores like a dragon, however.

you're also beginning to wonder if there is a bottom to the pit of his stomach. he ate much before, whole fields of things, but you expected that appetite to dwindle, at least a little, now that his stomach has decreased considerably in size. and in number ? you're not even sure how many stomachs a dragon has; that's not something that was mentioned in the fairytales.

it burns through him quickly, gives him more energy than he needs, and it doesn't ever seem to affect his weight much. already, he's huge and thick with muscle and eating as much as he does never dulls the severity of his cut abdomen. not that you're looking all that much.

— not that you have a choice not to, as he seems to have little-to-no understanding of —

the door to the bathhouse kicks open, with enough force that you already know who it is without ever turning to look. you try not to shriek when you see him, because he seems to like that in some evil, impish way.

you've been alone to wash so far, thankfully, as the inn you'd managed to find was small and far enough out from the nearest kingdom that the occupancy was low — enough for you and your little brute.

the man bakugou comes to stand in front of the bath, blinking and huffing against the steam. finding clothes for him was — nearly impossible, and so the trousers you'd found hanging on someone's line outside fit above his ankles, a bit too tight around his waist. instead of a shirt, you've wrapped him in a scratchy linen, swaddled him up like a baby to cover the small smattering of scales that decorate his body, almost like freckles from the sun, though they gleam just as bright and red as they ever have. no matter his form.

a horn has started to sprout, on the right side of his forehead, and you've done your best to cover that, too.

you have no idea how long this man thing will last. if it's permanent or if he even has control over it. the last thing you need is for him to switch back, somehow, while you're in the middle of feeding him, absolutely demolishing whatever tavern you're in and calling all of king todoroki's guards to attention.

bakugou grunts, almost sleepy, and tosses a fat, weighty sack onto the edge of the bath. it jingles a certain jingle that makes your heart stop.

"oh, allfather—" you move for the edge, awkwardly keeping one arm against your chest despite the fact that he's seen it all by now. when you peek inside and confirm your fears, you lob it back to him furiously, as if it were a steaming potato. "where do you keep getting this stuff?"

things have started to turn up, miraculously. shiny things — like coins and rings and gems. things he could not have simply found rolling around in the dirt.

"go put it back!" you hiss at him, and the tone of your voice makes his frown deepen. you never realized how pouty he was, when he was still a dragon.

you think he understands you, and you're pretty certain he just chooses not to listen; instead of doing what you've told him in the slightest, he simply dumps the coin-purse to the floor, and then lets his linen and stolen trousers cover it as he unceremoniously undresses.

the biggest issue that you would say the man bakugou poses is — his complete lack of understanding of personal space.

"bakugou!" your voice wavers, shocked again by his nakedness. as if you haven't seen it all by now. "no, you — get out!"

but he does the exact opposite, which is hop into the steaming water, ignoring the arm you hold out to keep him away as he saddles up beside you. skin against scales, pressing a nose into your hair to huff out his annoyance, to make it something you can feel.

if anyone were to walk in right now, they would — probably think the lie you'd told the innkeeper was true. that you are a simple traveler and this is your mute, over-sized husband.

regardless, you think this behavior isn't polite. especially in a public bathhouse.

"bakugou," you try again, turning your face away as you speak to the wood-paneled wall. "i'm taking a bath, you have to wait your turn."

all you receive in response is another huff against your ear and a low rumble of disagreement from his chest.

he has yet to speak back, and has only used inhuman sounds as his points of conversation. the only word you've ever heard him utter is oi, which he does when he really thinks he needs your attention. you're starting to wonder if he's named you that in his head. oi.

curiously, you turn back to him and the movement has him pulling his face from your hair, just enough that he can look down at you, too. watch you, with the red-rippled sea in his eyes.

they're — amazing, you will admit. just as bright and detailed as they always have been. fit for a fairytale told by the fire, veiled by the soft-ash of his lashes. he watches you through them, half-lidded, and you wonder if it's something other than fatigue that has them so heavy.

