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jokeringcutio · 2 months

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The Grabber x Hufflepuff (f) Reader [1] (Explicit, warnings)

Because I noticed an astonishing amount of my Grabber readers have this one thing in common. It's the house. Hufflepuff. They all have Hufflepuff on their profiles. Summary: You're a Hufflepuff student and you get caught by the Dark Lord's infamous snatcher known as The Grabber.

Fandoms: The Black Phone, Harry Potter Rating: Explicit Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, clad touching, non/con or dub-con touching, Reader is a Hufflepuff, Reader is Innocent. Reader is a virgin, Reader is a Mudblood/Muggle-born, use of little witch/littlegirl/little one, Reader is of age, Grabber has an innocence corruption kink, Reader gets kidnapped. Harry Potter 2nd Wizard War AU.

Grabber x Hufflepuff [ 1 ]

The Room of Requirement shimmered with the focused intensity of young witches and wizards, secretly preparing for the fight against the Dark Lord and his followers. You were among them, your wand tracing arcs in the air as you practiced defensive spells like all others. Some students here were younger than you, some slightly older. But everyone was practicing with the same passion. The air was thick with concentration, punctuated by the occasional crackle of magic gone awry.

"Hey," Ginny's voice cut through the hum of activity, pulling you aside. She was in the same year as you, although you hadn’t truly talked until you joined Dumbledore’s Army. Her eyes held an edge of urgency. "I need you to fetch some Hellebore Herb from the Forbidden Forest."

You nodded, a quick, sharp motion. "I can do that," you murmured, feeling the weight of the task settle on your shoulders. Slipping out of the school was a grizzly task nowadays. Students weren’t allowed to leave as it was said to be too dangerous out there now that the Dark Lord had returned. But you knew danger lurked inside the walls of your school as much as it did outdoors. Most of the staff at Hogwarts was sympathizing with the pure-blood radicals. If one of them caught you sneaking out of the school, they’d be taking their time punishing you with heavy torture spells.

Luckily, you were quite skilled at being silent, always alert, and excellent at not being noticed. Ginny knew this. It was why she usually asked you or Clementine Felley, a Ravenclaw with similar skills but a year below you two, to do these sorts of assignments.

Because you’d been doing this for a while, you had grown confident in your skills. In the shadowy corner, you slipped into your school robe to protect yourself from the cold outside. You made sure to flip your hair from underneath it before donning the hood and hiding it again.

The yellow and black of Hufflepuff covered you, and you were glad you belonged to that house. Somehow, the yellow became just another shade when you were out in the dusk or dark, resembling green or brown and adapting to your surroundings. You ran your fingers over the emblem, feeling the rough embroidery against your skin, before you grasped a wicker basket, its weave tight and firm.

Creeping out of the Room of Requirement, you clutched the fabric of your robe close. The corridors loomed silent and watchful. You knew the stakes — capture meant punishment, Crucio, or worse if the Carrow siblings got their hands on you.

As the doors groaned closed behind you, you drew a deep breath. Every shadow could hold a spying eye, a guard, or an enchantment meant to betray your step. But like so many times before, you made it out of the school with practiced ease. The Forbidden Forest loomed, a dark maw ready to swallow you whole. Your heart thudded against your ribcage, but you pushed forward, feet whispering over fallen leaves and twigs.

Like you had hoped, nothing happened. You weren’t spotted. There was no alarm raised. And the deeper you got into the forest, the more at ease you started to feel. Not that there weren’t countless of dangers here, but with your wand and your knowledge of spells, you felt you could handle the forest’s creatures.

The underbrush crunched beneath your knees as you knelt, fingers sifting through the damp soil. You found the Hellebore — a sinister beauty with its deep green leaves and delicate blooms that belied the poison lurking within. Your breath came in careful puffs, visible in the twilight of the forest.

"Aren’t you a brave girl?" The voice was like gravel, grating against the hushed whispers of the trees. It struck a chord of fear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your gaze lifted, heart beating high in your chest. There, a few feet away from you, a devil's mask leered down at you, eyes hollow pits of malice. You instantly recognized the foul creature from pictures in the newspaper. Moving images of the same mask, two hands raised next to it, showing the same rings you saw now glinting on his fingers in the light of the moon.

The Grabber.

His name slithered through your mind, conjuring images of snatched souls and vanished faces. His jacket hung open, revealing a swath of bare chest, skin pale in the moonlight, betraying he was just another man.

“What are you doing, lovely?” The voice was so deep and low that you felt it deep in your core. You squeezed your legs together uncomfortably, hoping the man didn’t notice the gesture, as you slowly rose from your knees.

Even standing, the man was at least a head taller than you. If not more.

“Well?” He tilted his head, the mask mocking you as it slanted.

"Collecting herbs," you managed, voice a mere wisp of sound. You tucked the Hellebore behind your back discreetly.

"Oh,” the man made a mocking sound that was almost called gentle. “Sweet thing, aren't you? Voice like honey." The Grabber cocked his mask, angling it in such a way that his eyes could trace you up and down. You could feel it, felt his gaze as it roamed over every inch of your body. It felt intimate, the way he studied you.

He stepped closer, the scent of earth and something darker emanating from him.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell the big bad man what kind of herbs you are collecting out here, on your own, at the cusp of midnight?”

You knew he had you there. No student was allowed in this part of the forest or indeed allowed to roam outside at night. In fact, no students were allowed out at all. And by your robes, he could easily tell you were still a student, that you belonged to the school nearby.

A man like him, working for the Dark Lord himself, would not let you go unpunished. He would either hand you back to the school, or he would dish out the punishment himself. But with his reputation for being a man who tortured his victims and made innocent people disappear, you had a feeling which one it would be. The others wouldn't get their herbs today. You had failed them. For a short moment, you wished one of the Carrow siblings had caught you on your way out instead.

“I-I will,” why was your voice trembling? Why did you stutter? Were you truly this scared of the legendary snatcher who was said to be more demon than man?

“Very cute all the stumbling,” the man interrupted you. “I don’t care what you came here to collect. All I care about is that you are being naughty. Being out here, on your own, late at night. There are all sorts of bad men prowling about. Hadn’t you noticed?”

You blinked, clearly confused by his words because he obviously was one of these bad men himself. Why else would he trod around wearing a demon’s mask, bare-chested, in the middle of the night? He was out here, hunting.

Did that mean that others were nearby? That you somehow had been unlucky enough to cross paths with the ones he was chasing. People the Dark Lord wanted to see dead.

“I-I am s-so sorry. The H-herb I needed only grows at night and I thought-" you lied.

“Hellebore Herb,” he interrupted, cutting you short yet again. Of course, he must have caught sight of it. You nodded, realizing that although you had been trying to hide it behind your back, there was some more Hellebore near your feet. It would have been an easy guess.

"Well, well” he muttered, and you watched as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. The way his jacket swayed about revealed a hairless stomach with trained abbs, slightly pudgy but you supposed that came with age.

“Are you a full or half-blood?"

Huh? It was a sensitive question, but you could guess why he would ask it. The Dark Lord wasn’t keen on anyone not considered pure. You could lie to him. You knew you should. But something about the glint behind the dark holes of eyes in the mask told you he already knew the answer.

"Neither,” you reluctantly admitted, hanging your head in defeat. The herb dropped from your hands, fingers outstretched behind your back. “Muggle-born," a reluctant whisper and most definitely a death sentence. To lie was folly; he would know. To think all your bravery and good intentions would end here, tonight. That your defiance would be squashed down by one man and an unlucky encounter. Fear danced along your nerves, yet you forced stillness upon your frame.

"Charming," he murmured, surprising you as he closed the gap between you. The brush of his fingertips against your hair sent an unwanted tingle down your neck. "I would love to take you home."

You stiffened, the words wrapping around you like chains. There was no mistaking the implication, the threat veiled as a compliment. He wanted to snatch you the way he had done so many others. But there was something else underneath, something thick with arousal.

His presence loomed, a specter of dread. His breath grazed your cheek, slipping out from underneath the mask as he studied you with a sidelong glance. You let him touch your hair, let him believe he held sway. Inside, your thoughts raced — plans, strategies, hopes all tangled in a desperate knot.

"Would anyone miss a sweet little muggle-born witch?" he cooed, playing with a lock of your hair. His closeness disgusted you, but you tried to use it to fool him. Your hand slipped into your robe, ever so carefully, and searched for your wand, mentally preparing to knock him back with a spell.

"Everyone is missed by someone," you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

"Ah, but will they look for you?" The Grabber's tone was a taunt, a predator enjoying the quiver of his prey.

They would. They had to. Ginny and the others would notice if you didn’t come and deliver the herb. They would alarm the others, start a search for you, make sure your parents were informed. And then, the true search would start. No matter how influential the Dark Lord was, he couldn’t stop your loved ones from searching for you. They would, you just knew it. You were loved. You clutched your wand in your fist, preparing to attack.

"Let's find out," the moment the whisper reached your ears, his hand left your hair. You felt how his hand slipped into yours, disarming you by taking your wand. How had he known that you'd reached for it? That you held it? "You don't need that, little girl. Wands are for grown-ups," he teased, voice sing-song. And you silently fumed because you were an adult. Even if it hadn't been for that long. How belittling the man sounded, how he seemed to take pleasure in making you feel small. Then, his mask came closer again, forcing you to lean a little more backward.

"Run, little girl," the Grabber hissed, and without a second thought, you spun on your heels and you ran. With a twist of your body, you broke free from his grasp, feet pounding against the forest floor as you sprinted toward safety.

You could hear him, the laughter that bubbled up from his throat, rich and deep and terrifying.

"Run, little witch, run," he taunted, delight evident in each syllable. "I do so love a chase."

Branches whipped against your face, leaving hot, stinging trails in their wake. Your lungs burned with exertion, the distance between you and the safety of the school shrinking with every desperate stride.

You could reach it, you had to. At this point you didn’t even care if any of the guards spotted you and if they crucioed you until you wished you had never been born. Anything was better than this. Anyone was better than this man. This demon who you’d read about.

Kidnapping. Torture. Unethical spells.

If he got you, you’d never see the light of day again. You’d be done for. You'd die a horrid death.

The outline of the school loomed into view. Just a little further. You pushed yourself beyond your limits, limbs stretching, going faster than you ever had, before your freedom was snatched away. An arm snaked around your waist, making you tumble. His hands clamped over your mouth, stifling the scream that tried to escape. Together, you crashed into the underbrush, his chest, a wall of heat and hardness, pressed against your back. The scent of him enveloped you—earth and sweat and something darker, unnamable.

You fought to breathe, feeling the strain of his fingers against your lips, pushing tightly so they couldn’t even part. You tried to wiggle out of his grip but he only tightened it, hissing in your ear as something hard poked against your butt and you instantly came to a still, eyes wide open. That wasn’t…?

"Shhh," he hissed as a guard's lantern light flickered in the distance. "Not a sound."

You had no choice but to wait in his embrace, feeling his chest heave rapidly up and down behind you. His palm warm against your lips, his heart hammering against your spine. Sweat from his naked chest brushed against your robe.

The moment stretched, an eternity wrapped in seconds, until silence returned and the light of the lantern disappeared into the dimness of the night. Then he rose, pulling you with him, his grip ironclad and unyielding.

"Be silent. Don't make this difficult," he commanded, his hand was upon your arm, gripping you tight, as a wand was raised by the other. It took less than a second for you to realize what was about to happen, but you didn’t have time to counter his spell or try and get away.

You knew what came next—the sensation of being squeezed through an impossibly tiny space, the world blurring into darkness. Apparition. A forced journey to an unknown hell.

You now stood somewhere else, in someone’s living room by the sights of it, too busy taking in your surroundings to stop how the Grabber replaced his hand from your arm to your neck. The squeeze was painful, bringing tears to your eyes, and your hands darted up to try and alleviate his grip. But to no avail.

The man forced you to walk from the living room to the kitchen. Standing in front of a white door, you couldn’t distinguish the soft muttered words that were muffled by the mask, but it was clear he was using some kind of magic to unlock and open it.

A deep and dark room appeared, a staircase leading down to it. Like a basement full of concrete. Then he pushed you through the door.

The grip he had on your neck was firm enough that it became difficult to breathe, as he guided you down the stairs and into what seemed to be a grey and mostly empty room.

The basement was a tomb of dampness and decay. You were thrown onto a mattress that reeked of rot, each spring groaning in protest. He loomed over you, a shadow stripped of humanity.

"Let me have a look at you," he demanded, settling before you and reaching out without expecting an answer.

You felt like a trapped animal and tried to crawl away, but your robes obstructed your movements. And where would you go? There was only a wall behind you, the grey concrete looked chipped and filthy, but also sturdy. You’d need your wand to get out of here.

The man’s hands were already untying your robe, pushing the cloak aside at both sides. Fear twisted inside you, a serpent coiling tighter with every passing second. Veins were visible on the male’s hands. He must be an older man, you thought. And strong.

You tried to struggle and pushed your hands against his arms in an attempt to stop him. But he only stopped his movements to shush you, angling his mask your way before his hands slid past the fabric of your clothes once more.

"Yellow and black," he mused, fingering the edge of your school robe with a touch that was both reverent and mocking. "I always had a thing for Hufflepuffs... loyal, kind, innocent. Wouldn't harm a fly." His voice dripped with sarcasm even as his fingers delicately parted the fabric to reveal your uniform beneath.

You held your breath, trying to shrink away from his probing gaze, but here there was no safety for you. He leaned in closer, heat radiating from his body as you deliberately tried not to look at the bulge he was sporting in his pants. "But innocence is often just a facade... physically they are pure. But mentally," here he chuckled.

"Please..." The word escaped your lips as a whisper, a feeble attempt to preserve some dignity.

A low growl rumbled from the depths of his chest and his nails pressed into your skin as his grip on you became more bold. “I like it when you beg. Makes you look cute, honey.”

You whimpered sadly, realizing that begging wasn’t going to save your life.

"Quiet now," he murmured, his voice a velvet threat. "You won’t need this."

The robe was pushed down your shoulders without a fight.

"Shh," he hushed you, his fingers sliding up the sensitive flesh of your bare thigh, just above your stockings, causing an involuntary flinch.

His coarse fingertips traced dangerously close to your skirt now. You couldn’t help it. You weren’t a fighter like the Slytherins or Gryffindors were, but you had your boundaries. With a sharp movement, you brought your elbows down to harm the man, but the Grabber was quicker. He caught your wrists with just one hand. A sad realization that his hands were large and strong enough to subdue you. You wiggled ineffectively, feeling the grip around both your wrists tighten.

"Cute," he chuckled darkly, taking pleasure in the shiver that coursed through you.

"See," he breathed out, his hand venturing beneath the pleated skirt, touching you where no one had ever touched before. "You are going to love this." His words were poison, staining the rawness of the moment with vile certainty.

"Stop," you tried to command, but it came out as a whimper, your own body betraying you under his invasive touch.

His fingertips stroked past your covered folds, the crotch of your panties dampening with each intimidating stroke. The pressure was just right, pressing down tightly enough to stimulate your clit through the soft cotton layer until he had you squirming. Soft mewls escaped your lips instead of pleas while he still held your wrists up with one hand, making it impossible for you to fight him off or crawl away from his touch.

"Ah, there it is," he whispered triumphantly as his finger traced over your damp core. "Your mind's as filthy as they come, little witch."

Panic clawed at your insides, yet amidst the terror, a spark of rage ignited. You hated him, hated his touch, his violation of all you held sacred. You loathed the way he made you feel; exposed, vulnerable, and worst of all, responding despite yourself.

"Doesn't this prove your point?" you spat out with venomous defiance, despising the trembling of your own voice. You were wet, you could hear it now. You felt your nipples peak underneath the fabric of your blouse, their tips pressing through the layers of clothes you were still wearing. But you had no doubt he had caught sight of it.

“Who said I wanted to prove anything?”

For a moment the two of you sat in complete silence while his fingers still rubbed your clothed core. Slick sounds emerged from between your legs while the Grabber stared at you. Was he waiting for an answer?

You tried to control your breathing, thankful when he finally lowered his other hand and with it your wrists. Your arms were starting to feel sore. Yet, that didn’t distract you from the warmth that was slowly building up inside your core. A tight coil was inside your tummy, your legs started to tremble. Whatever function your panties were supposed to have was rendered nihil as he flicked and fondled your clit through the now-soaked-through piece of garment. The fabric clung to your folds, making it easier for him to brush his fingers and the cloth deeper inside, even being as bold as to try and dip a fingertip in until you moaned and thrashed against him.

You turned your head aside, unable to look at him and his devilish mask as an orgasm was rapidly approaching. Your body trembled under his touch as the finger pushed against your entrance once, twice. And then suddenly withdrew.

Shaking, you sat there, blinking confused before you turned your head to face him. Your body felt hot, between your legs, it was burning with desire. The orgasm was so near that you could feel the first tremors already racking through your body. But he had stopped on the cusp of it, withdrawn as a form of pure torture. Leaving you undone, a trembling and whimpering mess on the dirty pale mattress.

You looked up at him, cheeks red and eyes full of arousal. Even forgetting to lower your arms now that his hold on you was gone. Not that you wanted him to have sex with you, but you were the epitome of a woman on the cusp of ecstasy - eager to have your bodily desire fulfilled. You wanted to feel good. Your mind was now conflicted, torn between wanting him to finish and wanting him far away. You looked at him, flushed, eyes begging him to finish what he started. No wonder a low groan escaped him while he squeezed the bulge in his pants as he rose to stand tall again.

“So innocent,” was all he announced before trying to run a hand through his shoulder-length hair. It must be a habit, you realized, mind still hazy with lust, because the movement had no purpose. The man’s mask was clasped behind his head with several bands. His fingers couldn’t properly run through his hair, and he had to halt his movement and lower his arm again.

You smirked up at him, as if you’d just found out a secret about him.

If you could undo those clasps, you could see his face. If you could escape, you could pass that information to the others. He’d finally be an easy prey.

A sudden movement shook you out of your thoughts when he suddenly dipped his hand inside the pocket of his own jacket. Your wand slid out, the hand in which he held it still glistening in the dark from your juices.

"M-My wand," you whispered, the sound barely escaping your lips.

"Shhh, little Hufflepuff," he cooed mockingly before holding your wand up high, seemingly to study it.

And you finally propelled into action. Your wand was an extension of yourself, of your magic, and it shouldn't be in his possession. You scrambled onto your hands and knees in an attempt to jump up and snatch the wand out of his hands, even if he was that much larger and even if you probably couldn’t reach it when you jumped anyway. But you had to try it. You had to get it back.

Your wand was the only thing that could get you out safely.

The Grabber seemed to have predicated your move. It only needed a whisper of his lips, and you sat frozen.

“It works well,” he muttered, words muffled by the mask. And you had no choice but to watch as he lowered his arm. Your breath caught as his fingers, rough and calloused from years of unforgiving work, slipped into the pocket of his dark robes, taking with them your wand—your lifeline.

He patted the pocket of his jacket as if to taunt you, the jacket smacking against his hip as it still hung open to reveal his naked chest. You could see his belly roll with each deep breath taken. He was still aroused, taking delight in playing these games with you.

A whimper escaped your lips, unbidden, raw with the fear of helplessness.

"Isn't that just adorable," the Grabber mused, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the cavernous basement. You watched, heart pounding, as he prepared to leave, the satisfaction in his stride unmistakable. "Don't worry, pet. You won’t be needing that while you’re here."

You watched him as he made his way to the door. If only he hadn’t put that spell on you and you could still move… But as it was, all you could do was sit and watch as he carried your only hope for survival with him.

“I think I’ll just add your name to the list of deaths," the low husky murmur of the Grabber surprised you. It came unasked, just another way he was mentally manipulating you, you guessed. "No one’s gonna ask for you. But you know, future reference. In case anyone decides to start prowling,” he paused, turning his mask to face you from over his shoulder. “It'll just be another whoops. My hand slipped. Killed a pretty little girl out in the forest. Mud-blood witch. I had my orders.”

Anger raged inside of you, boiling under the frozen surface. You wished you could grit your teeth, curl your hands into fists, growl even. But you could do nothing.

He'd report you as another casualty, another life claimed by the darkness he served.

"It’s a cheap trick, but it works every time," he said casually. "Mostly had boys before you. This will be new." The implication hung heavy in the stale air, a sentence without an end, and it was suffocating.

