help me now, i’m running on empty
characters: shigaraki tomura, dabi, a hint of keigo
genre: smut and angst
notes: waaaaaah finally!!! this is the fourth part of break my bones but act as my spine. please, please heed the warnings on this and stay safe! | title cred: memory by kane brown ft. blackbear
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, depictions of severe metal illness including psychosis (delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech), one psychiatric assessment, family members that mean well but just Do Not Understand in the slightest, toxic relationships, cheating, extreme guilt, slight power play, minimal prep, size difference/belly bulge, slight coercion, dacryphilia, slight degradation/dumbificaition, marking, cum eating/feeding, multiple orgasms, overstimulation if you squint, rough sex, reader is quite flexible, verbal fights, blood, daddy kink, drugs, 2 references to tarantino’s reservoir dogs that are relevant to the plot, keigo goes as both hawks and keigo
part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four ⋆ series masterlist
And, for one terrifying moment, Dabi thinks Tomura’s about to spill his guts—to tear himself open and spew himself at Dabi’s feet, to bear his bones and blood and broken soul in a way Dabi knows he didn’t for those doctors. And, for one terrifying moment, Dabi hopes he will, the way he used to—the way they both used to—on those rare nights where they were feeling especially sick and saccharine, juvenile and jaded, free and fucked up.
But he doesn’t.
Standing in the elevator threshold, he’s tall—so tall the crown of his smooth, bald head nearly brushes the chrome frame—and dressed sharply, just as he always is, in a pristinely pressed black suit, tailored to his abnormally large, hulking frame, stitches stretching just a little as he extends his arms out; an invitation.
Your feet know what to do before your mind can even send the signal—a pure, innate instinct, almost—as you gravitate towards him, so fast you stumble into his chest with an audible thud, fingers curling in the thick material of his jacket as a wailed, warped Daddy! lacerates your throat.
He catches you with ease, just as he always does, with a fond chuckle that seems out of place given the situation; that inspires an intense warmth to burst throughout your chest and flood your veins regardless.
Cocooned in large arms, you burrow your salt stained face into the soft cashmere of his white shirt, revelling in the comfort familiarity inevitably brings as his body vibrates with the baritone of his voice, reverberations sending sparks throughout your limbs to chase the warmth.
You can't tell who he's talking to—Dabi or Kurogiri, maybe both at once—words mostly drowned out by a harmonious concert of bellowing blood in your ears and cloistered cries in your chest; something about doctors and professionals, duties and procedures.
When he does finally address you—in a voice that’s so soft, so gentle, so incredibly patronizing it would seem offensive coming from the lips of anyone other than him—it’s to placate the shudders wracking your frame and pacify the jagged fragments of concerned sentiment that keep slashing at your tongue.
“Hush now,” he’s saying, words cascading over you like melted chocolate being drizzled over a warm cookie. “It’s okay, I'm here, it’s okay,” a heavy palm cups the crown of your head, thumb caressing the strands. “We’re going to figure it out, sweetheart,”
Finally, you pull back, just enough to gaze up at him through the filmy shield residual tears have lacquered across your eyes. “You promise?”
“I promise, darling,”
The elevator dings, and Dabi emerges, carrying a box overflowing with messy papers—documents and dossiers, notes scrawled on scraps, files with cracked spines and fraying edges filled with censored forms—chest heaving just a touch.
“Ah, wonderful. Thank you, Touya,”
Your gaze flies to Dabi’s, features crinkled in confusion; eyes squinted, brows knitted, mouth twisted.
But Dabi steadily and expertly avoids your stare, doesn’t even flinch at the use of the now foreign name, and nods, features a stern mask of professionalism, voice infused with utmost respect—more respect than you’ve ever heard in his tone before. “Of course, Sir. Trade you?” He holds out the box to his Boss as an offering, head nodding in your direction.
Tomura’s father chuckles, easily exchanging flesh for cardboard, a precious little squeak catching in your throat as the goods are swapped.
Dabi isn’t as warm as the Boss, lacking the padding strong muscles provide, but you cling to him anyway, fingers tangling in the cotton of his hoodie and lungs filling with the soothing scent of smoked hickory and tangy cinnamon.
Another ding! attracts four pairs of eyes, chrome doors sliding open to reveal a large man with tousled ivory hair and irises that shimmer like gunmetal.
“Sorry I’m late,” he’s saying with an amicable smile as he enters the penthouse.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Dabi’s practically breathing out, dragging you towards the man as he falls into an awkward half-hug, one arm wound tightly around the man's neck, nearly trapping you between their chests.
“Anytime, Nii-san,” the man is murmuring, too low for anyone outside your intimate little circle to hear. Dabi says something in response, muffled by the man’s broad shoulder, though you can feel the gentle vibrations radiating through his torso, quivers that turn into subtle tremors as they travel through his limbs. “I know, I know,” The man continues in a whisper, an arm hooked almost protectively around Dabi’s waist, large palm rubbing lopsided circles into his back. “He’s gonna be alright,”
A tattooed fist tangles itself in the material of your dress, gripping you to his side as Dabi nods, giving the man one final squeeze before finally releasing.
“I hope you’re right,”
✰ ✰ ✰
Tomura knows it’s coming. Kurogiri had already told him, twice, what would be transpiring soon after landing on Japanese soil, and a voicemail from his father had confirmed it.
And even though it’s expected, that doesn’t make it any less annoying, or infuriating, or terrifying.
They decide to conduct in in his fucking bedroom of all places, all four of them shuffling through the heavy mahogany doors, all familiar faces—people he knows, people he should trust.
It’s easier this way, his father had reassured him, after he had suggested they move to somewhere more professional, like his office.
And so Tomura sits, like a fucking child, with his legs crossed in the middle of his massive bed, and he waits.
Doctor Atsuhiro Sako, their resident psychiatrist, speaks first. He introduces himself, mentioning his title and education, politely and patiently responding to Tomura’s snarky huffed out remarks about patient confidentiality and invasions of privacy when he explains that they're only present because they're gravely concerned about you, Tomura.
“Remind me why I have to do this again?” Ruby eyes narrow sharply as they focus on his father’s face, nose scrunching up in distaste.
“It’s just a simple assessment,” the Boss says conversationally, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather.
“To determine whether or not you would benefit from psychiatric treatment, or some sort of, you know, inpatient program,”
“You...You want to send me to an institution?” he seethes. “You think I’m fucking crazy?”
“We all just want the best for you, like the Doctor said,”
“This is the best for me! St-Staying right here! I’m fine!” Panic sinks razored claws into his heart and squeezes, his breathing beginning to accelerate. No, he has to stay here, here with you, or else—
“Son,” his father begins with a soft chuckle. “You totalled one of the most prestigious suites in New York, and slashed yourself to bits in the process, and not one of us has a clue as to why. That doesn't seem fine to me,”
“Well, I wasn’t, then,” Tomura rolls his eyes, as if this is obvious. “But I am, now,”
“And what, exactly, has changed in the past...” His father checks the glittering Rolex adorning his wrist. “Forty-eight hours?”
Everything. Everything has changed. Now that he’s here, back home, now that he’s safe, it’s all suddenly crystal clear; it’s as if he can see the whole situation from afar, from above, in its totality.
“We care about you, Tomura,” Kurogiri chimes in, tone firmer than the Boss’s. “That’s it,”
“Let’s not be hasty and jump to conclusions, now,” Doctor Sako says, quieting the room. “Nothing is final until I’ve fully assessed you, Tomura,”
He perches gingerly on the ottoman in front of the bed, crossing his legs and humming, eyes scanning an impressive list of questions, safely secured to a plastic clipboard. The tip of his plastic pen taps once, twice, three times against the metal clasp.
And then, he begins.
Can you tell me today’s date? How’s your mood been? Are you sure? You’re not sad, frightened, upset, angry...? Alright, and how are your sleep habits? Are you sleeping at all? What about food? Are you adequately fuelling yourself? Grooming habits? How’s your concentration? Is there something on your mind that just won’t leave you alone? What about thoughts that enter suddenly and refuse to leave? Are you feeling confident in your sense of self? Any goals for the immediate future? I understand you were having difficulty meeting deadlines and completing work, such as the meetings you held in New York; why do you think that is? Are you feeling especially stressed? Do you think it’s impacting your performance? How do you deal with stress? Would you say drugs are a coping mechanism?
Unsurprisingly, Tomura is overwhelmingly uncooperative, responding to all of the doctor’s questions exclusively with shrugs and single word answers.
But Doctor Sako fires them off so rapidly, so tirelessly that Tomura’s head reels with it all, as if his brain’s some sort of malfunctioning projector, what was once playing a seamless sequence of smooth images now beginning to freeze, to flicker, to chop and distort and rewind as the slides judder and catch in a faulty machine.
It’s beginning to feel like too much, overloading his senses and short-circuiting his thoughts as strains of words clash and collide, uncontrollably interrupting each other, ears ringing with each question spit from chivalrous lips, the doctor’s voice ricocheting off the walls of Tomura’s skull, mixing with all of the mundane, inconsequential sounds of everyday life that prick his ears, that he can’t seem to tune out no matter how hard he tries, hyper-focused and sensitive: the breathing of every man in the room, his own unstable heartbeat echoing in his ears, the gentle hum of the desk lamplight, the chirping of the birds outside, the cars zooming by below the penthouse, the scraping of the Doctor's teeth against plastic as he chews thoughtfully on the edge of his pen, the irritating skritch-skritch-skritch of the ballpoint tip against thick paper...
And finally, he slips up, he shows weakness, he gives something of apparent importance to the insatiably vying Doctor, when he confirms his recreational drug use. Doctor Sako perks up at his response, shoulders rolling back, chest leaning forward, elbows digging into his thighs.
“What have you been taking?”
Tomura’s face puckers as his eyelids scrunch shut tightly, nails moving to automatically scrape at the scabs collaring his neck, the familiar burn bringing peace and silence with it, features relaxing.
“D-Dunno,” a shoulder shrugs in painful indifference, face morphed back into that mask of passive apathy, though a soft whimper catches in his throat, snuffed out and swallowed down before it can reach his tongue. “Coke and Oxys,”
“And how much have you been taking?”
“Did you take anything the night of the incident?”
“You don’t remember?”
Tomura’s head shakes, lips pressed in a thin line. “No,”
Sako sighs, scribbling something, and Tomura’s nostrils twitch.
“What about voices? Have you been hearing things that aren’t there? Seeing things that aren’t there, or that others can’t see?”
“Are you ever completely sober?”
Tomura cracks a smile at that, eyes narrowing a touch. “No,”
The Doctor nods to himself, humming and glancing down at the clipboard for a second. “Your father tells me you’re worried someone very close to you is in severe danger—”
“She is,” Tomura scowls, glower floating to his father’s face. “You heard the calls! You both did!"
“We did, son, we did,” the Boss agrees, calm and courteous.
“But we haven’t received any contact in nearly a month—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the records! I have been getting them!”
"Tomura," Kurogiri begins slowly, cautiously, concern carved into his crumpled features. “We can’t find any traces of those calls, or texts, or emails, anywhere. Are you—Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m fucking sure,” Tomura spits, though his voice breaks, words trembling under the burden of fear—of not being believed, of it being true. A dense film of tears glazes scarlet. “I can’t get them out of my goddamn mind, Kurogiri,” The confession tapers off into a cracked murmur, Tomura’s shoulders hunching in on himself, features wobbling under the combined weight of panic and agitation.
“And what do these messages say?” Sako jumps in hastily, redirecting Tomura’s attention to him, chest beginning to heave slightly as a pen scribbles against paper, the Doctor’s eyes not leaving Tomura’s face.
“Gruesome,” Tomura whispers, wincing as the word leaves his lips, as if the letters are made from razor blades, as if they slice his flesh on their way out. “The ways they plan to chop her up, what they plan to do with the pieces,” he swallows thickly, bloodied fingers threading through silvery tufts and pulling, a feeble attempt to quiet the reverberations of the threats, echoes that crawl through his brain like greedy little parasites, feeding off of his sanity, eyes clamped shut tightly.
“Tomura?” Someone begins hesitantly, carefully, as if they’re speaking to a feral animal on the verge of losing control.
“They’ve got to be deleting them, somehow,” he says after a moment, abrupt and unprompted, voice rough, lids finally lifting to reveal glassy crimson eyes, protected by a shield of rapidly collecting tears. “Th-That's the only explanation. We should—” he stops, eyebrows pushing together as if he’s confused, as if he’s suddenly lost the remainder of the sentence, a singular tear finally escaping his lashline, rolling down his cheek in solitude. “W-We should...refrain from using phones; they might have the lines tapped,”
“We don’t even know who ‘they’ are,” Kurogiri sighs heavily. “We haven’t gotten a single lead, not one clue,”
Tomura’s gaze snaps up, tears incinerated in an instant, fiery fury burning them to vapour. “But you—you heard them! They happened,”
“They did, over three weeks ago,”
“No, no,” he growls. “They didn't! I got them, just this past week! I got them during that horrendous trip you forced me to go on! I got them!”
“Christ, we’re just going in circles again,”
“The phone companies,” Kurogiri begins, voice rising, and Tomura flinches violently. Kurogiri inhales a breath, deep enough to fill his entire chest cavity, held for three seconds, then exhaled, slow and controlled. He tries again, softer this time. “The phone companies haven’t been able to find any traces of these alleged messages, Tomura,” A frown tugs at the corners of the older man’s mouth, staring at his charge with overwhelming pity in his bright eyes. “Nothing,”
“Well, then, they—they must own the phone companies,” The words tumble from his lips hastily, the full thought spit out before it can be interrupted by the noises bouncing around in his skull, eyes blinking rapidly as Tomura tries in vain to quiet the indiscernible racket—the breathing and the heartbeats and the tapping—to calm the chaos in his mind.
“Don’t be absurd, Tomura,” his father chuckles, the harmonious titter swiftly cutting through the disorganized turmoil in his head. And Tomura can’t believe he’s laughing, can’t believe he’s amused, can’t believe he’s so fucking nonchalant about the entire thing. “If there was an organization powerful enough to own the phone companies, down to having the ability of manipulating records, surely we’d know of them,”
“We’d be them, most likely, Sir,” Kurogiri adds politely, head bowed as he speaks to the Boss.
“Exactly,” the Boss continues. “If there were someone with monopoly over the phone companies—if there were someone tapping our phones at all, as a matter of fact—Tomoyasu would know in an instant; you know that, son,” Another deep chuckle vibrates in his chest, and he stares at his son with a peculiar little smile, head tilted, crimson eyes softening in patronization. “Really, Tomura, this is getting a little ridiculous. How much have you been taking lately?”
“Is this—” he chokes out, breathing beginning to accelerate, wild ruby eyes flying from one face to another, between the two people he’s known his entire life, between the two people he’s ever known as family, head whipping back and forth with the motion before his dropped jaw snaps shut. “Is this some kind of fucking joke to you? Huh!?”
Standing suddenly, Tomura’s fist slams down on the surface closest to him—a mirrored bar cart, mostly empty, reflective glass smashing upon impact—his chest stammering under ragged inhales, uneven breaths that blister as they barrel into his chest.
“It's not funny!” he tries to shout, but his voice cracks, words fragmenting in his throat, jagged edges slicing the gummy walls and forcing a vicious cough. “The one person more important than—than anyone, than everyone combined—is in serious danger, and you’re—you’re laughing?”
“No, Tomura,” Kurogiri jumps in quickly, attempting to pacify the swiftly escalating situation. “There’s nothing funny about anyone being in grave danger, especially her,”
“Then...Then...Why are you laughing?” His chest hiccups with a hitched sob, half-swallowed, and he stumbles backwards, blinking rapidly as his blurry gaze flies between the two men who have raised him, more tears spilling over his lashes. “You don’t...You don’t believe me?”
And it’s like a sharp slap to the face, this startling realization, their dismissal of the severity of the situation, fury reigniting in his chest, flames blazing higher and higher until they lick the back of his tongue, scorching his throat.
“I wouldn’t lie about something like that!” he roars.
“No, we know you wouldn’t—”
“Bullshit! I’ve been working my ass off, alright? Tirelessly searching for these motherfuckers, and I—I bet you haven’t even been trying, have you! Thought this whole thing was some big joke right from the start, huh!”
“Tomura,” his father begins, booming voice forcing a jolt up the spine of everyone in the room, except his son. “You know that isn’t true,”
“Prove it! Show me your research!”
“I think that's enough for today,” Kurogiri murmurs to Doctor Sako, placing a hand on his shoulder and rousing the Doctor from his stupor.
“What?” the Doctor looks up, frenzied scrawling halted, surprise evident in his cinnamon eyes. “But we’re finally starting to make progress!”
The Boss shakes his head, signifying that the decision is final. “No, no, that’s enough for today. He’s clearly quite agitated,” three pairs of eyes sweep towards Tomura, who’s begun clawing at his neck again, fractured shards of the smashed mirror wedged in his flesh, viscous crimson flowing down his wrist to stain the cuffs of his shirt, trickling down his neck to begin pooling in the dips of his collarbones. “And I’d rather not exacerbate the situation any further,”
“I’d like to treat his wounds and inspect his healing now,” Natsuo speaks up for the first time, drawing all of the gazes in the room towards him. “If that’s alright?”
“Of course,” the Boss says amicable, features molding into a friendly mask. “We’ll leave you to it,”
✰ ✰ ✰
On the other side of those doors, you sit huddled against Dabi, helplessly listening as Tomura’s fury builds from smoldering cinders to raging flames, consuming all in its path.
Something shatters, and your entire body flinches, Dabi readjusting his grasp. His heart rattles the bones that cage it, and his head dips down, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
“Uh,” he starts unsurely, fingers playing with the material of your dress. “Maybe we should—”
“No,” you cut him off, voice brittle and frail and not nearly as assertive as you wish it was. “I don’t want to—I won’t leave him,”
“But I just think—”
It’s supposed to be firm this time, strong and fearless and non-negotiable, but it comes out as more of a whine, as a plead, quivering and broken.
And for once, Dabi doesn’t push, doesn’t argue or huff under his breath, simply responding with a single jerk of his head and holding you close.
Another smash, another shout, and Dabi embraces you tighter, cradling you to his chest as his body curls in on your own, as if he’s trying to protect you, to shield you from all of the pain and the hurt and the fear.
Gentle tremors crawl under your skin, wracking your entire form as you attempt to suppress the malicious sob mauling your chest, little fingers gripping his forearms, keeping his whole being wrapped up in yours as nails bite into his skin.
“I’m here,” he whispers, so softly you nearly miss it, discerning it mostly from the light reverberations against your back. “I’m here,” he repeats, firmer. “I’ve got you, okay? I-I’ve got you, baby,”
You nod, lips pressed together as that sob finally breaks free, barreling up your throat and crashing against the barrier of clenched teeth and sealed lips.
And Dabi wants to tell you that it’s okay, wants to tell you not to restrain it, to let it escape, the way he gave you permission to shatter to pieces in his arms back in New York, but he can’t seem to form the words, tongue burning to ash as the letters sear themselves into the tissue, voice disintegrating to shreds in his throat, residual vapours of broken breath causing him to choke.
Instead he just holds you firmly, safe and secure in his tattooed arms, offering you a comforting space to break down in while inked lips press chaste kisses to the crown of your head, chest quivering with the hum of a familiar tune you can’t quite place, lulling you into complacency as he rocks your bodies in a trancelike, soothing manner.
Finally, finally, they exit, you and Dabi on your feet before the bedroom door’s even swung shut behind them.
“Natsuo’s treating him now,” the Boss informs Dabi, who responds with a curt, wooden nod. “So, Doctor, what’s your verdict?”
“Well, it’s hard to say,” Doctor Sako says, hints of irritation sewn into his tone. “Some sort of psychosis for sure, but whether it’s from the drugs or a deeper root, I can’t tell,”
“If you had to take an educated guess,” the Boss encourages in an easygoing lilt. “Which would you say it is?”