"do you know what i'm saying?" you ask quietly, voice lacking the firm heat you want it to. instead it's heavy, too, weighted by something soft and unfamiliar and frightening. "can you even understand me?"

bakugou doesn't respond, not with a huff or a rumble or ever a purr, like the one he let out on the night he lay over you by the lake. you've only heard it sparingly since then, oftentimes in his sleep when his face is pressed into you.

you try not to frown at his silence, try not to let it disappoint you because it shouldn't; he's a dragon afterall, and you're not sure what it matters. the little horn protruding from his forehead catches your eye and you reach up to touch it gently, watching him blink away the water that drips from your wrist — and then he's turning into you again, too close.

beneath the water, you feel his hands skate up your bare thighs, wrap around your waist until your chest is pulled flush against his. you feel his huff, again, against the damp skin of your neck but it's slower, lighter. not laced with his frustration. some unknown thing you feel guilty for liking.

you drop your hand to his hair, rushing full force into all the damned things you've thought about doing but have been too afraid to. he's soft between your fingers, and you trace your nails lightly against his scalp until he groans quietly; a new noise, one you don't know how to translate.

your fingers stop when they brush upon little spines that have grown at the base of his skill, that have started to trail down the center of his back.

suddenly, tangled up in the bath with him, you wonder how much time you have left.

bakugou huffs again into your skin, a little fiercer this time, and it's because of his light jostling that you realize how rigid you've gone. you try to relax so that he will, too, though you must not do a convincing job, because a sharp nip comes to your earlobe.

"ow!" you squeal, but he doesn't let you go far, not even as you try to jerk away from him. in fact, the harder you try the more his teeth show: into your cheek and the point of your jaw and then dangerously low on your neck.

it's not until you finally freeze that he stops, huffing again, with a warmth that burns more than the steaming water.

and then, very quietly, he grumbles, "shitty wife," into your collarbone, just before biting you again.

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Ok but I fucking love the idea of God of War! Bakugou falling in love with Goddess of Life! Reader but not being able to express his feelings bc of his role.

The man in charge of so much death and despair for his own amusement stumbling upon the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen silently crying in their haven as she re-sows burnt crops, sends rain to cease the flames that burned villages, and redirects lost children back to their family. She weeps because she knows that as part of her life, she must always be shadowed by Bakugou since Bakugou is a reflection of mankind. As long as there is man, there is war. As long as there is war, there is Bakugou.

He feels kinda shitty about it because he’s never had to look at the aftermath of his doings; victorious feasts of rich meats and wines always came after leading corrupt leaders into battle. Seeing something so divine weep over something so fragile makes his stony heart twinge a little. He knows he can never approach you fully to court you because of your destinies. It kills him inside, so he might reconsider starting that war over a stolen pig.

HELPPPPP WHAT IN THE FORBIDDEN LOVE/UNREQUITED LOVE/ANGST/GREEK GOD AU/COLD-TURNED-SOFT/BAD BOY X GOOD GIRL IS THIS 😭😭😭

You’re the hope women and children pray to in times of war, watching over their trembling figures as they clutched their shaking hands together and wept your name.

Nurturer of Battlefields, hear me!

Mother of Light, hear me!

Lady of Spirits, hear me!

Let your children live through the destruction of men!

Oh Goddess of Life, hear me!

Now save your children!

Nights they’ve spent, whimpering chants to you while their fathers and brothers and husbands and sons fought under the other watch of another god. It was either one side of women and children captured and raped when all their soldiers fall, or the other side safe with abundance of stolen goods.

What could you do but to let the god of war decides for himself—and you’re left to weep as fallen men rot to death on their own land; unable to enter the gates of the underworld as they wander Earth as silent souls.

Victory was taken while loss hammered the damned to death, a side of women and children were safe while the other is left to be enslaved to the people who killed their lands.

While on the other hand—bloody red eyes and golden blonde hair, the god of war celebrates the wins he’d side with. People would offer sacrifices of slain bulls and goats and goods for the aid of his on their side; humankind would do anything to not be killed.

