#man's neck muscles alone could support the weight of the world and my depression

[ode-of-odr]

[katsukikitten]

So the anniversary of my dad’s death is coming up and I’m in desperate need of a comfort fic or headcanon (idc) where Bakugo finds out s/o’s parent died when they were a kid and they have really bad depression because of it. sry if it’s really specific

Anon I'm sorry to hear of your dad's passing. I'm not sure of your faith and I'm sure you hear this all the time but I believe your dad is looking down on you wanting nothing but the best for you. The dead are always with us, whether it be their souls silently guiding us or in our hearts with their memories. Here is something that will hopefully ease a bit of your pain dear. My dms are always open okay?

Anniversary.

Something was wrong.

Really wrong as your demonor increasingly worsened around the same time of the year.

For the third year in a row.

The ash blonde leans a muscular shoulder in the jam of the door, watching your form curled in on itself beneath the blankets. Stunning eyes staring at your phone as you idly scroll.

Bakugou would say more like staring through your phone as your eyes seem to focus on nothing really at all. The sparkle of joy that sat there was dulled, diminished almost and always around this time of the year.

He just couldn't wrap his head around it despite knowing you so intimately. He was sure he knew everything there was to know about you, from the way your lips curled upward when he said your name in soft tones or when you saw cute baby animals to the way heartfelt family movies had tears running down your cheeks faster than he could react.

Because you surely knew everything about him.

He wasn't sure how to approach this delicate situation.

His heart pounds as he thinks of all the ways his gruff attitude was sure to fuck it all up. Grinding his teeth he leans away from the door shutting it softly as he thinks of the only thing to do.

His thumb hovers over a certain contact in his phone, thinking to call your mother.

But what if...what if that makes the situation even worse? Wouldn't that just make his in law worry?

And worry more that he was a bad husband? Sure the two of you had been dating only a year and a half before he popped the question.

But the moment you soothed the ever hot rage beneath his veins into a small murmur was the moment he knew you were the one.

The other half that he so desperately needed, wanted.

And he wanted to be that for you. To soothe the best he could, to help crush that little demon that sat on your shoulder.

He changes his mind last minute calling an old friend of both his and yours.

"Katsuki! You never call."

"Oi Eiji. I need to ask you something..." His voice comes out harsher than normal still it does not phase the ruby haired man. Long since used to the thorny exterior. He waits patiently for the question to come and when it doesn't Kirishima gives the call his full attention.

"Something's.....wrong?" His gentle giant friend prompts carefully, practically seeing the heated flush creeping up his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"Yes, with Y/N." He finally sighs out, silently admitting he cannot help you. That he doesn't fucking know HOW to help you. Adding already to the pain of seeing you so....hollow.

"Ah, are they feeling down? It would make sense considering the date." Kirishima says softly, eyes going to the calendar to confirm his theory. Bakugou goes rigid, silently counting to five to ease the malice in his voice.

To no avail.

"What do you mean considering the date?" Kirishima fight back a flinch even over the phone and it dawns on him that maybe you haven't told Bakugou what happened.

"Ah, well..." The red head briefly wages an internal war, was it manly to tell *your* story for you?

Was it right?

Clearly at this point Kiri figured it was probably too hard for you to do so and if the show were on the other foot. If his partner was calling you for better insight to help he'd hope beyond hope you'd tell them for him.

Because he would want nothing more than the comfort from someone he loved the most.

And he figured the same for you.

"Their father passed around this time..." If Kirishima says anything more Bakugou cannot hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. Madder than hell that he did not know.

And not because you didn't tell him, oh no.

Its because he was too stupid to figure it out. To fucking put two and two together.

Finally a word catches Bakugou's attention again before he says a brief thanks hanging up well before the good byes.

It does not take him long to find what he is looking for.

He takes heated steps to your shared bedroom, waltzing through the door with a hammering heart.

"Get up." He bites, pulling the shell of your cocoon away. You whine in protest wanting nothing more than to melt into the mattress until you've become nothing more than stuffing and springs.