Why? You wondered. Why not just kill them? Why take them home?

The Grabber paused, the mask changed direction until it almost looked like the demon grinned. "I like to play a game. Only with the cute ones though.”

Panic seized you and you felt like you suddenly couldn’t breathe. He hadn’t just read your mind, had he? Merlin, please don’t let him be a Legilimens.

The Grabber fully turned back to you, the demonic mask’s expression seemed to have changed. But surely, that must be your imagination. Or had he cast a spell on it?

“Want to know what it’s called?” he taunted. And you thought. No. No, I don’t want to know what the game is called.

But instantly after, a different voice inside your head said otherwise. What game did he play with his victims, you wondered?

You almost heard the smirk that was hidden underneath the mask. “Since you asked so nicely,” he murmured, confirming your fear that he was someone who could read minds.

“It’s called the naughty game.”

Then he smoothly turned on his heels while a thousand thoughts clouded your mind. You watched him, his back to you as he ascended the stairs, leaving you to contemplate the twisted rules of his game. What happens if you're naughty? you wondered, a desperate plea for some semblance of understanding.

He halted, his silhouette framed by the dim light at the top of the staircase.

"You lose," he answered, the words echoing ominously off the walls.

And with that, he disappeared from sight, leaving you alone with the chilling silence, your wet panties, and your racing thoughts. ~ AN: More? ~

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sapphic-woes · 2 years

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Taking my crack at hero x villain wlw :)

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“Why…are you doing this to me?” Hero clenched her fists only to slowly loosen them, red nail marks clearly painful. Villain couldn’t breathe. The strain in Hero’s voice held her by the throat. The rage was exquisite, though preferably Villain would do anything for Hero’s anger to not be directed at her. Anything but retract her invitation.

“Can I not ask for a dance?” Villain let out a faltering breath as dark eyes drilled into her own. Apparently not. Villain paid the glare no mind, at least she tried to, plastering on a smirk as she stepped under Hero’s shadow.

“People are watching, Hero. I suggest you take my hand before they begin to speculate. We are as they say…hopelessly in love, no?” Shoulders stiffened, and a hand was raised–but rather than grasp her own outstretched one, Hero gripped Villain’s waist.

Alarm struck through Villain as she was brought flush against Hero’s chest. Villain had forgotten how different she was now. At what point had Hero grown taller than them? Once they had been the same–in both stature and strength, morals and beliefs, yet now…

“Fine. I’ll entertain your entitled ass for a time. But between us…” Hero raked her eyes over Villain, raising an eyebrow as if her smaller size amused her. “I’m more fit to lead, aren’t I?”

Now, Villain acutely realized, she was playing games with a woman she didn’t know. Villain swallowed, forcing her bubbling nerves to quell as she fixed Hero with an unimpressed smile.

“Oh? I do love an assertive woman,” that earned her a roll of the eyes, “it would be my pleasure.”

They both knew it was bullshit, Villain only wanted to drive her into a corner. It seemed to be working. Villain thought the veins in Hero’s neck would pop with how tight she locked her jaw. Really…at what point was any amount of attention Villain coaxed out of Hero truly good?

This was simply an arranged marriage where Villain held all the power. Nothing more. She couldn’t bring old feelings into this, especially with how Hero viewed her now. She knew this. She knew it all too well–yet the greed in her heart refused to subside. Would she ever be satisfied like this? Villain didn’t know, but still she leeched off what she was given, heart thumping once they began to dance.

The music was slow and dreadful, and the air was stale. Neither did anything to ease the ever-growing tension between the two. Villain expected Hero to fumble, yet she was fine on her feet despite being away from court for so long. How peculiar. She decided to make an issue out of it.

“You dance well–did you learn to dance with the sword as well as you fight with it?” Hero tsked under her breath, jerking Villain around for a turn.

“Must you force me to dance and torture me with your voice?” Villain hummed as if to think about it.

“Yes. Do you suggest we dance in silence? How boring.” Nothing came out of that, so she tried again.

“The ladies claim you came back changed.” That made her tense. Villain could work with that.

“A rabid animal. They say you stalk around like a ticking time bomb–not at all like the lady you used to be.” The tiniest intake of breath, the heaviest exhale to calm herself; Villain was growing giddy.

“I hear you completely lost it too. Screaming like a mad dog in the middle of the night. How terrifying…for the poor servants of course. I can’t imagine what it’s like. Already the family name is run to the ground and the manor is in shambles, and on top of that they have to deal with a sorry excuse of a noble, waving around a sword at three am in the morning–”

Suddenly, Villain found it hard to breathe. The arm at her waist had tightened to a painful degree. She couldn’t struggle while everyone was looking; else expose that the two weren’t actually as devoted lovers as they claimed. Villain shuddered but quickly lifted her glossy lips into a goading smile, voice raspy.

“Please, you’ll have to do more than that to get a rise out of me.” Hero’s eyes twinkled. She moved to dip Villain’s body back in the midst of the orchestra playing around them. The shadow Hero cast over Villain was harrowing, yet the wicked glare focused on Villain was intoxicatingly sweet.

“You think that’s all I can do? Villain…” Slowly, the pressure around Villain’s waist increased. Panic sparked in her chest, but she forced it down. At first, Villain scoffed, then she swallowed. Still, the strength around her waist grew. Just how…?

Villain gripped the sleeves of Hero’s tunic when she couldn’t take a breath any longer. Fruitlessly she tugged in an attempt to beg her for release. Villain knew Hero was stronger now–infamously so–but this? No rumor had prepared her for this!

Hero pressed Villain so close that there was no space for air between them, and Villain’s ribs felt like they were on the verge of breaking. However, it still felt like Hero could go on if she pleased. Mercifully she didn’t, but she also didn’t relent. Hero merely hummed as the music played on, acting as if she wasn’t actively suffocating her fiance on the dance floor.

Nonono–each second the dance went on, Villain found her will unraveling. Mere tugging turned into nails digging into Hero’s arms, and her smile all but crumbled. Now she gasped like a fish out of water for air, whimpering in desperation only to receive a mocking shush. Finally the song ended, and just as Villain’s vision began to fade, Hero let go.

Villain collapsed, arms wrapped around her sides. Desperately she coughed, heaving for air as tears brimmed the corners of her eyes. The ballroom erupted into chaos, and she vaguely could hear Hero gasp in alarm, spewing nonsense as she yelled at someone to get a doctor for the pain she caused.

What have I done? Villain had used her status against Hero. Anything to keep the woman she loved with her. She’d manipulated and forced Hero onto her knees…but now Villain realized that was only politically. Physically?

A hand at her chin forced her up, and through Villain’s blurry vision she could see Hero’s smile–her dizzying, satisfied smile–thumb wiping a stray tear rolling down her cheek. Herro cooed as Villain trembled, and for once the fear in Villain’s heart overwhelmed her excitement.

“If I try anymore, I might accidentally break you, idiot.”

#hero x villain #heroes and villains #villain x hero #villains and heroes #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #writing snippet #snippet #sapphic woes

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chalkrevelations · 2 years

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Meanwhile, in Torture Dungeon South, I’m taking a good look at the rest of the place, because who knows if we’re going to see it again, once we’re chained up in the bedroom.

Pete, my beloved, I CANNOT with your “are you shitting me with this” expression when Vegas tells you to eat whatever’s in that bowl on the floor. You and your continuing defiance and your steel core that refuses to break no matter how close he bends you to snapping - when you shove that bowl away and then proceed to look back up at him, all, wtf you gonna do about it, despite knowing exactly what he’s likely to do about it? When you spit whatever’s in that bowl back in his face? I didn’t think it was POSSIBLE, but I fell just a little bit more in love with you. And I really needed that response to make this scene bearable, because this one was probably the second hardest for me, after the bit on the phone with Grandma. The degradation aspects of it hit very very close to some of my “DO NOT WANT” buttons and were definitely worse for me to watch than any of the physical violence.

I keep seeing people talking about Vegas feeding him dogfood, though? I don’t think it’s dogfood, it’s some kind of cereal in some kind of milk. There’s a spoon and everything. And there’s no point in trying to drown someone in half an inch of dogfood. You can at least make a credible threat with milk, though. (You also can see it dripping off his face every time Vegas pulls his head back up.) This actually was one of the other important things that made the scene watchable for me - actual dogfood would have crossed some line that would have made this 1000x worse for my brain. Like, when I saw the bowl, before I saw what was in it, it’s like an alarm started going off in my head, and there was an actual weird feeling of relief that it was just cereal.

I also continue to be super impressed at the sheer amount of trust that Bible and Build must have put in each other to do these scenes.

Meanwhile, Vegas, YOU are such a little shithead. “Oh. I forgot to feed another pet,” with that stupid shit-eating grin, like you actually forgot and weren’t trying to emphasize that no, really, he’s less important to you than a hedgehog in a ridiculous Victorian birdcage. You 100 percent deserve how absolutely whipped you’re going to end up being. I cannot believe you’re alone in your torture dungeon with the guy you’re torturing and you’re still doing a bit for him. Your need to look cool would be truly pathetic if you weren’t standing in the middle of your makeshift torture dungeon and getting ready to try to drown a guy in half an inch of milk as part of a vicious temper tantrum. Well, maybe it is anyway.

otoh, y’all, I was inordinately excited to see the hedgehog came with them. It was a little uncalled for, how excited I was. I still desperately need to see the hedgehog falling asleep in Pete’s hands. (Because the hedgehog is Vegas, and Vegas is the hedgehog, with his spiky quills protecting his vulnerable little nose and toes and tummy.)

#pete phongsakorn #vegas theerapanyakul #and their hedgehog son #torture dungeon south #vegaspete #kinnporsche #liveblogging ep 11 i guess

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rookthorne · 1 year

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May God have Mercy on You, Because I Won't | ꜱʜʀᴜɴᴋʏᴄʟᴜɴᴋꜱ

Pairings; Shrunkyclunks Word Count; 2.6k Warnings; hurt/comfort, hostage situation, swearing, torture, blasphemy, description of blood and injuries, pet names, DON'T FUCK WITH STEVE ROGERS AND HIS BOY A/N; CAN I JUST HAVE A SECOND TO GLOAT ABOUT THE TITLE AND HEADER, PLEASE? I am so proud of this one. Okay done, thanks.

WHUMPTOBER MASTERLIST

There was no greater danger than provoking a man by taking what was his, and flaunting it like a trophy. Devils had to have their fun, too.

It had only been ten minutes into Bucky’s work day when the alarm blared, its shrill tone grated against his eardrums like nails down a chalkboard. He flew to his feet and ran into the corridor when a throng of people ran past his office towards the stairs.

“What the fuck!” He yelled over the commotion of stampeding employees and the alarm. Other agents were storming through the corridors and shouted orders to evacuate, while others ran past him towards the small armoury down the way from Bucky’s ‘office’.

Bucky frantically thought back to how this morning had started; breakfast with Steve, talks of a mission abroad, and then he was swept up and taken to work in a love-drunk daze. Steve should still be in a briefing - he can’t have left yet.

God, he can’t have left yet, Bucky prayed. A monotone voice called CODE 1 through the speakers the longer he stood in the doorway, and it only meant one thing; SHIELD had been infiltrated.

Steve - where the fuck was Steve?

Bucky moved to follow one of the agents towards the armoury, and amongst the confusion and panic of the other employees, he didn’t notice the gunmen advancing from another corridor to his left. The shock of being suddenly surrounded disorientated him, and he watched as one of the gunmen dared get closer.

All of their faces were covered by ski masks - a piss poor attempt to hide their identities when their accents gave away their intentions as much as their spoken words. “This one, get him!” One of them barked, his thick German accent dripping from every word like poison. Bucky felt his stomach revolt and flip with a new found terror. No-

Agents rushed forward when they finally saw amongst the chaos what was happening, but they were beset by another wave of gunmen behind them. Bucky watched, horror struck, when they dropped like flies to the ground amongst puddles of blood.

He was alone, but not defenceless.

Steve had taught him how to defend himself in any situation, and how to watch an enemy for openings, or any weaknesses.

Like hell I’m going down without a fight, Bucky thought savagely. The gunmen continued to circle him and he watched one approach, a strange barbed weapon in his hand that could only mean an agonising amount of pain was sure to follow.

“No-” Bucky grunted, dodging a hand aimed to grab his bicep and swung out, landing a punch to the gunman’s exposed throat. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

A sharp jab to his neck from someone behind him made him stumble, his hand reached blindly for the thing protruding from his neck only to fall to his knees - they had tranquilised him.

The world went dark before he could even yell for help. Before he could yell for Steve.

Drip, drip, drip.

It was cold, and the air stunk of mould and staleness. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry, whatever they had tranqued him with- he didn’t want to think about it.

Carefully and ever so slowly, Bucky opened his eyes, no further than a squint. His hands were bound tightly with rope to the back of a chair, and his ankles were tied to the legs of it.

The blanket of his now matted hair hid his roving glances around the darkened surroundings; a warehouse, bare of any product, and gutted from shelves. The absence of any sounds gave away the fact that he was truly alone, and with that assurance, Bucky looked up slowly to take in his surroundings fully.

Support beams were erected in every corner of the cavernous room, and there was a set of doors directly across from him - chained and padlocked shut. Another door was on the wall to the left, its frosted glass window betraying no approaching figures.

Bucky’s gaze shifted down towards his chest. “Goddammit,” he muttered, the sight of rope wound around his diaphragm was a damning one. His left arm felt heavy and pulled on his shoulder, the plates of his prosthetic weren’t shifting, nor was he able to move his fingers. They had somehow disabled his arm, but with what, or how, he didn’t know.

There was a table far to his right, the contents strewn haphazardly within view - his knife amongst them.

There was no way he could slip free of his binds with all of his assets unusable or not within reach.

You fucking fool, you should have used the knife, Bucky thought bitterly.

He had never seen these assailants, their brand and technique weren’t unheard of, however, but that knowledge was of no help to him when he was unarmed and restrained on what felt like a chair seemed to be especially designed to hold him.

“We have to make sure they send him,” voices carried from behind the door with frosted glass, and blurred silhouettes danced within view.

Shit.

Bucky hastily dropped his head and became deathly still, careful to still move his shoulders as though he was still breathing and in a deep sleep.

The door swung open with a crash and Bucky could decipher three sets of footsteps, one lighter than the other two, and one had a slight limp. Their voices were thick with an accent, not unlike the one he heard from the gunman earlier.

“Look at this pathetic piece of shit,” one of them spat, his tone revealed just how thrilled he was to have his captive still tied to a chair. Bucky suspected they were hired mercenaries; they were much too blaise in standing so close, so they possibly hadn’t been briefed on who Bucky was.

That was an advantage; one he would use.

“Are you sure this one is the right one?” Another voice asked, his accent much thinner than the first captor. Right one?

“He can’t let his pet-”

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly and he opened his eyes behind the cover of his lank hair. His pet?

“He’s awake,” the third voice piped up and Bucky tensed. Fuck.

A hand gripped Bucky’s throat like a vice and forced his head upwards and into the light. The sudden brightness burned at his retinas, and he tried to focus on the face right in front of him.

Bucky could see the man’s eyes through the slits of his ski mask, and he could have sworn they were black with hatred.

“Your boyfriend,” the man spat the word out like it was toxic, “killed some of our boss’ men, not too long ago.”

Bucky glowered up into the man’s face and didn’t falter when the man’s fingertips squeezed the sides of his throat. Keep calm.

“You’re here,” another man continued, coming into Bucky’s line of sight. Another ski mask. “So we can make sure it never happens again.”

Bucky’s focus shifted between the two men in sight until the grip around his throat lessened. He swallowed thickly, and tried to speak. “You’re making a big mistake-”

SLAP

Bucky’s head flew to the side and he winced, the curtain of hair covering his pained expression. The bruise was already forming over his cheek from the force.

“SHUT UP!” The man yelled angrily. His voice echoed off the barren walls and through Bucky’s already pounding skull.

It was dangerously silent after that.

Bucky’s heavy breathing covered the roar of blood in his ears, and he turned his head further to the side so he could spit out the blood pooling in his mouth. The feel of grit in his teeth and the taste of iron on his tongue remained, unfortunately.

Bucky slowly turned his head back to face the mercenaries. “What do you want from me?”

“We want your boyfriend to rescue you - his damsel in distress,” one cooed, his sickly sweet and honeyed voice made Bucky feel nauseous. “And then, well, we’re gonna teach him a lesson.”

Bucky raised a brow in shock. “A lesson,” he parroted, his voice slow and deliberate, as though he was addressing a child.

The man glared down at him and pulled something from his pants pocket. Bucky watched apprehensively as a syringe came into view, the clear liquid in the barrel ominous. “He’ll be too late to save you, though. A shame.”

Bucky struggled against the binds of his chest and arms in an effort to get away, but it was in vain. The needle stabbed his neck and the mercenary pushed the plunger, the clear cocktail of whatever chemicals they had mixed burned through the muscle.

The spread of the concoction was unbearable and excruciating, and Bucky couldn’t scream.

He could not make a single sound.

“There we go,” one of them said, stepping forward to closely inspect whatever was happening to Bucky’s body. The muscles of his shoulders went lax, and his head lolled to the side - he had no control over the entirety of his body.

Fear began to settle heavily in Bucky’s stomach and he broke out into a cold sweat. The burn of the chemical cocktail was spreading through every fibre of his muscles down to his damn toes.

He still could not make a fucking sound.

��Too much,” another commented, observing Bucky with critical eyes while he slumped forward in the chair against the restraint binding his chest to the chair. “The dose, it was too much.”

Too much fucking what! Bucky wanted to demand, but his mouth would not move. Steve, please, he begged soundlessly, where are you!

A gloved hand flew into his field of vision and he made a strangled noise of pain when it connected with his nose. Another blow landed against his left shoulder and the chair tipped to the side beneath him, and he landed with a jolt onto his right shoulder.

“Look at how weak he is!” One of the men cheered, while the other two laughed and circled around to his back. The ropes around his chest fell away, followed by his ankles, then his arms. It was no relief to Bucky, however, whatever they had dosed him with rendered him immobile and defenceless.

The chair was removed from his back and Bucky rolled forward when a boot nudged his hip. Get up, get up, get up, he screamed in his mind. Panic had begun to course through his veins and sit heavily in his stomach - he didn’t want to die.

“Look at that,” one of them mused, “we could do whatever we wanted to him, for fucking free.”

Please, let this be over soon, Bucky prayed.

Time seemed to crawl while he lay sprawled on the concrete floor, helpless to stop the blows against his ribs, his stomach, his everything.

The hits suddenly stopped, only providing a second of relief until someone grabbed hold of his hair, and pulled. His head left the floor and tears welled in his eyes, the scream of pain lodging itself in his throat. He wanted to scream “Fuck you!” and spit into his captor’s face, but his body would not cooperate with the chemicals still making its home in every system of his weakened body.

“Where is your boyfriend?” Each word was punctuated with a harsh tug on Bucky’s hair, and he glared back through slightly swollen eyes into the black ski mask, unable to find the man’s eyes anymore.

A sudden static noise coming from his hip startled the man into letting Bucky go and Bucky’s head hit the concrete with a snap. Gloved hands flew to the radio on his belt and Bucky realised it was the first time it had even made any noise.

There was a crash in the distance and the other two men stiffened, while the third fumbled with the radio. “What was that?”

Another short burst of static came from the flimsy speaker, followed by a cut off shout.

“Come in!” The one with the radio said hastily. More static was the only answer he received. “What’s going on out there?”

Another crash sounded past the double doors, this time much closer, as though whoever it was, was just outside it. Two of the men hastened to pull their guns free and aimed them at the door, while the one with the radio aimed his gun at Bucky’s head.

Spots were dancing in Bucky’s vision and the clarity grew gradually worse, and he couldn’t help but twitch his lips upwards the best he could in the tiniest smile, draining the very last ounce of strength he had.

Steve must have found him.

BOOM

The door rattled on its hinges and swayed slightly, the clink of the chains against the steel of the doors a demented tune - one hell of a doorbell.

BOOM

The hinges on the door frame cracked and warped with the force of the hit. One more and surely it would fly off.

“Stop!”