Songs and chants were written to him every night as they offer their offerings, singing about how the strength of Bakugou is worth 5 thousand of the strongest warriors.

He had enjoyed victories for centuries while your tears turn into rain that put out the fire of burning cities. He cheered through blood that splattered all over his golden armour while your tears washed dried red off of the grass of battlefields.

Slowly as time went by, prayers to you by the women in hiding ceased. After all, centuries of prayers did nothing for their land. It was all in the hands of Bakugou—the god of war.

Lord of Destruction, hear me!

Lord of Fallen Cities, hear me!

God of War, hear me!

Now pity the lives of us and bring us victory!

Lord of Slaughter, hear me!

Slay the damned enemies!

They’d pray and pray, with clutched hands and hopeful eyes. And you’re forgotten as the nurturer of battlefields.

At last, when the men were planing to burn all their fiend’s offsprings and wives alive—you discarded the dignity of a goddess and knelt in front of Bakugou. Rain poured as you pled for the lives of the innocent.

The war god had seen mortal being bowing beneath him, kiss his feet as they cried for their lives. But it was a first for a goddess to kiss his hand as she begged for mere mortal lives. You were almost powerless beneath his strength.

Humans could live but war was bound to happen. And he was bound to shine as marble statues in temples.

That was the tragedy. War can only end if life simply never existed; and you were the true mother of war.

It was only because you were a fellow god, he thought, impossible to kill that he no longer is appeased with the killing of women and children—and the Lord of Destruction would send thunders that struck huts and horses if he was angered.

Soon, Bakugou finds himself spending his days when he’s not battling in the quiet temple of yours. He would disguise himself as a bird, resting on a tree that runs with your holiness. Your tenderness and warmth for humanity were rare amongst the Gods and Goddesses, and he finds the epitome of beauty in that.

But what could he do with his heart? He birthed war and you begged against it. He thirsts for blood and you use your tears to wash it away. Mortals pray to him for the befall of their own kind and they pray to you for the lives of their children.

The both of you were never supposed to be destined. So all he could do, with his heart that beats feelings for the Lady of Spirits, was simply watch afar at your marble statue in your temple and listen to your weeps as yet another city burns.

Link to post.

Hello spongy! I hope your mojo comes back. 🖤🐈‍⬛

Bakugou Katsuki - wedding ring - sadness or anger- choking 👀

Hopefully this sparks something. I know whatever you write will be wonderful!

Hi Kitten, thank you for your request, it’s helping loads and I’m feeling more optimistic about my writing already x x x

Bare

Rating: 18+ Warnings: Smut, choking, implied infidelity, a bit of angst, intentionally vague. 

It had all been going so well. 

Catching that prick of a villain towards the end of his shift; getting news that he’s on track to move up a few ranks in the next quarterly popularity polls; receiving a phone call from his mom, and not having her breathing down his neck over some stupid shit she wants him to do. 

Life was moving forward. Life was moving on. He was starting to forget. 

Then there’d been a knock at his door, disturbing him from a blessed sleep he hadn’t been able to sink into for weeks now. 

Finding you there. Here. On his doorstep. Mascara leaking down wet cheeks. A hastily packed bag at your feet and the words falling from trembling lips;

“I did it.”

It couldn’t have gone better. 

It was like old times. Colliding into one another like you hadn’t been gone for months; no word or sighting. A blank space in the shape of you that not even a faceless soul could fill. No late night phone calls that last until dawn, or early morning greetings that start with a smirk and a kiss. 

You came and left like a hurricane. Turning his world upside down. Having him craving the next meeting. 

Now it looks like you’re back. 

Be it for good. A week. A day. A night. An hour. 

He’ll take what he can get. Feed into the lie that may or may not be a reality. 

Until he saw it, and the floodgates opened. 