The Doctor blows a robust gust of breath from his lips, eyeing the Boss warily. “If I had to guess,” he begins, rubbing at an eye as he stares down at his clipboard. “I’d say it’s likely that there’s a more deeply rooted cause here, amplified or aggravated by the drugs,"
“He’s sick,” you pipe up, face half buried in Dabi’s chest meekly.
“It’s a plausible possibility,” the Doctor confirms. “But with what, exactly, I can’t be sure. I wasn’t afforded enough time with him to preform an accurate and thorough assessment, and Tomura was exceptionally uncooperative,”
“S-So, what can we do?”
“Ideally, stop the drugs and start him on anti-psychotics, and probably a mood stabilizer, too.” A frown tugs at the corners of Doctor Sako's mouth. “But he has made it very clear that he will not do so willingly,”
“And that in-patient program you had mentioned...” the Boss trails off, head tilted curiously.
The Doctor shakes his head. “Aside from the isolated crystal incident, he currently does not check many boxes for at risk of harm to himself or to others—meaning we cannot forcibly place him in a program without his explicit consent, because, technically, he doesn’t qualify. Not yet, anyway,”
“What are our other options, then?” Dabi speaks for the first time, voice gravelly. You cling to him tighter, and he acknowledges your presence, his own fingers readjusting their grip around your waist, digging into the soft flesh.
“Even though there’s no guarantee that he’ll actually take them, I can prescribe him some meds,” the Doctor says, through his expression is grim.
“I’m, of course, open to holding sessions with him,” he looks over to the Boss, gauging his reaction. “Either here, at the penthouse, or in my office; his choice,” he pauses, gaze flitting back to Dabi. “Other than that, all you can do is keep an eye on him. If his symptoms escalate, or he becomes exceedingly dangerous, call an ambulance,”
“I’ll talk to him about the therapy,” the Boss nods. “Thank you, Doctor,”
“What about work?” Kurogiri questions.
Tomura’s father sighs, expertly polished mask of authority finally beginning to tarnish. “Regardless of what exactly this is, Tomura is evidently not fit to be managing a full workload,” Scarlet eyes assess Kurogiri slowly, who is already nodding. “We shall reduce his duties significantly, and allow him to work from home, where he feels much more comfortable—and where you can efficiently keep watch over him.”
✰ ✰ ✰
They leave shortly after—all of the physicians and psychiatrists and family members—and Tomura counts; one, two, three dings—and then, Tomura waits, waits for the chaos in his head to diminish from blaring white noise to sizzling static, for the blood to clot and begin adding to the embellished choker collaring his neck, for the pain from his fresh wounds, new bandages overlapping older ones, to fade from sharp stabs to dull throbs.
Finally, Tomura emerges, hair a haystacked mess, neck and wrists still trickling scarlet, the nail beds of his bony fingers stained with rust and stuffed with dead flesh as they absentmindedly pick at a bandage, fresh blood beginning to seep through.
A precious gasp claws its way up your throat, and you’re on your feet in an instant—out of Dabi’s arms, into Daddy’s, little whimpers spilling past your lips as you fret over him, pillowy palms that smooth down fluffy tufts, tender fingers that catch crimson on their tips.
Sunken ruby eyes meet glittering sapphire, and Tomura sighs, leaning heavily on you.
This is it—Dabi knows this is it; this is the end. Tomura’s going to dismiss him of his glorified babysitting duties and permit him to return to the work he’s good at, to return to the work on the streets, to the grime and grit and ghouls, dwelling in the underground tunnels where he belongs.
Tomura murmurs something in your ear, and Dabi watches as shock bleeds through your features—raised brows, an agape mouth, widening eyes—but you don’t defy him, nodding along to whatever he’s just demanded and taking your immediate leave. His gaze follows your movements, waiting until his heavy bedroom door has fully shut behind you, then turns back to Dabi and wordlessly holds out a hand in the vague direction of his office.
“She would’ve been listening, had we spoken in the living room,” Tomura explains as they enter. “Little brat,”
Wordlessly, Dabi nods, tongue lethargic and lifeless in his mouth, tiny spikes of adrenaline tingling through his veins, surging with his blood as his heart attempts to climb through the ribs that cage it.
“Anyway,” Tomura continues, raking brittle fingers through his nest of silver, the loose corner of a bandage catching on the strands. “It’s not like it’s all that important,” he collapses heavily on the mauve leather couch with a sigh, head tipping back.
And Dabi waits.
Head lolling to the side lazily, Tomura opens an eye to stare at his inferior. “Your duties are being reduced,”
“You’ll still be bringing her to and from school, and wherever the fuck else she wants to go, but now that I’ll be working from home...” Tomura trails off, singular lid sliding shut again, words exhaled on a heavy breath. “I won’t be needing you here, in the penthouse,”
“So, I’ve been demoted to chauffeur, basically,”
“Yeah,” Tomura chuckles, though it’s nothing more than an exhausted huff, eye opening again, weak amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. “A chauffeur.”
Heavy despondency seeps into the floor of his stomach, taking root at the core of his soul and beginning to fester, to spread, to devour; weightless delight fizzes behind his sternum, tiny bubbles of sunshine—of your laugh, your eyes, your touch, voice, scent—that burst delicately, their warmth soaking into his flesh. They mix into something toxic, into something intoxicating, a bitter acid crawls its way up his throat, eroding his esophagus before dwelling on the back of his tongue.
“That’s all, Dabi,” Tomura says softly, after a few moments of prolonged silence.
Clearing his throat roughly, Dabi nods, palms pressed to his knees as if he’s about to rise from his seat on the cushion, a sudden tug on his ribs tethering him. “Hey, uh,” nimble fingers flex, nails digging into denim. “Are you—I mean, how are you?”
Tomura’s head flops to the side, and he stares at Dabi through dense, fanned lashes. Crimson sears itself into his skin—scorching his cheeks and charring his neck—and Dabi shifts under the invasive gaze.
“Fine,” Tomura says with a nonchalant shrug, but his fingers are toying with the fraying edges of a bandage wrapped around his wrist.
Dabi doesn’t buy it, not even for a second, but he swallows his fragmented words.
There’s more he wants to say, more he has to say, but he isn’t sure how to say it, lost all ability to stitch letters into words, to knit words into sentences, to vocalize the thoughts tangling in his head with the wobbly voice lodged at the back of his throat.
So he says nothing, delivering one curt nod before grunting and standing. Each step away feels worse than the last, feels wrong, like there are threads connecting him to the only person close enough to ever be considered a best friend, pulled taut and tight with every footfall towards the door, begging him not to go, not to snap those strands, so weak and worn.
It’s only when Dabi’s hand is on the doorknob that they yank and force him to turn.
“Tomura,” running his tongue along his bottom lip, he pauses, waits for his boss to look up, then swallows, voice thick and weighted. “Let me know if, uh, well,” A sharp exhale, a clenched jaw, a twitching nose. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help, alright? You don’t—You don’t have to do this alone,”
And, for one terrifying moment, Dabi thinks Tomura’s about to spill his guts—to tear himself open and spew himself at Dabi’s feet, to bear his bones and blood and broken soul in a way Dabi knows he didn’t for those doctors. And, for one terrifying moment, Dabi hopes he will, the way he used to—the way they both used to—on those rare nights where they were feeling especially sick and saccharine, juvenile and jaded, free and fucked up.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask Dabi to stop, to wait, to stay, and he doesn’t tell Dabi about the horrifying thoughts twisting the tissues of his brain into tight, tangling knots.
He merely nods once; a slow, sleepy movement of his head, eyes slipping shut again, breathing shallow, affirmation slipping through licked-raw lips in a mutter, floating on the tail of a sigh.
✰ ✰ ✰
Ambivalence chases, races, the blood in Dabi’s veins for the rest of the day; faster, higher, brighter with each second that ticks by, thrumming through his cells until his entire body’s ablaze, engulfed by the inferno sizzling under his skin by the end of the night, such scalding heat keeping him awake, alert.
This day would come eventually, inevitably; he knew it would, carrying with it the bittersweet tang of relief and remorse, anticipation and anxiety.
If he’s being truthful, now’s the best time for it to happen—he needs to get away from you. Really, he does—he should. You’ve barely been back in Japan for forty-eight hours, yet his best friend’s mind is decaying to rotting flesh, and Dabi—well, all Dabi can think about is you; the taste of your moans, the scent of your arousal, the sound of his name on your lips—and so, yeah, he should.
Or should he?
Because spears of terror pierce his heart any time he thinks about leaving you alone with Tomura—poor, unstable Tomura, who’s preoccupied trying to stitch together the remaining shreds his mind has decomposed into, who loves you so much he’s completely stopped granting you his attention, in a desperate and urgent attempt to protect you.
Because that monster you birthed in his chest, all those months ago when all of this was just beginning, gnaws on his ribs and claws at his stomach, its eyes glowing bright jade at the thought of Tomura getting to kiss you, touch you, fuck you, whenever he wants to.
Because icy tears sting his eyes and freeze into a sharp block in his throat when he realizes that he will no longer see you every single day, will no longer spend every waking moment with you—morning to night, dusk to dawn—will no longer get to eat all of his meals with you, or laze around taking naps with your head in his lap, or listen to you complain every time he throws on those sci-fi serials from the 30s that he loves so much.
And that’s terrifying.
✰ ✰ ✰
It isn’t like you had expected things to go back to normal, to go back to the way they were before, just because Daddy’s at home now. No, of course not; you knew he was a very busy man, even with his workload reduced to something more manageable.
But you hadn’t exactly expected things to get worse, either.
It was a silly hope—a dream, maybe—that Tomura might begin paying more attention to you now that you’re sharing the same space again; that Tomura might take notice of your presence and find some scraps of time for you: to eat a meal with you, or watch an episode of some stupid show with you; that, if you’re really well behaved, Tomura might even allow you to sit in his office with him as he works, cute and quiet and perfect as always.
It was a silly hope that Tomura might want to do any of these things at all, that Tomura might care about anything other than ironing out the kinks and knots his mind has twisted itself into.
And it isn’t like you haven’t tried, haven’t been trying, in conjunction with Kurogiri to get him to emerge from that godforsaken office, with its heavy mahogany doors and thick brass locks; to get him to eat, to take a break from whatever the hell it is he’s doing locked away in there all day.
But Tomura’s nothing if not brutally, infuriatingly stubborn.
You still see Dabi, a few times a week for your classes and the like, but the rest of his time is occupied elsewhere, doing whatever it is he did before being assigned to protect you.
But Dabi’s sudden absence from the penthouse itself affects you more than you anticipate.
It feels as though everything has lost its purpose, as though everything has lost its appeal. No, you don’t want to watch those stupid wedding dress shows if Dabi isn’t there to harshly critique them with you. No, you don’t want to have dessert if Daddy isn’t there to lovingly scold you about your sugar consumption, or keep a watchful eye on how many cookies you’re nibbling on. And no, you don’t want to take a nap because you’re cranky; not if it isn’t safe and secured in a pair of their arms, not if it isn’t cuddled and clasped against one of their chests.
And you feel it, his absence, both of their absences; a deep, dull ache that has drilled itself into the core of your very soul, that keeps tunnelling and tunnelling and tunnelling until it cracks the center and splits it wide open, filling the gash with ice, shards of it prickling through your veins every time your gaze catches on something that reminds you of them.
And you know that’s exactly what it is that’s causing this constant throbbing pain, too; you know it is, because on those occasions when you’re privileged enough to catch in their light—Dabi’s weak flickers, or Daddy’s simmering embers—it thaws, and you feel alive again, right again.
And, for a little while, that’s enough. For a little while, you can live with that, be alive with that, heart vigorously pumping boiling blood through your cold veins, blazing through the thick ice and alighting your entire body with that special warmth whenever Daddy has a few minutes to spare, whenever Dabi drives you to your classes.
But eventually, flickers and embers aren’t strong enough to keep that frigid pain rooting itself within your chest from freezing your entire body.
Eventually, you need more.
It takes just under two weeks—eleven and a half days—until your resolve finally crumbles and your pride burns to nothing but cinders, until that loneliness threatens to engulf you from the inside out, snapping your body clean in half as it envelops you in its icy embrace.
✰ ✰ ✰
You must stand outside that fucking office for hours, spending too much time debating whether or not this is the right choice; whether or not you’re just being selfish and needy, before spikes of ice shoot through your chest again, and you finally raise a trembling fist to knock knuckles against the wood.
The first three times, he doesn’t answer.
It’s expected, but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less.
A tentative hand wraps around the doorknob, beginning to twist, to tug.
And for a moment, it’s silent. Then:
A harsh chuckle splinters the mahogany wood, Tomura’s voice slithering through the cracks it created. “I know you didn’t just try to break one of Daddy’s most important rules, princess,” he calls, voice cold and condescending, garnished with just a hint of amusement.
You know better than to lie to him.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize quickly, yanking your hand back from the brass knob as if it suddenly sprouted teeth. “I just—I miss—I haven’t seen you in over a day, and—Well, I’m...Worried?” your breath catches in your chest, stagnant and stiff, only releasing when he fails to respond. “I—I mean, have you eaten at all in the past twenty-four hours?”
Another pause, another beat of tinny silence. Tears swell in your throat, thick and tingling, your words fighting to climb to your lips.
“I made you some lunch,” everything sounds garbled, nothing more than a tangled mess of letters on your tongue as you glance at the silver cart, food protected under the intricate cloche no doubt gone cold by now. “I-It isn’t much, jus’a little something, but—“ you swallow. “It’s better than nothing. Try to eat, please? I-I’ll be with—I’m going out,”
And then you’re off, barely able to get the whole sentence spit from your lips before you’re practically sprinting towards his bedroom, a vicious cry clawing at your chest. The door swings shut behind you in your haste, hard enough to rattle the art hung on the walls as you slide down the wood.
If Daddy were in his right mind—if Daddy cared at all—such an action would’ve earned you a hefty punishment, full of tears and apologies, raw flesh and glowing rubies.
But he isn’t, and he doesn’t, and you can’t stay here anymore, surrounded by him, by his waning scent and his perishing soul, swallowed up whole by his essence, rotting away in the belly of the beast.
Trembling hands urgently scroll through your phone, quivering so terribly the device nearly slips from their grasp twice, frenzied and desperate to find his name, to end this erosion, to get out.
Bringing the phone to your ear, you work hard to quell your sobs and quiet your sniffles, swallowing hard to suppress them, to keep them in your stuttering chest, to be strong and stoic.
And for a second, you’re sure you’ve got it under control, emotions locked away in a cage of ivory, the only remnants of them present in the way your chest stammers unevenly as they thrash to escape.
But it all implodes the moment you hear his voice, infused with panic, with passion; it all bubbles right back up again, thick tears blurring your vision and whole body shuddering under the weep you tried to tame, resolve burnt entirely to ash as a cracked wail of D-Dabi! tumbles past your lips.
✰ ✰ ✰
It seems the city is caught under a perpetual drizzle lately, a soft rain whose droplets turn the world into nothing more than a landscape of hazy lights and monochrome.
The sun, which has kept itself buried behind thick charcoal clouds for the entirety of the day, has nearly sunk beneath the skyline now, stowing away beyond skyscrapers and high-rises, gobbled up whole by the jagged teeth of the city.
They’ve just finished their biggest job for the day, finding recruits—more accurately, test subjects—men and women desperate for something: money, a fix, an escape; men and women willing to do anything to get their hands on whatever it is they want, including agreeing to becoming AFOs personal lab rats.
Most of ‘em don’t make it, a man by the name of Rikiya Yotsubashi had told Keigo his first official day on the job, which was coincidently the day Dabi & Co left for New York. Most of ‘em are junkies, criminals, people on the run, people who need something, he shrugged, shooting Keigo an appraising gaze from the corner of his eye, molars grinding pink bubblegum to goo. Y’know, people who won’t be missed.
That was the most important qualification, Keigo had found out. He hadn’t exactly been shocked; it took the department years to catch onto what the medical conglomerate had been doing with its carefully selected candidates; individuals who disappeared frequently with no logical cause, who had no family or friends that would come calling for them or sniffing around, who society disdained, cast to the margins and forced to scuttle along the outskirts of civilization.
The government was happy with it. It keeps the streets clean, Riyika had recited to him, quoting the prime minister. He donates generous sums of cash to keep our operations going, solely for that reason.
It was revolting. The gluttonous greed of man is utterly disgusting, his boss had chuckled, clapping a large hand on his shoulder hard enough to make Keigo sway. Welcome to the real world, Detective.
Keigo had thought he was in the real world, that he had already experienced the real world; a world full of contradictions and conspiracies, sure, but a world where Good and Bad were clearly defined, neatly sorted into easily digestible categories. A world where he knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. A world where he could nonchalantly dismiss his own unsavoury actions in favour of the Greater Good.
He isn’t so sure anymore.
He isn’t so sure, because this world, the underworld, the universe of corrupt riches, has managed to turn all of Keigo’s neat little notions on their heads.
Because he’s witnessed why these people join such organizations; he’s seen it: the single mom with several mouths to feed, offering Keigo cake and tea regardless of her predicament the moment he step foot in her shabby home; the drug addicted father with the prodigy daughter who deserves the best education money can by, working three jobs to ensure her tuition is paid in full, and she can get those pretty red shoes she wants so badly; the barely legal teens who’ve been raised by these streets, who’ve raised their siblings on these streets, desperately searching for a place to belong, for a family.
People who are the salt of the earth, the gold in the sun, simply doing what they can to survive, doing the jobs society has forced them to do then shunned them for it, doing their best to provide better lives for their loved ones, even if it means risking their lives and bloodying their hands to achieve it.
Because he’s seen the innocent victims, too; friends and family that get caught up in it all as collateral damage; innocent little girls like you, that fall into the clutches of monsters, that happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; or maybe it’s the right place. Keigo can’t tell anymore.
Keigo can’t tell anymore, because down here, in this world, the underworld, bustling beneath the feet of society, Keigo’s come to learn that Good and Bad aren’t so clearly defined. In fact, he isn’t quite sure they even exist as separate entities anymore, notions bleeding into one another until they’re neither, until they’re both, all at the same time, oozing into one another like messy watercolour on a chaotic canvas, creating a new colour entirely, something Keigo’s never seen before.
And despite the fact that Keigo’s made next to no progress these past two weeks—his first two weeks officially ‘on the job’—it’s these thoughts that infect his mind for those fifteen days Dabi’s absent in New York. It’s these thoughts that burrow through the recesses of his brain, latching onto the tissues with sharp little teeth and burying themselves within the folds, never to be extracted.
Dabi’s been back in Japan for just under two weeks now, and Keigo’s been instructed to ‘shadow’ him every day thus far.
On this particular day, Dabi’s got his hands cupped protectively around the flickering flame of a silver Zippo, cigarette secured between two rows of ivory, when the call comes.
“Fuck’s sake,” he huffs out under his breath, flipping the lighter closed with a sharp twinge and sucking hard.
Keigo laughs a little as Dabi fumbles through his deep pockets, muttering a hasty Shut up, when Keigo remarks that this is an peculiar turn of events, that no one ever calls Dabi.
But his features, pinched in irritation, relax the moment his gaze skims his phone, thumb practically slamming down on the answer button, fingers swiftly removing the cigarette from his mouth as he breathes your name into the receiver, followed by a near desperate What is it? What’s wrong?
Keigo straightens up, too; he can’t help it, action almost automatic, attention perking up at Dabi’s disquieted tone.
He’s unable to hear what you’re saying, voice so meek it has Dabi gripping his phone to the side of his head, pressed tightly against his ear as his eyes narrow in concentration.
“You...What?” Dabi’s lids loosen, eyes widening—in surprise, or shock, Keigo isn’t entirely certain. “I mean,” Dabi coughs, clears his throat, tugs a little at the collar of his hoodie, ash from his steadily burning cigarette dusting his chest. “Did you ask your Daddy? ... What do you mean He doesn’t care? You know he does, princess ... He’s what? Busy? Too busy for you?”
Lips wrap around the cigarette, and Dabi inhales deeply, like he’s unsure, burnt fingers threading through ink. “I dunno, baby,” he mutters, words hidden in heavy clouds of smoke. “I don’t think—No, listen—Hey, listen. I don’t think Daddy should be—He does, for Christ’s sake, will you stop that?” A pause, a thumb rubbing at an eye in exasperation, your voice beginning to rise in pitch, loud enough for Keigo to hear it—just a muddled shrill sound echoing from the phone—but not loud enough for him to discern any words.