Movement from behind the door ceased at the command and Bucky began to pant softly, panic was squeezing his chest like a vice and there wasn’t enough air in the room. The muzzle of the gun nudged at his temple and he whimpered through paralyzed vocal cords, it was so quiet that the man wouldn’t have heard him over his own racing heart.

Steve- help-

“We have a gun to your precious boy’s head!”

The pearly gates of heaven surely were nowhere near as welcoming as seeing the steel doors fly open, revealing Steve in the doorway - a reincarnate of the devil himself.

Bucky watched with watering eyes as Steve tilted his head slightly, observing the sight before him until his eyes locked on Bucky’s. He could have sworn Steve’s eyes turned black as he roved over Bucky’s still limp and beaten body.

Steve- please-

Bucky’s captors stood stock still around him, pure terror written across their faces like a verse from the bible. They had not planned for Steve to show up - not like this.

“Son,” Steve started, his gaze now directed towards the man with the radio. “I may not be a man of faith,” he sauntered forwards, his blackened stare pinning the man in place. “But I can only hope that God will take mercy on you, for taking what’s mine.”

Bucky watched Steve step into the man’s space, a snarl so vicious took over his features so he looked like a twisted devil - the real Mephistopheles warping through time and legend to stand right before his prey.

“Because I fucking won’t.”

All hell broke loose in less than the blink of an eye.

Steve lifted the man up from the floor by his throat and threw him against the wall, while the other two scrambled for the exit to flee.

Bucky closed his eyes against a throb of pain in his head, but he listened to the sound of scuffling feet as Steve launched forward onto the two retreating cowards. They landed with a loud thud onto the floor and the sound of two bodies being dragged filled the sudden silence.

Another set of footsteps sounded from the blown open doors and Bucky heard Steve grunt with effort. “We’ll bring these,” Steve stopped to kick one of them presumably in the ribs, “bastards back to base. I want to have the first crack at ‘em.” The third set of footsteps retreated back down the hallway hurriedly.

Steve’s footsteps came closer until Bucky heard him kneel at his side, and he opened his eyes slowly. “Oh, sweetheart,” his hand was gentle on Bucky’s shoulder, a stark contrast to the bruising touch of his captors. “Can you talk? Squeeze my hand,” Steve slipped his gloved and bloodied hand into Bucky’s, and Bucky faintly squeezed.

Whatever was in that syringe still hadn’t left his muscles.

“I’m gonna lift you up, okay?” Steve said. His hands slowly pushed at Bucky’s shoulder until he was up and on his side. Bucky’s hair covered his face and Steve moved it carefully, smiling softly down at him once Bucky managed to move his eyes to the side. Steve’s eyes were no longer black with vengeance. “Hey, you.”

Bucky managed a small smile in return, relieved more than anything at the fact that his angel had arrived, just in time to save him.

Graphics & Header made by yours truly.

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vendettavalor · 4 months

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@tacticalvalor said: i'm just trying to figure out why everyone talks about you the way they do. + when you walk in a room, everyone stops. -> makarov to maverick >:3

⚔️ Something Special About You Prompts // ACCEPTING ⚔️

They know. They suspect.

In truth, he has never been quiet about the fact that his business has had some ties to the Fantasmal Forces. Funds, fuel, food, and weapons exchanged hands and paws and fins under the table. All while posing as an industry leader in technology and engineering developments. The rumors about his company are common knowledge - the human population gossips that it is worked entirely by Mythics, doing business with Mythics, and even led by a Mythic. But never has he spoken anything to confirm these rumors, nor has he ever been seen with any Mythic features. No ears, no tail, no second form - a fact chalked up to a well-done grafting procedure and a tremendous amount of self-control on his part.

Yet the fact remains that he does play both sides. He works now with an extreme human military group, funding their efforts just as he funds the Fantasmal Forces in theirs. Both sides of the board lie in his paws, each shedding blood which trickles down between the cracks and turns to gold in his hands. Simply put, he profits off of war. And he does so while maintaining the secrets of hid identity well.

Or so he thought.

Now the rumors have begun again, and this time, they come from a circle of men that surround him, armed with knives and guns and bombs. The realization of just how close danger lingers is cause for alarm. After all, before he was a businessman, he was a soldier in the same Fantasmal Forces he now profits off of. And he remembers vividly the cruelty and the torture he endured at the hands of the humans who captured him. His fear of being found out it is not without good reason. The paranoia fostered by the thought of his discovery while surrounded by enemies is not without good cause.

And now the comments are coming from his business partner. Is it any wonder why Maverick is on the defensive?

"I am what I am, Vladimir." The man says sharply and without further context or explanation as he squares up to the man. There is a hard, sharp look in his golden eyes. One that dares other man to question him, to challenge him. "I. Am. Maverick."

The Myth backs off with a low growl and displeased chuffs, adjusting the lapels of his blazer as he does. "Perhaps rather than irritating me with pointless commentary on the nature of the gossip that traverses your barracks you should consider the adequacy of your men and question if they are truly suited for our work. To be so easily put off by one man, even one of such fine caliber as myself, is pathetic."

#// god i hate him ❤️#ask : is this what you wanted #tacticalvalor #mutual : all of my best friends #response : i know it gets better from here #( ocm : maverick clawdio the tiger king of industry )#( v : got my sights on you )

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scentedchildnacho · 4 months

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The guy who always stays in the covered walkway by the earl and birdie entryway.....all I asked him was how long was his party going to refuse being like everyone and leave normally and he immediately lashed out at me claiming I was bitching and a dumb ass and nobody likes me....

So I was like loudly it's you man that sells marijuana and this place use to be peaceful and a place people could stop through and now your marijuana dealing gets everybody attacked all the time constant torture with tools like cars idleing meaninglessly to call victims a screw rape death and other bundy ness

I was like look it's you that sold your soul to hells angels or something a lot of people come through here and a status quo normalizes but if your here it's all the time torture with tools helicopters work sites car alarms constant death by rape threats

Because I knew he would try to accuse some of the young ladies for appearing a little like sex work or the Indians for looking a bit niggered and it's that man that creepy marijuana dealer that attracts constant attacks

And then I was like look you only know to speak in cliches to me because its all you can see about your own condition you join car gangs and sell marijuana because you know you have to be unselfish and no one likes you and your a bitchy faggot of a man to have to tolerate in the states under dictatorial cuba you really shouldnt act like elan when people do need defense

Then I explained if he can only speak in cliches that he should finally learn to speak English if he is some sado masochist that will go ho around these blocs and get the fuck off the street

And that was enough for him to scream loudly that he would really keep pounding my face in or screaming that he would hit me to death so hopefully that's the end of their creepy hick cracker reefer party

I know I should get afraid but I hate tepid boring stagnation and have never been able to tolerate abusive situations the way most people can like even if their teacher starves their meetings to death they sit through it because legalism won't give a settlement without clear evidence I notice the teachers are really abusive I witness and leave....

So it finally had to confess it more prefers mass murder to being a porn star and now that also is gone from group reason....

The security appears to be on policy to be a good example and so they don't really stay around people send them here to work a shift and they notice conditions and leave so

They put like danger around their security tent so their not just being snobby and mean and getting into a fight something about it is very dangerous

Well if I want to go to jail I guess I more have to be prepared for police largely evacuating it's conditions

Uhm that type of stereotypical if hostages even talk back about conditions that they will hitler them could be white....jews irish to tell you the truth most men outside of taureans cannot make enlistment requirements to never freak out at civilians no matter underground surfacing

Taurean william shakespeare most men cannot understand English about their dogs and never beating a dog

I'm sorry but it's Taurus and when in positive fazes they do too many drugs get involved with too many women....women to men?.....and have to toletate a business and they still don't scream at me when I eventually know to ask what happened during black outs....

Well when the fruitive aspects of life are ignored then a lot of people do whatever labor they can to calm down from very aversive positive stimuluses like people who force you to care for a large coolant box so they can plug in freely off it....

Anyway learning the underground and the preserves of life I do admit after this amount of torture with tools I definitely will ask Godists to truly terrify people of magic mythic beliefs like hell and eternity

I don't enjoy people who don't understand prometheus....their people willing to kill people in some of the most heinous for dissection reasons only just because people can't get off the drugs.....

That's why I don't enjoy that gender of woman in metropole grand Paris....the situation is genocidal then....it's just an apartment not a jail there is no normal reason you can't breathe and if you go to a house the hood will kill you there also....its genocide and he will never stop fixating on you till you will kill it

The hood is more charming but quite frankly then you won't be around people who will tell you their going to parasite you to death

Well it's a bisex if it's sadistic it's really masochistic......it doesn't speak English well and so has very poor cope ing skills and the surrounding neighbor parties gay rape it

The housing will claim their not involved in homeless problems and their upstanding citizens and the homeless are just a situation they don't like on their deserved vacation and truth it the surrounding neighborhoods are known for Colleen Applegate or shauna grant and their why men that repulsive come around believe ing a model GQ contract will come in

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spiteless-xo · 9 months

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Did you intend for Eren to be so over-the-top popular in TBAW? It’s funny (and a little alarming) that highlighting up his problematic behavior did nothing to temper the flames. You have them denying he even needs redemption! I wonder if anything Jean did could even be as horrible. I hope not but you love to torture us. lol

I don’t want it to be over but I am really looking forward to your explanations & behind the scenes writer-shoptalk on your Tumblr. I enjoy it almost as much as the story itself 😊

i knew eren was going to be popular, but i really didn't expect him to be this popular!! i think i goofed and should have put more jean/reader moments throughout the first arc to even things up, but oh well, i think the story will still make sense in the end 🤷‍♀️

i'm so happy to hear that you like my little ramblings!! and it's so funny to hear because on this question specifically, there's a lot more that i want to say but i can't because of major spoilers 🙊

part of me is excited for things to end in November so i can finally gush about all the little clues i left, what my thought process was, why i chose the final guy instead of the other one, etc. etc.

but another part of me is really sad because this is so fun 🥺 i truly feel like tbaw is a lighting-in-a-bottle scenario and idk if I'll ever be able to capture this amount of engagement again with the community for another fic.

#tiff.ask #tbaw.fic

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neekrobite · 9 months

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this was a long story i wrote out of spite and rage, from hearing that brand would want to taint the sky with fucking ads, fortunately this story helped me pass my english class, still though, why not share it with more than one person i say. this story is about a horrid nightmare dystopian like setting, taking the point of view of three different people, and another one, who has been just killed, i am not sure if ill continue this story or not, as it is unfinished, but i might. in another thing, this is how i more so see this fucking world, with how littered it is, i hear about peopel needing to go through suffering daily, with the threat of basically death over stupid petty shit, of the tops thinking their lives are worth pennies, all while i see the tops say they give euphoria, quick euphoria, you'll love this fucking piece of shit thats useless, of course, this one is violently exagerated, (especially that railgun part what) but honestly, it should be known, the world we live in is shit, it's all going to shit, it's all fucking being ruined by everyone, but there are people who are the one fucking it up so much more than the rest, and they could just not, but a number they know they want to always go up, and they will not let any amount of lives lost sway their will

WARNING, this contains graphic destription, torture, cruelty, and average american living condition (not actually but its fucking scary thats its mildly close)

The worker, act 1 Waking up, from what is just an advertisement “Get ready for our new quick euphoria!” They always open this, same advertisement, earlier than it truly should be to wake you up. Today another day working for The Company.

“Wake Time; 5:30 seven seconds in.” The alarm from The Company blared, at the end of its babbling advertisement. “Remember, don’t be late, or your pay will be reduced by another 5 Company dollars for this month.” The alarm mocked.

Finally you start to get out of bed after waiting, one of the few moments of slight silence of the day. The time of the day, where the only audible sounds are of those who can’t take it anymore, and speak. They’ll be dead by 9, maybe 9:03 if they get lucky.

“Get Up Time; 5:31 four seconds in.” The alarm screams at you, as other alarms in the building, owned by The Company start to do the same. “You’re slow again valued employee, this may cause you to be late for your Nine, Zero, Zero, time, for this we will take 1 of your hourly Company dollars.” Its expectations got faster yet again. Before it was 5:31 nine seconds in before they took Company dollars.

You finish getting up and walk over the Cold Box, the only vaguely reasonable thing. You quickly yank it, hoping for the advertisement that plays to be a 15 second one, instead of a 60 second one. It starts playing an advertisement, “Get long lasting euphoria for the cheap price of only $95.99!” You can visibly see the fake skin colour paint not fully if covering the animatronic, of what’s suppose to look like an interracial gay relationship. The animatronics give a fake uncanny smile at the camera, before it fades to black, and the Cold Box slowly opens.

You grab The Company branded Miracle Water from the Cold Box and try to run out the door. The doors shut, likely from the killings The Company Guardians did in your hallway last night. You try to open the door, hoping you got lucky. “Are you struggle financially? Work with The Company and get endless euphoria and make tons of money!” The advertisement on the door says, with a black women saying it all. One of the few advertisements that are still being displayed, that are old enough that the person in it is real. No fake painted animatronics, no audible echoing, none of it, all while being only 15 seconds. Likely one of the few advertisements that don’t make you die faster.

The door opens slowly as the advertisement ends. You can still smell the blood feeding the mold from the killings last night. Hopefully the rotting floor can be broken soon, to finally die from the fall.

You go to the elevator and press the button. “New f-“ The advertisement was cut off, today was a very lucky day for you it seems, the elevator was already on your floor. You get on and go to your assigned Company garage. It’s only two blocks away.

As you get to the bottom floor, you go up to the fake receptionist. “Hello! How may I help you today!” The receptionist says. You muster up as much as a ever facade as ever to say “I would like to exit the building to go to my assigned Company garaged.” You know you can’t stop at any point, or it’s word compiler would not understand it. “Understood, I will now open the gates for you. After the lovely advertisement from our sponsor, from The Company!” They say this, as always. “New from The Company, kids euphoria, now safe for kids to use even!” The gate doors show an animatronic child playing with blocks that have letters on them. Underneath them has The Company written, bigger than the letters themselves.

The gates begin to open. “Have a wonderful euphorically day working with The Company. Employee!” The receptionist says. As you leave the building, you hear two loud, earth shaking boom. Mud and veins go flying around you. You turn around, and see a small headless body, with the head right behind the nearly split in half body, in front of the building you just came out of. Must’ve been a child hiding, waiting for someone to open the gates, to hope to escape from The Company. They likely didn’t know of the rail gun detection. You shrug it off, as you had seen worse in the 23 years of working for The Company. Still saddening to see a child, why would anyone have a kid while being watched by The Company.

You look up at the sky. There’s no sun, never has been since The Company found out how to control the weather. Now all that’s up there is advertisements of Miracle Water, being projected onto the clouds.

As you get to the stoplight, on one of the few barely walkable sidewalks, a man approaches you, as the advertisement begins to play from the stoplight. They say in an unsteady voice “Please, h-help-p me. I-“ They stop, as they seemed to have noticed one of The Company Guardians. They look down, pretending to be just like you. You hear the sound of footsteps walking towards you, then The Company Guardians voice, through all their protective gear. “Well, were one of ya talkin to the other. You know that could make you lose…” They come up directly to your ear. “Valuable. Company. Hours.” You say nothing, and remain still, waiting for the stoplight. The Company Guardian turns to the other man. “And how’s bout you?” The man starts to say. “I, I wasn’t. Talking to-“ You hear The Company Guardian shuffle for their pistol. BANG BANG BANG…BANG. The man falls in front of you, still alive, but bleeding out. “glk kl gl” The only sounds they could make out of their mouth, the sounds of a man choking on their blood. The Company Guardian slowly lowers themselves towards the man. “Why are you so miserable? Are you not euphoric? Here have this.” The Company Guardian grabs the Miracle Water out of you hand. lk kck The drink makes as it’s open. “Here you go, have some more euphoria.” The Miracle Water’s substances inside began to slowly pour out, it was barely transparent, and slow as molasses. “There much better much more euphoric right? Right? RIGHT?” The Company Guardian began to yell as them bringing the drink quickly closer to the man’s open jaw. “RIGHT AM I RIGHT THIS IS EUPHORIC? YOU’RE IN EUPHORIA ARE YOU NOT?” The Company Guardian started to shove the can directly in their mouth. “THIS IS EUPHORIC! WORKING FOR THE COMPANY IS EUPHORIC IS IT NOT?” They say, the can now past the tongue. The man’s eyes now go limb. The Company Guardian holds the man’s dead head, by the back of the skull. “YeS sIr I aM nOw EuPhOrIc AnD.” The company guardian says, using the body as a puppet. “Good.” They drop the body, as the advertisement on the stoplight ends.

As you’re walking away, you hear The Company Guardian in the distance say “Another fresh body by building… three nine two eight five. Get a mind transfer over here before the brain completely dies.”

You reach the garage. The animatronic at the front desk is still broken, as it has been for the last four years. Fortunate that it broke in a good way, it doesn’t need it much more than a sound, to open the door since it broke. Saves you a minute. You walk into the garage where your assigned car is located. The path you take to start up the car is visible, from years of use. You start the functions of the car, each one will play a full advertisement before correctly working. You start with left hand mirror, to the window, to the back window, to the far back window, til all the basic features of the car have became clear. You now start on the one door you’ll use, as always an advertisement plays. “Come live like The Owner! At one of the wonderful euphoric Company Apartments! Come join us and live in euphoria!” The advertisement says, while showing fake photos of The Company Apartments. The car door opens, you’re finally able to drive to work without being detected as “unlawful.”

End of the workers act 1

The clueless profiteer act 1

Waking up, from your alarm beeping at you. The alarm says it is 8:30, just as you set it to go off. Another day working for The Company. You take a while to get out of bed, common for you. Not like there’s anyone to bother you for it. You start start to put on your work clothes, for the monthly basic inspection of work efficiency. You get out of your room and walk down the hallway, down the stairs, and walk to your kitchen. You open your fridge, to view what you want today for breakfast. You decide on having spaghetti, you take out the spaghetti sauce from the fridge, and start filling up a pot of water to boil. You start to boil the water with the noodles in it. In that time it was boiling you got out a sauce pan, and put the sauce in it to heat up. You drain the pot, and put the spaghetti in the saucepan while mixing it. You put your meal on a plate and sit down to eat.

Your phone starts ringing. It’s your cab driver. You answer it. “Yes what is it?” You say. “Sir I’ve been waiting for you for the last five minutes, did you decide to walk again?” The cab driver says. “Piss off I’m eating spaghetti.” You say back to them. “Sir you could be late if, we don’t leave now.” They say, while slightly nervous. “So? What if I’m late, not like it matters. Now just let me eat.” You say back. “Sir it may not matter to you but-“ You hang up. You finish eating your breakfast and get in the cab.

You just look outside the window. You see the nice buildings in your area, few people are ever actually visible inside of the. You don’t really care about what they do in their lives though, it doesn’t affect you in anyway. You look at the cab driver and say “You don’t normally ask me to hurry in any other day. So why today?” They say in a unsteady “Well, the uh, The Owner is, visiting…” You now realize the problem, you’ve never had someone above you, judge you before. Still unlikely that you’ll get any sort of major punishment. Even if you are fired, you have enough money to still afford living. The cab driver starts to speak again “If they think I’m the, reason, why you’re late, they’d...” The cab drive just stops talking. “They’d what?” You say after a while. “They’d might, punish me.” You think about what to say, you reply “Hey if they think they should punish you then I’ll take the blame instead, alright?” The cab driver seems to be a lot more relieved for some reason. “Thank you sir, I don’t think you know how much that matters to me.” They say.

The road is long, til you reach The Company Grounds. You were gift with such a privilege as to not live in The Company’s City. You know you truly couldn’t handle the smog from the cars, or be bothered to not be able to look up at night and see the stars, or deal with longer advertisements. It’d all be quite the bother for you. Fortune is with you to be able to live hours away. None of its problems can annoy you out here. You still want to know however, what is it like having euphoria giving products.

End of the profiteer act 1

The owner act 1 You wake up, naturally, in your big comfortable bed. You’re annoyed, it’s that one stupid day of the year, the day you need to spend a day at one of your many factories. A stupid rule, enforced by other countries, likely just to bother you solely. Still yet, another day being the most useful person in The Company.

