Emo music is a MUST for this. Seriously. You can't read this in silence or listening to, god forbid, something relatively happy. And the sound of yourself fapping doesn't count.

Listen to some Imogen Heap or something. During writing this I listened to Hide and Seek, Come Here Boy and Kidding on repeat. For like...hours.

B'awwww...I've never written so much porn in such a short space of time...-faints-

Reborn has changed me. For the better. Well...I think so at least. Heh.

XanxuSqualo is a seriously under-loved pairing. I mean...it's so AWESOME. S&M anyone?

...

Enjoy your yaoi, perverts.

Some days aren’t as bad as others. Well, that’s what you tell yourself, but afterwards, when you’re ripping apart your insides with your own cruel words you realise that being ignored is worse than any treatment he gives you.

Isn’t that right?

Because when you stand there, expectant, waiting; like a bullet to the brain when he slams the door, and a knife to your heart when he walks right past you. Slumps down in his chair in front of the fire and simply glares into the flames.

When there are no words spoken, you know that’s when you’re supposed to leave. Without a sound, just walk out of that door and go. For some reason, this is the worst. It’s the worst pain he’s ever inflicted on you. You’re torn up inside, pulling apart your own heart asking why he didn’t want you. Why he didn’t need you.

But, sometimes, when he mutters to himself, launches a glass at your head for no reason; you know that’s when you’re allowed to approach him. Allowed to sit at his knee, and just glare with him. You’ll sit in silence, listening to the fierce crackle of the flames. He won’t speak to you. He never does. Why would he? You’re trash.

But you don’t mind. This makes you happy. Just being this close to him. It’s enough.

Sometimes he’ll even put his hand on your head, run his fingers through your beautiful hair. You know he loves your hair. So you take special care of it. Even though there’s no point.

On these occasions sometimes he sighs deeply, and closes his eyes. You know what you’re supposed to do. You’ve done it enough times to know.

Unzipping him, unbuckling him, you put your head between his legs and take him into your mouth. There’s too much of him; it makes you gag when it touches the back of your throat. But you deal with it. This is good. It doesn’t hurt.

But this is so rare.

Some days aren’t as bad as others. But these days are few and far between.

You stand there, expectant, waiting, the way you always do; like a bullet to your brain when he slams that door, his pounding footsteps thumping through your very core, coursing through your blood. You swallow. You can see the anger pouring off him in vicious waves, and you know that tonight is going to hurt. It’s going to hurt worse than normal.

You stand there, still. You look at him. His eyes blazing. He strides towards you before the door’s even gone bang behind him. With every step he takes your heart beats faster. Your palms are sweaty. Your jaw is clenched.

But you can’t look away. You can’t leave. You can’t run away.

You just wait for it. You’re used to it.

Then it happens. The first blow. A hook to your jaw; the right. Your head snaps to the side. You hear your neck crack, but that’s nothing. This isn’t pain. You can taste the first drop of blood on your tongue.

Think of what’s important.

Slap to your left cheek. It stings.

But not as much as the tears filling your eyes. You blink them back. It makes him more angry to see you in pain. You don’t know why.

Punch to your stomach. Knocks you breathless. You know this feeling well. It was the way you felt when you first saw him, first spoke to him, first realised how much you liked him.

You bend over double, panting. Your blood drips from your mouth, staining his expensive carpet.

He grabs your beautiful hair, twisting his fingers into the roots, pulling so hard you cry out. You know he loves your beautiful hair.

He pushes you to the floor. You slam down, your head cracking on impact.

Kick to your stomach. Kick to every other part of your body he can reach, stamping down on your chest; right on your heart.

You don’t fight back. You just lie there; helpless. Don’t aggravate him. You learnt your lesson before. Just let him spend himself, expend all his anger. Let him use it up on you; he needs you.

He stops. You breathe.

You’re thankful. But you know what’s coming next. You hear his heavy breath above you, exhausted from beating you to a broken mess. But he’s not done yet. Nowhere near finished with you.

