Prompt:
>>4536811 >>4588004Title: "As children, we all wanted nothing but candy for dinner."
She doubled over, dry-heaving. Her stomach was thankfully empty, but if this were to continue, she would taste the unpleasant burn of stomach acid. On the other hand, being punched in the stomach didn't need inventing explanations the next morning, unlike facial bruises.
"You had one fucking job, bitch!" yelled her most beloved man in the world. "When I come home, I expect a meal to be on the table. An actual meal, fuckface! This means meat. What the fuck do I do with raw fish and rice, cunt? Fuck you for making me do this to you."
"Sorry..." mumbled Fubuki. The remainders of her once carefully arranged handmade sushi set were spread across the floor, stepped on. She'll be cleaning them up later.
"And you know what?" He leaned over to her, forcefully lifting her head by the hair to look right into his face. "Nyan-nyan nyan nyan nya nya nyanya nya nyan nyan..."
Fubuki made an inhuman gurgling noise, stretched out her arm and punched her novelty alarm clock right in the cartoony face, shutting it up for today. She has been rotating the tracks she uploaded onto it, and lately it has been Aqua's cover of the Nyan Cat song. Her frustrated screaming was muffled by the pillow. Why now?! Just ten more minutes! Please!
Her phone lost charge overnight, and she hurriedly plugged it in. She fell asleep yesterday while reading domestic abuse statistics by region, as one does, and her phone cord wasn't quite long enough. The screen lit up, and she was greeted with three very polite LINE messages. They were a bit terse - the frustration was likely getting to him - but the message was clear, "didn't want to wake you up, breakfast is in the fridge, see you in the evening, have a nice day." He worked an actual day job, and lately she's tried to give him shit about the fact that she earned more than him — she hated doing it but would continue if it got her what she wanted, but he didn't look genuinely offended by it, instead politely explaining that he preferred a stable employment, even if it's not very lucrative or does not have a career path, to being a househusband. He was a librarian at an art school, and Fubuki enjoyed visiting him when he wasn't particularly busy, talking about nothing, reading a textbook, or simply doodling.
She dug into her creamy oatmeal porridge with raisins and cinnamon. It was... serviceable. He has never actually been a good cook, partly for a lack of practice, and Fubuki has always been cooking for both of them. Recently, though, she has been carefully and purposefully ruining dishes — as a result, being slapped across her face, having it shoved into an oversalted, overpeppered mess... did not happen, as he said he understands her job is overstressing her, apologized and took up the duty of cooking on himself for now. He has been making steady progress, listened to her feedback (filtering out the meanness), and she frankly already scarfed the porridge down and set on the banana pancakes, frankly majestically fluffy. It would be painful and counterproductive to tell him they're shit, so she would just say nothing about them, she thought.
Fubuki has had these "submissive housewife" fantasies for a while now, possibly infected by some of her colleagues, and probably should have found a safe outlet for them earlier, before they festered into obsessively watching ryona videos and listening to ASMR roleplay. She briefly turned to resources for domestic abuse victims with the intent to find advice and do the opposite, but frustratingly the ones with any amount of rigor took the opinion that abuse is not caused by the victim altogether. She did discover the model of domestic abuse cycles, the idea that the perpetrators are often mutual and end up provoking each other endlessly. This was not really the fantasy she was going for, but it was too late, she was in it to win it.
The idea was to push him to a breaking point, after which she would never retaliate and let him feel in control. She felt like it was working, overall, she could see it in the corners of his eyes, even though outwardly he was as nice as always. She whittled his ego down to a knifepoint, with insults, degrading comments, nitpicking, and will soon have the knife rest firmly against her throat. Soon. She could see it in her mind now — he will punch her in the face, hard, and she will lose a couple teeth maybe, and will have to have replacements installed, which he will pay out of his pocket, and...
cont.