But the hot head will not allow it as he bites out another warning. Lying out a quick outfit for you to change into.

Slowly you gather the strength to slip on pants and a shirt over you head. Hair going in every which direction but you do not care.

Or even notice as the weight of the world presses into your shoulders causing them to slump, your chest tight as something gnaws at your slowly dying heart.

Your eyes water as you stare at the back of the man who you so deeply adore.

One day he will be met the same fate, everyone will and the thought of it alone has your knees weak.

Wobbling once more from the weight before you fall to sit on the bed.

Scarlet embers pierce your skin from over his shoulder as he finally finds your brush. Crawling on the bed behind you to tame your unkempt hair. After a few moments he is satisfied with his work of your gorgeous locks finally in the order you like them to be in.

The texture bringing about a bitter sweet feeling on his tongue. You make him so happy and he cannot fathom why you would have kept something so big from him.

But he couldn't fault you for it either. He eases off the bed, hinting for you to follow and when you dont he grabs onto your wrist a yanking you to your feet.

Moving you through the house as you watch him gather odd items. Long spicy sticks and flowers before he slides on his steel toes boots. Glaring at your shoes. You follow easily, slipping them on your feet at the two of you walk what feels like aimlessly for an hour or so.

That is until he makes the last turn making sense of those odd items. Of the incense, of the lillies. You stop dead in your tracks but Bakugou rounds back. Slipping his strong arm around your waist. Pulling you to him as he gently guides you forward.

You cling to him desperately, unsure of how he knows where to go.

Of what row he's in.

But somehow he does. Somehow he figured out the one thing you could never really speak about.

He eyes you to gauge your stability before he rolls up his sleeves, dipping the ladle into a small bucket of water dumping it on the dusty grave.

Shock settles in your bones as you watch taunt muscles scrub away accidental neglect with understanding eyes. Sure to make sure every character was untarnished, the stone polished so nicely you could see the reflection of his burning red eyes.

Of the two suns that always rise even on your darkest days.

A small pop comes from his finger tips before smoke trundles into the air in gray waves and with it the smell of spice and sandalwood. He sets the lillies down for his offering, unsure of what else this great man liked.

Having this been the first time he met him.

You watch as a prideful man places his hands together, bowing his head before his velvety rough voice breaks the silence.

"Thank you."

The building tears burst, spilling over your flushed cheeks like a child. He notices, pulling you to him as he supports you. Nodding towards the grave so you can pay your respects.

And you do, as you cling so desperately to his black shirt. Heart bursting and breaking all at once over this normally rough man.

Doing his best to comfort you during a time so dark you could barely find the will to breath.

But somehow standing here, looking over your father's now shining grave brought a little comfort to you. Pressing your fingers agaisnt the cool stone you almost think you feel his gaze at your back. Hairs sticking up on the base of your neck.

The two of you stand there until the heavily scented stuck burns out, Bakugou silently offers you another. You nod as popping fingers ignite before carefully passing it along to you.

You set it in the burner, stepping back as he wraps his large arms around you. Head resting atop of yours as the sun slowly begins to dip beneath the horizon.

Painting everything in stunning pinks, oranges, and reds.

His lips press to your ear in a kiss softly before he speaks.

"We can leave when you're ready and we can come back whenever you'd like."

Nails bite into strong forearms, somehow things will eventually be okay.

They will eventually be better and in your hearts of hearts you know his soul is resting easy.

Smiling down at you with pride wanting nothing more than for you to live life to the fullest.

And to live on for him.

[jaydcstories]

Read this and previous chapters of THE RETREAT on my blog: JOHN DEE COOPER'S ALL-MALE SLAVERY STORIES

THE RETREAT by John Dee Cooper © 2019

16. Andy’s eyes were focussed on the door at the top of the staircase. It had been a quiet day with only a few guests and none of them had taken any interest in him at all.  