Grabs you by your collar, drags you up. Your knees shake, you can’t breathe, your head pounds. Heart beating a million miles a minute.

Your coat is ripped off you; the zipper yanked so hard you wonder if he’s broken it again. You go through more clothes this way than actually fighting. You sway dangerously, your feet barely holding you upright.

Don’t stumble. Don’t stumble.

Don’t you dare show him how weak you are.

Pushed backwards; thrown onto his bed. Bleeding onto his expensive sheets. He doesn’t seem to mind it that way. You don’t question it.

Everything about him is expensive. His possessions, his tastes…him. You always pay such a high price for him. Don’t you?

You’re half naked, exposed. He drops down onto you like a vulture on its last meal. He bites your neck, licks away the blood he draws, sucks on your skin until angry red blotches appear. Mouth trails down, tongue tracing a path down your neck, your chest, circling around your nipple. Teeth clamp down. Your back arches, and you want to cry out in pain, but you stop yourself. You mouth clenches shut, the sound resounds in your throat.

It spurs him on. You lie there and take it. You just accept it, without a fight.

You are Pride. You are Pride. So why?

His head hovers over yours. In one hand he holds your wrists above your head, tangled in your beautiful hair. The other rests on your stomach.

A second of respite. You look into his eyes. Lust-filled and angry. You can see your own eyes, reflected back in his. And your eyes say exactly the same thing. But you stay silent.

Without warning, his hand grasps your crotch as his tongue thrusts into your mouth. You cry out, but the sound is muffled by his hungry tongue, searching, tasting every corner of you.

And it’s harsh. It’s harsh and violent. But it feels so good. His palm pressing against you growing need, your back arching, pushing yourself onto him harder.

You want him. You want him, don’t you?

Of course you do. There hasn’t been a time when you didn’t want him. You let him beat you, cut you, and slice you apart with his cutting words, just so you can be his little slut.

No. That isn’t it. It’s more than that.

You let him pour his anger onto you, because it means he needs you. And because you can’t bear to see him so angry. When he’s angry it means he’s hurting inside, for reasons that you’d never dare ask about. It pains you to see him suffer. So you become his cure. You let him burn it all out until there’s nothing left. Because when the anger’s gone, when he’s calm again; you’re happy.

And, if you resisted; what if he left you? Abandoned you in favour of someone who didn’t put up a fight? It’s a thought that frightens you so much it blocks any words that might stop him, defend you.

That’s why you let him hurt you; let him treat you like a toy that won’t break. Push you into walls, bang your head on furniture, smash you into mirrors and slash at you with the shattered pieces until you bleed or pass out. He’s expensive; but to you, this is a small price to pay for happiness. For him.

Just admit it to yourself. Don’t hold back.

You can remember every spot in the room where the final release of his anger has happened. Every corner. Up against the expensive wallpaper on every side of the room. The rug in front of the fire. Even on his chair.

That was one of the best. Because for once you had control. It made you feel so powerful. Needed once again. It was up to you to release his anger. You rode him hard and fast, loving the effect you had on him. The way he dropped his head back and groaned low in his throat as he held onto your hips with an iron grip; helping you impale yourself.

His favourite way is to tie your wrists to the headboard, on your knees, so he can watch the back of your head. The way your beautiful hair slips over your shoulders, sways as your lithe body moves as he pounds you into the headboard. Sometimes it’s so hard you hit your head against the hard wood. It hurts, and you hiss in pain, but he’s not exactly the gentle type.

But now…now he’s being worse than ever.

He must have had a very bad day.

Blood leaks from your mouth, your temple, smeared by his lips on your face, on your neck. You feel light-headed. Like you’re going to faint.

You can’t. You can’t. You can’t miss the one moment he’s close to you. The one moment you belong to him properly.

Stay awake.

Most of the time he’s kind enough to prepare you. Even if he’s fuming, he’ll stretch you out, listen to you moaning as his fingers search for the spot that makes you cry his name.