Having you under him. The dent in the mattress recognising your figure and moulding back into a familiar shape. The pillow beneath your head absorbing the scent of your shampoo and perfume, claiming it back into your possession. Satiating him for the nights without you. The slats of the headboard remember the way you gripped them, hung on, nails scratching and palms itching, leaning behind groves that he could trace and hold, reliving your last moments before you had to dress and step back into the world you had without him. 

Your back is soft against his chest, fitting perfectly into the crevasses, spine curved, hips raised between his thighs, rocking gently, meeting him like waves ebbing and flowing over a cool, moonlit beach. 

You’re anything but; you burn like the sun, skin kissed by fire, spreading your warmth and melting the cage he’s so diligently erected around himself since you’d last been here. 

Just like this. With him. 

The bars are buckling, warping, setting him free, only to be locked in a different kind of prison. 

It’s when he turns his head, just slightly away from the angle of your jaw to catch a breath, and the gold glint catches the light like an imploding star, does the heat turn icy. Those lapping waves are no longer welcoming and inviting, but tumultuous as they crash, ripped by outcroppings of rocks and debris, pushing, preventing, blocking, reminding him of the ties you have outside of him. 

You’ve always held him at a distance, and he’d appreciated it. Helped steel himself, keeping his head above water so as not to drown and become consumed by your pull. 

Didn’t stop the fall though. Let himself be weak for one moment and let you crawl inside his chest to nest. Plague his dreams, while you sleep soundly. 

He wants you to feel the choking want of longing and the need to inflict pain on the source. Throttle it with disgust and fury until it consumes itself and dies. 

Let him be. Let him live. 

The hand that had been cradling your breast slips from the flesh, to come up and around, fingers clawing as they settle and dig, tendons contracting around a vibrating throat. Moans stalled as you feel the change within him.  

“Take it off,” Katsuki bites through gritted teeth. 

You're so still he thinks you die a little death. Not the euphoric kind. This is the type that is dread, all consuming, has the hair on the back of your neck prickling. 

He can feel them. Soft yet sharp, drenched in sweat, a dusky aroma thickening and seeping into his open pores as they fight to rise up beneath his clawed hand, squeezing against a pulse that’s stopped its beating. 

The whites of your eyes have never been brighter, and the deep pits of your pupils never bigger. Your profile hurts to look at, which is why he’d taken you like he had, mounted you like a jungle cat, pressed your face into the sheets, fooled himself into thinking that he can pretend you’re someone else should you walk out once again. 

Never have to gaze upon the split affection you have warring within them whenever you have doubts. 

Katsuki doesn’t like to share. But for you he had. Let this charade commence until you finally gave in to the winning side.

You win some, you lose some. He just didn’t think he’d have been left in limbo for so long. Alone without a word or look, no indication whether your time together had an effect, tipping the scales in his favour. It has always been balanced. Equal. And it aggravated him that he’d found his match to a person with no image. 

If you’re truthful this time, if you’ve done as you’ve said, there’ll be no hesitation, it will be as involuntary as blinking. As effortless as a heartbeat. 

Your breath bursts, the inhale ragged. 

His fingers tighten around a string, slick and coarse. Lax and taut, until there’s nowhere else for it to go. 

And your hips don’t stop, canting an undulating rhythm that almost knocks his resolve back into the gutter. He keeps still though, doesn’t give an inch, even if his will slowly depletes and the urge to grind back becomes a battle he might just let himself lose. 

Your eyes rolling upward as you look at him from the corner of your eye, his nose pressing into your cheek, jaw clenching to keep the need at bay. 

He’s not playing this time, he means it as his forehead digs into your temple, hand closing marginally when you tilt your head back and he feels slack, your eyelashes fluttering along with a gasp. 

Trapping your left wrist against the mattress, he struggles for a moment, prying open your fisted fingers and finding the offending item. 

You’re enjoying this, he finds. Watching as you eye his every movement; bask in the precarious position he has you in. Letting him have the upper hand when really you know you’ve had him where you want him from the very beginning. Drawing him in and pushing him away as frequently as the wind blows.  