“Employee, the lights!” You say, the Employee turns on the lights of your room. You see your gilded clock now, it shows that it is 10:42. You slowly, sluggishly get out of bed. “Employee clothes!” You say, the Employee comes over and puts your clothes on you. “Employee door!” You say, the Employee opens the door for you. You leave your bedroom, as you’re walking down the stairs, one of the Employees comes up to you and says. “Owner we’ve successfully implemented the clock change, we estimate that efficiency should increase by 0.4% increasing over all earnings by 1.8%!” The Employee says. “Good. Good.” You say. “Anything that can increase my earnings, should be implemented.” You say, like everyday. “Unfortunate news Owner, the yearly visit is needed today.” The Employee says. “I know, I remembered this stupid day, from the babbling of morons. That call themselves ‘leaders.” You say. “Employee, go start the jet I want this day to be over quickly.” You say as well. “Yes Owner!” The Employee says, and rushes outside to your jet.

You walk outside, and see your jet starting up. “Employee, jet door!” You scream, an Employee walks over and opens the jet door. You walk inside your jet and sit down. “Alright, Employee go to Factory next to…” You pause, and look at the map, for which one you’ve been informed is the best to go to. “Next to Company’s City five hundred seventy one.” You continued. “Okay Owner, heading to Factory next to Company’s City five hundred seventy one.” The Employee piloting the jet says.

End of the owner act 1

The euphoric act 1

You wake up, for the last time. You’re cold, and in a metal box with no door, or lights. “Hello?” You say. You feel an intense wave of stress wash over you the instant you spoke. “Jesus Christ!” You scream, but no one can hear you. Another violent wave of stress washes over you. It is agonizing, you can’t scream from it, it’s just pure pain. You fall to the ground in the stress, you hear metal on metal. You’re shaking, while laying on the ground. Then your finger barely touches something. You feel the stress disappear, and violent joy takes over it completely. Euphoria.

End of the euphoric act 1

The worker act 2

You’re on your way to The Factory, it is only a two hour walk from your Apartment, but The Company prevents you from doing so. By Vehicle is the only way it allows. You get on The Highway, and the sickening smog is here. The horrid fuel The Vehicles run on, it just leaves toxic gas in the air. Only on The Highway, is the only time you can’t see the advertisements in the sky outside.

It’s so slow, The Highway. It is all just Vehicles, every possible spot that could be filled is. All funnelling towards The Factory, because there’s no where else to go. Just dust, smog and bright lights is what you can see. Despite this, it is quiet. Only the sounds of The Vehicles motors are heard. Watchers are on the highway. They listen and look. Any irregular noise they hear is a way to be part of The Killings tomorrow. Any irregular action leads to the same fate. The stress on The Highway is violent, you can feel the stress of others. It’s maddening, but everyone keeps going, it is the only thing anyone here can do.

Every ten minutes, everyone has to stop on The Highway. The Vehicles play an advertisement at this time. Deafeningly loud, the voices in the advertisements scream at you. They are defaulted to the loudest they can, while you are fully trapped inside of The Vehicle. With all the other Vehicles playing different advertisements, in the same ways, it nearly becomes just a mumbling mess of noises, that sound vaguely like a voice.

You never get time to wait, always just having the nudge yourself slowly. Any slow down can lead to your death. One car touching another once slightly and you’re part of The Killings. You dare touch your horn and you’re part of The Killings. Even just one window, or mirror, not having watched an advertisement and not being clear will lead to you being part of The Killings. Everyone on this damned road knows it, otherwise they would be dead already.

All of The Vehicles in six different lanes, all funnelling towards The Company Grounds. One giant Factory of madness, wickedness and cruelty.

You finally reach The Company Grounds. After hours of slowness, poisoning and stress, you reach possibly the worse place. The smog from The Vehicles is sucked up into pipes outside of The Factory, just to be pumped out to the top, at the front. Still poisoning the air, but at least making things visible. The Factory is pure grey and black, the tar of the smog lingers on it, nothing is done to clean it. Hopefully it builds up enough that it destroys The Factory. The Highway’s road is now just dirt, but everyone knows where to go anyways.

You drive into The Factory, all you see is just the layers of Vehicles. It’s The Vehicle Holding Room. You are forced to pay the toll, six Company dollars. You struggle to find a spot to lay your Vehicle. Unlike The Company assigned garages, here there is no assigned spots. The people here aren’t mad, nearly everyone here would park in the same spots if they could, but The Company Guardians are here first and always. They purposely move their Vehicles to different spots just to watch the panic, and stress of everyone. They truly are just cruel.

You found a spot for your Vehicle, on the fifteenth floor. Of course, the only way to get to a work station is at the bottom floor. You’re forced to walk down there, all while trying to be quiet. You go down the way you came up, as it is the only way to get down. At the bottom floor you go towards the crowded door, the only one to get to working stations, and wait in line

End of the worker act 2

The clueless profiteer act 2

You’re on your way to The Factory. You opened the window, and feel the cold air on your face. You recall that it never seems to feel cold in, or even around The Company’s City, or The Factory. You casually say to the driver “Hey don’t you live near The City?” They don’t respond. You say “Are you ever cold near The City? I’ve noticed that it never seems to b-“ “No.” They say, cutting you off, then continuing “It’s never cold in or near it, neither hot either.” They say, in a mildly bothered tone. “Are… are you upset? Isn’t The City great though?” You say. The driver replies “It isn’t great, it’s horrible.” They say. “I’m very fortunate that I only have to get you, for my job.” They continued. “But isn’t The City suppose to be-“ “Euphoric.” They finished your sentence. “It’s not even joyful” they said. “Wait why are you only just telling me this now? You’ve never said anything like this before?” You asked. “Because I know I’m dead by tomorrow.” “WHAT?!?” You yelped in shock. “What do you mean?!?” You said confused and concerned. “We will be late, I know they don’t care about me. So they’ll just kill me, it’s more efficient for them.” They said.

yea now its unfinished, again not sure if i will continue this, maybe if i see another thing that induces ABSOLUTE FUCKING RAGE into that companies want to try then maybe

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seagodofmagic · 3 years

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somehow this week i’m managing my stress by rewatching early episodes of scandal and wow this show started out VERY innocent

#obviously later seasons feature the Deep State #and a truly alarming amount of torture #but right now it’s just like....confused about how the DOJ works #and convinced that a supreme court justice having consensual sex with a sex worker once 40 years ago #would be a scandal #it’s just truly and sincerely relaxing

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inkykeiji · 3 years

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little bit of poison in me

characters: dabi | todoroki touya, takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut and angst

notes: okay FINALLY!! very loosely inspired by tag you’re it by melanie martinez!! uhh dabi’s a drug dealer, keigo’s in his third year of university and a track star, reader’s in her first year of university. please, please pay attention to the warnings below! if keigo’s your comfort character and you cannot handle him being physically abusive and a drug addict, then you might wanna sit this one out! promise he’ll be painted in a more sympathetic light in part two. | aaah dedicating this to @rat-suki, because ur the only one who’s actually known the details of this fic since november, and because i put a lil something inspired by new moon in there for u ehehe <333 | title credit: tag you’re it by melanie martinez

warnings: 18+, noncon/dubcon, physical abuse, drug use & abuse + graphic depictions of addiction, mindbreak, overstimulation, manipulation, lowkey yandere vibes (which will get worse), daddy kink, a brother a lil too obsessed with his sister + questionably close sibling relationship, generally toxic relationships (possessiveness, jealousy), rough sex, semi-public sex, cumplay/cum feeding, minimal prep, degradation/dumbification, choking, kinda brat taming???

words: 14.8k

synopsis:

“Do you wanna come home with Daddy, princess?”

He’s caging you between his body and the murky convenience store window as he asks, both palms pressed flat against the grimy glass.

No. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, can almost hear your brother’s voice in the back of your mind telling you not to. But you’re too enticed in sapphire to care, drawn into pretty, almost glittering blue fire, letting the flames lick your skin as you immerse yourself in it, deeper and deeper and deeper, and allowing it to wrap itself around you, to consume you, to knock the very breath out of you as you gaze into it.

“Okay,”

It’s well past midnight, but the moon is still hanging high in the sky, illuminating the dingy shopping mall parking lot, its reflection gleaming on the wet, cracked concrete. Breathless little laughs and squeals of surprise and pleasure ring out among the vast empty space, your own voice echoing around you.

“Gonna get ya, baby,”

He’s chasing after you, legs longer than yours, faster than yours, mischievous little growls getting caught in his chest as you daintily leap away from him, just out his grasp again, the tips of his fingers grazing the soft linin of your dress.

“No!” you giggle, pushing your burning thighs to keep running just a bit longer, propelling you forward.

But he’s getting closer and closer with each pound of his boots against the pavement, encroaching on you more and more with each tiny gasp exhaled through your parted lips.

Eventually, he catches you, like he always does, large hands wrapping around your hips as strong arms pull you backwards against a solid chest. You’re both panting, chests heaving with exertion, bubbles of laughter escaping your throats.

“Tag,” he breathes, hot breath curling around the shell of your ear. “You’re it,”

His arms encircle you, holding you tightly, your own arms covering his, little fingers digging into the skin of his forearms almost possessively as he uses his strength and bodyweight to guide you towards the car—a 1959 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz that runs like shit and guzzles gas like no tomorrow. But it’s pretty, and he loves it, with all its chrome and argyle blue, glittering in the moonlight.

“You’re being bad, princess,” the words are mumbled against the skin behind your ear, and you can feel the smirk on his lips. “Good girls don’t run away from their Daddies like that,”

And he says the word with so much disdain, cruel and mocking, making you feel sick for liking it.

“Baaad girl,” he whispers, dragging the word out.

A tiny pout settles on your face, eyebrows knitting. “Am not,”

“Are too,”

“Am not,”

“You are,” he chuckles, pressing you against the damp metal of his car as you finally reach it, his body still draped over yours. “What? You gonna fight me on it?”

Squirming a little in his grasp, you turn to face him, a playful glint shining in your glassy eyes as you nudge your nose against his. “I just might!”

“Hah,” the breath of air washes over your face, scorching and sweet, a stark contrast to the humid, cool air surrounding you, causing your exposed flesh to break out into chills. “I’d like to see you try, dollface,”

“Oh, I’m sure you would,” you murmur, yelping when his fingers dig into the supple flesh of your ass through your dress, grabbing a healthy handful and squeezing in retaliation.

“Mmm,” he hums nonchalantly, pushing his forehead against yours, eyes nothing but gaping pupils outlined by a thin ring of sapphire. “You gonna show me?” his rough voice fades into a whisper, unblinking eyes holding yours steadily. Calloused hands are sliding up your thighs now, slipping underneath the thin material of your dress and taking the hem with them.

“N-Not here,” you breathe, trying and failing to pull back from him, eyes widening in alarm as you feel his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties.

“Yes, here,” he responds, voice smooth as velvet as soft lips drag along your neck, sharp teeth sinking into your flesh like a hot knife slicing through butter.

Panic is beginning to rise in your chest, your throat closing up, and you choke a little on your words, shaking your head frantically. “Please, Dabi, no, we could just—”

“Wow, you really want me to bruise that pretty ass of yours,” he smirks, cutting you off and pulling back to gaze at you lazily, lips glimmering with saliva.

“No, I—”

“Especially with how much you’re saying no today,” he tuts his tongue in disapproval. “Such a bad girl; a silly, little, stupid, bad girl,”

Each word is punctuated with a sharp slap to your scantily clad ass, each bringing with them a sharp sting that you can hear, echoing out among the parking lot.

“Not bad,” you whimper, eyes shutting tightly against the familiar burn of tears. “Not bad, j-just wanna—”

“Wanna what?” he teases, voice mocking yours as his palm collides with your ass again. “Huh?”

“W-Wanna—Want you to fuck me right,” you rush to say, the words exhaled as a singular huff of breath.

“Oh?” he pulls back slightly, eyes searching your face, his own features contorted with false concern. “Is that so?”

You nod quickly, eagerly, and he can see it in your eyes, how desperately you want him to buy your lie.

But you know he hasn’t the moment that trademark smirk returns to his face, mouth curling up at the edges as he leans forward, lips moving against your ear. “I think that’s a boldfaced lie, babygirl,” his voice is low, sinister, dangerous, traces of amusement sown into his tone. “I think it’s because you don’t want anyone to see how much of a little whore you truly are,”

“D-Dabi, please,” you whimper, vision blurry with tears as you paw at his jacket, pleading with him.

He thinks it’s so cute when you beg, his silence imploring you to continue, urgently rambling on in your quest to convince him.

“I-I want you to really fuck me; I want you to leave b-bruises all over my body, I want to feel you in my tummy, I want you t-to stuff me so full of cum that it goes to my brain and makes me stupid, please Daddy, I want—”

Slim fingers wrap around your neck and squeeze, forcing a cry of surprise from your lips and effectively cutting you off. “I’m gonna make sure you remember those words, sweetheart,”

✰ ✰ ✰

The thump of your own heart echoes in your ears as the Cadillac Eldorado thrums under your body, the leather sticking to the bare skin of your thighs.

“Open,” he demands, delivering a harsh slap to the thigh nearest to him, eyes never leaving the road as his foot presses down, car accelerating. Your thighs obey immediately, spreading as far as they possibly can in the cramped space, knees knocking against the door and center console box.

A rough hand, decorated with callouses and scabs, kneads the flesh once before sliding up, up, up, and then hooking in the elastic of your panties, Dabi spitting out a curse as he lets it snap back against your skin.

“Take those off,” he seethes, aggressively ripping his hand away from you as if he’s aggravated that you’re even wearing them at all. Your dress hitches up around your waist in your haste to obey, little fingers catching in the lacy material as your hips squirm, seatbelt cutting into your flesh, wiggling a little as you pull the dainty material down your legs.

He’s already holding his hand out expectantly and you press them into it, waiting for his fingers to close around the garment before taking your hand back. He feels them, rolling the fabric around in his palm, between his fingers, chuckling darkly as he chucks them over his shoulder a moment later, onto the dirty ground of the backseat.

Those were your favourite, but you know better than to say anything, forcing your expression to stay neutral, to keep your nose from wrinkling up in distaste.

“They’re wet, but not nearly wet enough,” he tsks as if he’s disappointed, hand finding your thigh again. This time, they part instantly, without any verbal prompting, hips pushing towards his palm as it skims the skin of your inner thigh.

“Now, I’m gonna play with this cute lil clit of yours,” he begins, fingers brushing the sensitive nub, words tumbling from his lips slowly, lazily, unhurried, as if you’re stupid, as if you need an ample amount of time for each word to sink in.

It makes your pussy throb, and the borderline malicious smirk that spreads across his face tells you that he felt it, too.

Speaking through his smirk, he continues in the same patronizing voice. “And you—you’re going to be Daddy’s good little girl and get nice and wet for him, so he doesn’t hurt his cock when he fucks you. Do you think you can do that for me, sweetheart?”

Yes Daddy, of course Daddy, anything for you, Daddy.

It’s torture in the most delightful way, coarse pads of his fingers just barely grazing your clit, just enough for you to feel it, just enough for you to want—no, need—more. Heat, thick and sticky, pools in the pit of your stomach, thighs straining to open impossibly wider, edges of the car’s interior digging into your knees as you desperately try to shift your hips, to press further into his touch, to evoke anything harder than these teasing, feathery touches.

Blunt nails sink into the tender flesh of your inner thigh, hard enough to make you yelp, entire body flinching from the sudden pain. “Big girls use their words,” he chastises, voice fading from a growl into a pleasant, light tone.

“Please, Daddy, I-I want more,” you whimper, hips still trying to catch your clit on his fingers, on his palm. “Touch me more,”

The hum that vibrates in his throat has your heart sinking, corners of your mouth tugging down as you blink against the sting of disappointment—you know that hum, know it all too well, know all of Dabi’s bizarre mannerisms at this point and what they mean for you. And that hum, the one that only lasts for a moment, the one that’s barely a noise at all, the one that doesn’t even sound like he’s considering anything, means no.

His eyes don’t leave the road in front of him, despite the fact that his car is going faster, and faster, and faster, whipping through the empty city streets, neon buildings and harsh florescent lights becoming nothing but a blur. And if it weren’t for the hard lump straining against the black denim of his jeans, you’d figure him disinterested; facial features relaxed, breathing normal, entirely unresponsive to the pathetic little noises he’s so effortlessly pulling from you.

It ignites a fire in your chest, blazing with the need to make him react, to make him pay attention to you.

Wearing your best pout, you arch your back a little, the action shoving your hips towards his hand again. “Daddy, Daddy,” you whine, low and needy in the back of your throat, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Please, touch me more? Please, Daddy, I want it so bad, want your cock so bad, please, help me get wetter? Wanna be dripping for you, Daddy, I wanna be soaking for you,”

“Fuck,” he breathes, smirk growing into a full grin as he glances at you from the side of his eye. “Such a brat,” he shakes his head, through the grin is still present on his face as he finally presses two fingers against the swollen bud, rubbing slow, hard circles into it. “You better be drenched for me by the time we get home, you little bitch,”

✰ ✰ ✰

Large hands are on your body as the two of you stumble up the stairs, nimble fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, obscene sucking and slurping amplified by the stairwell, bouncing back to your own ears, saliva slicked lips slipping and sliding together messily as teeth clack together, practically tripping over each other’s feet and fucking Christ he needs you, he needs you now, his cock hurts, goddamn it.

And you’d be lying through your teeth if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, all clingy and needy and desperate, hushed little whines catching in the back of his throat, fading from deep, rumbling growls as rough hands paw at you.

A sharp gasp is knocked from your chest as he slams you against the wall on the landing of floor three with such force that your head ricochets off the concrete, your resounding cry silenced by Dabi’s lips, tongue invading your mouth as he swallows your beautiful little noises of pain.

You can feel his cock pressed up against your hip, hot and hard and throbbing through the denim that conceals it as he grinds against you, fervent, eager, impatient.

That panic is bubbling up in your throat again, bitter and acidic and eroding, rendering your voice weak and frail as scabbed knuckles drag across your bare thighs, inching higher and higher.

“Da-Daddy, wait,”

“No,” he growls, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to break the skin. “I’m done waiting,” hands are rucking up your dress. “You made me wait that whole fucking car ride,” sharp hipbones keep your thighs spread. “I can’t wait any longer,” the clinking of his heavy belt buckle echoes throughout the stairwell, sending chills pebbling across your skin.

And then he’s forcing himself into you, shoving his cock into your tight little hole, a choked cry bouncing off the dirty white walls as your eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking from the edges.

The stretch is magnificent, little cunt aching as it sucks in his thick cock, and you swear you can feel the burning in your belly, little pinpricks of pain shooting through your gut.

“G-Gonna tear me in half,” you wail, head falling forward, forehead bumping against his.

“Shh, baby, Daddy’s got you,” a callous laugh leaves his lips after he spits out the nickname, the singular word filled with such derision it must sting his tongue. Large hands hoist you up, and your legs immediately latch around his waist, seeking comfort in the monster that hurt you.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Tears drip down your cheeks as you bury your face in his shoulder, the word escaping your lips in tiny half-sobs catching in your throat, little fingers curling against the worn leather of his jacket.

And he can’t help but soften a little as you weep into his neck, thinks it’s so cute that you need him so bad, your little stuttered breaths hot against his neck as you cling to him, reminding him that he is the only man that can make you feel like this; he is the only man that can make you cry while simultaneously finding solace in his embrace. It makes his blood surge, sends cinders searing up his spine, gives him a high better than any other drug every could, and he finds himself hushing you gently, twitching cock buried in your cute lil cunt, snugly pressed against your cervix.

“Okay, okay,” he’s saying as his hips begin to pump, slow and languid. “Quiet, Daddy’s gonna make it feel good, alright? Daddy’s here, Daddy’s gonna make it go away,”

The sweetest, airiest little mewls of Daddy, yes, Daddy, soak into the inky skin of his neck, sandwiched between uneven hitched breaths. He’s gaining speed with each thrust, though, working up a steady rhythm that has you practically bouncing on his cock, little wails of pain fading into whimpers of pleasure. The combination is dizzying, infecting your mind with a haze that is only Dabi, surrounded by him, immersed in him—glowing sapphire and burning hickory and spicy nicotine—unable to quell the little noises spilling from your throat, each one louder than the next with each bump against your cervix and drag against that spot.

“That feel better, princess?” he breathes out, pausing just to readjust his grip on your ass—to angle your hips just right, chuckling at your selfish, needy whine—and then he’s drilling his cock into you, head pounding against the spot that has his name escaping your lips in high pitched squeals that break in your throat, heavy belt buckle clanking against the wall with each of his thrusts.