But not now. He sheds his clothing above you. Your eyes are trying to close. You won’t let them. You shuffle up the bed a little, away from him, praying to yourself, to anyone who’s listening that he’ll be gentle. That he’ll realise how much pain he’ll cause you if he isn’t. That for once that instead of fucking you, he’ll make love to you.

But that isn’t going to happen.

Maybe…you love him?

He forces your legs wider. You don’t resist.

He’s so big, that the first time you saw it you were scared. You were so frightened. Like a little girl. But then he forced it into your virgin entrance and you screamed out. You shouted his name over and over again; begged him, pleaded with him. Tears leaked out of the corners of your eyes, mixing with the dried blood, washing it down your cheeks.

And when he kicked you out of his bed after he’d done, you had to crawl to your torn up clothes, whimpering to yourself like a stray dog. You couldn’t walk for a day.

Pathetic, aren’t you? Pathetic little slut.

As he thrusts into you now, you groan. He likes the way you say his name when you’re enjoying it. He learnt how to make you like it, but to make you suffer at the same time. Yes, it hurts. Every time it hurts. But he knows how to make you see white.

Faster, you whisper. Harder, you whisper. He likes it when you say that.

He pounds you harder. He fucks you faster.

There’s some hair in your mouth; stuck to the blood on your cheek. Stuck to the sweat on your neck and shoulders. Your beautiful hair, stained red. Maybe he likes it better that way? More violent.

God, it hurts. You’re being ripped apart. You wonder if you’re bleeding. You wonder if that’s why he’s sliding in and out of you with a bit more ease. With your real hand you reach down and take care of your own need, pumping in time with his thrusts. It’s rare he’ll do this for you.

You moan and groan, sigh and scream, feeling him bang in and out of you, breathing heavily above you. You like it when you’re on your back. You can see his face. Can see the anger wash away. Cleansed by pleasure.

You did that. You made him feel that. Happy now?

You feel something. You know this sensation. Emptying yourself over both your stomachs, your muscles respond; tighten around him, making him groan at the feeling. The noise he makes; that noise that growls in his throat, leaks over his lips in a slow crescendo.

He comes inside you, filling you to the brim. You roll your head back. Enjoying the final wave.

Next comes the bit you dread.

You never know what he’ll do.

Sometimes, like the first time, he pushes you away. You have to roll off his expensive white, blood and cum-stained sheets, gather your clothes and leave his room. Silently as you can. It’s hard. You still hurt. You have to limp, still fighting to keep consciousness, swaying as you pick up your ruined garments from his carpet.

Sometimes though, he lets you stay. He finishes, drops down onto you, panting into the crook of your neck. He rolls off you. You turn to the other side, and he moves behind you, his face in your beautiful hair. He throws an arm over you possessively and falls asleep. When he’s finally gone, you pull yourself from underneath his arm gently, getting up with caution. You make your way to the bathroom slowly and clean yourself up. Wash away the blood that’s caked on your body. Then you crawl back to him, slipping into the expensive sheets. Somehow his arm always finds its way around you again.

You hope he’s kind to you tonight. But after the worse than normal beating, you know that won’t be the case. You shut your eyes and let out a shuddering moan as he pulls out of you. You wait for it; for him to roll off and deliver the kick to your shin, the push to your shoulder that tells you to get out.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, he drops down on you and stays there, panting into the crook of your neck.

Your heart pounds.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, looks directly into your eyes. You stare back, scared.

Slowly one hand reaches up. You shut your eyes instinctively, waiting for the blow. For him to hurt you.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, you feel his fingers in your beautiful hair.

You crack your eyes open. He’s looking at you softly. His mouth isn’t that firm line you’re used to. It’s gentle. His eyes are…warmer.

He leans down and kisses your bruised lips. The softest kiss you’ve ever shared.

You stare at the ceiling in shock as he rolls off you and throws his possessive arm across your stomach.

You smile. You let unconsciousness finally enclose you.

You think to yourself as you drift away.

If only it could always be like this.