He sees it. The pleasure you get when you witness the ugliness of his jealousy rearing its head, fighting a perceived threat that’s no longer there. 

But it will always be here, taunting him until it’s gone for good. 

“Take. It. Off.”

You moan in reply, a whimper for a reprieve. 

Despite the heat radiating between you both, the band is cold, a last reminder of the wedge that keeps - kept - you apart. 

It doesn’t give so easily, like it’s holding on and maintaining that distance he is - was - never allowed to cross. Reminding him of who was here first. 

As it passes the first knuckle, you buck, and Katsuki answers with a thrust, pinning you until you can’t retaliate, except for a frustrated, wheezing moan, and a squeeze of your walls around his cock, a salty tear captured by his lips, sliding beneath his tongue as he bares his teeth with a rumbling growl. 

Effortlessly, it glides past the second, and he has it. 

It isn’t yours anymore. 

And it won’t be ever again. Soon it will be a distant memory Katsuki will erase along with the name that went along with it. 

The metal melts in his palm as he clasps the ring, twisting and distorting into a congealed mass, his eyes burning brightly along with the rage he’s been keeping under loose wraps. Glowing orange like a setting sun, or the dawning of a new morning. 

You whimper, strangled and desperate, until Katsuki moves again. 

Thrust. Thrust. Roll. Gold-coated palm singeing the flesh of your lower back, and sizzling the sweat pooled in the dip of your spine when he presses down to arch you further, pulling back your head by the grip he still has around your throat so you can watch him, raising up and gaining an angle that lets him get deeper, reach a place no one has - and never will - reach again. 

Except for him. 

You're his now. 

And that finger won’t stay bare for long. 

barbarian bakugou who has an arranged marriage with you to strengthen the kingdom and refuses to accept he's actually falling in love with you along the way

Barbarian!Bakugo x reader

Warnings: mention of injury

Bakugo had married you as a plot for his own strength, for his tribes strength. You were a means to an end for his dream, and past the official ceremony for your lives to be intertwined, he still hadn’t changed his mind on that. He never even considered changing his mind, because he simply didn’t acknowledge you, he didn’t need to. As if he had some sort of tunnel mindset, that focussed on one thing and only that, to be the best. Everything around him was blackened, cast into darkness by a shadow, apart from his one goal. This was an arranged marriage of convenience. And that was it.

And at some point, you understood that. Particularly on the day, when his large rough hands held yours, as he promised his life to you without a single ounce of his heart truly in his vows. You weren’t a soulmate to him, or barely even a wife, you were a ladder for him to climb over and reach a new piece of land to conquer. What did you expect from a barbarian? All they knew were how to kill and strike chaos, you doubted love was even a developed concept to his kind of people, or maybe they just didn’t care for anything that wasn’t covered in blood. And having understood that, you gave up trying to be that caring wife you really wanted to be. Or at least you tried.

It was hard, pretending a part of your heart didn’t want to love him, because you really wanted to. Bakugo is a hard worker, and took care of your every need be it clothes, wine or any precious jewel from any other land if you ever asked, but none of his heart or even an ounce of feeling was ever put into it, he done it only because you asked and part of that made it hurt even more when asking him for anything. And so, slowly giving up on getting him to be a loving husband to you, you simply and only attended your official wifely duties like attending public feasts with him, but kept yourself much more distant from him in all other aspects. It hurt too much to be near him, like standing close to the sun. But in the same way, standing too far from the sun would kill you, so you remain close enough where it stings, but you at least survive.

And maybe that’s what’s triggered this all, now that Bakugo thinks back to it. When that initial off-putting glow in your eyes faded to a glassed over, dull and greyed look. Maybe that’s when he started to look at you more, see you more. All when it felt a little too late. Seeing you slowly give up on trying to be that intimate lover you wanted to be for him, that he never really wanted, instead you became a more quiet version of yourself. More mute, less touching, more forced. It bothered him.