It sends sparks of mind-numbing pleasure burning through your abdomen, your chest, straight to your very core and collecting there, each spark adding to the growing fire that’s beginning to blaze, followed by intense spears of pain, slicing through your gut and down the muscles of your thighs, legs beginning to quiver as ankles hook tighter, tighter, tighter, the heels of your sneakers digging into his back dimples, trying to get him closer, closer, closer, desperately begging for more, more, more.

Yet it’s all so much, too much, please, Daddy—the harsh sound of metal colliding with concrete mingling with your pathetic whines and his panted breaths, rough whimpers catching deep in his chest, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard a more beautiful sound.

“C’mon, babygirl,” he gasps, pace never slowing, never faltering once, even though there’s glistening dewdrops of sweat decorating his hairline, inky strands beginning to stick to the skin of his forehead. “Be a good girl and cum for Daddy, cum before someone catches you being such a sweet little—God, Christ—a sweet little slut for me,”

And your cunt submits, would never dare to disobey a direct command from its master, from its owner, clenching around him as you cream all over his cock, a sharp cry ripping up your throat as your nails scrabble against leather clad shoulders.

A growl rumbles, deep and dark and dangerous in his chest, as his hips piston a few more times before they still, tips of his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, branding his name in tiny blotches of navy and violet as his cock throbs, coating your insides with spurts of thick cum.

Head falling forward, his forehead collides with yours, chests heaving and breathing laboured. And he can’t help the little chuckle he huffs out as you wiggle your hips a little, eyes still closed as you rock in little motions against him, clit catching on his pubic bone.

Needy little bitch.

But he isn’t nearly done with you yet, because that desire, thick and sticky in the very pit of his stomach, only wants more, insatiable and voracious, desperate for more of your whines, more of your tears, more of your cunt.

You’re gonna make good on all those words you spewed in the parking lot, baby, he’s nearly snarling at you, cutting off your whiny complaints as he drags you up the final flight of stairs, stopping halfway to haul you over his shoulder with a huff and a deft slap to your ass, carrying you the rest of the way to his apartment.

“Dress, off. Now.” He orders as he throws you onto his mattress, pulling his shirt over his head, belt buckle jingling as he walks, still hanging undone.

And then he’s crawling over your naked body, lips attacking yours, smashing and smacking and slurping, a large hand wrapping around your wrists as he shoves his tongue into your mouth, laving over yours in slow, deliberate drags, pinning your wrists against the cold cracked drywall behind his nearly bare, minimalistic bed, squeezing hard enough to grind the bones together between a singular rough palm—a silent warning—and forcing a yelp from your throat into his.

“Don’t move them,” his lips mumble the command against yours before he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, between sharp gleaming teeth that bite down hard, sinking into the soft flesh and refusing to release until he tastes copper, the tip of his tongue tracing the harsh indents left behind, licking at your lip once more before pulling away completely.

“I want you to leave bruises all over my body!” he mimics, voice absurdly high as lips skim the curve of your neck, tongue darting out to trace along your collarbones. “Isn’t that what you said, baby?”

But you can’t answer, too busy sucking on your now swollen lip, trying to soothe the incessant throbbing as metal stains your tongue. That’s disrespectful, you think you hear him growl into your unmarred skin before something sharp pierces your nipple, clamping down around it and tugging. A resounding cry tears through your throat as your body instinctually bows off the bed, pressing further into him, a muffled snicker vibrating against your chest before his tongue flicks, licks, slobbers, thick strings of saliva glimmering in the dim light as he pulls away, breaking and slapping against his chin.

“Answer me next time I ask you a fucking question,” The words are spit so harshly they slice into your skin, head nodding fervently before he’s even finished speaking, blinking the bleariness from your eyes. Smoldering sapphire holds your gaze for a moment, burning into your very soul—digging, prying, searching, scrutinizing, his breathing slow, calm, controlled with each deep rise and fall of his bare chest.

You aren’t sure what it is he’s looking for as he peers into the depths of your eyes, but you don’t dare let your gaze stray from his, don’t dare blink, don’t dare breathe until he breaks the spell, blinking once as his lips curl up into a wicked smirk.

“I’m gonna turn your body into a work of art,” he promises you, voice low and guttural, forcing thorns of ice up your spine as lips drag across your jaw.

And he does, paints little galaxies across your skin with his tongue and his lips, asymmetrical blotches of blues and greys and purples, ivory bones scraping against your flesh, signing his name into his masterpiece in deep, dark indents of crimson and violet.

It aches and it pulses and it stings, glittery trails of salt water staining your cheeks, tiny shimmering droplets clinging to your clumped, spiky lashes, adding the finishing touches on the greatest piece he’s ever created.

And it’s so pretty, you’re so pretty when you’re like this, baby, covered in navy and plum and carmine, and, fuck, it’s a shame you won’t stay like this.

It seems he’s in a trance for a moment, in awe of his craftsmanship, of what he’s produced, breathing laboured as shining azure eyes drift over your body, slowly, purposefully, as if he’s memorizing every single nick, bite, scrape, bruise, burning the image into his brain forever.

His gaze floats back up to yours, holding it for a moment, pupils big and gaping and swallowing you whole—before something snaps, breaks, and he comes back to himself, remembers why he did it.

Narrowing slightly, his eyes darken, that sadistic smirk returning to his lips. And then he’s shoving his cock into you again, hard and leaking and the prettiest red you’ve ever seen, cute little cunt stretching around him for the second time tonight.

But little girls who act like brats deserve to get fucked like brats, he tells you in a snarl, slender fingers collaring your neck and squeezing slowly, slowly, slowly, crushing the column of your throat.

Everything’s beginning to grow hazy, vision sliding in and out of focus as those calloused hands continue to tighten, and tighten, and tighten. He looks like some sort of sick angel as he looms above you, nothing more than a shadow of sharp edges and smooth curves, inky spikes and glowing sapphire, haloed by the weak neon light that spills in through grimy windows. Jutting bones prod the soft flesh of your inner thighs, carving out a space just for them as his hips snap viciously, relentlessly, obstinately.

And it’s all overwhelming, overstimulating on every front, uncontrollable tears streaming from your eyes as you choke roughly on your own sobs, each one being forced from your chest by your Daddy’s harsh thrusts, only to get caught on the palm pressed to your airway, ears ringing from the slap of skin against skin overlapping those harsh words spit at you in his falsely saccharine voice.

Aw, no, baby, wispy words caressing your cheek as they float by, eyes starting to roll back in your head. Don’t pass out on me, dollface. I want you awake when I fill your cunt with cum.

The pressure around your throat lets up just a hint, and you wheeze in air, a rush of cold flooding your body. You can feel it, that contrasting, familiar heat scorching the pit of your stomach, beginning to curl in on itself more, and more, and more with each pump of his hips, until it explodes, your body arching off the mattress, unintentionally pressing into the hand adorning your neck, restricting your air entirely.

The chuckle that leaves his lips as you choke yourself is dark, would send spears of ice slicing through your veins if you weren’t otherwise focused on trying to fill your lungs with air. Nothing leaves your mouth other than a few choked whines, barely more than a huff of light breath.

But his hips don’t slow, and he’s glaring down at you with parted lips and lidded eyes, pupils gaping, so large you’re unable to detect even the slightest hint of blue outlining them—nothing but big black orbs, absorbing everything in their vision, sucking everything from you, every hitched sob and soft whine and gorgeous wince, each time he pounds against your cervix.

And it’s how your looking up at him—with those gleaming, adoring eyes and that blissful, fucked out grin—that has him cumming with a shuddered f-fuck, forcing his eyes to stay open as he pumps you full of thick cum, desperate to catalogue every little expression that crosses your face, the way your eyes flutter slightly, the way your neck arches, the tiniest little moan slipping through chapped lips as his cock pulses inside of you.

You must pass out for a second, Dabi’s calloused palm lightly tapping against your cheek as he murmurs to you in that sinful, silky voice, sugared sentiments twining around your exhausted body.

Wake up, princess. Daddy isn’t done playing with you yet.

Words tumble past your lips in a mumble, though you aren’t quite sure what you’re saying—everything feels hazy, like you’re gazing through a thin cloud of smoke, and despite the fact that you can barely move, your body feels light, almost floaty in a way, entirely numb to the immense pain it has endured thus far.

Two fingers, coated in thick, gleaming cream, are thrust into your gasping mouth, tongue met with the salty, bitter taste of his cum. You cough around the sudden intrusion, immediately obey when he orders you to clean, sluggish tongue sliding up and lapping at and slipping between them, sucking the digits free of cum.

Good girl, he leans away and your heart flutters weakly at the praise, saliva slicked fingers dipping into your hole again to gather more.

“C’mon,” he breathes as he brings his fingers to your mouth again, sticky viscous glops collected on his fingers. They catch in the dim light streaming through the window, a unique mixture of pale moonbeams and hazy neon, cum almost glittering, almost pretty. “You wanted me so bad, didn’t you?” your head’s moving—nodding, you think, you can’t really tell, breathing shallow as your eyes belatedly follow his glistening fingers—and he smirks down at you. “Then eat my fucking cum,”

Lips part instantly, mouth falling open as your tongue lolls out, eyes drifting up to his and pleading mutely, begging for the substance—the very essence of him—and nearly moaning when he drags his fingers across the saliva coated muscle, curling and sucking his digits back into the heat of your mouth.

And he’s fucking high off of it all, pupils blown to hell, outlined by the thinnest ring of cobalt, barely detectable, visible only when it catches in the moonlight.

A lumpy pile of denim sits abandoned and bunched up near the end of the bed—he must’ve kicked his pants off at some point, though you don’t remember when—and his cock’s hard again, head brushing your inner thigh. It’s hard for you to tear your gaze from it, fleeting thoughts of stamina and impressive grazing through your mind, turning to smoke the moment you try to latch onto them.

He notices, of course—you’ve been staring at it for nearly a minute now, glazed eyes unblinking, soft little pants passing through barely parted lips. But it’s the way you’re staring at it—in the purest, unadulterated form of desire—that makes it jump, twitching a little against your thigh. You think you hear your Daddy breathe out a curse, think his rough fingers brush some hair back from your drenched forehead, think he says something along the lines of how much he fucking loves you, but in your dreamlike state, you can’t be sure.

Because then rough hands are on you, manhandling you as whatever trance he had fallen into yet again snaps once more.

“We’re gonna put that pretty, empty head of yours to good use!” he’s saying almost enthusiastically as he hoists your boneless body up, propping you up against his chest and securing you with a strong arm wrapped around your waist. “Whaddya think about that, hmm, princess? Want Daddy to use your little skull as his own personal cumdump? Huh?” lithe fingers squeeze your cheeks so hard your lips pucker up, a high-pitched whine getting caught in your throat. “That’s all it’s good for anyway, isn’t it?”

You try to nod, but all your head wants to do is flop back against his shoulder.

“Oh baby,” he cooks mockingly, jutting his inky bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I thought that was what you wanted?”

“T’is!” you mumble through his grip, drool beginning to collect in the corners of your scrunched mouth, dribbling down your chin. Gazing at him through the corner of your watery eyes, your resolve hardens, doing your best to hold your exhausted body up on your own, expression steeling as you force your woozy head to nod as best you can in his bruising grasp.

“Yeah?” he breathes, mouth curving into a dangerous smirk before his lips are at your ear, voice dropping an octave lower. “You’re fucking stubborn, y’know that? Stubborn little brat, just like your bullheaded brute of a brother,”

And then he’s pushing you down, shoving your head into the mattress and pulling your hips up, a hiss spit through your teeth as he purposefully presses into the fresh bruises.

Your poor little pussy aches, fucked open and raw by his cock, but you are stubborn—you can’t help it, it runs in your blood—exhilarated by the challenge and pushing your hips back weakly towards him.

Your Daddy chuckles behind you, but it’s one of those annoyed chuckles, one of those disbelieving chuckles, one of those chuckles that consists of an audacious smirk, quick short nodding that’s more to himself than anyone else, and a tongue running along his top teeth, sucking on the bones, before it fades from his face completely, replaced with scorn in an instant, eyes cold and jaw clenched as he delivers a harsh backhand to your ass.

Then his body’s blanketing yours, chest hot and heavy against your back, lips moving against the shell of your ear.

“Oh, you really want me to break you, don’t you?”

No, truly, you don’t, but you grit your teeth, eyes shut tightly against the sting of a fresh wave of tears, trying to stop your head from involuntarily shaking no.

He laughs again, this time mean and sharp and full of malice, as he straightens up, lining his cock up with your hole.

“Nah, nah,” he’s saying as he pushes in, and God, it still hurts, it still stretches you, reopening little sutures created in the stairwell. “I think you do—Actually, I know you do. And Daddy knows best, right?”

Yes, of course, Daddy knows best, Daddy always knows best.

And it burns, that relentless snap of his hips, driving his cock into you with deep growls and grunts, with such force that it’s jostling you up the mattress, little hands planting themselves in a pitiful attempt to press back against him, to keep yourself in one place. Every muscle in your arms screams at the effort, stiff and rigid from being held, kept, still and obedient against the wall for an extended period of time.

The dreaminess has faded again, leaving behind a dull haze, and it all just hurts. It seems to come in bouts, inexplicable waves of numbness and pain, alternating sporadically and sprinkled with spikes of intense pleasure, a potent mix of chemicals swirling in your brain, lust and desire and terror and anguish burning through your veins.

You’re sobbing into the mattress now, fingers curling tightly in his soft black sheets as your bleary vision begins to darken at the edges, mumbling out something almost in a chant—his name, you think, though you’re not sure, it all sounds muffled to your ringing ears—vibrations of your voice getting caught in your throat, hitching with your sobs and the rough piston of his hips.

It’s building again, licks of fire scalding hot against the walls of your stomach, the temperature rising with each drag of his cock against that spot, until you’re sure the flames are going to engulf you from the inside out.

Little squeaks, poor imitations of moans, escape your lips, interspersed with your pathetic wails. He’s speaking once more—you can feel it, his chest reverberating against yours, lips moving against your ear again. Something rumbles, rattles, deep and dark and dangerous at the very core of his body, and then he’s tangling a hand in your hair and tugging, hauling you up, a choked cry slipping from your lips.

It pulls you from unconsciousness’s grasp, just for a moment, clears the mist from your mind as he snarls against your ear, taking the cartilage between his teeth and biting down, hard.

“Thought I told you to answer me the next time I ask you a fucking question,” he breathes, and he almost sounds gleeful, contradicting his voice, so rough, so hoarse, so hot.

You did, Daddy, you did, you’re trying to say, trying to nod in the vice grip he has on your strands, the words jumbled and muddled and near incomprehensible, wet and messy and coated in spit.

“But I guess my—Christ—my cock makes you too stupid to do that, huh?” he’s panting now, in time with his thrusts, huffs of breath sweltering against your already sticky skin. “What would your goody-two-shoes brother say if he could see you, hmm? If he could see how fucking dumb his little slut of a baby sister goes from my cum,”

It’s too much, too much, Daddy, too much, the brutal pounding of his cockhead against your swollen cervix and the continuous stream of strained, husky, filthy words he’s spewing in your ear and the sting in your scalp and that spot, that spot, that spot—

It hits you so hard it’s painful, knocks what little breath you had right out of you as your entire body convulses on his cock, little cunt clenching and gushing as you weep Da-Daddy! over and over and over, the only word your soupy brain is capable of conceiving, body going pliant in his arms as your head lolls back against his shoulder, struggling to keep your eyes open while he continues to drive his cock into you, hard and fast and messy.

He cums with the prettiest broken whine you’ve ever heard—or at least, you think he does, entire body gone numb once again, think you feel his hips juddering and his cock pulsing, think you feel that familiar, thick substance filling you to the brim. Everything is still for a moment, his chest heaving against your arched back, and then he laughs malevolently, though it sounds far away, even though you can feel the sound vibrating against you.

“That ought’a teach you to say no to me again,” he spits harshly in your ear, giving one more hard yank on your hair before letting go completely, your abused body collapsing in a heap on his mattress.

It feels like you’re more Dabi than yourself now, with his name written all over your body, signed by his mouth, his teeth, his fingers, and his cum leaking out of you, drying hard and sticky on your thighs, his scent being all you can smell, all you can taste, heady and fiery. And as you crawl into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness—finally, finally—you think about just how much can change, and how fast it does, in a mere 92 days.

✰ ✰ ✰

Three months earlier

The air is hazy with thick smoke, heavy enough to dilute the already dim yellow light shining from the bare lightbulbs overhead. The stench of cheap beer, weed and sweat stings your nose, and it wrinkles reflexively.

You aren’t supposed to be here.

Throbbing music radiates through the house, causing the structure to tremble in time with the beat, the dirty drywall you’re currently pressed up against quivering in response. It’s so loud it hurts, vibrating through the warped linoleum floors and through your body. It makes you shiver in disgust, as if it’s some sort of parasite worming it’s way through your veins in timed intervals.

Your brother would kill you if he knew.

You’ve been backed into a corner—literally, surrounded by three college boys you’ve never seen before as they drunkenly leer at you. They’re a year or two older than you, glassy half-lidded eyes scanning your body in a way that makes you feel filthy, in a way that makes you want to scrub your skin raw to rid it of their slimy gazes.

They’re mumbling out something, speaking amongst themselves in low voices, peppered with raspy snickers that make your skin crawl. Pressing further into the corner, you quickly wrack your mind for something—anything—that will get them to part just a little, that’ll crack the wall of bodies you’re now surrounded by just enough for you to barrel through. Adrenaline begins to surge through your veins as you gear up, drawing in a deep breath, and—

“Whadda we have here?”

The men part immediately at the sound of that low voice, smooth as melted chocolate, revealing a figure with spiky onyx hair, an involuntary gasp escaping your lips the moment your eyes collide with sapphire.

“Ah, I thought it was you,” he smirks, peering down at you with a gaze so intense it feels like your body’s been set aflame. “What’s a good little girl like you doing in a place like this, hmm?”

Dabi.

This wasn’t the first time you had seen him, remembering the man with the pretty cobalt eyes and inky hair standing under a singular flickering lamp post outside of the tiny house you and your brother share, or lingering on the threshold of the front door, eyes lazily darting around the space as he waits.

He never comes inside. Your brother doesn’t allow it.

You’ve barely spoken any words to him, always responding to his polite greetings with shy nods or little waves.

But this is the first time you’re meeting him properly.

Feet bolted to the floor, you try to respond, only able to emit a pathetic little squeak.

He huffs out a condescending chuckle, gazing down the bridge of his nose at you, head tilted up just a touch, lidded crystal eyes glittering in the dim light. That trademark smirk spreads into something darker, something almost ominous in nature, something that whispers in your ear that it knows something you don’t, sending sharp spikes of ice shooting up your spine.

“Does your brother know you’re here?”

You shake your head quickly, eyes widening in panic as anxiety begins to rise in your throat. He isn’t about to rat you out, is he?

“Thought so. Dunno why I asked,” he heaves a heavy sigh, chest rising with the force of it, as if he’s extremely exasperated, as if you’re some sort of child lost at a supermarket and he’s bringing you back to your parents. “Alright, let’s go,”

A hand extends, hanging limp in the smoky air for a moment, waiting, before Dabi sighs again with a roll of his eyes, latching onto your wrist and all but dragging you out of the corner, maneuvering through the mass of sweaty bodies crowding the dingy living room.

“We’re leaving?” you ask dumbly as Dabi approaches the back door, hand still wrapped in a firm grasp around your arm.

“Yep. My work here is done, and you,” he tuts his tongue with a slow shake of his head, hidden smile on his face. “Your work here is done, too,”

“W-Where are we going?” you ask as the two of you stumble outside, shivering a little as the cool, fresh air hits your heated skin.

“No idea. Away from this place,” he looks back at your briefly, giving your wrist a soft squeeze before dropping it. “You tryna put your brother in an early grave or somethin’?”

A frown tugs at the corners of your lips as you shake your head again. “No, I just—”

“You shouldn’t have been there,” his words echo your thoughts from before. “You were in some real danger for a second, y’know that?”