“I don’t think Daddy should be left alone,” Dabi says slowly over your speech, almost like you’re stupid, almost like he has to force the stubborn words from his tongue. “I know, I know, I miss you too, princess. It’s been—”
And it’s then that Dabi becomes aware of Keigo’s prying, vying eyes, turning away from his inquisitive, invasive gaze and hunching in on himself a little. “It’s been hard on me too, you know,” he continues, a soft, self-conscious confession. “It’s been...” he stops, words strangling themselves in his throat. “Different, yeah,” he agrees in a huff of breath. “Different,”
Guilt, thick and sticky, unfurls itself in the pit of his stomach; a rapidly spreading slime that engulfs his organs and twists, and Keigo averts his eyes, tries his best to stop listening.
Because he shouldn’t be, truly, and the longer he does, the more he feels like he’s encroaching on something deeply personal, on something that’s none of his business and should be none of his concern, something he was never supposed to be privy to, or tangle his conscience up in.
Because Keigo can tell that whatever you’re saying on the other line, with your escalating little please?’s and whiny little Da-bi!’s, is absolutely killing his colleague, struggling more and more with each breath you take, each exhale of smoke from his nostrils, to deny you.
In the end, he loses, just as he always does. In the end, he finds himself lounging in the luscious lobby of Tomura’s condominium—of his own home, and yours—nimble fingers picking at a stray thread of the armchair he’s leaning against.
One ding of the elevator, one gentle breath of his name, and he’s straightening up instantly, catching you snuggly against his chest, limbs wrapped almost protectively around your slightly trembling form.
And it’s interesting, the way the two of you nearly melt into each other in a way that’s so intimate, so familiar, that Keigo can hardly believe you haven’t known each other your entire lives.
It’s interesting, the way your bodies seem to knot together in a manner that’s almost graceful despite how tightly you’re clinging to one another, arms looped and legs locked, everything stitched together in one perfect present, one unbreakable entity, immaculate in the way it moves, ebbs and flows, breathes in singularity, in unity.
Keigo takes this as his cue to leave, to allow the two of you some space and privacy, Dabi nodding his understanding over the crown of your head, face still nuzzled into him.
“Hey,” Dabi says softly, once Keigo’s departed, palms cushioning your head in an attempt to draw your face up from his chest. “Hey, hey, look at me,” he commands gently, removing your face from its sanctuary, discerning sapphire sweeping across your face. “What’s going on?”
Dabi’s face hardens, lips pressed in a firm line. “Don’t bullshit me,” he warns. “What did he do?”
“N-Nothing, he didn’t do anything,”
And it hurts, because it’s true—he really didn’t do anything. A scolding, silence as a response—not exactly anything out of the ordinary, not anymore.
Rough palms find their designated place on your cheeks, cupping your jaw, delicate and tender as if you’ll crumble to dust if he isn’t cautious and careful. Calloused thumbs caress the flesh stretched over your cheekbones, and you find yourself nuzzling into his touch, a pathetic little hiccup breaking in your throat.
Crystal eyes rapidly search your face, a cute crease between his eyebrows carved from concern. His head shakes a little, just minuscule movements, really, indicating that he doesn’t exactly understand, large hands keeping your gaze from straying from his.
“He didn’t do anything,” you repeat through a thick swallow, words distorted with spit. “Th-That's the problem,”
“Baby,” his voice breaks, as if it pains him to speak, as if it pains him to tell you that he doesn’t understand, that he can’t offer the comfort he so desperately yearns to. “I-I’m—I don’t—”
“No provocation, no protests, no possession...No nothing. He just...He just let me go,”
Understanding cracks through the confusion coating his face, pinched features melting as anxiety bleeds through them, replaced with the unsteady wobble of worry.
But Dabi stays silent, because there’s nothing to say anymore, because you’ve heard it all before, opting to draw you into his arms and tug you to his chest once again, exhaling a weighted sigh against the crown of your head.
And, truly, he wants so desperately to tell you that it’s okay, that it’s all going to be alright, that Tomura’s just in some pissy mood and it’ll pass soon, he promises, he swears, just like it always does; he wants to.
Yet no words come, because he can’t, because he won’t, because he can’t find it in him to lie to you, even if only to provide a few moments of fleeting solitude.
✰ ✰ ✰
Over the next month or so, your presence becomes more and more of a frequent occurrence until it’s practically a permanent fixture.
It starts with a mere call or two a week, asking if you can tag along with them, always promising you’ll be on your very best behaviour, always begging Dabi with those precious little pleads about how bored you are and how much you miss him. But it grows rapidly, in conjunction with Dabi’s steadily decreasing ability to refuse you, and before long, Keigo’s seeing you an average of five times a week.
And, oh, you’re so cute, Keigo just can’t help but melt a little, warm a little, whole facade dropping the first time you meet when you ask, after hastily wiping those pesky crystal teardrops adorning lashes spiked with water and introducing yourself, if Hawks is his real name.
“What do you think, songbird?” he had questioned, voiced laced with a hint of teasing as he flipped those windswept golden curls from his eyes. “Be pretty dangerous to work on this side of the industry without a code name, don’t you think?”
But your increasing presence becomes a disruption.
Because your time together shifts, evolves, blurring the lines between labour and leisure, morphing from you attending those standard jobs—mostly consisting of drug delivery to the higher-ups, quick and inconspicuous meet-ups with the white collar criminals, and the never-ending recruitment process—to visiting those greasy American style diners Dabi practically lives on after the work is done, time becoming languid and loose as you lounge on their glittering plastic seats, leaking into the wee hours of the morning. Or, sometimes you swing by those old movie houses, now nothing more than crumbling skeletons of the grand palaces they once were with their fraying velvet and peeling paint, to watch their midnight double features, often 1930s gangster films or those buddy-cop flicks from the 70s and 80s that Keigo just can’t seem to get enough of.
Soon enough, Keigo’s accompanying the both of you home, the three of you huddling up in the theatre room Keigo’s so unabashedly fascinated with, with laps full of buttersalt popcorn and fingers encrusted with the sour-sweet sugar from those stupid gummies you love so much, barely paying attention to whatever show’s on the screen as you chat.
Or you’re loitering in the kitchen, perched on the edge of granite countertops while greedy hands scour the innards of the fridge in search of something tasty and expensive; or lounging around the main living room, surrounded by scattered styrofoam and too much take-out, dainty giggles prying past your lips as the men debate philosophy and chuck dumplings and rice balls at each other.
And it’s...It’s nice, Keigo’s horrified to discover. He knows Dabi’s mostly toying with him, intentionally wasting his time, knows Dabi still hasn’t conducted any serious business in his presence; just those tiny jobs that leave Keigo empty handed and frustrated, that lead to nothing of real use or significance.
But when Keigo raises these concerns to his superior, worried he’s squandering precious and valuable time, Chief Yagi tells him not to worry.
Infiltrating the penthouse is also an important part of your mission, he had said. You’re doing well, Detective, keep it up. Getting them to relax in your presence is crucial to this operation coming to fruition, he had promised.
Sure, that makes sense; the more they lower their guard, the easier it’ll be for Keigo to wheedle information out of them, to go snooping and sniffing for clues.
But what happens when Keigo feels like his guard is lowering as well, entirely against his will?
Because throughout it all, Keigo observes, Keigo witnesses: just how much you and Dabi lean on each other, rely on each other; just how much you and Dabi hurt every time another slice of Tomura’s mind disintegrates—and Tomura himself.
✰ ✰ ✰
It’s nearly a month—twenty-seven and a half days, to be exact—before Keigo finally sees him in the flesh for the very first time.
And the portrait Keigo’s met with will be seared into his mind forever, carved into the walls of his skull, doomed to ceaselessly relive the scalding and the scratching when his sins haunt him in the middle of the night.
The man walking across the room bears little resemblance to the Tomura Shigaraki he’s seen in photos and files. Knotted tufts of dull silver stand on end, mussed from bony fingers tugging, raking, yanking.
Most of his muscle mass has disintegrated, leaving behind the shell of a man; hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks accentuating his sharp jaw and defined cheekbones, his silhouette nothing more than a collection of rigid lines and razored edges, a protruding collarbone peeking out from an ill-fitted cashmere button-up, bony wrists adorned with perpetually healing wounds, thin gaunt skin stretched too tight over slim hands.
Blood seeps into the crisp white collar and cuffed sleeves of his tailored shirt, readily leaking from his gashed neck and gorged wrists and creating a grotesque painting in the fabric, artful blotches of crimson as bright as his eyes soaking through unblemished ivory in asymmetrical smudged patches, like bloody clouds in a bleak sky.
And still, you’re scrambling the moment you lay eyes on him, struggling to pull yourself from Dabi’s iron grip with sweet little whimpers, feet clambering and fingers clawing your way free.
“Daddy!” you breathe as you stumble towards him, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste. “Oh my God, Daddy!”
He barely even registers you until you’re barreling into his chest, hastily taking a wounded wrist between your tiny palms and cradling it like it’s special, like it’s precious.
He seems as shocked as you are, belated surprise morphing his features, gazing down at his own gushing wrists as if his body isn’t quite his own, as if he doesn’t fully recognize it.
But it is his, and these scrapes and scratches and hollows and hacks are from him, unkempt fingernails encrusted with rust and flesh.
He doesn’t even feel it, he tells you, voice painfully monotone, dead and limp and dismal, stare never lifting. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Wh-What? What do you mean—oh, gosh—Dabi,” you throw a quick glance over your shoulder, Tomura’s head finally lifting, confusion contorting his features. “Some bandages, please?”
“Dabi,” he says, soft and slow, as if he’s tasting the name, rolling it around between his teeth, tongue curling around it protectively, before finally swallowing it down. “I thought I dismissed you?”
“Oh,” Dabi breathes, avoiding scarlet eyes as he hastily searches for those bandages. “Well, you did, kind of. I, uh—”
“I invited him over,” you say simply, little thumbs running across Tomura’s gouged wrists with the gentlest, barely there caresses. “And that’s Hawks, one of Dabi’s friends,” and your voice is so sweet, so soft, Keigo can’t help but deflate a little, just the way your Daddy does into your calming touch. “And don’t worry, Dabi screened him; he’s safe. We hang out sometimes, when you’re too busy ‘n all—they keep me company,”
Tomura’s gaze doesn’t lift at all, refusing Keigo any sort of acknowledgement, head nodding lethargically as you and Dabi hold delicate wrists between your palms, wrapping each in cloth and gauze, ministrations doused in compassionate vigilance.
Yes, that’s how it happens, the very first time.
But fleeting interactions such as these are becoming more and more difficult for Keigo to stomach.
Because the pain is fucking excruciating.
It’s painful to witness this memory of a man—now nothing more than a wisp, a shell, a ghost—painful to watch the way your eyes fill with tears the moment he steps in the room, and the way Dabi’s avert, the way Dabi can’t even bear to look at him anymore without a twitching nose or a trembling chin.
It hurts too much.
Because although Dabi doesn’t say much, can’t say much, Keigo can tell that he yearns to, that he’s affected by this in unimaginable ways as well, that this whole situation is eroding him from the inside out, each sighting of Tomura dishevelled and deranged birthing another parasite to chew it’s way through his organs, to feast on his heart.
It’s evident in the way he’s bit his bottom lip raw and picked his cuticles until they’re bloody, in the way he rubs aggressively at his eyes once Tomura’s gone, in the way his chest stammers with hiccuped words and half-buried whimpers on the rare occasion that he does speak to his boss.
And it’s painful to witness you or Kurogiri gently asking Tomura when the last time he showered was, or if he’s eaten, if he’s changed his clothes in the past few days, a once pristinely tailored suit now all rumpled and stained as he looks down with a shrug.
It’s painful to witness Kurogiri working tirelessly to pick up Tomura’s slack, reorganizing appointments, holding meetings in his place, and making executive decisions.
From the fragments of hissed conversations Keigo catches, he’s come to find out that Tomura has completely dropped his executive duties.
“He’s missing every single meeting we’ve set up for him,” Keigo had discovered Kurogiri whispering into a phone one dreary evening, the receiver cupped to his mouth as if his palms could stop the words from escaping, from reaching prying ears. “He is not adequately fulfilling his obligations as CEO; the promises he made to the company, the duties and demands he used to delegate so professionally. He’s failing to complete the tasks assigned, he isn’t showing up for appointments, he’s refusing to return calls…Such behaviour is beyond unsatisfactory—Sir, I—”
That’s all he had managed to hear, before Kurogiri’s voice had faded into incomprehensible static, as he moved to another room.
And it’s these memories that haunt Keigo—sharp shards and slivers of broken expressions; glassy sapphire eyes and violently quivering lips, hidden in the comforting necks and arms and chests of one another—that torment him the moment he’s finally alone in his bed, when his ears are ringing with phantom laughs and sobs, vacant whispers and whimpers, all etched into the tissues of his brain, all typical residue he brings home from the day.
It’s these memories that swirl around in his mind, turbulent and disruptive, harassing him the instant he finds a shred of peace.
Because it’s his fault.
It’s his fault you go to sleep with tears staining your pillow. It’s his fault Dabi can barely spare a glance at his best friend, much less talk to him. It’s his fault that Tomura Shigaraki has lost his fucking mind, tangled up in paranoid thoughts saturated with terror.
And no matter what he does, no matter who he speaks to or where he is, Keigo cannot rid his mouth of this pungent sourness permanently woven into his saliva; Keigo cannot quell the bitter acid that continually creeps up his throat to sting the back of his tongue, corrosive and toxic as it seeps into the pit of his stomach and rots away his soul.
✰ ✰ ✰
“I like Hawks,” you hum out in a breath one night, nearly asleep after Dabi’s finger fucked your brains out and you’ve swallowed his cum for the second time that week.
Your head rises and falls in time with his slow, shallow breathing, his eyes half-lidded and body languid as the drugs course through his system. Your the same, more or less, though you don’t need any drugs to get this way, such a state achieved by Dabi pulling near-violent orgasms from you with those rough fingers, greedily chasing the dull, dim after-sparks as you halfheartedly grind against his thigh.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, palm petting your head rhythmically.
“Mhmm,” you sigh, readjusting yourself, gripping him closer, tighter. “Where’d you find him?”
He chuckles a bit at your naiveness. “He found me,”
Dabi shrugs the best he can, the motion causing you to jiggle. “Y’know, when you know someone, who knows someone, who knows someone…” he trails off. “S’how it is in this line of work,”
“How’d you find Daddy?”
The question, mumbled out past loose, sleepy lips, has him jolting with a frightening start, whole body going rigid, but you’re too fucked out to notice.
“I didn’t,” he says after a while, not even sure if you’re still awake, voice sounding weird to his ears, off, infused with something he can’t quite place. “He found me,”
“I, uh...Don’t get along with—My father and I—We just—He just—” he stops, eyes closing so tightly it crinkles his face, as if it’s painful to speak these words, to recall these memories, releasing a long, sharp, heavy sigh.
A while passes, the drowsy post-orgasm haze beginning to dissipate with each second he stays silent and stiff. Thick guilt begins to unfurl in your stomach with the growing terror that you’ve crossed some unmarked line, that you’re intruding, trespassing on memories that are not yours to know, not yours to relive, or to keep. You pull back slightly, blinking twice at him as your mouth falls open to apologize, to tell him he doesn’t have to talk about this if it makes him uncomfortable, if it’s too upsetting to utter, but his lids lift, and then he’s speaking again.
“My father’s a real piece of shit, alright?” he exhales the sentence in one breath, words soaked in causticity, features screwed up in an expression you’ve never witnessed before, an expression that sends a scorching shock through you limbs straight to your heart, an expression saturated in pure hate. “And I just—I couldn’t fucking take it anymore,” A pause, a tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth in contemplation before releasing it with a soft pop!. “So I left,” he pauses, sucking the lip between his teeth again and biting hard, a feeble attempt to stop his chin from quivering. “At thirteen,”
“That must’ve been really tough,” you whisper, eyes full of so much concern, so much compassion it scalds his skin, douses him in your endearing affection and eats through his flesh and bone like some sort of corrosive, bearing his imperilled heart to you.
Sapphire darts away, whole head turning to take shelter from your gaze, an attempt to rebuild those walls you can seemingly knock down with a gentle breath and a pretty smile, barriers you can crumble with a tender hand on his forearm and a soft Dabi?.
“Yeah, well,” he clears his throat roughly, a vain effort to rid his voice from that stupid tremble. “I managed, didn’t I?” he chuckles wryly, but it comes out dry, withering, strangled. “We aren’t all lucky enough to be born, or even adopted, into welcoming homes with—with tenderness and warmth and people who—” the word catches, shatters into sharp shards in his throat, but he barrels on. “People who care,”
“No,” you agree quietly, thumb rubbing absentminded circles into his skin, squeezing gently. “We aren’t. But he found you,”
“He did,” Dabi nods, swallowing harshly, resolve resuming. “He did.”
“How?” you ask for the third time that night.
Silence smothers the room, dense and suffocating as it encases the two of you in it’s haughty embrace. Sapphire stays focused on the flickering screen, the gears in Dabi’s head turning, shifting, clicking as he figures out how to proceed. And you don’t push, you don’t rush, opting to simply continue trancing nonsensical patterns into his scarred flesh—motions he can barely feel in some parts, but greatly appreciates nonetheless.
“I was on the streets for three years; you know, they kept trying to put me in children’s homes and all that bullshit, I kept evading, or escaping,” The phantom of a laugh catches in his chest. “I was really sick by the time Tomura found me—it was winter, and I was curled up on the steps of a shelter, or something, half-alive and wrapped up in every article of clothing I owed. I had passed out, apparently, and when Tomura bent down to wake me, I was burning to the touch and unresponsive,”
“Oh my God, Dabi,”
A shoulder shrugs halfheartedly, as if it wasn’t any big deal, the motion jostling you slightly. “I really don’t remember it much; just waking up in this plush bed, with clean clothes, and thinking that—for a moment, that I had really died and gone to Heaven,” he pauses, huffing out a soft sardonic chuckle, lips curling up cruelly. “But then I remembered that people like me don’t get to go to Heaven,”
Your lips tug down into a frown, protests getting lodged in your throat.
“I hadn’t, of course. But what Tomura gave me was close,” he pauses, carding through the thoughts in his head. “He showed me more kindness in those first few months than—” and he has to stop, to pause and swallow the emotion thickening his voice. “Than anyone had ever shown me in my entire life,” He looks down at you then, finally, and you think you can see it—a thin film of water coating sapphire, catching in the frail silver light illuminating from the screen. “He gave me a place to stay, a car, a phone, a—a new name, new identity—and filled my bank account with 10 million yen to start, and—and—”
And this is how I repay him.
“He did a lot for you,” you acknowledge gently, tugging on his arm a little and garnering his full attention. “Because he saw potential in you,”
Dabi nods, nostrils flaring with a shuddery exhale.
“But you did a lot for him, too,” you continue in a whisper. “I don’t—He doesn’t tell me much about—about those days, but I know it wasn’t just him helping you,”
Dabi supposes you’re right; knows you’re right, hazy fragments of memories slashing through his mind—men with ruby and sapphire for eyes and sharp ivory for teeth, talking, laughing, fucking, killing; dusty desert roads and luxurious hotels and crystal blue water; the creaking of king mattresses and echoes of gunshots; flashing sirens and viscous crimson, stained by soft powders and pretty pills.
“He’s entrusted you to take care of me. And you have—you do,”
He has; he does, the job morphing from some glorified babysitter to so much more.
But at what cost?
✰ ✰ ✰
It’s late, the night Keigo finally finds the courage to bring it up, to make it known, the far wall of the Chief’s office lined with glistening glass illustrating a vibrant cityscape against a pitch black sky—starless, moonless, cloudless; and yet somehow, someway, the small droplets continue to smatter against the windows, hurled by robust gusts of wind that rearrange them into a constantly morphing mosaic of bokeh—blurs of teal and fuchsia akin to tiny gems stuck to the glass.