He’d tried calculating how much longer he’d got to stand there chained to the wall but it only made him more depressed. He may have got used to the routine but the days were still long and tedious.

It seemed an age had passed since the gruesome events in the Barn, but in fact it had only been a few days. The Bronson Brothers had gone off and left him mummified under the rubber sheet until the house slaves came next morning to let him and the other boy out. They’d managed to stagger down to the cellar were they were locked up in a cage to await inspection. The Slave Keeper concluded there was nothing the matter with Andy that couldn’t be put right with a little food and some exercise and next day he was back on display. He hardly dared think about Master Paul. It was too painful. He’d been a fool to put his trust in a Master who beat him and fucked him and then fired darts at him. Anyway he’d disappeared along with that monster, his uncle.

And so the days rolled by and nothing changed, except the deepening of his despair. He had to face up to the facts. This was where he was going to spend the rest of his life, in this cellar, ignored and forgotten, till he was no more use to anyone and they decided to get rid of him once and for all.

So when late on that final day the side door swung open and a handler strode in, checked the number tattooed on the back of his thigh and then dragged him off by the collar, he knew his time had come and it was all over.

*

The Colonel's private office was tidy and efficient. The large oak panelled desk, neatly positioned in the bay window, was devoid of clutter apart from a telephone, a virginally clean ink blotter, a couple of framed photographs and a plain brown folder. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” said the Colonel, addressing his two visitors as he quietly closed the door behind him. “I’ve sent for the boy. He’ll be here in a few moments. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to choose from a wider selection. It would be no trouble to set up a viewing.”

“No, no. It’s just this one boy we’re interested in,” said the Baron, glancing across at Paul who nodded in confirmation.

“Maybe I can I fetch you some refreshment while we wait?”

“No, thank you. Our business will be brief. Do you have the necessary papers?”

“Yes. It's all here.”

Seating himself at his desk, the Colonel opened the folder and perused its contents.

“Oh, dear. All these forms to fill out. Selling slaves isn't as simple as it used to be, what with these new regulations and taxation and what not.”

While the Colonel whittered on, Paul considered how much had changed since his last visit. His uncle’s wager over that ridiculous business with the crossbows had been the last straw. They’d had a terrible row and Paul had stormed out losing all hope of ever getting any support, financial or otherwise, from his uncle. It was just by chance that on his way back to his room he’d run into the Baron who, seeing how upset the young  man was, led him into the Drawing Room where for several hours Paul had poured out his sorrows over some extremely fortifying brandy.

When it was time to say goodbye, Paul was pretty sure that he’d made a drunken exhibition of himself and that the Baron would never want to see him again. But the very next day, back in London, he got a call. It seems the Baron was smitten with him. He invited him down to his country house and offered him a position as his companion and personal assistant. For a very comfortable salary Paul would be looking after the Baron's private affairs and helping to manage his famous collection of slaves.

Within a matter of days Paul’s whole world had turned around. He’d moved in with the Baron, put his London flat on the market and paid off most of his debts.

It was when his new friend and benefactor had suggested that Paul should have a slave of his own to practise on that, rather than choose a slave from the Baron’s own stables, Paul had thought of the boy he’d encountered at his Uncle’s weekend retreat. That boy had intrigued him, and he’d derived so much pleasure from using him that the prospect of owning him outright was too tempting to resist. And then there was the added advantage of getting one up on his uncle.

The Colonel had been somewhat surprised when the Baron contacted him on Paul’s behalf. He wasn’t usually in the business of selling boys to guests. But the Baron was very persuasive and had managed to negotiate a price that was comfortably within Paul’s means.

After an awkward pause during which the Colonel tried to make polite conversation with the Baron but failed, there was a knock on the door and Andy was dragged in.

They’d put heavy iron shackles on his hands and feet, so he had to hobble into the centre of the room where he remained standing, under the stern eye of the handler, naked and confused, with his eyes fixed on the floor. He wasn’t used to being in a room like this, with smart furniture and thick carpeting, and he had no idea what they were going to do to him. He’d  recognised the Colonel’s voice straightaway and could sense other men sitting around staring at him, but he was too nervous to look up. He tried to breath calmly but couldn’t stop trembling. He was still recovering from the cold shower they’d just given him and was shamefully aware that he was leaving damp patches all over the carpet.