He notices it, without even realising he’s noticed it. How you go from trying to link arms with him and walk side by side with him, to walking constantly 3 steps behind him. Like some sort of subordinate, you were quick to understand your position in this marriage and somehow that irritated him. Only he would be able to able to be mad about someone doing their job too well. Call him picky, but he didn’t know why it annoyed him himself.

You still shared a bed, the shame of not sharing one was far greater than the shame of exposing yourselves to each other, was it how your skin felt? Was that what caused it all? Bakugo felt like, when he looked at you something deep in his chest was capsizing, a cavity grew there and it ached. As any man would, he continued to ignore it. But when your skin brushed against his in bed, when he felt that warmth your body hid away behind cold stares, it was hard to ignore that ache. Instead that ache would travel from his heart to his mind, and then it does it’s loathe-some wandering.

Thinking of you.

The more he tries to figure out why, the more you consume his thoughts, even when all bloody on hunting grounds, on the edge between severe injury and a bounty able to feed a family for a week, he still thinks of you. The way you smelt when you were against him in the morning unintentionally while you slept. That way you have some more colour and life to your expressions when you talk to the maids or get a nice cut of meat on your plate at dinner. And the way you- fuck. He’s cut his hand while tackling down a boar without even realising it. It’s your fault.

Its you. It’s all you. Why he’s acting weird or can’t even think, its all because of you, somehow sometime you’ve done something to him and he hates the feeling of it. And that powerlessness he feels of being so strong and feared, yet unable to figure out this lingering feeling he has bothers him even more.

You smiled at the seamstress today. And even spared a laugh. Katsuki didn’t intend on walking in on it, but he was passing by, on his way to the armoury when he saw you talking with the aged woman. You looked pretty when you smiled.

Pretty.

When was it he started having words like that in his vocabulary? Maybe when he called over the female jeweller, asking her what would be the best and most precious jewel he could give you. What was he doing anymore? Barbarians didn’t give each other shiny stones on delicate chains, they offered the skins of the most ferocious beasts in the land as a sign of deathly devotion. That was until he found out courting behaviours where you came from were much different. So here he is trying to accommodate to your customs. For you.

What is he doing?

He tries to deny it for a few weeks, pretending it’s nothing. He must be tired, stressed, heck maybe he’s just adjusting himself to having a woman so close to him. But pretending becomes less and less possible by the day. He hates waking up next to you. You always look so defenceless, the guard you have up around him constantly has vanished while you lay there asleep, face completely relaxed, hair unruly, skin bright, much like the you that he met before you married. On most days, he’ll force himself out of bed, pretending he’s having insane thoughts only because he just woke up. He must be half asleep.

Denial.

The fact that you consume his every waking thought makes him more antsy around you, more agitated. He can’t stand the sight of you, yet equally when you’re away, his mind obsesses over you even more. He’s reached a point where the only time he can silence his mind with all its incessant thoughts of you is when you’re right by his side, but that causes a whole new problem for his heart. When was the first time you started to fill his mind with thoughts of you you you? When his heart ached around you and apart from you, when his throat itched every time he spoke to yo-

He remembers now. It was the first winter night you spent together wedded, by then you were only wed for two seasons, and this winter were to be the roughest yet, where things become their worst and darkest in the tribe. Food becomes scarce, the weather becomes cold and brutal, and more people become irritable in these harsh conditions. Katsuki hated the cold, and he hated having to hunt in the winter even more. It was a shitty day, and unexpectedly he came home with an injury from a wild animal he wasn’t prepared to face. It was a large cut on his arm, still bleeding but slowly by the time he arrived home. He remembers that look in your eyes, pure fear, not of him but for him. He remembers how you stayed awake all night, sitting by him with a warm cloth, helping him with his wound. You didn’t even need to do all of that. You shouldn’t have to, there are plenty people equipped in the tribe able to take care of wounds like that. But you insisted he sat down and helped him. Your skin was warm. And your touch was soft, far softer than anything he had experienced from others around him.