“Alright,” Chief Yagi is saying as he re-enters, an absurdly large mug of black coffee gripped in one massive hand. “What’s all this about?”
Inhaling, Keigo takes a moment to find the right words, letting his lungs expand with them, holding them in his chest for a moment before finally releasing them, confession carried on a defeated exhale of breath.
“I think we should stop with those nasty text messages,” he admits, and his superior frowns, brows furrowing as he takes a large sip, imploring Keigo to continue. “Look, this guy—Tomura, I mean—he’s really not doing well,”
The Chief cocks his head, eyes squinted as if he doesn’t quite understand, words slow and smooth. “I would, if it weren’t for the fact that we’ve already ceased the messages,”
“Mm,” Chief Yagi nods, humming around another mouthful and setting his heavy mug down with a thump. “Haven’t sent a text or a call since before he was in New York,”
Adrenaline surges through his veins, blood thrumming with the hormone, and Keigo nearly chokes on his words. “You’re serious?”
He hums out another affirmative, blue eyes careful and calculating as they observe his inferior. “The last one was sent—” a pause, the clicking of a mouse, the clacking of keys. “Two days before he boarded the flight,”
Shock saturates Keigo’s features, eyebrows raising and eyes widening as he shakes his head a little, in disbelief, in disagreement. Breath infused with potent guilt twines itself around his ribs, tangling in thin strands and tightening, crushing his lungs, his heart, his soul until he can no longer inhale, attempts sputtering in his sticky throat.
It’s so much more severe than he could’ve ever imagined, and a sickening culpability, stuffed full of acid and spite and fault, roots in the pit of his stomach. Something is seriously wrong.
“Then, maybe we should stop—no, no, suspend; maybe we should suspend this operation,” at the Chief’s questioning smirk of incredulity Keigo continues, pressing and urgent. “Just until he’s a little more stable,”
“A little more stable?”
“Chief, listen,” Keigo pleads, leaning forward in his chair, fingers curling around the edge of the desk. “That man is sick—” His boss snorts, but Keigo barrels on. “I mean it; he’s really sick; mentally sick. He barely leaves his office anymore, his personal relationships are deteriorating to ash, and all he can ever talk about on the rare occasion that he does emerge is ‘the enemy’—us, you; whoever’s been sending those texts—”
“I told you, no one’s sent a text, or a call, or a letter in weeks,”
“Not to Tomura! Not in Tomura’s mind!” The words exit as a shout, startling the large man sitting across from him, Keigo’s fingernails digging into oak wood. “As far as he’s concerned, he’s still receiving them. I don’t know if he’s hallucinating or what but Chief—” Keigo’s voice breaks, whole face crumbling under the weight of accountability.
“Detective,” Chief Yagi begins, hands folding on his desk. “I know that whatever’s going on with Shigaraki must be difficult to watch, but this is precisely the time we should continue with this operation—because the head of the company is so unstable. If anything, such a turn of events should make it that much easier for you to infiltrate; to gain important information and intel. You’re in their inner circle now; you should be able to find a way into that office at some point,”
“Can I ask, Keigo, why exactly this matters so much to you?” Chief Yagi’s chest rumbles as he clears his throat, fixing the younger man with a levelled gaze. “What happened to my Detective; the one who solved project HIGH-END? The one that was ruthless and frigid, the one with an iron grip on his personal emotions, the one willing to do almost anything—certainly more than most—to restore peace, even if it meant soiling his own palms in the process? The one who understood what fighting for the Greater Good meant?”
Shoulders deflating with a heaved sigh, Keigo shrugs, almost indifferent as he leans back in his chair, mouth settled into a wobbly line. He doesn’t know; he isn’t sure; he can’t quite explain it, the sudden phenomenon stirring to life in his chest, the concerning squeezes his heart gives every time he watches the light fade from that young woman’s eyes—from Dabi’s eyes—that accompanies each and every passing interaction with Tomura.
Maybe it’s because he feels irrevocably responsible, this time. Maybe it’s because he knows Tomura’s on the verge of a full psychotic break, and this is all he can do about it. Maybe it’s because he’s positive they’re the cause; that they’ll be the trigger that forces him to finally snap.
“Have you gone soft on me?” the Chief asks with a slight chuckle, redirecting Keigo’s gaze from his knees back to his superior’s face. “Have you developed some sort of soft spot for them? A particular fondness, perhaps?”
And while it’s all teasing—the smirk that playfully tugs at the corners of his boss’ lips indicating so—Keigo is powerless to stop the rush of guilt, of shame, of terror the words inspire, bitter acid settling on the back of his tongue—because what if he’s right? What if it’s all true? What if he’s beginning to lose his touch?
That grin is no longer dancing around the corners of his mouth, and Chief Yagi sighs, carding both hands through unruly golden hair. “Maybe you need a reminder of just how heinous these people are, hmm? Some concrete proof of just how crooked that conglomerate is,”
Yanking open a deep drawer, the Chief shuffles through files and documents until he finds an overstuffed file, throwing it on the desk. It lands with a distinct thud against the wood, some of the contents falling loose, bits and pieces of information peeking out from the frayed edges—murders and human experimentation—hinting at what the folder holds.
No, he doesn’t need to hear it again, to see what they did to those girls, barely legal and bloated on the side of the river, bodies twisted and mangled and pumped full of a cocktail of illegal substances. He doesn’t need to relive, to remember all of the children they’ve left orphaned and homeless for their own personal gain. He doesn’t need to be reminded of the so-called ‘lucky’ ones, the test subjects that were able to escape with scraps of their sanity in their clutches, sentenced to live out their days in institutions and homes, because AFO robbed them of their lives, of their livelihood.
“I assume you don’t also require reminding that this is an internal investigation?” His boss continues after several beats of silence, Keigo’s unblinking eyes finally flashing to his face, sluggishly shaking his head.
No, he knows that, too—knows that this is to be kept private and under wraps from the majority of the force, most of which AFO happens to own; knows that their small operative—only a handful of trustworthy people, really—have been working tirelessly to keep this whole thing quiet and discreet. Keigo knows that, essentially, they’re on their own with this.
Not that any of this really matters anymore, since Keigo’s nearly positive Dabi knows exactly who he is—a fact that his superior had claimed held no significance.
“It’s for the greater good, Keigo—remember that,” the Chief’s voice cuts through his thoughts, scalding and steaming. “Shigaraki will survive. Focus on the task at hand—the sooner we have that concrete evidence the sooner this will all be over.”
Keigo hopes he’s right.
✰ ✰ ✰
It’s a bad habit, the things you engage in at night.
it’s a bad habit—full of noxious ink and sharp fangs and poignant guilt, so heavy that it seeps through the floor of your stomach and slithers thickly through your veins, spreading to your blood and your heart and your brain until everything’s been engulfed, infected.
It’s a very bad habit—one that scuttles up your throat with choked whimpers of his name and skitters across your skin with tattooed palms and blunt nails and calloused fingertips, stained from the flames of Zippos and the ash of cigarettes and the blood of dead men.
It’s a bad, bad habit—one that laid its eggs in New York and hatched in Japan, nurtured and nourished by absence, hostility and preoccupancy—and the both of you are fucking hopeless in halting it.
And it evolves. It morphs from grinding hipbones and fingers toying along waistbands to hands finding warm sanctuary between thighs and underneath clothing, choking on each other’s tongues and precious, pathetic little sounds throughout it all.
It evolves until finally, finally, it reaches its terminal stages; the evolutionary form you had both been trying to desperately to keep it from growing into, the evolutionary form that was inevitable from the start.
It’s been building all day, the buzzing of that bad habit, the insatiable creature it’s spawned, the sickness it’s poisoned your brains and bodies with; it’s been growing, all day, rattling against cages of ivory as it forces your chests to expand until you just can't take it anymore.
You aren’t sure why today is the day it decides to finally erupt, to escape from those confines; the pretty bone and soft tissue that had contained it, that had housed it. You aren’t sure why those gentle, platonic, typical touches that have become practically habitual at this point—an arm, twined around your waist under your spring coat; tiny fingers, tangled in the curls at the back of his neck; your cheek on his shoulder, his chin on your head—now send sizzling sparks zipping up your spine and through your veins to collect in your chest, in your skull, accumulating until you can’t breathe, can’t think about anything other than him, him, him.
And each touch is worse than the last; each touch conjures a sharper spark, blazing brighter than the one before it, bolting through your body and leaving your blood boiling in its wake.
No, you aren’t sure why it’s happening now, on this day out of all of the other mundane days it could’ve chose to burst, to break, but it is.
Maybe it’s because Tomura snapped on you this morning, cruel and ruthless, harsher than he has been in a long time. Maybe it’s because Dabi witnessed the tail end of it. Maybe it’s because you’ve become so starved for attention, for love, that you’re seeking it out where you’re positive you’ll find it, latching onto it like some famished parasite.
And maybe, maybe it’s because Dabi feels responsible in some inexplicable way, feels some sort of innate desire to protect, to care for and comfort.
Dabi had been able to hear it, the screaming and the smashing, all the way from his floor, overlapping voices becoming more pronounced and in tune as he ascended the fire escape—his preferred route of reaching the penthouse, since it’s only one flight of stairs.
“Nothing’s ever good enough for you anymore!” Tomura was seething, just as Dabi reached the top, eyes narrowed into slits, chest heaving forcefully with the flaring of his nostrils.
“Nothing—” you began, the word nothing more than a garbled huff of breath, dripping with disbelief. “Nothing’s ever good enough for me? I can’t even get you to fucking glance at me anymore!”
“I’ve given you everything. Everything!” A clenched fist comes down on the table, hard enough to wobble the legs, Tomura looking up with glowing ruby eyes, molars grinding together with such fierceness his jaw flexes. “What more do you fucking want from me?”
“You, Tomura! I want you!”
And that, that got him to stop, features puckering as he cast you a pitiful look. “Me? Me?” he chuckled a little, and it’s a callous sound, void of any mirth as it slashes through the air. “Sweetheart, you already have me,”
“Do I?” Glistening tears cascaded down your face, collecting to drip off your jaw, voice cracking. “When’s the last time we went out? When’s the last time you shared a meal with me? When’s the last time we went to bed together? Watched a film together? Hugged? Kissed? Fucked? When?”
“Oh, Christ,” Rubies rolled back in his skull, a sardonic little smirk carving itself into his face, paired with a sarcastic snort. “God forbid Daddy’s too busy working, working to keep you safe, to play with his needy little girl,”
“P-Play? No, I—” your voice cut off, severed by the vicious sob hiccuped in your throat, Tomura’s frantic eyes finally catching Dabi hovering in the corner.
“Great, you’re here,” he remarked dryly, regarding Dabi with disinterested apathy.
Crimson eyes slipped shut, concealing Tomura’s scathing gaze as slim fingers moved to rub at his temples in a vigorous manner, as if he were attempting to piece back together the thoughts your argument had shattered.
“Please, get rid of her for a few hours, so I can fucking think again,” lids lift slowly, penetrating gaze boring into your face. “And don’t bring her back until she’s ready to stop being such an ungrateful little brat,”
And, oh, how you had wailed, how you had cried and clung to Dabi for the rest of the day, keeping your face half-buried in his chest as you whimpered and weeped, only emerging when you heard the familiar symphony of clacking against plastic, glassy eyes suddenly vivacious as you watched Dabi tap two pretty blue pills into his palm.
No, he had told you sternly, staring down at you with an unyielding gaze. Not this time.
Eventually, you calm, ferocious sobs dying down to feeble sniffles, but he doesn’t let go of you.
Not even once.
It drizzles for the entire day, a sprinkling of mist across the city that has gotten progressively thicker as the day advanced, morphing from gentle taps to aggressive pounding.
Tonight, Keigo doesn’t even bother coming up to the penthouse as is usual protocol, opting instead to hurry home so he can peel drenched cotton and denim from his skin and steep in the steam of his shower, promising to send a text reassuring his safe arrival at his place.
You can’t exactly say you blame him, shifting uncomfortably as the chrome elevator climbs from floor to floor, small space filled with a soft symphony of residual droplets rolling off your coats and incessantly chattering teeth.
Dabi looks over at you, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he sucks it between ivory teeth, chewing. “We gotta get you outta those clothes,”
“Speak for yourself,” you snort, gaze cataloging the inky wisps of hair plastered to his forehead and cheekbones, half-framing his face.
Still, he has a point, your arms winding themselves tighter around your torso in a vain attempt to prevent more precious heat from escaping, inevitably hugging your doused clothing to your flesh.
The torrent had been so rough, so robust that the downpour had managed to soak straight through the rubber of your cute rain jacket as well as the leather of Dabi’s, leaving the articles underneath to sop up the water until they were thoroughly wet, too, exposed skin beginning to pucker.
It feels as though the chill of the rain has sunken into your very soul, rotting away the marrow of your bones, a violent shiver forcing the hollow structures to rattle against one another.
The elevator dings daintily, and both of you call out cautiously for Tomura, alerting him of your arrival home with the intention to ask if Dabi can borrow some clothes (in spite of the fact that Dabi’s closet is only a floor beneath you), but you’re greeted with smothering silence, taking his non-response as a yes.
“Here,” you’re saying as you emerge from the ensuite merely a few moments later, hair damp and messy from a hasty towel-dry, legs bare and body clad in a ratty Universal Monsters t-shirt—Dabi’s t-shirt, though he isn’t quite sure if you’re aware of this fact—hardened nipples peaking the worn fabric; before tossing a pair of Tomura’s grey sweatpants at Dabi, who’s perched gingerly on the edge of your Daddy’s bed.
It’s shameless, and borderline perverted, but you don’t even bother averting your eyes as he shucks his waterlogged clothing. Dabi calls you out on it, too, shooting you a sly glance from the corner of his eye as he unsticks the cotton of his briefs from his skin, cute fragments of giggles bubbling in your throat.
You find yourself in the theatre room, as it has become accustom in the past month or two, the both of you curled up on a singular mammoth seat, bodies stitched together as the roars of thunder compete with Dabi’s low, smooth voice.
Before New York, you and Dabi had never used the theatre; the living room TV had been more than big enough, and you had been content to flop your head in a begrudging Dabi’s lap while the sparkling city skyline streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glittering light contending with the moon’s delicate beams.
But Keigo had been so enamoured with it, so impressed by the fact that the penthouse had a fucking theatre room—it’s only got eight seats, Dabi had informed him, lest he expect a full-sized cinema—that you had begun spending more time there.
It’s dark in the theatre, quiet in the theatre, intimate in the theatre. It’s almost as if everything changes in the theater—slows, stops, splits—reality bending and curving and twisting until it becomes some sort of warped, contorted version of itself, until it makes things like this night, and all of the nights that have come before it, okay, acceptable, normal.
Well, that, and the fact that Daddy doesn’t have cameras in the theatre.
It’s here, in your very own special, distorted version of reality, this personal liminality, that it finally transpires.
Casablanca plays softly on the screen, a pretty mirage of silver and smoke, grey and graphite images that waver almost gracefully on the canvas, but you aren’t paying much attention; not when Dabi’s calloused fingers are tracing nonsensical patterns on the exposed skin of your upper thigh, not when your own are busy swimming in the waves of soft ink at the base of his skull.
“Surprised you didn’t go home,” you mumble into his neck, voice thick with the threat of sleep.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, and the word’s nothing more than a gentle rumble deep in his chest.
“Mhmm, though you’d wanna change n’ stuff,” the words are slurred, and you hug yourself closer to him, leg hooked around his waist tightening protectively, possessively. “Why’d you stay?”
“You know why,”
And he gets like this, late in the middle of the night, early in the wee hours of the morning. He gets like this, when it’s just the two of you in your haphazardly constructed, fallacious world—in the false safety of your mangled mirage of reality, conjured up in the betwixt hours of the night, that starts to disperse, fade, the moment sunbeams begin to creep and crawl over the city.
He gets like this.
Honest. Raw. Vulnerable.
“Because I want to be with you, stupid,”
And although the sentence is sighed out in a single breath, fading and fraying as it reaches the end, it is still stuffed full of sentiment, so much so that the words are practically bursting at the seams, fondness threatening to fracture the entire thing.
There are no words to accurately explain just how much you cherish these transient moments, stashing them away deep within the tissues of your brain, protected by layers of pulsating blood.
And he knows why you do it, too, why you poke and prod and provoke him like that, why you force him to spill the secrets that have been taking shelter in his chest for so many months now, like the selfish little brat you are.
He knows you need to hear them now, that you thrive when you hear them now. He sees it in the way your eyes glisten and smile softens; feels it in the way your limbs curl tighter around him, pulling yourself impossibly closer; hears it in the sweet little giggles that interrupt your responding words.
And he fucking loves it.
It’s silent for a while after his gentle profession, and for a moment he’s sure you’ve dozed off, practically straddling his lap now, and he adjusts you a little, getting read to carry you to bed, when you speak again, voice meek and frail.
“He...He was real mean today,”
“I know, princess. He’s just...” the words decay on his tongue, and you know, you know, he’s just stressed; but there’s only so many times Dabi can repeat them before they begin to lose their impact, their worth, their truth.
“How do we fix this, Dabi?”
It’s so soft he nearly misses it, quivering question fading into his skin as lips brush against his collarbone.
A chuckle pries its way past his lips, just an exhausted huff of disbelief more than anything else, head shaking a little. “I’m not sure how many times I have to tell you for it to finally settle in that pretty little head of yours,” he taps your forehead, accentuating his words. “But this is not for us to fix, baby,”
Dabi’s chest heaves with an exasperated sigh, annoyance sewn into his words as he tells you, yet again, that all you can do is offer help, that it’s up to Tomura to take it; no one can force him.
And you nod and hum and agree, because he’s right, you know he’s right, but it still hurts to feel useless, to feel helpless.
“I really don’t—” the words hitch in your chest, snaring on a trapped sob. A shaky exhale, an attempt to swallow past them, and you try again. “I really don’t know how I’d survive this without you,”
The confession is quiet and cracked with cognizance. It’s a perturbing realization, a petrifying realization, just how much you’ve come to rely on him, just how close you’ve grown.
Because—because it’s true; what would’ve happened to you, had Dabi not been here to weather this with you? What would you have withered away too, had you been forced to withstand this on your own?
Would there be any of you left at all? Or would you have decayed into nothingness, into a mere carcass of yourself, congruently with your Daddy, remnants fusing together as you both fell apart? Would anything new have risen from the remains? From the decomposing flesh and rotting bone and splintering minds?
You don’t know, you’ll never be able to tell, but one thing’s for sure: you truly don’t know how you would’ve survived this without him.
You won’t ever have to.
Sapphire blazes down at you, his chest rising and falling with short little breaths as his gaze studies your face. Lips part, but the words catch in his throat, burning up into nothing more than a disappointing huff of disconcertment.
You won’t ever have to.
He tries again, but the letters hook and burrow into the walls of his throat, leaving the flesh ripped raw and burning. Frustration seethes in his chest, rough as it rages against his ribs, and for a moment you look terrified, gazing up at him with wide eyes as panic tugs at the corners of your lips, mouth opening quickly to presumingly apologize.
But then he’s surging forward, crushing chapped lips to yours so fiercely, so ferociously it forces a soft whine to crack in your throat, lithe fingers splayed across your cheeks as his palms cup your face, curled around the hinges of your jaw and hauling you impossibly closer.
You won’t ever have to.
He prays you can decipher it, the promise he’s pouring into this kiss. He prays one day he can say it to you himself, in his own words and with his own voice, instead of forcing you to decode it though clashing teeth and dragging tongues and interspersed saliva.
Calloused fingertips and blunt nails nip at your skin, signing his name into your body in insignificant, impermanent little ways, and your responding kisses are filled with just as much fervour, messy and desperate as little hands paw at him, sinking into soft ink and knotting at the roots.
Fiery cinnamon and sharp nicotine sting your tongue, and you’re dimly reminded of how much spicier Dabi tastes, a stark contrast to your Daddy’s fresh mint and sour-sweet lemon. It’s tainted tonight, tinged with traces of bitter salt, tears rolling down soft cheeks to find refuge in the comfort of warm, wet mouths.