At first Paul wondered if this could be the same boy that he’d enjoyed so much last weekend. He looked quite different, less assured, more at a loss, younger even. He was still in a good physical state though — in some ways his youthful body looked more healthy and robust than ever — but he seemed drained of energy. For a moment Paul wondered if he’d made a mistake and if it was really worth buying the boy after all. The Baron saw him hesitate and quietly reminded him that it was perfectly in order to instruct the handler to present the boy  properly for inspection.

Which is what Paul did.

Andy reacted to the sting of the handler’s whip by pulling himself up straight, clenching his buttocks, and letting out a painful sob. Now he couldn’t avoid seeing Master Paul.

His heart sank. He’d been rejected once already, or so he thought. Why was he having to go through this humiliation all over again? At least there was no sign of the Uncle and his sadistic friends. Just the young Master, the Colonel and a smartly dressed grey-haired man with an icy stare. He wasn’t sure if he’d been brought here to be punished for having failed to please them or whether he was about to be put through another programme of tortures for their amusement. It was only when Paul began his examination that the truth dawned — he was being sold.

As Paul ran his hands over the slave’s now fully alert body he felt more positive about his purchase. The skin was fresh and silky and still a little flushed from the recent cold shower. He could feel the neatly-tuned network of muscles tremble slightly as his fingers ran over them, and the boy winced a little when Paul dropped his hand down and stroked the soft cock and squeezed the loosely hanging ball sac, which he did several times before turning to the Baron and saying, “He’s not as well hung as some of the ones in your collection.”

The Baron pondered for a moment.

“There are ways of improving that,” he said. “But If you’re not satisfied...”

“No, no. I want him. But I’d like to see his cock hard, if that’s alright with you, Colonel.”

The Colonel nodded and signalled to the handler who passed the order on by releasing the shackles from Andy’s wrists and giving him a hard slap across the back of the head.

While he rubbed the soreness out of his wrists, Andy looked around the room. There were no bars on the windows, no cages and no chains — apart from the ones that held his shackles. The furniture was sparse but orderly and there was a business-like atmosphere that was every bit as forbidding to Andy as the gloom of a condemned cell. He was naked. Forsaken. Alone. Master Paul and the stranger sitting next to him were watching him intently while the Colonel hovered in the background.

He knew exactly what they wanted him to do — they were staring at him with that familiar hungry expression — and he was so eaten up with anger and frustration that there was nothing he would have loved more than to grab hold of his cock and shower them all in cum.

At one time he’d thought he’d have done anything to please Master Paul, submitted to any kind of hardship, humiliation or pain if it had given him pleasure. But there was no sense in it anymore. If Master Paul wanted him that much why didn’t he look him in the eye and whisper some words of comfort or even regret at having tortured and abandoned him?

Then, as he trailed his fingers across his chest and down his stomach in a reluctant effort to arouse himself, a dangerous thought crept into his mind. Why was this happening? After all, he wasn’t really a slave. He hadn’t been a slave when they took him off the streets of Bristol all those years ago. He was just a kid, a boy in chains, with nothing to show now but some muscles and an aching cock. He was only behaving like a slave because they said he was one.

As his fingers curled around his balls, he thought more and more about himself as a single unit. He was proud of his body, from his neck, to his stomach, to the soles of his naked feet. He didn’t need a Master to feel the rush of blood through his veins, the weight of the muscles in his arms, the powerful grip of his thighs. Those were all his to relish and enjoy. What had it to do with them? He could just turn round and walk out of the room, away from it all. He wouldn’t get very far, obviously — the handler would probably kill him on the spot. But at least he would have proved....

What? Proved what?

He lifted his hands and covered his face. Stop thinking! Stop thinking!