“I-I know. Thank you for, uh, s-saving me, Sir,”

“Sir?” his eyes are bright with mirth, shining despite the weak light provided by the waxing moon. The smirk returns, and you feel it again—like he’s plotting something, like he’s got some big secret he’s hiding, a plan, something up his sleeve. “Sir is nice, but I think there’s another name you’d rather call me,”

Eyebrows knit in confusion, your eyes drift to the ground, mulling over his words. Something else you’d rather call him? Like what? You’ve only seen the guy a few—

“Still have no idea why you haven’t fucked him yet,” one of your friends muses as Dabi’s exiting his car, eyes watching him lazily from where you’re both seated on the front lawn.

“Keigo would murder me, literally,” you giggle a little, glancing over at the man with inky hair before looking away again, down at your lap as little fingers thread through the grass beneath you and shaking your head.

“Shame,” she sighs, twirling her sticky pink lollipop idly, the candy catching in the sun. “He’s Daddy as hell,”

A sharp gasp leaves your parted lips, eyes snapping back to her face and holding them for a moment before the two of you burst into a fit of giggles, your fingers tapping her bare knee in a silent warning that he’s approaching.

Heavy black boots collide with the front stone path, buckles jingling daintily, his head perking up in a catlike manner, trademark smirk forming on his lips as you both urgently try to calm your laughter.

“Ladies,” he nods with a wink as he passes, little giggles cutting off instantaneously, the two of you mumbling shy greetings in response.

That was the only time you had ever spoken to him, until now.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment. He did hear.

He chuckles slightly, dropping the subject with a shake of his head.

“So. Where to?” he asks expectantly, feet slowing to a stop on the cracked sidewalk as he taps out a cigarette. He whips a silver Zippo open, sharp twinge of metal swiping against metal cutting though the silent nighttime air. “Home?”

A shrill bubble of incredulous laughter escapes your throat. Dabi glances over at you, amused, raising an eyebrow in question as he cups the flame and brings it to his lips.

“Do you want to put my brother in an early grave?” you snort.

“I could just walk you to the street, you know,” he rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face. “Precious niisan wouldn’t even need to see me,”

You shake your head, idly kicking a rock with the toe of your shoe as you begin walking again. The campus is beginning to bleed into the city now, engulfing the two of you in familiar florescent light. “No, I can’t go home,”

“Why?”

“I…” you trail off, heat flooding your cheeks. “I, um, told him I’d be staying at a friend’s place tonight,”

Dabi gasps mockingly. “Baby, you lied to your niisan?”

Knocking your shoulder against his arm, you scoff, trying to hide the stupid smile the nickname conjures. “Oh, shut up,”

“Getting bold now, I see,” he hums to himself. “Could’a swore just a few minutes ago you were scared of me,”

“N-Not scared, just—uh, just surprised, that’s all,”

“Uh-huh, sure. Tell me again why you can’t just go to this friend’s house?”

“Well, she’s—she’s, like, y’know—” you shrug as a form of explanation, deflating a little at his unimpressed stare as he blows smoke out his nose. “She’s going home with some guy,” you mumble. “A-And I was supposed to too, but…”

Dabi tsks, shaking his head in false sympathy. “Sweetheart, you’re a teenage movie cliché,”

“Shut up,”

“You tell me to shut up one more time and I’m gonna have to do something about it,” he singsongs, a thinly veiled threat coated in sugar. Swallowing thickly, you glance up at him, blinking twice. His eyes tell you that he’s not fucking around, despite the relaxed features of his face, smile easygoing and gaze lidded.

“S-Sorry,” you murmur, looking away.

“Don’t you know? Good little girls don’t speak like that to Daddy,”

He spits the word out, almost patronizing in his tone, but that fails to stop the way your stomach flutters when it falls from his lips, fails to prevent the choked little gasp that escapes yours. He laughs loudly, your cheeks burning with shame.

Sapphire eyes glint in the pale moonlight, as if he’s just discovered the most valuable treasure, as if he’s just been given the key to the universe—a predator who’s just ensnared it’s prey, and the smirk that slowly etches itself across his face is nothing short of sinister.

“Do you wanna come home with Daddy, princess?”

He’s caging you between his body and the murky convenience store window as he asks, both palms pressed flat against the grimy glass.

“Hmm?”

No. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, can almost hear your brother’s voice in the back of your mind telling you not to, but you’re too enticed in sapphire to care, drawn into pretty, almost glittering blue fire, letting the flames lick your skin as you immerse yourself in it, deeper and deeper and deeper, allowing it to wrap itself around you, to consume you, to knock the very breath out of you as you gaze into it.

“Okay,”

✰ ✰ ✰

He only has one bed and no couch, he informs you as he leads you up four flights of stairs, explaining that the elevator’s been broken for a few months now, panting out the words just a little.

A soft giggle slips from your lips, amplified by the empty stairwell and echoing off the concrete walls, and Dabi looks back at you, amused.

“Something funny, princess?”

And although there’s a friendly grin on his face and mirth in his eyes, something in his voice makes you tremble, shoots scorching sparks up your spine and sends them rushing through your veins, and your laughter immediately cuts off.

“No,” you say simply, shaking your head and hoping that he didn’t catch the full body shiver that coursed through your figure just a second ago, all thanks to his voice. “Just laughing at the absurdity of it, s’all,”

“Ah,” he says sagely, nodding once. “Well, here we are,”

A tattooed hand gestures vaguely to a white door with a large, black 4 painted on it, the paint beginning to chip away, worn down and faded in some spots.

Dabi’s apartment is small, but you like it. He’s surprised, he tells you, expected someone like you—someone brought up with luxury, someone who’s never had to ask for or want anything in their life, because they always already had it—would hate it.

“Or maybe, that’s exactly why you like it,”

It’s a little snarky, the way those words flow out of his mouth, biting your cheek as they pass, and you wince a little.

“I think it’s homey,” you say quietly, tiny voice raw and honest, deciding to omit the fact that you’ve never really had a space that felt homey yourself. “It’s very you. I really do like it.”

His eyes soften at your gentle confession, features relaxing a little as calloused fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Then, I’m glad,”

For a moment, you’re positive he’s going to kiss you, staring down at you so intently with that look in his eyes as they slowly sweep across your face. But he turns on his heel a moment later, stalking into the tiny bachelor and beckoning for you to follow with a wave of his hand, flicking on a lamp as he passes.

“You hungry?” he’s asking as he walks. “I know this kickass noodle place that delivers 24/7,” he collapses on his bed, outfitted in black sheets, looking up at you expectantly when you stop hesitantly a few feet away. “You should probably eat something,” he continues, pushing himself up on his elbows, legs dangling off the end of the mattress. “Especially if there’s still alcohol in your—”

“Oh no, I don’t drink,” you cut him off without thinking, the words etched into your permanent vocabulary, sitting down next to him, just a hint too close.

“No, no, of course you don’t,” he says with a laugh and a shake of his head, sitting up fully. “Let me guess; niisan doesn’t allow it,”

A frown forms on your lips, brows knitting together. “Well I—”

“Ah! Stop,” he cuts you off with a disinterested wave and a roll of his eyes. “I’ve heard enough,”

Normally, you’d scoff at someone speaking to you so rudely. But with Dabi, with Dabi, it’s different. A little giggle escapes your lips without your permission, the bubbly noise surprising you, and Dabi chuckles in response, a genuine grin spreading across his face, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“So. Food?”

The takeout arrives at 1:56am, Dabi bringing the bag full of noodles and other appetizers—too much food for only two people, if you’re being honest—back to his bed, placing it in front of you and then crawling onto the mattress, sitting cross-legged.

The action surprises you—he doesn’t have a table, but you had been expecting him to bring the food to the small breakfast bar, complete with two mismatched stools, not his bed.

Old Hammer Horror films flicker on the TV as the two of you pick through the food together, Styrofoam containers littering the bedspread. And it’s…fun—it’s the most fun you’ve had in a long time, a strange, unfamiliar giddiness fizzing in your tummy every time you make him laugh, every time his eye catches yours, every time he shoves your knee and calls you dollface, despite the deep, honey-coated voice echoing in your head telling you that you shouldn’t be doing this and he’s dangerous.

✰ ✰ ✰

“Bedtime,” Dabi says simply as he returns from the little kitchenette after storing the leftover takeout in the fridge, using a hand to tug at the back of his shirt and pulling it over his head.

“Wha—”

The material hits you square in the face and an involuntary, entirely unsolicited giggle bubbles past your lips, pulling the garment from your head.

“Pajamas,” he nods at the fabric now bunched in your hands, but you can’t seem to find your voice to respond.

Teeth bite into your tongue hard enough to make you wince in an effort to keep a gasp within your chest when he comes into view. He’s lean—toner than you expected, muscles gliding smoothly under his skin as he moves—and you’re unsurprised to find his chest and back decorated with vibrant, intricate tattoos.

Of course, you knew Dabi had tattoos—they’re on his face, his neck, his collarbone, disappearing under the neckline of his shirt and resurfacing under his short sleeves, curling around his arms, brilliant flowing ink telling stories across his skin. They’re beautiful—they’re mesmerizing, inquisitive eyes slowly roaming the expanse of his chest.

But you had never noticed the soft, slightly puckered skin they hid. Scars, your mind provides dimly.

“Do you want to touch them?”

The rumble of his deep voice snaps you out of your revere, heat flooding your cheeks when you realize you were staring. There’s a playful lilt to his voice, and you can’t quite tell if his offer is serious or not, your eyes floating up to his.

“Here,” he chuckles a little as he sits down, offering you his forearm, flipping it over and resting it on the bed.

He lets you trace every single one. He won’t tell you where or how he got the scars, and you don’t push, even as curiosity erodes your chest. It’s impolite to pry, Keigo’s voice echoes through your mind, and you nod once to yourself.

You don’t have sex that night. He doesn’t force you. You nearly tell him that you’re surprised, what, a man of his stature, of his reputation, has a pretty girl in his bed and he doesn’t fuck her?, petty retaliation for what he had said to you when you entered the apartment hours ago, but you chicken out at the last minute. You’d soon come to find that some things are better left unsaid.

✰ ✰ ✰

Spring has just arrived, bringing with it cool, gentle breezes and swaying blades of grass decorated with glistening dewdrops that sparkle when the sun catches them in just the right way. The smell of freshly battered cinnamon sugar donuts and cheap coffee wafts in through the open window, drifting over your bodies and embracing you.

It rouses you, and your eyes flutter open to be met with Dabi’s face. And, God, he’s so damn pretty, with thick dark eyelashes fanned out delicately across inked skin and tousled onyx hair, breathing deep and calm, sharp jaw on display. Reaching out, you daintily trace over his relaxed features—circling defined cheekbones, sliding down the slope of his nose, trailing along his jaw—allowing yourself a moment to admire him before thick guilt begins to strangle you.

You should go. Keigo still thinks that you’re at a friend’s house, and doesn’t expect you to be home until late afternoon, but that belated bitter guilt finally brands the back of your tongue, face souring a little at the idea of deceiving your big brother. And after all he’s done for you, niisan tsks in your head, voice sweet and syrupy, and you can almost see the disappointment in his eyes as he shakes his head. We’re all each other has, you know. And you do, really, you do know, head nodding routinely, instinctual at this point, as you begin to push yourself up.

“Stay,” Dabi says softly, eyes still closed as a hand catches your wrist. You stop immediately, allowing him to pull you back down to the mattress as lids lift to reveal the most brilliant sapphires. Fingers trace down the curve of your neck and you hum, arching into his touch.

“Keigo—”

“Doesn’t have to know,” he cuts you off, his voice still quiet, rough around the edges and heavy with sleep. “C’mon. We’ll go get pie for breakfast, and I’ll have you home to niisan by dinner, promise,”

Giggling a little, you roll into him, allowing him to wrap his arms around you and pull you atop his chest as he flops onto his back.

“Pie,” you laugh, resting your chin on his toned muscles and gazing up at him. “For breakfast?”

“Why not?” He asks, and that smile is back again, the boyish one that looks like he’s hiding something, a little amusing secret just for him, the one that induces a whole flock of butterflies in your chest. “It’s Saturday,” he shrugs as best he can, then squeezes you to his chest. “You don’t got anything to do, I don’t got anything to do...”

Crystal eyes glitter in the morning sun as they gaze at you, golden rays creeping through the small gaps in his thick purple curtains, swaying gently in the wind.

Molars sink into the inside flesh of your cheek as you think, and Dabi tuts his tongue softly, a hand coming to gently pull the skin from between your teeth.

“Okay,”

His lips curl into a smirk, something sharp flashing in his cobalt eyes. “Okay,”

That’s how it begins—with deceptively bright, youthful smiles and cherry pie for breakfast— and five days later, in the backseat of his Cadillac Eldorado while James Cagney flickers on a worn out, off-white screen and two of his fingers are three knuckles deep in you, he asks you to be his, digits curling in your pretty little pussy as he breathes the words against the shell of your ear.

You’re whimpering out yes as you cum, nodding almost frantically against his shoulder as your hips roll towards his palm.

That’s it, that’s his good girl.

✰ ✰ ✰

But it progresses faster than you ever thought it would—faster than you ever thought possible—like a shot of morphine straight to your bloodstream, pupils gaping as DabiDabiDabi surges through your veins, becoming all you can think about—all you want to think about, all you want to do, eat, feel, breathe.

Midnight double-features of old Hollywood films at the local rundown drive-in become one of the many staples of your relationship, finding comfort in the sharp smell of buttersalt popcorn stinging your nose, in the way the film’s sound cracks and pops as it travels through the car radio, staticky like an old record, in the way Dabi forces a cherry Jolly Rancher from his mouth into yours, the hard candy clacking against your teeth.

This is how you spend most of your weeknights for the next month or so—passing candy through kisses in the backseat of the Eldorado, tongues shoved down each other’s throats, stained red and purple and blue from the cheap artificial dye, hands wandering up dresses and little fingers tugging at beltloops and buckles.

On Saturday mornings—sometimes Sundays, too, if you’ve been a really good girl—you find yourself in a familiar red booth at The League—a little diner tucked away on one of the city side streets not too far from Dabi’s apartment—cheap speckled plastic glittering in the sunlight and sticking to your thighs as your favourite waitress, a young woman by the name of Himiko who insists that you call her Mimi, takes your order. She seems to know your Daddy—your Dabi—somehow, but you don’t press, because it’s impolite to pry, you know and niisan raised you better than this.

He always lets you pick what you want for breakfast, but Daddy always orders it for you, always reminds you the mornings you decide on pancakes that if you get those, you aren’t allowed any sundaes or a slice of pie, because too much sugar is bad for his babygirl, and he knows how much syrup you drown those things in, dollface.

But there’s one staple of your relationship that you love more than all the others.

Joyrides.

That’s what he calls them, those drives through the bad parts of the city, the parts with cracked concrete sidewalks and shattered glass and needles littered in the dying grass.

Dabi takes you along frequently, tells you that you have an important job to do, that you play a crucial role in this whole operation, because the police—including your father—have been cracking down especially hard on dealing in this area. But nobody bothers to question a seemingly innocent young woman delivering inconspicuous brown paper bags—bags full of pretty little pills and tiny baggies of white powder—to shop owners and crumbling apartment complexes, eerily reminiscent of a Girl Scout selling cream filled cookies and thin-mints.

Keigo would kill you, if he knew.

It’s an instantaneous rush, though, being allowed to participate in Dabi’s business ventures, being allowed to help. It’s a privilege, you think, makes you feel like he trusts you, and you absolutely live for the praise, for that gorgeous smile he gives you after you deliver the sweets to the client, for the passionate kisses he rewards you with for being such a good little helper.

Joyrides are the best. Because it’s just you and him, the Eldorado’s radio struggling to play whatever station it’s picking up on—usually some sort of sixties rock—as you cruise the streets in his absurdly large car, the sky smeared with strokes of faded pinks and oranges, peppered with wispy clouds that look like loose strands of white cotton candy.

And sometimes, after his work is all finished, he’ll drive you to one of those cliffs you’ve come to know so well and let you ride him in the drivers seat—precious little whines and pathetic broken whimpers spilling from your lips as you rest your head against his shoulder, gyrating your hips in fast, shallow little circles, using his cock like it’s a toy, just like he told you to—before taking you back home to fuck you properly, to fuck you right.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s quaint, the little house you and your niisan live in, with its perfectly trimmed hedges and well-manicured grass, a stone walkway leading up to the front door, which is painted white. White windowsills, white brick, white, white, white, the whole thing is white—bright, pure, untarnished.

It’s just enough space for the two of you, your adoptive father, an absurdly large man by the name of Toshinori Yagi, had stated proudly, the first day he showed it to you.

And it’s only a short walk from the university, his wife chimed in with a smile too wide for her face, nodding excessively.

It’s convenient, they had said, the day you received your acceptance letter and scholarship offer from the university your brother attended. It’ll be good for you to stay with your older brother for a little, before going off into the world on your own, they had promised.

You hadn’t really wanted to go to this university—would’ve much preferred to go away to school in another country—but you didn’t. Keigo knew it, too, knew your desire to leave, to see more of the world, to experience it on your own without that hulking shadow with the wild hair. But he coaxed you into it, convinced you to stay, just like he always does, begging you softly not to leave your poor niisan all alone as gentle fingers pushed locks of hair from your face, trailing down your cheek and coming to cup your jaw, reminding you that you’re all each other has.

And you had nodded, nuzzled your face against his palm, sought comfort and relief in the presence of your big brother, just as you always do. He was right; you had your entire life to travel the world, what’s the rush? Why leave now? Stay with him, just for a little longer.

But your niisan, your niisan has a secret.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know. Keigo has always had a penchant for living fast, after all, seems to somehow incorporate conceptual and literal speed into all aspects of his life—his marks in school, his record-breaking track races, and now, his personal life, too.

It started in high school. He was in twelfth grade. You still don’t know who gave him his first taste, still don’t know why he decided to shoot up that night, but he did.

And it made him feel invincible. It made him feel like he could fly.

He hid it well, didn’t look like a heroin addict—at least, not what the words ‘heroin addict’ usually conjure up. His topaz eyes were bright as ever, even if his pupils were just a pinprick; nails cut so short it looked painful, to keep from scratching and scabbing his body; was always sure to keep his track marks well hidden, methodical in choosing his injection sites, and kept up with regular hygiene, even if his wild, windswept hair did get a little messier.

Yes, he hid it well.

But he couldn’t hide it from you for long, didn’t hide it from you well enough, becoming increasingly careless the deeper he spiralled into the addiction.

And it takes a while for you to truly acknowledge it. You didn’t want to—not at first, anyway—didn’t want to believe that your all-star, top-of-his-class, golden-child of a big brother was a junkie.

So you ignored it. You ignored the way he began recklessly disposing of the needles in the small trash can under his desk instead of hiding them in the kitchen trash whenever your mother asked him to take it out, ignored the burnt spoon you found in the sink and the bloody Q-tips you found littering the counter of the bathroom the two of you shared, ignored the way those tiny orange syringe caps had begun appearing in odd places, seeming to pop up more and more frequently.

Yes, you ignored it, until he stole one of the shoelaces off of your sneakers. And you still can’t explain it, exactly, can’t explain why that was the final straw, why that had you gripping a laceless shoe in a trembling hand as you stormed into the washroom uninvited and unannounced, catching him with the string between his teeth, just as the last of that disgusting orangish-brown liquid sunk into his veins.

The words disintegrate on your tongue, escaping in a pitiful little squeak, all of the fury you felt towards him for his behaviour melting the instant your eyes catch the end of the injection, wide and unblinking as they stare at the needle stuck in his forearm.

For a moment, neither of you are able to speak, Keigo’s mouth opening and closing a few times as his eyes flood with tears, the prettiest topaz shining in the warm washroom light as they frenetically search your face.

“Sit,” you tell him, finally breaking the silence, your voice not your own. His eyebrows knit together, and he shakes his head a little in misunderstanding, but you persist. “Sit,”

Shoulders deflating, he holds your gaze for a moment longer before nodding once and obeying, sitting on the closed toilet.

“We have to—” you stop as your chin begins to wobble, swallowing thickly against the sob crawling up your throat, quivering hands rooting haphazardly through a first-aid kit. “W-We have to clean those, so they don’t get infected,”

Glassy golden eyes watch you intently, his chest hiccupping just a little as he wordlessly holds his arms out to you, armed with a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol, the scent stinging your nose.

