[His fist connects and Guzma immediately feels sick to his stomach when he hears the sound - like a mild crack - and he quietly hopes he didn't actually break anything. He wouldn't be able to handle seeing Kukui's blood on his knuckles. He doesn't have it in him to go any further, and Guzma steps back, dizzy and shaking. He doesn't even hit him back. He doesn't even hit him back!
WHY?!]
Guzma...wh-what is wrong with you?
[Hoarse, strained, like it took everything he had to even voice that one sentence. His hands tangle into his hair pulling roughly, probably splitting a number of strands from his skull. He can't do this. He can't. Guzma feels nauseous, the feeling of hitting Kukui still lingering on his skin like a disease. It's dirty, it's wrong, it's...it's bad. He feels bad, and he can't even get satisfaction from his own comeuppance.]
What is wrong with you?! [Hit me back, you damn idiot. Hit me back!!]
no subject
WHY?!]
Guzma...wh-what is wrong with you?
[Hoarse, strained, like it took everything he had to even voice that one sentence. His hands tangle into his hair pulling roughly, probably splitting a number of strands from his skull. He can't do this. He can't. Guzma feels nauseous, the feeling of hitting Kukui still lingering on his skin like a disease. It's dirty, it's wrong, it's...it's bad. He feels bad, and he can't even get satisfaction from his own comeuppance.]
What is wrong with you?! [Hit me back, you damn idiot. Hit me back!!]