This didn’t go down well in the room. The handler went for his whip but Paul stopped him.

“I’ll handle this,” he said grabbing the small black bag that was hanging on the back of his chair and taking from it the familiar red leather strap his uncle had given him and which he’d used for the first time on Andy that day he’d found him down in the cellar.

He gently pulled the boy’s hands away from his face, saying nothing. This was the first rule in the Baron’s method. A slave must learn to obey without his Master having to utter a word. Andy didn’t know this. Andy didn’t even know that his training had begun.

They were standing so close together that Andy could feel the full weight of his Master’s presence enveloping his naked body. Their eyes came together for a fraction of a second till Andy snatched his away. It was too much for him. There was so much he needed to explain. So much to beg. He tried to mumble something but Paul pressed the red strap against his lips to stop him. The sharp taste of leather told Andy exactly what was going to happen next and his heart sank. Here? In the Colonel’s Office? In front of that stranger with the cold stare? No. Please. No more humiliation.

But all it took was for Paul to place his hand firmly on the back of Andy’s neck for Andy to bend forward obediently and grab his ankles. It was the instinctive action of a slave — and Andy knew it. His tears welled up as he waited.

Unlike that first awkward attempt down in the cellar, Paul wielded the strap this time with all the proficiency and precision of a practised Master. He took time over each of the twelve strokes to ensure that they landed squarely on target with the maximum effect.

Each lash scorched its way through Andy’s buttocks to the hollow of his aching guts and after only two strokes he was struggling to catch his breath. He swallowed hard to fight back the pain and gripped his ankles tighter, forcing his legs back so that his haunches were fully exposed ready to receive the next blow. Five strokes in and he was riding the shock waves so well he thought he could probably get through this without breaking down.  

But Paul was ahead of him. At the sixth stroke he shifted his aim from the fleshy roundness of the buttocks to the much more sensitive tendon at the rear of the thigh. Andy shrieked. It was like being ripped apart by a javelin.

After that Paul kept moving around so Andy never knew where the next stroke was going to land. Soon the entire surface of his buttocks and the backs of his thighs was red and burning. Even his balls got a beating. And with each shockwave Andy got dragged lower and lower into a whirlpool of shame, humiliation and despair.

Around the eighth stroke Paul took a little rest and rubbed Andy’s back giving him a chance to catch his breath. Then he launched into a final rally of thrashes that had Andy choking on his screams.

When it was all over, Andy tried to stand up straight but every joint in his body had turned to concrete and he had to use his hands to force his back into position. His face was drenched in tears and his head went on spinning with the relentless barrage of beatings echoing through his body.

And yet through all that pain and humiliation he could feel Paul’s fingers jiggling his limp cock and he knew that he still had to do what was required of him. It took some effort and a lot of concentration but eventually he managed to steer his cock into an erection and even bring himself to the edge of coming. But another small gesture from Paul was enough to tell him to stop, leaving his rock hard cock standing rigidly to attention.

Paul stroked it a few times to satisfy himself that it was to his liking, apologised to the Colonel for the few drops of pre-cum that had landed on his carpet, nodded to the Baron and indicated that he was ready to complete his purchase.

The shackles were removed from Andy’s ankles and he was fitted with a leather collar embossed with Paul’s monogram. His wrists were strapped behind his back and he was led outside to a small slave wagon, where he was locked up in a cage ready to be transported to the Baron’s mansion.

The cage was tiny and cramped. He had to kneel with his arms bound behind his back and his head bent forward almost touching the floor. It was cold and it was dark and he had no idea where they were taking him or how long the journey would be. One thing he understood though. He belonged to Master Paul now and learning to serve and obey him was going to be hard and painful. As the wagon made it’s bumpy way through the night, he cried long and hard until there were no doubts left in his head. He’d deserved that beating. He’d been unruly and undisciplined. What he had to do now was put all his trust in his new Master and all his strength into fulfilling his true purpose in life — to be the best possible slave he could be. THE END