Boisterous hands push under your t-shirt, eager digits dipping into the waistband of your lacy panties, nimble fingers beginning to press and pull, to tear and tug, tips materializing through the dainty fabric as he grinds his cock against your inner thigh.
And you can feel it, hot and hard and throbbing through the thin material of the sweats, staining the grey fabric with sticky pre-cum as it strains and struggles against it, almost as if it’s yearning for you.
“Please,” he whispers, thumbs rubbing little circles into the flesh of your hips, the word so small, so fragile it’s scarcely a gentle wisp of breath exhaled into your mouth. It’s a question you’ve heard several times before, during three and four and five in the morning in compromising positions such as these, but tonight it sounds off, altered.
Because tonight, it’s different.
Because it isn’t a plead, desperate and urgent and heavy with beseeching, nor is it an order, wrapped up in the pretty and perfect guise of entreatment.
It’s an offer.
You don’t say anything, can’t say anything, the threat of tears thick in your throat, prohibiting your approval passage to your lips.
So you nod, just once, just a solitary quirk of your head—but, really, that’s all he needs.
Rough hands find the fraying hem of your—his—t-shirt, and he mumbles against your lips, voice raspy and low as nimble fingers begin to twist in the fabric.
“I want this off,”
Another nod, and your arms are raising above your head, aiding him in removing the garment.
Delicate fingers dance along the waistband of his—Tomura’s—sweats, and he chuckles, a gentle, fond little noise throttled out of his throat.
“Do you want these off?”
And you’re powerless to stop the shy little hiccup of a giggle that barrels past your lips as you nod, lifting your hips and helping him in kicking the pants off, cock bobbing a little as it’s freed from its confines.
Oh, it’s so pretty, you just can’t resist glancing down at it, marvelling at the way the cherry tip shimmers in the dim silver light, perfectly accented by a pearly dewdrop of pre-cum; at the way those veins, twined around the velvety shaft, dance harmoniously to the suspenseful thump of his heart.
“You want it?”
“Yes,” you choke out, the word grating your throat, glazed eyes finally finding his face.
The declaration is slurred from one mouth into another, and you swallow it greedily, a fierce flame of possessiveness sparking to life in your chest.
“Mine,” you nearly growl, small hand encircling his cock, squeezing a broken moan from his throat, a certain type of viciousness, voraciousness, veraciousness surging through your veins and alighting your entire body, because fuck yes it’s yours and you want it now.
There’s no bothering with prep; neither of you have the patience, Dabi’s adept fingers sneaking their way between your bodies to spread your cute little hole, guiding you to his cock, pretty pussy glittering in the chromatic silver spilling from the screen.
And the noise he makes as you finally sink down on him is nothing short of fucking breathtaking—a snuffed out whine that fractures in his throat, Adams apple bobbing with the effort as his head falls back with a heavy thud against the leather.
While he isn’t as thick as Daddy, the stretch is still incredible, a precious little hiss spit between the gaps of clenched teeth as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snugly against your cervix. His hips shift immediately, impatient and desperate, the motion sending stinging pricks of pain searing through your abdomen, a wince twisting your features.
You can feel the delicate skin ripping, creating little fissures in the sensitive flesh, pussy pulsing around his cock. It feels like it’s splitting you open, feels like it’s stitching you shut, feels like it’s stuffing you full.
And you want more.
A half-swallowed moan catches in his chest as your hips wiggle, and you laugh, blinking bleariness from your gaze. A pair of tears escape your lashline, cascading down your cheeks in unison, and Dabi smiles; a wobbling, unsteady quirk up of his lips as he takes your face between calloused palms, thumbs catching the tears midstream.
After a few halfhearted bounces and a greedy whimper about how it just isn’t deep enough, Dabi halts you.
“Here,” he murmurs softly, palms slipping from your hips and skimming along your thighs, hooking under your folded knees and guiding them up gently, one by one, so your feet are planted on the plush leather, legs caging either side of his torso. “Better?”
“Y-Yeah,” you gasp, a palm involuntarily pressed flat to your gut, right between your hipbones, whining loudly as you grind down, swear you can feel him, can feel his cockhead as it pokes and prods with each rut against him as your hips grind down tentatively, a broken little whine spilling from your throat. “C-Can feel you in my tummy, Da-Dabi, I swear I can,”
“Good,” he breathes, forehead knocking against yours and lips parted slightly, sweltering little huffs ghosting over your own as ravenous pupils glitter in the flickering light, that thin ring of sapphire catching in the dim illumination. “Now,” he whispers, grasping fistfuls of your flesh, calloused fingertips gripping your outer thighs. “I think I’ve waited long enough. Show me how gorgeous you look creaming all over my cock,”
The demand is barely more than a tendril of breath, punctuated by the rocking forward of his hips, blunt nails pressing pretty indents of crimson and violet into your skin as he holds you in place.
The sudden action strikes an affirmative yelp from your chest, head nodding almost lethargically and body snapping into motion, eager in its haste to comply.
And, for a moment, it’s nice; it’s slow and easy and distracting, languid rolls of your hips meeting his as teeth clack and tongues lick and lips suck.
But the thoughts are beginning to creep in again, glowing ruby and soft silvery tufts slashing the thin veil of counterfeit comfort to shreds; and the tears are beginning to sting as they overwhelm your vision, casting the prettiest gleam across your eyes; and the choked hiccups are beginning to scrabble up your throat, claws tearing into your flesh as they struggle to reach your mouth, half-dead as they pry past your lips.
Salt water stains your tongue—yours, his, both, combining with variegated spit to create the most bittersweet viscosity; a heavy, heady substance that saturates the muscle—and he exhales a juddering breath into your mouth, blinking past the thick film of water shielding his eyes.
It’s a plead, it’s an order, it’s an instruction, whispered out so softly, so brokenly against your lips.
And you follow, you submit, you obey, because you don’t want to think, don’t want to know, don’t want to exist in this reality at all, longing for the false ignorance and distorted escape you’ve sought out, you’ve created, so many nights prior, together.
You nod, urgent and frantic in your motions, almost as if you’re begging him to make it all stop, to put your morality on pause and your guilt on rewind, to erase it all, but another sob tears its way through your throat and into his, and Dabi sighs, pulling back slightly.
Gleaming sapphire studies your face, shining impossibly bright in the dim light, gaze sweeping across your features in one slow, fluid motion.
“Come on,” he whispers, fingers kneading the flesh of your ass as his nose nudges against yours, incentive rasped against your lips, though it shakes as it leaves his throat. “Be good for me, yeah? Be good for me,”
And you want to—you so desperately want to, so desperately need to, craving that sickly sweet equivocal praise that is so distinctly him; craving anything to make this less abhorrent, anything to scorch the shame rapidly engulfing your ribs in a tarry embrace, thick and voracious and intoxicating as it mingles with sticky desire and coats the bones, the weight of it nearly splintering them clean in half.
“You can do that for me, can’t you, baby?”
And, Christ, it’s so patronizing, your head lolling stupidly in a poor imitation of a nod. Knuckles collide with your skin, sending sizzling spikes rippling through your backside, and you squeak.
“Use your words, princess,” he chides. “I know I haven’t fucked you that stupid yet,”
“I-I can do it,”
“Yeah?” he prods in a murmur, lips busy tracing the curve of your jaw, the word soaking into your skin. “Prove it to me,”
It’s the ghost of the challenge, and the promised praise that comes packaged with it, that has your resolve strengthening, teeth gritted against stubborn tears as you begin bouncing in his lap, using your planted feet for leverage.
“That’s it,” he breathes out, head tipping back to gaze lazily at you through lidded eyes, chin tilted up slightly. “What a good girl,”
And it’s pathetic, really, the high-pitched moan such sardonic praise, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with icing sugar, evokes; a pathetic little sound that catches in your chest and cracks upon impact, tapering off into a soft whimper, a nonverbal plea for more.
It doesn’t stop the tears—not fully, anyway—but it does make them bearable, does make them easier to ignore, gathering your respective strength and bunching it together to create a flimsy barrier, one that won’t last for long, but can withstand the rest of the night.
Because try as he may, Dabi cannot hide the glittering dewdrops adorning his lashes, clumped together and saturated in sticky salt, or the continual, involuntary twitching of his nose, or the subtle trembling of his chin, juxtaposed by the love in his eyes, pupils blown to hell and insatiable for everything they scarf down—all of your sweet little noises and precious little expressions, hastily etching them into the tissues of his brain—and the genuine smile stretched across his face, widening a little more with each precarious laugh you tug from his throat.
It feels intimate, feels adolescent, feels new, and you’re powerless to quell the little bursts of giggles bubbling past your lips, peppering your hiccuped sobs, weaving together with Dabi’s gentle chuckles and short sniffles to create a harrowing harmony.
He lets you have your fun, though, lets you roll and hump and grind, his hips pressing up to meet yours, to drag his cock against that one spot buried deep inside of you, to pull those cherished, cracked sounds from deep in your throat, sucking them from your mouth and into his and storing them deep in his chest, protected by cages of bone and walls of pulsating flesh, keeping a piece of you inside of him forever.
And, really, you should feel sick, should feel disgusted for the involuntary little flutters your hole gives as those tears finally break past his lashes, streaming down his face and clashing against the elation shimmering in his watery eyes, contrasting the ecstasy glimmering in his pearly smile. Leaning forward, your tongue darts out from between swollen lips to lick and lap at the salty substance, soaking his sadness into your tongue and swallowing it down.
But it heightens the whole experience, every pound up and plunge into and pump out of you more hypersensitive than the next, intermittent flares of pleasure fraying your veins as they race your blood.
Fingertips brand his name into your skin, prints painting asymmetrical galaxies of swirling navy and periwinkle, fleeting and much too temporary as he encourages you to speed up, thighs beginning to burn.
You can feel them, those flares sparking to life in the pit of your belly, each rock forward conjured by strong hands sending sizzling cinders shooting up your spine, each piston of his hips to meet yours fanning the flames, raging higher and higher and higher until they lick at your ribs, needy moans and pathetic whimpers floating up your throat, carried on their embers.
“C’mon baby,” he nearly whines, large hands inhibiting your hips from slowing, forcing you to ride him faster and faster. “C’mon, show me how good you are, how much of a little whore you are, show me—ah, f-fuck—show me how beautiful you are cumming on my cock, show me, baby, I-I’ve been waiting so long to see,”
And it’s that confession, groaned out in near delirium, that has you gushing all over his cock, body convulsing almost violently as your cunt clenches around him, tears obstructing your vision as you cum with a strained cry of his name, making everything blurry, hazy, dreamy.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s it, that’s my good, good girl,”
He praises you throughout it all, tells you how good you are, how perfect you look, hands still clutching your hips, forcing you to continue moving until tremors jolt through your body with each brush of your oversensitive clit against his pubic bone, small hands scrabbling at his shoulder as you whimper about how it’s too much, too much, and it hurts, Dabi!
Leaning back as far as he can, he looks down as if he’s in awe, breathing ragged and chest heaving.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, gaze glued to his half-hidden cock, shaft and base glistening prettily with your juices. “Fucking beautiful,”
Finally, his stare lifts, cobalt eyes dark and ravenous as he lips at his chapped lips, breathing still laboured.
“My turn, baby,”
And you’re too fucked out to truly register his words, body boneless and pliant as he seamlessly rearranges you, unbending your legs—first one, then the other, cooing at your resulting wince—hooking a palm under one of your calves and pushing up, up, up until your ankle rest on his shoulders, thigh secured snugly between your bare chests, hard cock still buried deep inside of you.
A whine slips past your lips at the stretch, face screwing up cutely, and Dabi’s resounding laugh is cut off with simultaneous gasps as he readjusts your hips, because God, it’s so deep, you’re positive you can feel him in your throat this time, senseless babbling falling past spit-slicked lips.
Leaning back, your hands find purchase on his thighs, shaky fingers gripping his flesh as your hips roll, slow and sluggish towards his.
But he’s too impatient for that, now.
Because it just isn’t fast enough, hard enough, rough enough for him, one hand gripping your waist, the other latched onto your thigh, clutch tightening as he yanks you forward, hips snapping with a thrust so sudden it has you choking on a yelp, half-lidded eyes flying open.
It’s downright ruthless, brutal and merciless and entirely unforgiving as he slams up into you with such intense strength you practically bounce in his lap, his grasp on you so hard, so vicious that his nails break the skin, staining the pads of his fingers and the beds of his nails with bright crimson. Each powerful thrust is more relentless than the last, hips bucking up with insane precision as they increase in speed, every rut into you shoving another gorgeous grunt or glorious growl from his chest.
Arms lock around his neck to steady yourself, fingers threading themselves in a sea of ink and tugging harshly, knocking a high whine of his own from his throat.
Sobs shatter as they pry past your lips, whole body beginning to tingle from the pleasure, from the position, muscles aching as Dabi forces you to stay folded.
Everything’s beginning to feel faded, tears casting a misty daze across your vision and softening the edges, leaking into your skull and enveloping your brain in the familiar haze of unconsciousness.
“Gonna cum again?” he pants, words a faded growl more akin to a demand than a question, voice slicing straight through the cloud in your head, eradicating it in an instant. “Huh?”
“Uh—Uh-huh,” you nod your head, lashes fluttering as your eyes struggle to stay open, to be good, to obey.
And it’s the threat that has you pulsing around him again, whole body shuddering into his, muscles seizing and shivering.
“Please, please, please, Dabi,” you’re babbling, words flowing from your mouth in a steady stream, so slurred they’re nearly incomprehensible. “Please, want your cum, Da-Dabi; please, gimme your cum, you promised, you promised you would, you promised you’d fill my whole body with it, please, please, Dabi,”
“Oh, f-fuck,” he cries, the curse fracturing in his throat.
“Please, Dabi, I need it, I need to be full, please,”
Sharp ivory buries itself in supple skin with a predatory snarl, bones lodged in the flesh of your shoulder as he pumps you full of scalding cum; a silent stake of ownership, a subtle signifier that you are his now, too.
His jaw flexes in time with the throbbing of his cock, driving his teeth deeper, deeper, deeper with each infinitesimal increase in pressure, until they snap through the smooth barrier, flooding his mouth with metallic crimson.
A tongue pries its way past blood-stained lips to sop up the substance, greedy and insatiable as thick, sticky saliva varnishes his minuscule masterpiece.
He pulls back to admire his creation, a beautiful piece of art etched into your very being, full of the prettiest periwinkles and deepest navies and outlined by swirling charcoals, scarlet pooling in the indents left by his teeth the perfect accentuation. The tiniest whimper breaks in his throat as his rough thumb skims over the bite, glittering eyes flashing to your face as you exhale a hiss, a breathless little smile saturated with pride gracing his lips.
You can feel it, hot and sticky and oozing out of you, whining at the thought of even wasting a single drop. Little fingers sneak between your heaving bodies, varnished with sweet sweat, to dip into your raw, abused little hole, gathering as much of the viscous substance as possible and bringing it to your lips.
It appears Dabi’s in some sort of trance as he observes your motions, tongue unfurling to lick along his swollen bottom lip, laving the inky, scarred skin with glittering saliva, unblinking eyes glued to your actions, gaze shifting marginally from the way your mouth eagerly sucks your fingers in, to the way your lids flutter shut as you moan around the taste, to the way you pull your fingers free, mouth puckering greedily around them, sure to suck clean every last drop from your skin.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes, voice totally wrecked, and you can’t help the shy giggle that barrels past your lips, fingers moving to gather more cum when he catches your wrist in a large hand, halting it.
“No,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper, hoarse and strained, cock giving another weak twitch. “Let me,”
His fingers are better, you tell him with a cute, lethargic nod, because they’re bigger, longer, can gather much more than your own as they delve into your cunt again, deep enough to brush your cervix, curling as he tugs them free, heaping glops of thick, gleaming cream glistening on his fingers.
Your mouth drops open immediately, obediently, tongue curling around his fingers in a way that’s nearly possessive as it welcomes them into the warm, wet cavern, lips wrapping around them as you suck hard, tongue licking and lapping and laving over his skin, between the cracks and crevices of his fingers, the digits spreading compliantly to allow your tongue to work, to ensure that you suckle every little bit from his flesh.
And you repeat it, you repeat these actions over and over again until his fingers are shrivelled and pruned from so much saliva; until your chin shimmers with strands of drool and watered down cum, the pads of Dabi’s fingers generously gathering the residue and pushing it back into your greedy, waiting mouth; until your cunt is empty and clean, and his cock is hard and leaking again.
But you’re practically falling asleep now, exhausted from the sex and the emotional turmoil. You tell him he’s welcome to use you as you sleep, to fuck you to sleep—and he thinks he just might take you up on that offer, cock jumping eagerly at the prospect; but later, another day. Right now, you need rest.
Tender hands untangle you from his body, your own limbs limp and lifeless, gathering you in strong arms.
“No,” you murmur, shaking your head torpidly and smushing your face into his neck.
“No,” you repeat. “Not Daddy’s bed tonight,”
“If not Daddy’s—”
“Here,” you whisper, pressing a messy kiss to his neck. “With you,”
And, fuck, he’ll never be able to deny you a Goddamn thing.
✰ ✰ ✰
It’s unusually sunny, the next Thursday afternoon, deep azure sky void of any cotton fluffs or ivory strokes, the golden rays streaming through the penthouse’s mammoth windows diffused by the partially drawn chiffon curtains, haloing the living room in a hazy, gentle glow, catching on sapphire and topaz as they glitter and flash with smug smirks and menacing scowls.
“It’s so gorgeous out today,” you whine a little, throwing your head back against Dabi’s collarbone and gazing up at him with a rapidly forming pout. “Why do we have to spend it inside?”
“Because,” Dabi begins simply, slow and supercilious like you’re stupid. “I gotta kick this motherfucker’s ass, princess,”
“You wish!” Keigo scoffs, gesturing the game board perched perilously in front of him with a halfhearted sweep. “Dunno if you’ve noticed, but I already own more than half the world,”
“Game’s not over yet, bird boy,”
“Hawks,” you sulk, petulant, brows drawn and nose scrunched with the full force of your pout.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he reassures you without looking up, brilliant eyes scanning the board as if he’s calculating, cataloguing. “I’ll finish this quick, and then we can go outside, okay?”
“But—But the sun will have set by the time you guys are done!”
“Don’t whine,” Dabi warns, word fading into a growl, finally glancing down at you. “Don’t start being a brat now, not when you’ve been such a good girl all day,”
“Listen,” he begins, no room for negotiation, straightening up a little so he can glare at you properly, his shoulders hunching in, entire form engulfing your own and voice dropping an octave lower as he murmurs to you. “You have an awful lot of homework to do. Don’t think for one second that I won’t send you to Daddy’s bedroom to do it all, alone.” He pauses, cobalt eyes searching yours, allowing his words time to sink in. “And you know Daddy will let me,”
“Yeah, of course Daddy will let you,” you grumble, stubborn tears resurfacing, nose twitching as you exhale sharply, molars grinding in an effort to keep them from escaping. “Daddy doesn’t care about anything anymore—”
“Enough,” Dabi snaps, and you flinch. “You know that isn’t true. We aren’t getting into this now, alright? Just—” he sighs, eyes finally softening. “Be good for us while we finish, yeah?”
Be good. Be good.
“Meanie,” you huff, falling back against him with a thump and crossing your arms.
But his hands are on your hips, squeezing gently as thumbs grind lopsided circles into your flesh, a silent apology; and your fingers are curling around his, lacing them together in a messy embrace and wrapping his arms around your form, holding yourself tightly to his chest, a silent acceptance; and you’re snuggling into his neck as he rests his chin on the crown of your head, comfy and cozy in your consolidation.
You doze off after that, lulled to sleep by the vibrating baritones of Dabi’s voice and the victorious harmonies of Keigo’s laughs, only to be woken when things begin to get heated again.
The rumbling of Dabi’s chest rouses you, bleary eyes blinking as you catch the tail end of his threat, something about the game still not being over, about how things can flip even in the final seconds.