There aren’t many—only a few little pinpricks on each arm, some decorated with dark blooms of periwinkle and violet, but they still cause your tongue to crumble to bitter, suffocating ash in your mouth.

Tiny fingers encircle his wrist, your touch always so soft, so gentle, as if you’re afraid to break him, and he chokes on a noise that sounds suspiciously similar to a sob.

“You don’t—You shouldn’t have to—” and he can’t even force the words out, breathing out forcefully through his nose as his tears finally overflow, glistening drops streaming down his cheeks, bleary eyes unblinking, focused on your little fingers as they continue their tender ministrations with so much care, with so much love it’s nearly stifling, and he can’t breathe, because he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve it—

“I want to,” a knuckle catches one of his fresh tears, swiping it across his cheekbone and leaving a glimmering trail in its wake. “Alright? I want to,”

And this—this becomes a habit.

✰ ✰ ✰

You don’t tell Keigo about your relationship. Not at first, at least, conjuring up flimsy excuses that become more ridiculous as the days pass, as your disappearances steadily increase. Dabi doesn’t want to, makes up some bullshit excuse about how he isn’t ready yet. But you buy it anyway, and you wait.

Until the morning of one of your niisan’s big races, the ones where multiple trainers and coaches come from all over the country to assess his performance, when Dabi shows up entirely unannounced and uninvited, makes sure he’s in Keigo’s line of sight as he bounces around at the starting line, and kisses the life out of you, right in front of him.

That’s the only time he attends one of Keigo’s races.

The rest you continue attending by yourself. Dabi doesn’t like it, doesn’t like to have you out of his sight at all lately, but he knows it’s moot to argue with you. You’re going, you told him firmly, the night before Keigo’s next race, whether he likes it or not.

But, boy, was your niisan fuming by the time the two of you arrived home that day.

He hadn’t cared that he had, essentially, lost the race, hadn’t cared that he didn’t even manage to place in the top three for the first time in literal years, hadn’t cared that he just blew several chances with potential coaches and sponsors.

None of it mattered.

With a rough hand wrapped around your bicep, he all but yanks you out of the car, doesn’t care that you’re stumbling over your own feet as he drags you towards the front door, doesn’t care that he shoves you inside the house so hard you do trip, crying out as your hands and knees collide with the cold tiled floor.

And he’s yelling, yelling at the top of his lungs, the moment that white door slams shut, shut so hard the walls tremble.

“Fucking Touya Todoroki!? Are you fucking kidding me?”

You can barely see him through your tears as you quickly flip yourself over, beginning to inch away on your hands and feet as you stare up at him, breath hitching in your chest.

“Wh-Who?”

“Dabi, for Christ sake!”

“T-T—” Touya?

“Oh Jesus, don’t tell me—He didn’t tell you his fucking name?”

No, you shake your head quickly, chest stuttering as the name echoes through your mind, your big brother nothing but a blur of crimson and gold advancing towards you, mumbling to himself about how no, of course he didn’t, why would he? Of course not, as he drags nimble fingers through his messy hair.

“To-Todo—”

“Todoroki,” he spits, so harsh it makes you flinch.

“Your coa—”

“Yeah, I know his father,” Keigo rolls his eyes as he crouches down, catches your trembling chin between his thumb and forefinger, and you cease all action immediately, freezing in his grip. “You know his brother,”

Your brow furrows as you belatedly search your memory for any instance of the name, gunmetal grey and snow white flashing through your mind, but everything’s too foggy, too hazy with the fear of disappointing your niisan more, eyes squeezing shut as you hiccup at the mere thought.

But then he’s sighing, always knows when he’s gone a little too far—you are very delicate, after all, so small and naïve and in desperate need of someone to take care of you, aren’t you?—collapsing back on his heels and pulling you into his lap as soft hands smooth down your hair, murmuring it’s alright, it’s alright and niisan’s got you, niisan’s got you.

“What’re you doin’ with a man like that, my little songbird?” his voice is gentle as he rocks your bodies back and forth, after your sobs have calmed a bit.

What are you? you want to ask, front teeth sinking into your tongue hard enough to make you wince, keeping those three tiny words inside of your mouth.

“I like him,” you mumble instead, nuzzling your face into his chest and hiding from those bright, inquisitive topaz eyes.

“You—You like him,” he snorts to himself in disbelief, shaking his head a little.

“I do,” you respond, a little firmer as you pull back to stare at your big brother’s face, eyebrows knit together in determination, sparks of fury igniting deep in your chest at the thought of Keigo thinking he knows better, when he’s just as bad.

“He isn’t good for you—”

“He isn’t good for you,” you shoot back, tone clipped as you level your gaze, squirming a little in his arms. His grasp tightens, like he’s terrified you’re going to leave, honey eyes holding yours for a beat before he lets out a breath, looking away, defeated.

“That doesn’t mean you should be allowed to see him,” he mutters, glancing at your tear-stained face for a moment before his eyes flit away again. “But…” his chest rises with a deep inhale, pressing against you. “I guess…I guess it isn’t very fair of me to, uh, judge you, is it?”

“No,” you pout a little. “It isn’t,”

He huffs out a soft chuckle, gazing at you from the side of his eye, a tiny smirk spreading across his face. “Stop being so cute,” he grumbles, squeezing you against him just a bit too hard, giggles spilling from your lips as your fingers curl in the cotton of his hoodie. “I’m trying to be mad at you, y’know,”

“Kei-nii,” you whine with a roll of your eyes, shoving his shoulder weakly, though there’s a smile on your lips.

“Alright, alright, alright,” he’s saying as lithe fingers brush some hair back from your face, palm resting against your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw rhythmically. “Just—Promise me, if he ever hurts you…You’ll tell me immediately, yeah?”

Blinking a few times, your eyes search his face, sobering up as gold bores into you. There’s something in his stare, something you’ve never seen before, something that you can’t decipher, and it sends chills pebbling across your skin. Swallowing thickly, you nod, little jerky movements as your eyes hold his. “Y-Yeah, promise, niisan,”

“Good,” he whispers, chin resting atop the crown of your head as he cradles you to his chest. “We’re all we have. Never forget it.”

✰ ✰ ✰

You only question Dabi about his name once, lounging around on his bed in the early hours of the morning, tangled in his sheets, wearing his t-shirt, with his large hand resting on your bare thigh. His head’s tipped back against the headboard as he exhales smoke in pretty little curls that disintegrate into hazy nothingness only a moment later.

“T-Touya?” Your hearts thudding against your ribcage as you almost whisper the name, barely audible at all, but his head snaps forward, sapphire eyes finding yours immediately.

And for a moment you’re terrified you’ve made a grave mistake, that you’ve crossed some invisible line you hadn’t had a clue about, his glare scathing your skin; but then his features relax, and a little smirk spreads across his lips.

“Ah, so he finally told you,” his voice is quiet, and you can’t read his tone, eyes squinting a little as you lean towards him. “I don’t go by that name anymore,” he speaks up, voice ringing out clear and strong. “Don’t call me that again,”

The or else is implied, and you nod meekly, promising him softly that you’ll never utter it again.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s been gnawing at you all week, sitting heavy like a block of lead in your stomach, the cuticles on your left thumb bitten raw in agitation. You need to tell him. You’re going to tell him, it’s just…

It just never seemed like the right time to tell him—then again, is there ever a right time to tell your older brother that you’re spending the entire weekend at his drug dealer’s place?

But now it’s Friday, and Dabi will be here in a few minutes, and you still have yet to let Keigo know.

Because Keigo is currently otherwise occupied. With a girl.

You hadn’t been expecting to hear the tinny laughter of a woman when you entered the house, arriving home after your last class of the day, hadn’t been expecting to walk into the living room to find said girl splayed across your niisan’s lap, staring up at him dreamily as endless giggles spilled from her painted lips, hadn’t been expecting him to be so completely enamoured with her that he doesn’t even greet you.

It burns up all of the anxiety that had been building inside you in an instant, turns it into boiling rage that bubbles and pops, noxious as it rises up your throat.

And so, you decide that you won’t say anything at all. If he’s too busy to even acknowledge you like he normally does every single day, then surely he doesn’t care if you leave, right?

“I’m going out,” you toss airily over your shoulder as your halfway out the front door, a small grin spreading across you lips as you spot Dabi leaning lazily against his car. He gives you a nod of acknowledgement, smug grin of his own forming on his lips.

Keigo shoots up immediately, nearly knocking the girl to the floor, moving faster than he ever has in his life as he catches your wrist and tugs, hard. A loud yelp sounds from the back of your throat and you stumble backwards, right into your big brother’s chest.

“Where? Huh? Where?” he growls out the word through clenched teeth, squeezing again. “With who? That—That fucking scumbag?”

At the sound of your yelp, Dabi straightens up instantly, usual lidded eyes now wide open and alert, zeroing in on where Keigo has ensnared you.

“Not like it matters to you, not when you have a whore to entertain,” you spit, and though your gaze is blazing, your eyes are filling with tears, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. “Right?” you push, after a few moments of silence.

His grip loosens, although he doesn’t let go completely, fingers still clasped around you.

“Princess, I…”

“No,” you snap, viciously pulling yourself free of him. “Don’t princess me. Not after ignoring me like that,”

“You’re overreacting—”

“Then so are you,” you cut him off sharply, already beginning to back away and blinking hard to clear your eyes of stubborn tears. “I’m spending the weekend at Dabi’s. I’ll see you on Sunday,”

Dabi catches you the moment you’re within reach, drawing you close to his chest for a second before pulling back. Calloused hands gently raise your wrist, sapphire eyes assessing the damage. His thumb caresses the rapidly bruising area rhythmically, back and forth, back and forth, and he frowns deeply, his gaze finally meeting yours.

“Does he do this often? Hurt you like this?”

And it’s startling, shocking, to see the overflowing concern in his crystal eyes, studying your face intently as you try to find your voice. You don’t think he’s ever sounded that serious before.

“I—No, of course not,” you shake your head, tongue tripping over the words. “We—Y’know, siblings fight, and stuff, it’s—he doesn’t know his own strength, sometimes, uh, forgets it, a-and I bruise easily,” you shrug, wincing a little at the serious expression still etched deep into Dabi’s face.

“If he ever puts his hands on you again, I’ll fucking kill him,” Dabi says slowly, softly, as if he’s reciting the morning news to you, dark eyes drifting up to refocus on the figure still standing in the doorway. “Do you understand me?” he asks, though his stare does not leave Keigo’s, voice still calm, almost serene. “I’ll fucking kill him,”

He won’t, you reassure him, countless times over the next few weeks. Niisan’s never intentionally hurt me, Daddy, he won’t, I promise.

And they’re all true, those words you repeat to him, over and over and over again, while you comb fingers through his inky hair or press chaste kisses against his scarred skin. They’re all true.

Until they aren’t.

You should’ve known, really, not to talk about it. He doesn’t—not when you’re cleaning his track marks or wiping sweat from his forehead, not when he lays his head in your lap as he’s coming down, eyes fluttering as your fingers thread through his hair, not even when you’re feeding him teaspoons of water to keep him hydrated as his body forces him to throw up nothing, again, lips dry and cracked, skin clammy and cold—and you shouldn’t, either.

“Have you ever thought about switching to pills?” You ask one night, casually, as if this is mundane, normal, to discuss while washing dishes. “I heard oxy is like, heroin in a pill,”

His jaw clenches, you can see the motion out of the corner of your eye, quickly refocusing your gaze on the bowl in your hands, the same bowl you’ve been washing for about five minutes now.

“No.”

“Why not? They’re more controlled—”

“I said no,”

“And I asked why not,” you spit, dropping the bowl from your hands. It cracks as it collides with the aluminum of the sink, the sound piercing through the tense air as you turn to glare at your brother, soapy hands on your hips. “It would be safer—”

“Marginally—”

“That’s still better than nothing, Keigo! Christ,” you sigh, running a sudsy hand through your hair. “They’re all fucking opioids, what’s the difference!? They’re all gonna get you high the same way, aren’t they?”

“No—for fuck’s sake—”

You wouldn’t understand, even if he tried to explain to you. You wouldn’t understand that he’s already attempted this, attempted to switch from heroin to pills, and that it wasn’t the same—isn’t the same. You wouldn’t understand that oxy doesn’t give the same instantaneous rush as heroin does, doesn’t take his breath away like heroin does, doesn’t warm his entire fucking body the way heroin does.

No, you wouldn’t understand how most of the time he feels like he can’t fucking breathe until he shoots up, wouldn’t understand how, at this point, heroin feels like an old friend, safe and cozy and more comforting than anything he’s ever felt before, than even your arms are, wouldn’t understand how heroin makes him feel like he’s fucking invincible, like he can take on the entire world in one day, like he can continue living.

It makes him feel whole again, full again, put back together with no cracks or missing pieces. It distracts him from how irrevocably shattered his insides truly are, providing him with quick, fleeting relief, just long enough for him to keep going, keep striving, keep breathing. But you wouldn’t understand any of that. How could you?

He’s sighing as he walks away from you, raking both hands through golden hair.

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t see what this shit is doing to you! It’s killing you, niisan!”

God, no, not the honorific. Not when you’re gazing at him with tears spilling from your eyes, little hands desperately pawing at his t-shirt, urgent just to make him understand, to get through to him for one instant.

“I-It’s killing you and all I can do is watch,” your voice fades into a whisper, breaking on the last word as more tears streak your cheeks, leaving small gleaming trails in their wake, fingers readjusting, knotting in his shirt and tugging, latching onto him as he keeps walking, jaw clenching again as he tries to ignore you. “Y-You have to stop—no, no, n-not stop, just—just slow down, yeah? Slow down a little, it’s—it’s too fast, niisan, you’re going too fast—”

But it’s building, and building, and his head is throbbing, and throbbing, and your voice is rising higher and higher, louder and louder, and it’s all just too much, and before he even knows what’s happening, his hand is cutting through the air, knuckles colliding with your cheek so hard it sends you stumbling backwards, tripping over your own feet as you fall on your ass.

He regrets it the moment it happens, the very moment his skin makes contact with yours.

But that doesn’t matter; the damage is already done.

He’s never hit you before. Sure, he may be a little rough sometimes, and his grip may leave a few bruises every once in a while, but he has never deliberately hit you, until today.

He never thought he would.

Golden eyes dart from his hand, still raised in the air from where it struck you, blood gleaming on his silver rings, to your face, small and terrified, crimson flowing down your cheek, mixing with your tears as it slowly drips off your jaw, and then back to his hand.

And for a moment, he swears, the whole world stops.

Then, a mere second later, his whole world shatters.

You’re trying to form words, staring up at him with impossibly wide, unblinking eyes, but they’re just escaping your lips in little mumbles, half-formed and coated in spit.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, nothing more than a pitiful huff of air formed in the shape of a curse leaving his lips.

It takes your mind a moment to register what’s happened, numb with dizzying shock, stupid with the most heartbreaking pain, dazed as tiny, trembling fingers raise to tenderly prod at the wound, wincing the moment they make contact. But the throbbing of your cheek brings you back quicker than Keigo would’ve liked, and then your eyebrows are knitting together, mouth settling in a wobbly line, blinking hard to clear your eyes of pesky tears.

And all he can do is watch, watch as you shakily push yourself to your feet, watch as your hand grips your phone like it’s a fucking lifeline—a lifeline he very briefly thinks about diving forward and snatching out of your grasp—watch as you turn on the balls of your feet and disappear down the hall, the slam of your bedroom door echoing a moment later.

You barely make it into your bedroom before your collapsing on the floor, wheezing out uneven breaths, sharp, hard huffs of air that slice through your tight chest with each exhale, vision blurry with stinging tears as you stare down at your phone, cradled in quivering hands.

You know that if you make this phone call, Dabi will never let you come back. You know that if you make this phone call, this is it. Trembling fingers hesitate over his name, those four glowing letters staring back at you, an unnecessary amount of various heart emojis cushioning them.

He doesn’t pick up the first time. Maybe it’s a sign, you think to yourself, a sign that you shouldn’t leave just yet, that you should stay and rot away with him for a little bit longer, remain with him for a little more and give him another piece of your soul that he can add to his prized collection as he slowly steals your life force from you.

But then searing pain radiates through your entire face, along your jaw and to the back of your head, and the coppery smell of blood stings your nose, and you press on Dabi’s name again.

✰ ✰ ✰

If he’s being honest, he would’ve never picked up for anyone but you, probably would’ve killed the idiot that thought to interrupt him during one of the biggest deals of his career—of his life.

“What?” he snarls as he answers, pacing along the wall outside the warehouse like a rabid dog, anxious and eager. “This better be important, sweetheart. You knew I was meeting with one of the bosses today—”

“He hit me,”

It’s hard to understand you when you’re still sobbing, words all wet and garbled, and Dabi squints as he focuses his concentration, feet skidding to a stop as his heart begins to pound.

“What?”

“He hit me. Nii—Keigo hit me,”

And then, his blood runs cold. His ears are ringing, vision fading in and out of focus as red tinges the edges, breathing beginning to accelerate, exhaled harshly through flared nostrils. The thin skin stretched taut across his bony knuckles has turned white as he grips his phone so tightly he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter in his hand.

“Pack your shit,” he tells you, voice oddly calm, cold and sterile and sending shivers skittering up your spine. “I’m gonna fucking kill him,”

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #dabi #takami keigo #bnha smut #mha smut #aaaaaah fucking MONSTER #anywayyy cant wait to hear what u all think!!!#dabi don't get mad at me i lost track of time editing n i've been real good going to bed on time #tw noncon #tw dubcon #tw daddy kink #tw drugs #tw:abuse

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delimeful · 3 years

Text

you cant go back (3)

warnings: panic, miscommunication, trafficking, non-consensual drug use, suicidal thoughts, food, mentions of torture, cliffhanger, these tags make it sound worse than it is tbh

When Virgil first opened his eyes, jerked out of sleep by sharp instinctual alarm, he’d thought for a moment that he was still dreaming.

It was the same face, after all, even with how frighteningly close it was, even with a vastly different expression painted across it. He’d been confused, almost relieved-- had they gotten away after all?-- and then he’d realized just what the Deathworlder had in their arms.

He’d lunged and come up short, forced to watch as the Human kept their arms locked around Patch even as the creature made unhappy little noises he’d never heard from it before.

It was so small compared to the Human, easily tucked under an arm and managed regardless of protests. Did they have no respect for the deadly grace of the other creatures on this planet?

They’d circled him from a distance, ignoring his warning twitches and outright hisses as thoroughly as they ignored Patch, and all he could do was watch, locked in place, hoping that Human prey drive wasn’t as high as all the rumors said.

And then the Human had left, taking Patch with them, and Virgil had been left to watch their fading heat signature and pray to Seryl that whatever the Human did would be quick. For both of them.

It wasn’t that easy, of course. The Human wanted something from him, badly.

He thought he had a fair idea of what-- or rather, who-- it was.

After all, he’d seen a near-perfect mirror of them, sitting bound and muzzled in their transfer ship’s holding cell where a Human absolutely shouldn’t be. Leond and her Second had been unnaturally gleeful for rotations before Virgil finally found out about the ‘successful pickup’, namely through stumbling across it by doing the routine security and safety checks that he didn’t trust the rest of these idiots to do themselves.

They’d cut him off before he could get to a comm to tell Janus, cornered him in the tight cell block hall, and offered him a deal: his silence for a cut of the immense earnings they would make from renting out a Human to any and all fighting rings.

He remembered the way the Human’s gaze had flickered between him and the others curiously as he argued, the way they’d struggled to bare their teeth derisively at Leond, even through the bars of their muzzle and the haze of whatever they’d been drugged with. It was one of the last things he’d seen before he’d ‘made a fuss’ big enough that his own crew had tranq’d him and ditched him on-planet to die.

“You’re right,” Leond had said, face smooth in the way that meant smug satisfaction for her species. “We haven’t fulfilled our half of the exchange, have we? We took an alien from that planet, so it’s only fair that we leave one behind.”

His limbs had been defensively raised since the beginning of the argument, but Virgil had fought side by side with these people before. They knew how to guard his blind spots, which meant that they knew his blind spots.

The Human had tried to speak through the muzzle, just before he’d heard the discharge sound of a tranq gun too close to dodge. He thought it might have been an attempted warning.