His cut was ugly, with dried blood already covering half of it, while the other half spewed more, and he could tell you hated the sight of it, the way your eyebrows furrowed as you pulled a pained, contorted face at every swab to his injury said it all. And yet, as much as you hated it, you did it for him. You helped him take care of it, even after he insisted he could do it himself and that you should sleep. He watched your tired eyes as you let his blood dirty your clean hands throughout the whole night. He asked why you even bothered, because you didn’t need to do all shit. What the fuck was it you said to him that night?

“Because I’m your wife.”

Yeah it was then. Thats when he first felt that feeling. What caused this whole mess in his mind and heart in the first place.

Or probably, it was all of it. A little bit of everything, that made him stop thinking of you as a tool, and more as a woman, his wife, his love. Seeing you for who you were, more than what you let him see, and trying to understand you more. The more he thinks of it, the more the pieces all start to fit into a much bigger picture he was too blind to see before. He had only focussed on one piece for so long that he had lost sight of that big picture, which made it all the more impactful when he stood back and finally looked at it all at once.

Love.

Did he really love you? He must have. It’s the only explanation for his absurd behaviour. To think someone responsible for so much spilt blood was able to reserve the most tender part of his heart for something as delicate as love. It’s a shock, and he refuses to believe it at first, but the more he rejected the idea, the more it became obvious to him that he did love you. It’s why he insisted you stayed by him whenever you could, why he even bothered anymore in this marriage.

Unfortunately, he’s a little late, you’ve already lost your hope in having him love you. He hurt you without even trying to, without laying a hand on you. And somehow that made it hurt even more. Once Katsuki realises his fault, he’ll start to live his live devoted to you tirelessly, because if given the chance to earn your love all over again, even if he worked to the day he die for it, he’d take it.

I hope you like this! I love writing about mixed emotions and pining… so this was super fun to write :) if you enjoyed, don’t be shy to like, comment or reblog, because I read everything you guys say!

Bakugou’s head pounded as he struggled to fit his front door key into the lock, roughly smashing it against the cold metal until it clicked. Practically falling into his house as he strumbled to regain his balance, fuckin’ dunce face and his happy hour strawberry daiquiris. He’d always told him that those drinks were the most lethal, the ones that would really get you in trouble.

He hadn’t planned on going out to celebrate his birthday, perfectly content with spending the evening at home cooking his favourite mapu tofu and watching reruns of the American All Might documentary; but instead he’d found himself at a dingy dive bar surrounded with all his friends who insisted on plying him with drinks. Practically groaning at the puppy dog eyes Kirishima had given him when he’d returned with a tray of shots, “You need to let yourself relax and unwind a little, Bakubro! It’s not good keeping yourself so pent up.”

And perhaps his best friend was right.

Collapsing onto his bed as he attempted to struggle out of his jeans, barely able to unbutton them before giving up with his chest heaving. For fucks sake, the room was spinning. It didn’t help that his cock was stood proudly at half mast, bulging beneath the denim and desperate for some sweet relief. He’d spent the entire day bricked up, and the alcohol had only worsened the sensation.

Bakugou unlocked his cellphone to check for the time, wincing when a bright 1:49AM flashed across the screen. But even more glaringly obviously was the influx of notifications that had caught his eye, a multitude of them replying to a post that in his drunken stupor he hadn’t even realised he had sent.

Replies:

Reply from @kweenkatsuki-fics just head, king?

Reply from @kingkatsuki who knew Dynamight was such a slut?

Reply from @saturnsorbits thought you said you weren’t that desperate, huh?

Reply from @bakugotrashpanda video attached, hit me up

Reply from @strafepanzer anyone will do huh?

Reply from @katsukikitten picture attached, location shared, cum here

A Bakugou Birthday Bash Collab!!!!! A mix of smut and crack fics we've whipped up and hope you enjoy! Please be sure to check back for the fics on the mentioned blogs! Fics will be posted around Bakugou's birthday! 420 blaze it 🍃

Intro written by @kingkatsuki