“Yeah, uh-huh, sure,” Keigo’s saying, waving a self-assured hand in dismissal. “You gonna bark all day, little doggy, or are you gonna bite? Cause I’ve been hearing a whole ton of commination with very little accompanying action,”
Dabi laughs loudly, shaking his head with disbelief, a sharp smile on his face. “Nah, nah, nah, buddy, if anyone here’s Mr. Blonde, it’s me,” He pauses, something dangerous glinting in his eye as his smile stretches to uncanny proportions, and Keigo blanches, amusement melting into apprehension, as if he’s anticipating something. “You’re more of a Mr. Orange, wouldn't you agree?”
Keigo swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion, and you rub at an eye cutely, straightening up a little in Dabi’s lap, features crinkled in confusion at the sudden change in atmosphere.
Tomura’s sudden appearance saves him from answering.
“Wait,” he calls, voice hoarse from disuse, dry and cracked as it mingles with Keigo’s stuttering. Clearing his throat, he tries again, voice finally booming the way it normally does, commanding the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity. “Wait, where’s that from?”
“That—That line; the—the doggy one,” scarlet eyes blink several times in quick succession, frantically scrutinizing their faces, sweeping between the two fluidly, akin to a pendulum. “Where’s it from? What’s it a reference to?”
“Oh, it’s uh, it’s a line from Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs,”
“No, no,” he shakes his head, muttering to himself as his eyes squeeze shut, outgrown nails beginning to rake viciously against crusty wrists, raw skin stained with strokes of rust and embellished with shimmering scabs, collecting under his nails as fresh blood starts to flow. “That’s not right,”
“No, Tomu, it is,” Dabi says, slowly, gently, expression sobering, distress incinerating his delight in an instant. “You know, the one with the guy who cuts the cop’s ear off? You love that movie; we’ve reenacted that—”
“No,” he growls, crimson flashing dangerously as his eyes snap open, and you feel Dabi jolt under you, reaction automatic and involuntary. Tomura whispers something to himself, gory hands tangling in silvery tufts and twisting, yanking on the strands hard enough that his face crumples. Blood runs down his forearm and soaks into the soiled cuff of his shirt, fresh blotches of scarlet blooming amidst those that have blossomed from a bright carmine and died a dull burgundy.
Shaking his head again, Tomura continues to mutter to himself, voice harsh and hostile as if he’s conversing with someone, pivoting on his heel and stalking towards his office.
“Daddy! W-Wait!” you squirm in Dabi’s grasp, his arms tightening around you, a pitiful little sound of frustration spilling from your throat.
Your tiny cries cut through the haze in his mind, sharp and swift and clear, and Tomura halts, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, voice grave as he dictates. “Stay with Dabi, baby, you hear me?” His eyes flit from your face to Dabi’s, holding a silent, three-second-long conversation, before his gaze finally darts to Keigo again. “Do not leave Dabi’s sight tonight, princess,” he says slowly, unblinking stare still glued to Keigo, finally breaking away after a beat of silence, finding Dabi’s face again. “Keep an eye on her; do not let her out of your sight tonight,”
And you can feel it, can feel the way Dabi's chest stutters under the force of his thick swallow, can feel the way his voice strains under confusion, under fear.
“Y-Yeah, ‘course boss, always,” he nods, head tilted in puzzlement.
“Always,” Tomura repeats like it’s a gentle promise, features beginning to soften, trepidation and treachery beginning to decay. “Always,”
✰ ✰ ✰
It doesn’t dawn on him until much later that night, locked away in the sanctuary of his office, collapsed in his massive plush chair as tired eyes once again obsessively comb through the records he possesses—tape recordings of messages left, transcripts of phone calls, original copies of handwritten letters—which has now become a nightly routine, by all accounts.
Are you gonna bark all day, little doggy, or are you gonna bite?
The words loop through his mind, lazy and languid as they wane and waver in and out of focus, vaporizing to a hazy fog the moment he tries to grasp them, blanketing his brain in a cloud of confused distraction the moment he tries to dispel them, receding to the back of his mind to tug at his conscious with giggles and taunts.
It’s infuriating, the sentiment ripping through his thoughts in undetermined intervals, varying in their volume as tired crimson eyes sift through the material, the evidence, hunting, searching, investigating...
But eventually, eventually it clears, this misty smog infecting his mind, eradicated by two tiny words, scrawled in black ink, carved into the thick manilla paper, an absurd laugh prying its way past his lips.
There they are, glaring up at him and engraved into the crumpled paper held between trembling fingers—the second letter he had ever received, the night after he had disposed of Giran.
And, truthfully, he can’t believe it didn’t click immediately, the moment the words had bubbled past that stupid kid’s lips; he’s got these messages and transcripts practically memorized at this point, is sure he could recite them backwards it asked, and yet...
And yet, it doesn't finally snap into place, doesn't fully show itself, this perfectly sculpted jigsaw piece, until the dawn of morning, just as gold is beginning to spill over the horizon, several hours after the phrase was uttered.
Frantic hands shuffle through the tapes littering his desk, endless copies of repeatedly annotated documents and letters crinkling as he sifts through them, several cascading off the edges of his desk like some waterfall of ink and ivory, until he finds the tape he’s searching for.
OCTOBER 17, written across a fraying piece of cloth tape in big block letters.
This is it. This is the one, he’s absolutely sure of it, can feel it in the core of his fucking soul, positive he’s on the verge of some massive discovery, something that’ll finally make it all make sense, head nodding to himself as he hastily pushes it into the outdated player.
The thudding of his heart rattles his ribs, the cage expanding and contracting rapidly with each ragged pant torn from his throat, the echoes of his own breath creating berserk symphonies with the jumbled words crawling through his brain, too fast for him to catch, too fast for him to halt.
He finishes slotting the tape into the machine, a quivering finger pressing play, his breath cutting off the moment the reels begin to spin.
The words crack and sizzle, imbued with static as they come to life, and Tomura swears he can see them scratching themselves into his wood-panelled walls, blood beginning to drip from the crude slashes as the walls heave.
Ya gonna bark all day, lil pup, or are ya gonna bite? Huh? Lil puppy? Or does Daddy do your biting for ya, too? Chew up all your food ‘n spit it in your mouth? A caustic laugh spills through the speaker, so corrosive it’s a marvel that it doesn’t erode the plastic. Well, Daddy can’t protect ya forever, lil puppy. And you, hah! You can’t protect her at all.
A slender finger slams down on the stop button, halting the recording before it can begin spewing all of those heinous threats he’s heard too many times now, overly descriptive in what they plan to do to you, painting grotesque pieces on the walls of his skull, renditions that haunt him the moment the chaos in his mind stops, quiets, a whole new type of torture.
Silence drapes itself across his office, the chattering in his mind dimmed to gentle titters and pushed into a dark corner of his head, brows knitting as he contemplates.
This is invaluable information, sure, and he feels fucking elated, feels like all of his tireless work has finally surmounted to something, like he’s standing on the edge of a sharp cliff, and he can nearly see the ground below, mist almost fully eradicated—but there’s still something missing, though; one last piece to complete this puzzle, to crack this case...
Frenetic hands shove at the mess on his desk, pushing, digging, pulling, wildly hysterical in their search for his phone, transcripts tearing, messages crumpling, plastic of the tapes cracking as their corners collide with his wooden floors.
“Dabi!” he practically shouts, hoarse and heaving, when Dabi answers halfway through the second ring.
“Uh, Tomura?” Dabi grovels, disoriented and stuffed full of sleep. “What are you—”
“Hey, listen, listen. Who’s that kid you’ve been bringing around lately?”
“Oh, now you wanna know? Tomura, it’s 5:55 in the fucking morning,” he groans. “Can’t this wait until the sun is up?”
“No time, Dabi, no time,” and he sounds nearly distraught as the words urgently tumble from his lips, voice strained and brittle and thick with excited tears. “Need’ta know now, Dabi, or they’ll overthrow us; gotta know now, or the dogs’ll attack! Gotta collar ‘n cuff ‘em before they can,”
“Who the fuck is he, Dabi?” And normally, normally a question like that would be harsh, scalding and impatient. But today, today it jiggles and jumps with glee, twitching with hopeful anticipation.
“Oh, he, uh, he’s some tweety bird I’m playing with," Dabi explains, voice warped by a yawn. “Nothing serious, no one important,” he sighs out, as though he’s falling back asleep again. “Just kinda stringing the cop along, y’know? I’ll probably dispose of him soon, or something,”
“A cop,” Tomura whispers to himself as his eyes widen, feet skidding to a stop, entire body going stiff.
“A cop! He’s a fucking cop!”
“Yeah, didn’t I tell you? Could’a swore I told you,”
“The Chief! I knew I recognized that handwriting from somewhere. Yes—yes, it must be, it has to be; it all makes sense now, he’s had it out for us from the very beginning—he’s the big man, the alpha dog, it’s gotta be him,”
“Wait, Tomura, what—” Dabi begins, only to be interrupted by incessant muttering, too low to discern. “What? I-I can’t hear you, you’re mumbling,”
“The time...Going to work...Likes his donuts...cream-filled...Gun, where did I put it...Maybe a blade this time—Oh, but I hate blades...Although, maybe...”
“Tomura? Tomura, stop, listen,” And it almost sounds like he’s begging, suddenly alert, alarmed, high notes of distressed concern fracturing his hasty tone. “Tomura, listen to me, what’s going—”
“I've got to go, Dabi,” his boss cuts him off abruptly, voice suddenly calm, serene, like he’s made a decision, a startling difference from the overlapping mumbles jumbling through the speaker merely a few moments ago. “I’ve got a rooster to slaughter,”
“Hold on a second,” Dabi gasps, shrill and frantic. “Where are you going!”
But the line goes dead.
✰ ✰ ✰
In the dark of his own bedroom, in his own flat wedged under Tomura’s penthouse, Dabi sits frozen in bed, phone still clutched to his head, fingers gripping the device so tightly it’s astonishing the glass doesn’t crack, doesn’t shatter to sharp pieces in his palm.
Time seems to slow, seems to stop for a moment as Tomura’s words coil through Dabi’s mind, letters mangling themselves with each lap around his brain, spiralling into a noose around the organ and tightening until it hurts.
Flashes of teal and jade splinter through the cracks in his curtains, mixing with the night and drenching his room in a dense yet faded blue, shapes of the night moving, morphing, as Dabi stares out into the indigo abyss, his heart oozing through the ribs that cage it.
Something is gravely wrong.
His own heartbeat blends with his quickening breaths, congesting his hearing as he calls Tomura’s phone twice more, receiving his voicemail both times.
He tries Jin next, who tells Dabi that he’s on the island for the next week or so, but that Dabi’s most definitely overreacting.
“Pop a couple roxys and go back to sleep,” he tells him, voice gentle and warm. “I’m sure Tomura’s perfectly fine; your paranoia’s playing tricks on you, makin’ you think you heard stuff and all that—footsteps and elevator dings. Truthfully, Tomura probably just fell asleep in his office, or something; you know how he gets after a night of sniffing and crushing,”
Dabi does, probably better than anyone else, but Tomura didn’t seem high; didn’t seem like he was suffering a drug induced episode. This felt like something entirely different.
He tries Chisaki next, who promptly tells Dabi to fuck off and to never call him at six in the morning for any reason ever again—he doesn’t give a fuck who’s missing, and then Tomura’s father, getting his inept personal secretary, who claims she has no idea where the Boss went, but that she’s sure he’ll return soon, and she promises to pass along Dabi’s urgent message.
Kurogiri lives a floor under Dabi, though Dabi knows his nights spent at the penthouse have been increasing with alarming frequency. After three calls and no answer, Dabi’s beginning to get agitated; Dabi’s beginning to get desperate.
There’s only one person left to call.
“I don’t have time to explain, bird,” Dabi nearly pants out, words snaring on a hiccup in his throat. “I think—There’s something going on—Something’s wrong—I think—” Another hiccup lodges in his throat, and Dabi’s lids squeeze shut, fighting back against the acidic water stinging his eyes. “I think Tomura’s gone missing,” he manages in a harsh rush of breath. “I need you to break down the office door with me, I can’t—You’re the only able-bodied man I could find,”
“I don’t have the fucking time to listen!” he roars, finally erupting, ears ringing as his blood surges. “Get your ass to the fucking penthouse, or I swear to God, I’ll burn you alive Mr. Blonde style...Keigo,”
The other man’s breath stutters, echoing through the receiver, and then the line falls silent.
“Yeah, that’s what we do to cops who are uncooperative,”
Several moments pass, and then, soft and defeated:
“I’ll see you soon,”
✰ ✰ ✰
Large hands rip you from your slumber roughly, lithe fingers burrowing into your flesh as they grip your biceps.
Lids flutter to life, lifting slow and sticky to reveal bleary eyes, glazed with thick sleep that keeps knocking your vision out of focus. Bright azure and sharp ink begin to burn through the mist, a gravelly voice bleeding into your consciousness, realization forcing icy dread to freeze the blood in your veins.
“D-Dabi?” you whimper, fingers twisting in his hoodie, pulling yourself up a little. “What’re you—What time is it?”
“Do you know where Tomura went?” He practically heaves out, breathing erratic as sapphire frantically searches your face, fingers searing blotches of navy into your skin as they flex.
“I—What?” you blink, squinting against the light, Dabi’s expression fully eradicating the drowsy haze sleep had cast over you, notes of panic sown into your tone. “N-No? Tomura’s—”
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, eyes squeezing shut as nimble fingers rake through onyx strands. “He didn’t—He didn’t like, wake you up for a moment to inform you of his leaving? Or leave a note?” Calloused palms begin patting the plush comforter, scrutinizing gaze searching for a scrap of paper embellished with Tomura’s neat scrawl.
“No, he didn’t. Uh, w-why?”
But Dabi doesn’t answer, too preoccupied with searching the bed for shreds of clues. Little palms encircle his wrists, tender in their touch, and bring both hands to your lap, drawing his attention back to you.
“Why? What’s going on?
“What?” the word escapes your throat in a gasp, choked and full of spit, motions stilling. “Wh-What do you mean, he’s missing?”
“What do you think I mean,” he seethes, and you flinch. A sigh leaves his lips in a heavy exhale, body slumping into your touch, perching on the edge of the mattress. He inhales, holding the breath in his chest until his ribs feel like they’re splintering, swollen lungs pressing into the cage, and exhales the words. “I just—He called me, like, twenty minutes ago, going on about dogs and threats and how he has to—has to go kill a rooster, or something? I don’t know,” Dabi shakes his head. “It barely made any sense at all—I could hardly hear him—but now he’s fucking missing and I—I’m—”
His voice cuts off, words mutilating themselves into nothing more than a pathetic little squeak. And try as he may, he just can’t force those words from his mouth, can’t admit his concern, sentiments burning themselves to ash on the back of his tongue and clogging his throat.
But he doesn’t need to.
He doesn’t need to, because you can see it, can see it in his eyes, in the way they keep glazing over, terrified tears stubbornly resurfacing regardless of how ruthlessly he tries to blink them back; because you can hear it, can hear it in the infinitesimal tremors lacing his voice, in the way they keep causing him to stumble over his words; because you can feel it, can feel the thick distress patched up with unease practically saturating the atmosphere around him, cloaking him in it’s devastatingly hollow embrace.
“It’s okay,” you say softly, taking his face between pillowy palms, forcing his turbulent gaze to halt, holding his eyes with your own. “We’re gonna find him,” tiny thumbs swipe over inked cheekbones, Dabi’s eyes closing with the motion, leaning further into your touch, seeking comfort, reassurance, hope. “Alright? We’re gonna find him,”
And although there’s a quiver in your voice, he thinks he can believe you, thinks you’re right—you will be right.
And, for once, he affords himself a singular moment to become immersed in your touch, to surrender control just for a second and be weak, to open his arms and allow you to crawl into his lap and snuggle into his neck and sink small fingers into his hair; to cleanse his mind, his body, his soul, with your soft motions and gentle kisses and whispered affirmations, each one sinking into his flesh, each one a tiny spark, each one collecting at his core, satiating that creature—the one birthed from love and hate and jealousy and desire—with a warm fire.
But then the elevator dings, and Kurogiri speaks rapidly to someone in hushed tones, and large hands wrap around your wrists, bringing them down and pressing them to your chest, giving one final squeeze before he lets go.
Forty-five minutes and one fractured shoulder later, that thick mahogany wood finally gives way, cracking deep enough that Hawks can kick it open, splitting it clean in two.
Both you and Kurogiri have spent the past half hour pacing and calling and shaking, growing more fraught every minute the door stays standing, both having fired off several increasingly distraught texts to Tomura, neither getting any semblance of a response, from anyone.
It’s been getting harder and harder to keep those sobs locked away in a cage of shuddering ivory, vicious cries finally breaking free as the door falls open, revealing an image that will forever haunt the recesses of your brain, etched into your soul for eternity.
Paper litters the entire room—heaping piles of the scattered across the desk, the couch, the floor, so much so it’s impossible to enter the room without stepping on something, and you can see phantom footprints of Tomura’s loafers imprinted on the sheets—the documents covered margin to margin in Tomura’s neat scrawl, ink as brilliant as his eyes vibrant against the crisp white paper.
Dabi plucks a sheet from near his feet, bringing it close to his face. It’s a transcript of some sort—no doubt connected to the alleged mystery calls Tomura’s been receiving—though it’s nearly impossible to read the original wording, Tomura’s bright scarlet writing crisscrossing over it in overlapping annotations, accented with arrows and asterisks.
“How can he even read this shit?” Dabi squints, holding the paper further from his face in an attempt to view it in its entirety. “It’s just—It’s just nonsense,”
A tattooed hand snatches another sheet, eyes scanning it briefly, then grabs another, then another, then another.
“They’re all...” Dabi begins, and his voice sounds faint. “They’re all copies of each other—it’s all the same few conversations,”
You bend down, leaning into Dabi to examine the documents between his trembling fingers, then grabbing a handful of papers for yourself, shuffling through them slowly.
He’s right; the documents are merely replicas of themselves, rendered endless iterations, covered edge to edge in red pen.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, but the words are garbled, half eroded by the time they leave your lips, tongue melting to acid in your mouth, bitter and burning and bubbling as it eats away at your teeth.
Your vision wavers, fades, then clouds with blurry water, the whole scene beginning to swirl around your head, around your body—but strong arms latch around your waist to catch you before you hit the floor, their owner’s back vibrating against you as they murmur.
“Woah, woah, hey!” Hawks is saying as he tries to get your feet under you, hoisting you up to lean half of your weight on him. “You okay?”
No. You’re not okay.
You’re not okay, because the most concerning piece of the devastatingly deranged scene laid out in front of you is Daddy’s massive cork board, which has been stripped of all its confidential company research, its several calendars and meticulously organized sticky notes, and replaced with clippings from the documents dispersed among the room, pasted together to create illogical sentences and bizarre conclusions and sprinkled with notepaper and photos, comming together to create a harrowing mosaic.
With a photograph of the Chief of Police pinned right to the center.
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bullseye | got it bad, m | jjk, kth
pairing(s): jungkook x reader
summary: Kim Taehyung really regrets setting up his best friend with Jeon Jungkook, mostly because instead of dealing with one insufferable asshole, he now has to deal with two. He just wants you to come to his art exhibit and support him, and you show up looking like a pimp with Jungkook looking like your escort, sigh.
warnings: rated M (18+) for language; you’re a cocky asshole and so is Jungkook; schemes, please save Taehyung; graphic descriptions of various sex acts, smut (fem reader, making out / dry humping / fingering in a public bathroom, threesome smut, mild restraint, nipple play, m-receiving oral, ass / pussy spanking, double penetration / spit-roast, facial, mild dom/sub themes, so much kissing); non-idol!BTS; fuckboy!Jungkook x bisexual, fuckgirl!reader; ft artist, best friend!Taehyung
yup, it’s Butter purple-haired ponytail JK and orange suit Taehyung
"You have got to be kidding me!"
"Oh, hey, Tae. How's it going?"
The voices, one irritated, one pleased, one mischievous, all three looking like the epitome of trouble and the eventual subjects of someone's wet dream.
Kim Taehyung marched over to you, purely indignant, his previous honey-brown hair now dyed to the color of black coffee, the long curls pushed back to reveal his forehead. One stray lock brushed against his dark, sculpted brows that were currently furrowed in annoyance. He stopped in front of you and your boyfriend, hands on his hips. He looked handsome as hell in a tailored orange creamsicle suit and gold earrings, white dress shirt neatly pressed.
"Why are you dressed like a pimp?" Taehyung hissed, jabbing your left breast through your dress. "Why are you dressed like his pimp?!" he added, pointing at Jungkook's smirking face.
You blinked innocently at Taehyung, lifting your oversized black fur coat sleeve to place a delicate hand on your chest, completely unbothered by his harsh reaction to your appearance. Your nails were a gradient from black to white, ever-so-slightly pointed, but not too long to be inconvenient.
Just enough to show you meant business.
Oh, and also you were wearing mock-neck, halter-style minidress that faded from black to white, molded to your every curve. It perfectly matched Jungkook's gradient black-to-white suit. Every step was accented with a sharp click, you in sleek black high-heels and him in glossy black oxfords, dangerous from head-to-toe.
Yes, Jungkook and you were that couple.
"Is that a t-shirt?" Taehyung snapped, switching to prodding Jungkook’s pecs, who grinned in response. You shrugged, the shoulders of your fur coat sliding down so that it now rested on your elbows, exposing your shoulders.
"He thought about not coming with one, but I advised him the other visitors would be too distracted by his sexiness to view your art," you explained, bowing as if you had done a great service.
"And I told her they would be to distracted with her amazing legs, but it's better not to cover them because I like looking," Jungkook chuckled, placing an arm around your waist and pulling you to him possessively.
"I regret paying matchmaker to the two biggest egos I know," he mumbled through his fingers, glaring at the two of you.
"Hey, we kept it low profile. Neutrals."
Taehyung pointed to your boyfriend's hair, pulled back into a sleek ponytail. "Hello? His hair is fucking purple."
You waved his comment away dismissively. "Well, besides that."
"You're a class-A asshole."
"Still makes me high class," you replied with a wink.
"This is really nice, hyung," Jungkook cut in between your bickering. "There’s quite a lot of people here already. I didn't know you were so talented and popular. As expected from my girl's best friend, eh?"
Taehyung winced, rubbing the back of his neck, ears turning red. "Eh... it's not a big deal..." he muttered, but you could tell he was enjoying the praise.
"Of course, it is, Tae," you chuckled, pulling out of Jungkook's grasp to hug him, squeezing him between your fur-covered arms. "You've worked so hard to be able to display your paintings at such a nice venue. I'm proud of you."
Taehyung laughed shyly, hugging you back. "Ahaha... thanks, as usual." He planted a light kiss on the top of your head. "I'm happy you guys came."
You grinned. "Indeed. You needed visitors to match the space," you drawled, sweeping your arms in a grandiose gesture to the glass cases of Taehyung's paintings, crisp white walls, and black marble flooring.
Taehyung rolled his eyes, smiling despite being over your antics. "Not sure I need a high-end escort and his pimp sauntering around..."
"When are your parents arriving? I want to introduce them to Jungkook," you interrupted, tugging on Jungkook's arm and making his cheeks flush pink.
"Like this?! Are you serious, my parents are going to have a heart attack once they realize there's a male version of you!"
"Aw, come on, your dad loves seeing me!"
"That's because you both are always up to no good... fucking always pulling pranks on me... I'm actually glad they're stuck in traffic now..."
You slid your thumb into his mouth, smirking as you heard his muffled whine. He was trying to stay quiet, staring down at you with half-lidded eyes, whimpering as you rubbed his tongue with the pad of your finger. One of your legs was hooked around his waist and he was holding it up with one hand. His other between your legs, fingers hooking underneath your panties.
“Fuck, I love looking at you, Jungkook,” you whispered, leaning forward, shuddering at the feeling of his saliva pooling around your thumb, your own tongue snaking out and tracing the air right between his open lips.
Jungkook moaned softly and shoved two fingers inside your tight, wet pussy.
You pulled your thumb out and crashed your lips to his, letting your satisfied exhale into his throat, your name trapped between his lungs and your hungry mouth, kissing him deeply as he plunged his fingers in and out, pressing your body into the wall of the bathroom stall. Shivers up and down your spine, back arching to feel even more of his chest against yours, frustrated at the clothing between you and him, but still hot and exciting, your hands circling his head and playing with his ponytail, rolling your hips into his rough thrusts.
You tried to break free and moan, but Jungkook captured you with his lips, forcing your noises into his mouth to silence them, rubbing his erection against your hip and thigh, the sound between your legs getting louder because you were getting wetter, closer, your eyes cracking open and seeing his half-open too, staring at you with lust and love, determined to push you over the edge, even in the men’s bathroom where Kim Taehyung’s art exhibit was being held.
Hey, you both waited until you had a nice, long conversation with Taehyung’s parents where his mom drilled Jungkook with questions about what he did and what kind of person he was. His dad, in contrast, seemed to approve of Jungkook and gave him a hearty slap on the arm, telling him trouble and trouble often went well together. Then you and Taehyung’s dad had a praise fest about his son, which made Taehyung turn beet-red in embarrassment. Both of you meant it all, of course.
But, also, both of you enjoyed embarrassing Taehyung in public. It was fun.
Yeah, dads loved you.
You couldn’t imagine why that was.
All that aside, after Taehyung's parents bid their son goodbye, Jungkook dragged you into the men's bathroom and began to make out with your face.
He contained himself for a few hours. It was a valiant effort, living off only groping your ass a couple times, but a man can only take so much when you’re looking like a five-course meal and he’s aware that you’re willing to let him eat, you know?
No? Oh, well.
Maybe that’s just your problem.
Also, yes, maybe you discreetly teased him a couple times by rubbing your ass on his crotch and pressing your tits against his back. Maybe.
You lowered one of your hands, cupping your fingers around his length, sighing in his mouth, feeling how perfectly rock-hard he was, knowing you couldn’t have it and he couldn’t give it to you, not yet, but soon, his deep snarl at your touch, fuck, kisses intensifying, shoving his fingers into you all the way to the knuckle, the wet squish audible and obscene, the adrenaline of danger and satisfaction creeping you closer and closer to your high. His thumb came up and grazed your clit, making you close your eyes and rock your hips into his touch, moaning his name into his own mouth, his force of his fingers pushing his thumb against your throbbing clit hard and fast, the scent of black coffee and lush dragon fruit on his skin and yours, mixing with the sweetness of your orgasm as you wailed in glorious triumph, clutching his head with your hand and his waist with your leg, your other one shaking with strain as each pulse shook you, squeezing his clothed length in your hand, wanting it and pulling back to tell him just that in hot whispers, his soft moan against your mouth, whispering back, your name and his desire, his dark brown eyes nearly black with lust.
“Shit, you know how bad I want to fuck you, right now,” Jungkook panted.
You raised an eyebrow at the annoyed baritone voice. “Taehyung?”
“Do you know how long I’ve been standing here, knocking on this bathroom stall, you absolute horndogs?”
You heard him gritting his teeth, his voice nearly a deep growl. You did what any natural person would do.
Reached over and unlocked the door, letting it swing open to reveal your and Jungkook’s grinning faces.
His fingers remained very firmly inside your pussy, barely covered by the hem of your dress. You swept your arm back so your fur coat was out of the way. Always considerate. Taehyung stood at the opening of the door, hands on his hips, orange blazer flaring out with his posture, immediately throwing up his hands and jerking his head away once he realized that, yes, of course, you two would not bother covering up anything.
“Fucking – shit, get your hands off her, man, go home to do that–”
Jungkook began to slide his fingers out, scissoring them with a wet squish and you mewled, slightly exaggerated and performative.
“Oh my God, never mind, stop, leave them in there,” Taehyung snarled, realizing he was facing the mirror and therefore could still see both yours and Jungkook’s smug smirks. He abruptly turned ninety degrees, now facing the wall, giving you both the side eye. “The fuck is wrong with you people? Do you have any decency?”
“Sure, we do,” you chirped.
“Yeah, that’s why we’re in the bathroom,” Jungkook added, softly rubbing your clit and making you bite your lip, enjoying it very, very much.
A muscle in Taehyung’s eyebrow twitched. “Public bathroom,” he snapped, rubbing his forehead. “Fuck, what if it wasn’t me who walked in here? What if It was some goddamn stranger listening to this shit?”
“Speaking of which,” Jungkook mused, cocking a brow. “Normal people would just leave. Why did you stay and listen?”
You didn’t say anything. You were simply happily grinding on his hand, the gentle pressure creating a constant ecstasy that you were completely satisfied with, one hand hooked around Jungkook’s neck, waiting for Taehyung to answer with a huge, amused grin on your face. Taehyung knew everything about you.
It almost meant you knew everything about Taehyung.
He rolled his eyes. “You act like I’ve never heard her orgasm before. Big fucking deal.”
Jungkook gave him a pair of incredibly wide eyeballs that indicated that, yes, that was kind of a big deal.
“Tae was my first kiss.”
“What?’ Jungkook blurted, snapping his head back to you.
You shrugged. “We were, like, eight. Just wanted to know what kissing was.”
Jungkook blinked very rapidly, stunned.
His two fingers were still inside you.
You scrunched up your face, thinking. “We were also each other’s first head and fuck too. Although it wasn’t very good.”
“You were a bit shit,” Taehyung interjected.
“It took you five whole minutes to aim. Even a watermelon would be dry at that point.”
Jungkook was still trying to process that you were each other’s first kiss with his fingers knuckle deep in your pussy. “W… What? Why aren’t you guys dating?”
You snorted. “I can’t do that. He’s like my brother.”
Taehyung stuck his tongue out. “And she’s like my sister. That’s weird.”
Jungkook finally yanked his fingers out of you and threw out his hands in disbelief. “And being each other’s first times for – shit, basically everything – isn’t weird?”
Your eyes flickered to Jungkook’s soaked fingers, your cum stuck between them in viscous strings. Ooh, sexy. You licked your lips, breaking out in a pleased smirk. Taehyung spied what you were looking at and facepalmed. Jungkook seemed to notice too and turned to look at it, suddenly forgetting the whole discussion.
And put his cum-covered fingers into his mouth, moaning deliciously around them.
Taehyung made a horrified face in the mirror, making eye contact with you.
“Eh, shut up, Tae, not like you haven’t done it in front of me before.”
“Well, I don’t wanna watch Jungkook do it,” he shot back, spinning around to glare at you. “He’s your boyfriend!”
You quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve seen other guys do it before when we’ve had threesomes. Plus, you’ve watched me open my mouth with other men’s cum in it so you could cum in my mouth too.”
Jungkook choked on his own fingers.
“WHAT?” he roared.
“You weren’t serious about them!” Taehyung flicked his hand, completely ignoring Jungkook. “And you’re my go-to when the girls I’m seeing want to experience a threesome, so I was just doing you a favor!”
Your boyfriend was having a mild heart attack and neither you nor Taehyung seemed to notice, too busy bickering about your strangely integrated sex lives.
“What’s the difference? It’s just Jungkook. You guys are friends.”
“Yeah, extra reason why I don’t want to sit around and imagine him slurping from your vagina. I gotta look into his eyes later!”
You raised your hands, shaking your head. “So what? You’ve seen my other sex partners in public and never said much about it. Why are you making such a fuss now?”
“Because!” Taehyung flung his hands, stamping a foot on the tile floor in frustration, his handsome features twisted into despair, hands on his head and messing up his dark brown hair. “Because you’re going to stop being my friend now that you’re serious about someone and I can’t do anything about it because that someone is Jungkook and I actually like the guy! I’m fucking happy for you and shit, but, fuck, fuck, what am I gonna do when you’re not in my corner anymore?”
Your jaw dropped, shocked.
“Tae, what are you talking about–?”
He spun around, about to run out, but you were faster, grabbing his arm and pulling him back, yanking him into a fierce hug. And, just like that, Taehyung was that awkward, weird kid in elementary school again, not wanting to admit he was scared and frightened of the big mean boys teasing him about his odd drawings and strange thought processes, calling him a dorky alien. He grabbed your shoulders, shivering, holding back tears.
“No one’s gonna protect me…” Taehyung sniffed, burying his face in your hair. “If you’re gone, I can’t be brave…”
“Hey, you know that’s not true,” you chastised lightly, squeezing him. “You’ve become strong, all on your own. You know that. That whole exhibit is filled with your art. You even got offers to buy some of your pieces. Isn’t that amazing?” You pulled back and placed your hands on Taehyung’s cheeks, smiling up at him kindly. He still looked gloomy and uneasy, lower lip sticking out. “Come on, you know I’m right, Van Gogh,” you teased, pinching his cheeks a little. He fidgeted, frown lessening. “I will always, always be in your corner. No matter what. No guy is going to make me stop being friends or supporting you. You need me to knock someone’s front teeth out, give me the time and place and I got your back.”
“That’s going to send you to jail,” he muttered, smiling slightly.
“Then I’ll go to jail. That’s just glorified detention because they give you free meals.”
He laughed, still with a tinge of anxiousness. “You promise you won’t stop being my best friend over some guy?”
You grinned. “You’ll always be my best friend, Tae. I just happen to really enjoy his company and his dick. You know, a girl has needs.”
He stuck his hand out childishly, pinky sticking out. “Pinky promise me.” Then he stuck his other hand out. “Actually, double pinky promise me.”
You crossed your wrists over each other and pressed your pinkies to his, squeezing his hands tightly.
“I promise I’ll always be your best friend.”
“Uh, guys, you’re kinda making me feel like a third wheel…”
Jungkook might as well have been a bathroom sink to Taehyung and you in this moment.
Taehyung nodded firmly to you. “Okay. You promised. You better keep it.”
You rolled your eyes. “When have I ever broken a promise to you?”
“Hmm, I guess you’re right…” All of a sudden, he looked down at your hands and wrenched his own out of them. “Oi! Where have those hands been, young lady?” He looked at his open hands with a repulsed scowl. “You better not have touched his dick and then my hands without washing yours! That’s disgusting!”
“Hey, I take offense to that,” Jungkook retorted heatedly. “My dick is perfectly clean and she didn’t get to touch me yet because you busted in and interrupted us–”
“What are you going on about, you’ve touched my hands after I’ve given handjobs! I didn’t hear you complaining!”
“He’s done what–?”
“I keep telling you that’s different, this is Jungkook, a man you actually love, and here I thought you were incapable of that.” Taehyung spoke over Jungkook, jabbing his finger into his palm to drive his point home. “You get that sparkly shit in your eyes when you talk about him and it makes me want to puke–”
“I do not get sparkly shit in my eyes, what the fuck does that even mean?”
“You literally will not shut up about how pretty he is!”
“He is pretty! Look at him!” You banished your arms in Jungkook’s direction like he was your first-place trophy on display, which he might as well be at this point with how much attention either of you were giving him. At least he looked the part.
Taehyung rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, throwing his whole head back. “I can give you pretty. You’ve been telling me I’m handsome all my life.”
“Why don’t we just have a threesome?”
Both you and Taehyung jerked your heads to Jungkook, jaws dropped at his suggestion.
The door to the men’s bathroom opened and an old man bounced in, humming to himself.
He saw you.
He stopped, tilting his head. Then he looked from Jungkook to Taehyung and wiggled his eyebrows.
“Love triangle or sexy night, boys?”
Taehyung choked on air. “Not a love triangle.”
“Oooh, sexy night.” The old man gave you two thumbs up. “I’d love to join, but I’ll back out this time.”
You laughed heartily as Jungkook and Taehyung grabbed your arms, pulling you out of the men’s bathroom, not about to discuss a possible threesome in front of some old guy who vaguely offered to make it a foursome.
You made sure to give the old man a wink, sticking your head back in the open door to say, “Maybe next time, eh?”
The old man cackled and Taehyung slapped a hand over your mouth, dragging you out.
“Please shut up, I fucking swear…”
“So, why is it different?”
Somehow both you and Jungkook had dragged your best friend into your apartment and tied him to a chair. One of those nice wooden ones with plenty of openings to slip cotton rope through. Probably not what Kim Taehyung thought he was going to do right after his art exhibition, but judging by his peeved, unsurprised face, it wasn’t a completely unexpected result either.
You had pulled up another chair to sit in front of him, still wearing your fur coat, knees between his knees, mostly because Taehyung was forced to spread them because of how you tied the knots.
“I think I hate you,” Taehyung muttered.
“At least a little bit.”
You slipped the shoulders of your coat down, exposing your skin, casually crossing your arms under your breasts and leaning forward, smiling sweetly at Taehyung. His dispassionate face basically said, ‘go-suck-your-own-dick’. He tried to pulled his arms free.
“Don’t rip your blazer.”
“You gonna answer my question?” you asked, redirecting the conversation.
Taehyung clicked his tongue. “I told you. It’s because I can tell you love him.”
You broke your playful demeanor for a second, smiling broadly. “Really?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you dork.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever felt like more of a third wheel in my entire life even though you’re talking about how much you love me,” Jungkook said behind you. He was sitting on the couch, as the chairs had been repositioned in the living room.
Taehyung pursed his lips. “That’s why I got scared, you know…” He leaned forward a bit, pouting. “What if you spend so much time with him that you forget about me? What if you guys break up and you blame me?” If he was untied, he would be nervously picking at his lower lip with his right hand right now. Instead, he chewed on it, worried expression clouding his strong features.
You shook your head, reaching out to fluff his brown hair. “You think too much. Why would I blame you over a breakup? If anything, I’d be dragging you out so you can help me keep a record of how many people I can fuck in a night.”
Taehyung made a face. “Why can’t you be normal and cry while eating chocolate?”
“You know I don’t like chocolate.”
“You don’t like chocolate?” Jungkook choked in disbelief.
“I have to fuck my problems away, Tae. That’s the best way to deal with them.”
He rolled his eyes. “You need to see a therapist.”
“Nah, I got you.”
Suddenly Jungkook’s face appeared because you two, sitting on the coffee table.
“How do you not like chocolate?” he pressed, staring at you.
You blinked at him. “I mean, I don’t hate it. I’m just not crazy about it like some people. Isn’t that better for you? I can give you all the chocolate that I receive.”
This thought didn’t seem to have crossed Jungkook’s mind. He grinned, highly pleased with this result.
“You’re even going to give him your chocolate?” Taehyung gasped, affronted. “That’s it, this friendship is over. I can’t believe you would betray me like this!”
You placed your hands on his knees. Taehyung huffed.
“You want me to untie you now?” you asked, patting his thigh and ignoring his dramatic outburst.
“Why? I thought we were going to have a threesome.”
Both you and Taehyung whipped your heads to blink at Jungkook. He smiled innocently, which did not look innocent at all with his sleek purple ponytail and mischievous eyes.
“Nobody agreed to that.”
“Yeah, Jungkook,” you sided with Taehyung. “Nobody agreed to that.”
“Aw, come on,” he nudged, grinning. “You guys have obviously touched each other before, right? And I can totally trust hyung not to fall in love with you.”
“Because my preferred type wouldn’t hump me in a public bathroom,” your best friend muttered.
“I’m sensing judgement here, Kim Taehyung. Watch your mouth,” you warned.
“Choke on my dick.”
“We can start with that,” Jungkook chirped cheerfully.
“Why do you want this, anyway?” You narrowed your eyes at your boyfriend. “You never expressed any interest in threesomes before. I assumed you were too selfish for that.”
You raised an eyebrow.
Jungkook grinned devilishly.
“But I also wanna see you get spit-roasted.”
“Don’t–” Taehyung began.
Jungkook spread his legs, revealing his erection straining in his slacks. Taehyung snapped his head away, groaning an annoyance, disappointed but not surprised that your boyfriend had zero shame. Jungkook bit his lower lip, tiny mole underneath quivering, excitement and lust in his dark brown eyes, looking right at you eagerly. He purred your name. Taehyung visibly cringed.
“You know I would…” you drawled softly, reaching over to squeeze Jungkook’s thigh. “But I don’t think Tae is into it right now.”
“Yeah, I’d only do it if I was horny and desperate.”
“Then why do you have a boner?”
Both you and Taehyung whipped your heads down to see his dick trying to bust out of his pants.
He glared at it. “You traitor.”
“Are you talking to your dick?”
“Look,” Taehyung snapped, letting out a puff of breath and frowning at Jungkook. “I’m not immune, okay? She’s hot, sure. Absolutely one of the sexiest, most beautiful women I know.”
“Aw, so sweet!” you interrupted, smacking his leg in mock bashfulness.
“And,” he gritted, shooting you a scowl. “I might be horny and desperate, sure.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Jungkook inquired, smug smirk on his face.
“Well, you’ll get jealous, for one.”
Jungkook blinked, confused. “What?”
“Taehyung has a big dick.”
You said it so nonchalantly that Jungkook was speechless.
“Not as nice as Jungkook’s dick though.”
“Excuse me? I am offended.”
“You honestly need to improve your technique. You think your size alone is all that matters? Jungkook’s the whole package, great dick, cute smile, diligence, strength, always up for anything, perfect duality–”
“Shit, shut up about him, I get it, he’s the hottest thing to walk on this earth, now stop verbally jerking him, he’s not gonna agree–”
You and Taehyung froze.
Eyes flickering to Jungkook, who raised an eyebrow challengingly.
“Kiss him,” he repeated.
Eyes back to Taehyung, who was breathing hard.
“Only because I’m horny and desperate,” he growled.
The corner of your lips ticked upwards.
“Got it bad, eh, Tae?”
You placed your hands on his thighs, sliding down, rising off your chair. You felt Taehyung’s muscles tense, narrowing his eyes. He tried to keep up his severe front, borrowing your tendency to use arrogance to hide your true feelings.
“Isn’t that you?” he challenged. “Need me to satisfy you even though you have Jungkook now?”
You smirked, seeing right through him. “You always give me such blessed service though.”
Something flared in his brown orbs, pupils expanding as you neared. “Don’t.” Your head tilted at his tone, almost pleading, and still you advanced, your soft inhale ghosting his lips. His gaze was on your face the entire time, swallowing hard, anticipation creeping into his stern expression.
“Don’t what?” you whispered teasingly.
“Don’t say it in front of him.”
“But you like it.”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t need to know my embarrassing turn-ons.”
“What if I slip?”
He clenched his jaw. “Fuck, fine, whatever.”
Your hand reached up to cup his cheek, licking your teeth slowly, maintaining eye contact. Your words a low hiss, laced with pure lust.
“My good little angel, let this devil corrupt you.”
Taehyung whimpered and you closed in on his lips, kissing him deeply, straddling his lap, rolling your hips into his, voracious, greedy kisses, Taehyung gasping in your mouth as you bounced on his crotch, your spread legs causing the hem of your dress to rise, popping over your ass, moaning into his mouth as you worked him under you, his body familiar and comforting. His tongue encircled yours, whining for more, and you mumbled sweet nothings to him, remembering all the things he loved to hear, and he gave you all the things you loved, the neediness in his kiss, the desperation of his hips rising to add more friction. You weren’t exactly immune to Taehyung either. You could control yourself, normally.
But Jungkook gave you the green light, so you went all in.
Your hands were in his hair, tangled in the strands of black coffee, murmuring in his lips, sweet angel, and Taehyung moaned, fiercely thrusting his hips up and you sitting down on it, already wet, sighing satisfyingly at the feeling of his impressive length straining to reach your dripping heat, too many layers of fabric between them.
“Such a good boy doing such bad things,” you purred against his lips, amused at seeing your lipstick all over his mouth.
Taehyung looked up at you with glazed brown eyes, a tinge of unease in them. Maybe he didn’t want to show Jungkook his vulnerable side. You could understand that. You didn’t mind playing your role but Taehyung was more guarded. He didn’t like to be criticized or judged for the things he liked. You noticed his gaze flicker to Jungkook and then back to you.
You tilted your head and cradled his, running your fingers through his hair. “You want me to stop, I’ll stop,” you cooed gently, kissing his ear.
“I don’t want you to stop,” he breathed, so quietly you barely heard it. “I don’t want him to judge me.”
You chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
Taehyung made a disbelieving noise.
“Something wrong?” Jungkook asked behind you, sounding curious and confused that his show was paused.
“Mhm, need you to take my coat,” you replied, pulling back, lowering your arms so Jungkook could stand behind you and remove it. You slid your hands out elegantly, seeing Taehyung’s messy dark hair and lipstick-stained lips. You heard Jungkook back up and you reached into Taehyung’s blazer, pulling out his handkerchief and dabbing at his mouth, carefully wiping it off.
“We can stop,” your reminded him gently.
“No,” he growled, frowning. “I’ve got a massive boner and it’s all your fault. Get me off.”
You grinned. “Alright, angel.”
You saw Taehyung bite his lip, shivering at your words. You couldn’t remember how this started, but it always worked. The roleplaying helped with the whole ‘having-sex-with-your-best-friend’ thing ten times less awkward, and it made it much easier for him and you to get off.
Unfortunately, it also was starting to make both of you much hornier while having sex with each other.
He clicked his tongue, raising his head, eyebrow cocked.
“Dirty little devil.”
You smirked. Taehyung’s voice was always sexier when he was aroused, deep and sultry.
One by one, you undid the buttons of his dress shirt, kissing at his exposed chest, the deep rich tone of his tan skin standing out against the white, his eyes closing at your touch, running your tongue down his sternum and blowing on it.
He shuddered, moaning your name, long and sweet.
You shifted, intending to push the chair behind you back, but it was gone. Instead, your ass backed up into a pair of very muscular legs. You paused, turning your head to see behind you.
A firm hand stopped you, forcefully jerking your head back to Taehyung’s chest.
“Look forward,” Jungkook commanded.
A shiver down your spine at his tone. You smirked, peering up at Taehyung, who smiled.
“I’m not,” Jungkook snapped, grabbing your ass.
“A little bit,” Taehyung chuckled, and now he was smirking too.
Eerily similar to you, because who else would he learn such a devious expression from? You taught him well. You hummed, yanking Taehyung’s shirt open and pushing it to his shoulders, his naked torso now exposed to your eyes and mouth.
“Can’t imagine why. This was his idea.”
Taehyung jerked his head to you as you lowered yours to his chest. “What?”
But your lips closed around his nipple and he gasped, sputtering, confused, and then moaning as you moaned, Jungkook yanking down your panties and slapping your ass with his open palm, the sting added to the disapproving hiss of your name.
“He’s not supposed to know. I didn’t do all that acting for nothing,” he snarled, and your response was wiggling your ass, nipping your teeth over Taehyung’s chest, his handsome features twisted in ecstasy and pleasure, the tip of your tongue teasing his other nipple, pushing it around with your strong, wet, warm muscle.
Taehyung narrowed his eyes at you and your not-so-innocent tone.
Jungkook clicked his tongue. “Such a bad little devil. You need some punishment.”
“He already knew?” Taehyung gritted, glaring daggers at your grinning face, saying nothing, your deft fingers undoing his pants. “Answer me, woman.”
Jungkook was positioning your lower half, ass up, legs spread, pussy exposed to his eyes and hand, your dripping core tense with anticipation. When he spoke, his voice was deep and silvery, laced with danger and desire.
And he spanked your pussy, making you cry out and leak between his fingers, the sudden sting of pain so nice, and you had the audacity to continue giving Taehyung that infuriatingly smug expression as you dragged his pants and underwear to his knees, freeing his stiff length that stuck straight up, your body repeatedly lurched forward by Jungkook’s open palm on your soaked slit, your juices splattering on his hand and the inside of your thighs. With a smirk, you lowered your head.
“Mhm, he knew… ah, fuck, yes, Jungkook, just like that…” you sighed in satisfaction, tongue snaking out and wrapping around the head of Taehyung’s cock, bobbing your mouth up and down like that, stimulating just the tip, paying extra attention to the underside of the head. “Sorry, Tae.”
“Swallow me whole,” he growled. “Now.”
You were ready to do it, of course, but you felt Jungkook’s hand clap onto your leaking, heated pussy lips, and the other danced up your back, so you waited, letting him grab your head and push you down, not quite as roughly as he would have if he was actually being mean, but with enough pressure that you knew he just wanted to do the physical action, wanted to feel the power even if there was no maliciousness behind it.
Your lips closed around Taehyung’s pulsing, hard length, taking it all, a familiar girth stretching out your jaw. You made a light gagging sound as the head hit the back of your throat, not quite suffocating, but enough to indicate, stop pushing me, and Jungkook lifted the weight off your head, still gripping your hair, messing up your perfected style of the night.
“That’s a good girl, swallowing all that dick,” he purred, sliding a finger into you.
You whined, clenching your walls around it, squeezing tight, wanting more.
You did, obediently, looking up at Taehyung, his head tipping back, low moans escaping his throat as your tongue squirmed at the base of the head in your throat, muscles clinching around his cock, your lips around the base. You swiped your tongue down, stretching it out even farther, past your lips, slurping nosily at his balls, flicking them rapidly with the tip, feeling him get harder and harder, twitching against the roof of your mouth, bending a little due to the lack of space.
“Fuck, let go of her head, fuck!”
Jungkook released you and you grabbed Taehyung’s hips, starting a fast, intense pace, swirling your tongue around his cock, another long finger wiggling into your slick folds, thrusting into you from behind, your legs shaking with strain, Taehyung moaning louder and louder, filling up your apartment with his lust.
“Don’t fucking stop, fuck, you have the devil’s tongue, a-ah, it’s so fucking good…”
Jungkook scissored his fingers in you, the squelching sound loud and lewd, and you spied Taehyung tipping his head back, panting, watching Jungkook finger you from behind, his other hand smacking your ass periodically to watch it bounce and hear you moan, your hips bucking back into his hand every time you ascended from Taehyung’s cock.
“Give her another,” he gasped. “Stuff her more.”
Jungkook snickered. “For an angel, you’re all about the punishment, hm?”
But he did as he was told, shoving another finger in you and you whined, nearly popping your mouth off Taehyung’s thick length, stopping only because of imposing baritone.
“Don’t you fucking dare. Take it all. Or are you telling me you can’t? Telling me you’ve lost your touch?”
You went back down, narrowing your eyes, rising to his challenge. Your best friend knew everything about you and therefore he knew that the second he made it a question of your ability, well, that brought out the best in you.
Also made you almost vacuum his dick, but he asked for it.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuuuuuuuck!”
Tighter, faster, tongue all over, nearly forgetting Jungkook was touching you at all because Taehyung had doubted you and you weren’t having that shit, fuck no, not even with Jungkook’s free hand snaking between your legs and feeling for your clit, rubbing it at the same furious pace you were blowing Taehyung’s jerking cock, tipping your head back and angling it so the head scraped against the roof of your mouth, locking your knees to prevent the shudders of pleasure from ruining your rhythm, so good, fuck, feeling so good with the pumping of Jungkook’s powerful fingers, electric satisfaction radiating from your throbbing clit, clutching Taehyung’s hips so hard he was getting indents from your nails, determined to get him there before you, and, by the sound of his breathless cries of your name and the trembling of his impressive girth, he was there.
“Yes, a-ah, you’re so good, so fucking good, I’m gonna cum, oh, fuck!”
His orgasm exploded, flooding your mouth with a gush of saltness, thick strings of cum painting the back of your throat, and you gulped it all down greedily, eyes rolling back, the tense coil inside you snapping and drenching Jungkook’s hands with your own orgasm, your legs unlocking and giving out, shaking and flinching as wave after wave of vicious pleasure flooded through you, Jungkook’s strong arms holding you up, moaning at the feeling of your pussy convulsing around his fingers, still lightly rubbing your clit through your orgasm, whines and whimpers crammed in your throat due to Taehyung’s cock in your mouth, sliding all the way to the base and swallowing around it, because you knew he loved it, wanted it, craved it, groaning carnally, the head swelling and pulsing, nearly suffocating you.
“Feels so f-fucking good… a-ah, yeees…”
You stayed in the position for as long as you could, a good minute, before backing up with a choked gasp, clutching Taehyung’s thighs, eyes drifting up to his and he looked down at you, fucked-out, content, grateful, black-brown curls falling all over his forehead and cheeks, so casually sexy and perfect.
“Good angels always taste the best,” you rasped, licking your abused lips.
“Untie me, devil.”
“Damn, you do have a big dick.”
“… Stop looking.”
“Why? I wanna see what she put in her mouth.”
You teased the head with the tip of your tongue, smirking. Taehyung looked away, ears turning red.
“You two are shameless.”
“Yeah, but you like it,” you laughed, straddling his lap, casually leaning over him to untie him. You heard Jungkook make a clicking sound and you assumed he was making a frame with his hands and miming taking a photo.
“Stop that,” Taehyung muttered, face full of your covered breasts. “Oi, take your clothes off if you’re gonna squash my face with your tits.”
You rammed your chest into his face to muffle his protests.
“Mmm, yes, no faster way to make me limp than you sucking Jungkook’s face off.”
You were too busy grabbing Jungkook’s naked ass and moaning in his mouth, tongue on tongue, purple strands brushing against your forehand, his hands on your ass and squeezing it roughly, rutting his rapidly hardening cock against your thigh.
“You want me to leave you guys alone?”
You broke the kiss, snapping your head around to see Taehyung raising an eyebrow at you from the head of your bed, completely naked. Jungkook continued slowly humping your thigh, peaking pre-cum all over and adding to his own stimulation.
“Are you done being an insufferable shit or what?” you glowered.
“Hmph, fine, just fuck me from behind then if you’re so needy,” you sighed, turning back to Jungkook’s amused smirk.
“No. I want the mouth again.”
You and Jungkook shared a confused look. “Huh, why?” you both said at the same time, looking at him in unison.
Taehyung lifted his chin defiantly, pointing to you. “I wanna stuff my dick into your mouth and fuck your face because you tricked me.”
You gasped, feeling slighted. “I told you it was Jungkook’s idea, why am I getting punished? You schemed against me first!”
He shrugged. “You corrupted him so, technically, it’s all inherently your fault.”
You protested as Jungkook laughed, pushing you into position despite you verbally fighting back.
“What! All I did was exist! Is it my fault that Jungkook was thirsting after my ass and you decided it would a taste of my own medicine, only to have it backfire in your face? And what if I wanna look at his handsome face? Huh? Why am I not getting a say in – mhpf!”
You yelped as Jungkook and Taehyung shoved your face first into Taehyung’s crotch, his semi-hard cock smacking you in the cheek and getting a mouthful of his nuts.
They both said it at the same time. You saw them share a look of surprise, shocked that they were thinking the same thing, ignoring you.
Hey, nobody ignores you.
You wrapped your lips around one of his balls and sucked, tongue surrounding it, causing Taehyung to squeal and spread his legs, his cock swelling instantly, especially as your tongue poked out and lapped at the other while sucking intently.
“Good little devil,” Jungkook praised, patting you on the head before backing up, leaving you to rearrange Taehyung’s nuts with your mouth, licking and sucking all over, him gasping and moaning above you, falling back against the headboard.
“You’re crazy, fucking crazy…”
You switched sides, pressing your lips into his crotch to stuff your mouth full before sticking your tongue out and wiggling it on the underside of the other, his thick length now hitting you in the nose, and you realized Taehyung wasn’t going to help you with this, so you internally sighed and reached up to grab his dick and stroke it slowly as you continued your make-out session with his nuts.
Taehyung was chanting your name over and over like it was a prayer, as if he was saying it in attempt to ask for his soul to be saved.
You felt the bed bow and you lifted your head as far as it could go, which wasn’t very far because you still had one of Taehyung’s balls still in your mouth. You were still sucking on it.
He moaned above you, clutching your pillows for dear life.
You heard a condom being opened and felt Jungkook’s knees spread yours, deep silvery voice purring your name.
“Wanna see you take two dicks at once, naughty devil,” he teased, pressing the head of his cock against your soaked opening.
You unlatched your mouth and Taehyung seemed to see stars for a hot second, reeling.
“Hope you’re prepared, sweet angel,” you taunted, and then you swallowed his dick.
You moaned around his cock, letting it fill you to the throat, Jungkook’s perfect length thrusting into you at the same time, stretching you out deliciously, his own moan adding to your pleasure. There was just something about Jungkook’s moan, the longing, the possessiveness, the love. It made you wetter every time, bringing newfound energy to your meticulous sucking of Taehyung’s cock, who finally seemed to get his bearings and remember what the fuck was going on and what he wanted to do in the first place, because he finally straightened, large hands fitting around your head, pushing your hair back.
“You know why you’re so good at sucking dick?”
You tried very hard not to roll your eyes, already knowing what was coming. You decided to focus on Jungkook’s cock instead, pumping in and out of you, powerful, deep strokes, his hands gripping your hips, trying so hard to please you, and he was good at it, hitting all your favorite spots that made you squirm back against him.
“Because I let you suck mine,” Taehyung growled, holding your head and thrusting into your throat.
Mmmhmm, you thought to yourself. Not that he was wrong, because he wasn’t, being your first and all, but, come on, you didn’t get all your skills from sucking one dick, no matter how amazing Taehyung’s was. Oh well, you let it slide, simply enjoying not having to do much as your best friend fucked your face and your boyfriend pounded your pussy.
The feeling of your mouth being filled and used, stroking Taehyung’s hips with your fingertips, elbows on the bed, legs spread open for Jungkook to slap his crotch into your ass wetly, back to front, a constant encompassing ecstasy that you welcomed, letting them command the pace, hands on your head and hands on your ass, familiar hands, loving hands, because even if Taehyung didn’t want to take you on dates and wake up next to you every day, he still loved you, still made sure he didn’t actually hurt you, careful to thrust hard but not deep, or thrust deep but not hard.
Jungkook wanted to take you on dates and hold you on his arm like his trophy and be waltzed around as yours, so… romantic? It was your version of romance, anyway.
Lots of sex.
Fuck, he was so good at fucking you, leaning down, giving you more, chuckling as he heard you moaning around Taehyung’s cock, faster, harder, yes, fuck, yes, so good, your noises trapped in your chest, Taehyung increasing the speed, breathing shallowing.
“Fuck, yes, tighter, give it to me, you dirty devil,” he growled and you obeyed, closing your lips and pressing your tongue against the bottom, sandwiching his length in your mouth, your pussy also squeezing Jungkook harder, basking in his sinful moan, enamored with his voice and the way he said your name, never getting enough.
“A-ah, you feel so good, your pussy is so fucking good, gonna make me cum…”
So rough, so intense, so full of cock, keeping your holes tight, relishing in the way they forced themselves into your mouth and pussy, heady and intoxicating pleasure, you tipping over the edge, wailing around Taehyung’s thick girth as you spilled onto Jungkook’s rock-hard length, mind-numbing satisfaction that spread all over, hot and melting into you. Your walls violently spasmed and caused Jungkook to gasp, cock twitching and jolting inside you, shooting thick spurts of cum that filled the condom, and he buried himself all the way in, a wanton moan of your name echoing off your bedroom walls, savoring the feeling of you milking him, gripping your sides and squeezing you lovingly.
Suddenly, Taehyung yanked his cock out of your mouth and you coughed, startled at the abrupt loss, only for him to orgasm all over your face, hot white strings shooting out of his glistening cock and his hand guiding them, painting your cheeks and open mouth, dripping onto your tongue and clinging onto your swollen lips.
“Tae! What the fuck?!”
He snickered, smearing the residual cum on the side of your frown, winking.
“Blessed service, eh, you devil?”
“Is it gonna be like this every time we hang out now?”
You climbed onto Jeon Jungkook’s lap, kissing him deeper, trapping his slim waist in between your thighs, his hands sliding up your skirt, moaning into your mouth as Kim Taehyung smacked you in the shoulder blades, the sound masked by the obscenely loud music of the club as onlookers watched you and Jungkook with increasing interest.
Probably all dreaming of threesomes with you two.
“Hello, you two are supposed to be helping me getting laid, not getting laid right in front of me!”
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