It hadn’t changed anything. He’d been the only one on that ship who’d opposed the Human’s abduction, and as a reward, he was going to be slowly interrogated to death by one of their clutchmates. The level of cruel irony was like something from one of Jan’s stupid operas.

Virgil felt another shudder of exhaustion. Stars, he hoped Janus would get out of there once he realized what they’d brought back. His best friend knew better than to fuck with Humans, and the crew clearly wasn’t going to listen to any interplanetary ethics lectures, so the best thing he could do was skip town. Better to rebuild than fall with the nest.

He hadn’t slept after the Human had left, flipping to his heat sensor vision and watching all night for their return, unable to relax after one of the most unpleasant awakenings of his life. And if it meant he didn’t dream about what could have happened to Patches, all the better.

The next day had come, and the Human returned, wielding that dull stick and asking more angry questions that Virgil couldn’t understand, let alone respond to.

The thing was, given enough time and exposure, he actually would be able to understand the specifics of what was wanted from him.

Like most long-term interstellar travelers, he had a Lator implant, and the more the Human talked at him, the more linguistic patterns and trends would be picked up and catalogued, making it much easier for him to put the pieces together.

Unfortunately, time wasn’t something he had an excess of.

Janus would have figured out at least the basics by now; in addition to being better with words, he’d gotten a more recent, effective upgrade to the implant’s software. Virgil had turned the offer down for himself, knowing that they needed to save money where they could, and figuring that he didn’t really need it. His job was to defend Janus. His First could handle the talking part of their missions on his own with ease, the chatterbox that he was.

It had seemed obvious at the time. A lot of good that logic was doing him now.

The Human said something at him, flashing his bone-white teeth as he spoke. Humans didn’t have guard plates over their mouths at all, and so every time this one turned to him, he felt as though they were either acting sickeningly overfamiliar or that they might lunge forward and try to bite him at any moment. He’d carefully kept his own plates locked, not willing to expose any teeth and have it mistaken for a challenge.

The Human was waiting expectantly. Virgil took a deep breath and replied, the same as he had every time he could, though he doubted Humans had access to translator implants.

“I am not here to harm anyone. I was abandoned here against my will. I can’t understand what you’re saying,” he recited in Guard-tongue, keeping the sentences brief and repetitive for easy translation pattern recognition.

The Human wasn’t extending him the same courtesy, his own sentences long-winded and full of unfamiliar concepts that kept tripping up the Lator programming. References, probably.

There was one Human word that he’d figured out fairly early on: Brother.

Clutchmate, family, the lookalike that was probably long gone by now.

He was almost glad that he couldn’t speak coherently. As it was, he didn’t have to be the one to break the news.

Almost, because the Human was stubbornly finding new and creative ways to freak him the hell out with each visit.

First, they’d figured out fairly quickly that he was slowly starving.

Virgil had flooded his plates right to pitch on their first meeting, and hadn’t been calm enough to stop the defensive reaction since, which had quickly drained what little hydration stores he’d had left. Between the drying out of his plates and the fact that he’d gotten too worked up and blacked out for a moment during an interrogation, his fading health wasn’t exactly subtle.

He’d panicked, because any enemy knowing his weakness was generally pretty fucking bad, let alone an enemy with personal motive and ability to twist that weakness like a knife in the spine.

The Human had verbally freaked out (a regular occurrence) and vanished for a while, before returning to the barn with an entire array of items (not a regular occurrence). They’d set the items out on flat fiber ‘plates’ and then slid them into range with that stupid stick.

Virgil had stabbed a few of them on principle before realizing that this was food, aided by the Human rolling his eyes pointedly-- a derisive gesture, he’d gathered-- and eating something from a plate of their own.

At that point, Virgil had been willing to risk poison. The way he saw it, he either died, or he ate something, and either way it meant stopping the slow, aching pain eating away at the pit of his stomach.

He’d even been willing to tolerate the Human staring at him, since apparently they didn’t have the manners to not watch a stranger eat. Or that wasn’t a thing on this planet. It didn’t really matter.

After a significant amount of time spent using his auxiliary limbs to delicately maneuver Human produce and meats into inspection range, he settled for what smelled the least concerning, avoiding any that smelled or looked too bright to be safe.

(The scrunched-up look the Human had given him after he’d crunched an egg in his throat had been hard to interpret, though.)

Anything he could safely ingest, he’d eaten. After the Human left, he’d even attempted the indignity of trying to lift the bowl of water in range with wobbly limbs, though he’d almost immediately spilled the majority of it all over himself. It didn’t matter, he could pull any and all hydration from what he’d eaten, though he didn’t dare get used to it.

This wasn’t his first time above the nest, and he hadn’t fooled himself into believing that this shocking show of generosity would last. The Human had only done it to make sure that their hostage wouldn’t keel over.

Starvation and dehydration were more-than-effective methods of hands-off torture, after all, and the Human really only needed to give him enough to keep him alive.

The impending mistreatment shouldn’t have shaken him as much as it did. He had the advantage of the Human’s ignorance on how much Chelcerae ate, and his own resilience, developed from years of scraping by on the barest of rations. He was lucky, really, to be one of the species with a water-storing organ.

Still, he spent the night wondering if it was worth it to keep fighting. There was no escape, so wouldn’t it be better to go out on his own terms, before anything truly horrendous could happen to him?

Probably. The real question was: would he have the fortitude to turn down food all the way to a slow and painful death-via-starvation?

He wasn’t sure, and he continued to be resentful of the fact that he even had to make such a choice all the way up until the next day, when the Human walked in with a plate covered in everything he’d eaten yesterday and slid it over to him, simple as anything.

“What?” the Human snapped after a moment of Virgil watching them for any indication of what to do, and he’d hurriedly flickered his heat sensor eyes in hopes of placating any offense. The Human had grumbled indistinctly, but didn’t attempt to remove the plate or even threaten to do so.

The next day was the same. Though the Human continued to try and interrogate and occasionally intimidate him, the food and drink was provided without stipulation or hesitation. It was… strange.

Virgil refused to read into it. Perhaps Humans just had meals so frequently that skipping a single day would be as barbaric as weeks of starvation for Chelcerae. Maybe once the Human had enough of his noncompliance, they were going to feast on his flesh and didn’t want a stringy meal. It was impossible to know.

The generous feeding schedule was nothing, though, compared to some of the other questionable tendencies the Human had.

They traversed the grounds in and around the barn with little wariness, apparently quite confident in their ability to defend themself on the Deathworld they’d grown up on. They brushed insects and plant matter alike off their person with little care for poisons or bites.

Their body language seemed to consist of every threat display in the wayfarer guidebook, and worse, only a quarter of these threat displays seemed intentional. Virgil was constantly tense, attempting to figure out which were intended to cow him, and how to keep his own body language from worsening the damage. Any signal of terrified compliance, even the obvious tremor of his auxiliary limbs, only seemed to prompt wariness and confusion from the Human.

They’d found his helmet and immediately put it on, which had made his fuzz prickle with hope for a moment, before remembering that the reserve battery of the headset was well and truly dead. No emergency translators for the Human, and no upturns in luck for Virgil.

Maybe it was better. Even if the Human could talk to him, he would seem just as guilty for their brother’s disappearance in their eyes. It wasn’t even an accusation he could reasonably defend against; if things had gone differently, if he’d made smarter choices, maybe he could have gotten the captured Human free.

Janus would have managed it. He’d always been a quicker mind than Virgil.

It’d been three days since the Human had found him, and Virgil had barely managed to parse a handful of imperatives and nouns from someone who was basically just yelling the same things at him over and over.

“You can’t ---- the ---- ---------, you ----- --------! I ---- what I ---- and --- ----- to it!” the Human yelled, essentially proving his point. Virgil resisted the urge to let his chin drop down to his collar in exhausted resignation.

It was difficult to focus past the old pains from the fight with Leond, and the new pains from being strapped upright for days on end. Even if he could bring himself to pay closer attention, it wouldn’t make it easier to parse words he had no context for. Lator technology worked best when both parties were exchanging words, or at the very least, when there was more than one native speaker prattling on at you!

The Human inhaled to continue and then froze, prompting Virgil to slink his shoulders up slightly, something that had worked to show his non-aggression once or twice before. The Human wasn’t focused on him, though, whirling around to face the barn doors with their body rigid.

Because he’d never been good at uncertainty, Virgil flicked his heat-sensor eyes open just as another Human-sized mass reached the doors, moving in a predator’s stalk.

Well, he thought as the door creaked open, I’m screwed.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #alien au #humans are space orcs #ts virgil #ts roman #ycgb #you cant go back #my writing #writing #space au #sorry for the late posting my nap ran long #food tw

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Text

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 22 - ao3 -

Lan Qiren woke in a bed, which was not a surprise. His favorite blanket – the one Wen Ruohan had bought for him – was tucked in around him, and this was also not a surprise.

He was in the Nightless City, which was.

“How…?”

“Your brother gave permission,” Wen Ruohan said, and Lan Qiren twisted his head in surprise, not having seen him sitting there at the desk beside the bed. Wen Ruohan was writing something, his brush movement steady and unhurried; it was a distinct contrast to the seething rage lingering in his voice. “Since I know you care about that.”

“Of course I care,” Lan Qiren said blankly. “He really gave permission?”

Wen Ruohan’s brush paused. “Are you suggesting that I’m lying?”

Lan Qiren considered it for a moment, then said, a little helplessly, “It seems more likely than him agreeing to cut my punishment short.”

Wen Ruohan snorted, and put his brush down. “I insisted,” he said, and the smug curl of his smile suggested it had been more than a casual conversation. “Anyway, he didn’t want a fuss.”

Naturally not, as He Kexin might object, Lan Qiren thought to himself, and shook his head at his own bitterness. He realized a moment later that it didn’t hurt to do that.

“How long did I sleep?” he asked, alarmed. The transit to the Nightless City was long, unless someone decided to waste vast amounts of qi flying by sword – which he could see Wen Ruohan doing – but the staves used for the Lan sect’s more severe discipline were not like those used for more mundane offenses. While they weren’t on par with a discipline whip, they were still made of spiritual wood, infused with qi; the injuries they left would not heal so quickly.

“I applied medicine,” Wen Ruohan said, rising to his feet and coming over to sit by Lan Qiren’s side on the bed, helping him sit up. “You’re not healed, only numb…I understand you’ve been having difficulties in your sect for some time, and that was even before the lady attacked you in an effort to frame you for her own rape.”

“I’m fairly sure she just wanted to show my brother that she wasn’t interested in him,” Lan Qiren said, wincing. He would not have phrased it quite like that, although thinking it over, it did seem to be a fair way to describe it, if an uncomplimentary one. “It’s not a stretch to think that picking his less impressive brother over him would do it.”

Wen Ruohan’s lips curled into a sneer. “Truly, an ingenious mind. Did she think herself so attractive that no man would ever deny her?”

That, or else she’d been truly desperate. Lan Qiren could sympathize with her to that extent. After all, do not take advantage of your position to oppress others was a rule for a reason, and the power and influence a Great Sect could bring to bear against a rogue cultivator was not nothing. But his sympathy ended at the point where she’d decided it was acceptable to harm him in order to achieve her goal – even looking at her actions in the best possible light and assuming that she sincerely thought he would participate willingly in her plan, she’d made all sorts of assumptions and hadn’t bothered to verify anything before acting on them.

He Kexin might be free and unrestrained, as his brother had described her, but she was also perilously reckless, and selfish, too.

Still, at the same time Lan Qiren thought about Wen Ruohan’s smirk when he mentioned his ‘insistence’ with his brother – he wasn’t sure if it involved physical violence or not, although the mental image of such a confrontation was oddly satisfying – and grimaced at the thought of the same sort of pressure being brought to bear on someone without a Great Sect’s protection. “About - He Kexin…”

“You needn’t concern yourself for the lady’s sake,” Wen Ruohan said, and his tone was a little unpleasant. “Even after all that, she permitted herself to be convinced by one of her friends that the advantages of receiving Qingheng-jun’s affections outweighed the disadvantages, despite her own better instincts; that seems punishment enough for the moment. Someone who does not hesitate to blind themselves at the say-so of another will reap the reward they deserve in the end…”

He shook his head, and smiled once more, displaying a glint of teeth.

“You may take comfort that I took no action against her. However, I did suggest that the lady in question consider avoiding Qishan on her future travels.”

Lan Qiren felt something warm pricking his heart. “The thought is appreciated, although unnecessary. The one whose conduct is in the wrong is my brother.”

He’d appreciate an apology from He Kexin, whether for misjudging him or ignoring his refusals, but he wouldn’t hold out hope for it.

“I can be angry at more than one person at once,” Wen Ruohan said. A strange expression flitted over his features. “I admit, I would have thought Lao Nie would have done something about the entire situation sooner. Even if you weren’t writing to me, why didn’t you write to him?”

“I did,” Lan Qiren said. “His initial reply was – unsatisfactory.”

Lao Nie had responded rather casually to Lan Qiren’s message laying out the situation with his brother and He Kexin, speaking light-heartedly of the burning ardor of first love; he had assured Lan Qiren that it was normal to feel troubled by the thought of being left behind, even when the relationship was not good, and that his brother would probably resurface from his infatuation a happier person in the end. It was fairly evident that he hadn’t read all of Lan Qiren’s carefully composed letter.

“I asked him to come by the Lan sect,” he added. “But he was otherwise occupied.”

Wen Ruohan pressed his lips together in irritation. “He’s been otherwise occupied for some time now. You’re not the only one whose letters he’s disregarded.”

“Even you?” Lan Qiren said wonderingly. “But he likes you so much.”

The tightness in Wen Ruohan’s face eased a little. “I’ve asked him to visit here on account of your health,” he said. “I expect to see him arrive in his usual ridiculous flurry of temper and hen-like concern soon enough – once he reads the letter, anyway.”

Lan Qiren nodded, then hesitated. “The last time I was here…”

Wen Ruohan gazed at him sidelong.

Lan Qiren bit his lip. “I understand that I overstepped –”

“Don’t apologize.”

Lan Qiren stopped.

Wen Ruohan looked irritated again. “Don’t apologize,” he said again. “Are you not my little brother? If you cannot scold me, who is there that lives who can? I am not Qingheng-jun.”

Lan Qiren wasn’t entirely sure how the two were connected.

“If you want to make it up to me, go back to the way you addressed me before,” Wen Ruohan added.

Lan Qiren frowned, confused. “How do you mean?”

“Call me da-ge. Not xiongzhang.”

“…the latter is more polite.”

“So is listening to your elders,” Wen Ruohan said haughtily. “As you’re so fond of saying, it’s what I asked.”

“All right, da-ge,” Lan Qiren said obediently, and Wen Ruohan looked pleased.

“Rest,” he ordered, rising to his feet. “There will be dinner soon, and perhaps we can play weiqi once again…is there anything else you need for your room?”

Lan Qiren’s room in the Nightless City was very similar to the room Wen Ruohan had prepared for him in the Cloud Recesses; he couldn’t think of anything else he might need. Except only…

“I don’t suppose you could ask your spies to check in on my rooms back home,” Lan Qiren said, even as he settled back down to rest as instructed. “There was a painting there that you gifted to me that I liked a lot. It fell during the fight, and I haven’t been back since. I don’t want it thrown away.”

“Which one? I got you several…the mountain pass? The flowering tree?”

“No, the landscape with the rolling hills,” Lan Qiren said, and Wen Ruohan, who had been about to leave, stopped abruptly by the door. “It’s a little burned at the edges; you can’t really mistake it for anything else.”

“You liked that one?” Wen Ruohan’s voice was strange, full of some emotion that Lan Qiren was too tired to even try to decipher. “Above the others? The quality is much less, and the skill with the brush inferior.”

“The person who painted it was happy,” Lan Qiren explained. “There’s an echo of the painter’s residual qi trapped in the ink, you can tell a little bit about who they were from that. Whoever it was, they were brash and bold, arrogant and carefree – full of potential, like a phoenix about to alight to a higher branch. Their soul was like a falcon’s, tied down by nothing. Looking at it is an inspiration, and a comfort. I use it sometimes as a focus for meditation.”

“…I’ll have my spies check,” Wen Ruohan said, and he must be truly perturbed by Lan Qiren’s punishment-induced injuries if he had actually just admitted to having spies in the Cloud Recesses. “In the meantime, I have several other works by the same…artist. If you’d like.”

“Oh, very much!” Lan Qiren said enthusiastically; he tried to struggle up to sit again, but he started to feel pain even through the numbness of the anesthetic he’d been dosed with. Wen Ruohan glared him back down, and he yielded meekly, knowing that he was in no state to be really protesting. “Thank you, da-ge. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

Wen Ruohan huffed and put a hand behind his back, sweeping out the door like a gust of wind.

Lan Qiren lay back down, staring up at the ceiling.

Are you really going to do this? he wondered. Will you really forgive him for what he has done, for what he is, just because you desperately need support? What happened to your principles? Your rules?

He exhaled hard, almost a sigh. He still wasn’t all right with the torture, still thought it was wrong for a man to exult in the pain of others in such a grotesque fashion, but he’d gone back to his standby, the rules, and he was reminded brutally that they were designed to function as guides for the self, not for the world. You were supposed to embrace the entirety of the world, to shoulder the burden of morality, to refuse to tolerate evil – and yet the rules of hospitality, of host and guest, of neighbors, were ranked just as high.

He could choose to continue to hold back, to express his disdain of Wen Ruohan’s ways with distance and reserve, but it wouldn’t stop Wen Ruohan from doing what he wanted anyway, and it would leave Lan Qiren even more isolated and friendless than he was already.

It would be better to compromise.

And yet – it was hard, perilously hard, to force himself to do so. It was one of his flaws, he knew: how uncompromising he was, how unyielding, how bitterly he held onto his opinions, refusing to change, especially when he thought he was right.

For his own sake, he needed to try to do so. But he also needed to at least try to salvage his conscience, too.

He’d have to find a way to do both.

So decided, Lan Qiren reserved the issue of how he would do that in the back of his mind, returning to sleep. It would be easier, he thought, to resolve the issue in the morning, once he’d healed up a little more.

It wasn’t, but that was mostly because he was horrified to discover that he had no proper clothing.

“You have clothing that fits,” Wen Ruohan replied, the mildness of his voice failing to conceal the glint of amusement in his eyes. “It’s even in your clan’s colors. What’s the problem?”

“It’s too much,” Lan Qiren insisted, shaking the clothing at him. He had at least been left his inner robes, though he felt naked without the extra layer. “My formal clothing is less excessive than this!”

“That is surely a matter for your sect, isn’t it? I don’t think it’s excessive.”

“You have no sense of proportion!”

Wen Ruohan shrugged. “I can send for something else,” he said. “Even from your home, if you like. By regular post, it should only take a week or so to arrive.”

Lan Qiren scowled.

“If you really prefer, you’re welcome to walk around naked until then –”

Lan Qiren was so aggravated that he actually hissed at him, surprising Wen Ruohan into a laugh that interrupted his words, and returned to his room to begrudgingly put on the robes. They were white and silver, his usual preference – not interwoven with blue, but that wasn’t a surprise, given that white was a secondary color for the Wen sect as well as the Lan – but they were also ridiculously overwrought: embroidered brocade, silks so fine that they had to be layered in order to not be translucent, studded with shining pearls and what might be actual silver…

“Absurd,” he grumbled, but put on the clothing and came back out. “Do you enjoy tormenting me? Is that it?”

“At times,” Wen Ruohan said, his eyes curved and merry. “Come, sit. It’s your move.”

Lan Qiren permitted himself to succumb to his sworn brother’s atrocious taste for the evening, then stole away to the laundry room the first chance he could, determined to beg for a set of clothing that was somewhat more normal – even mourning clothing would be acceptable, as long as it was neither Wen sect nor horribly garish.

Wen Ruohan found him there, arguing spiritedly with the tailor, and whisked him back to his rooms on account of Lan Qiren’s injuries, arguing, correctly, that Lan Qiren was on the verge of collapsing and coughing up blood from having been a bit too enthusiastic.

Eventually, after some of what Lan Qiren called reasoned debate and what Wen Ruohan called flagrant sulking, Wen Ruohan agreed to get him something a little more normal to wear on the condition that he wear at least one adornment of Wen Ruohan’s choosing along with it.

“You secretly wanted to play with dolls as a child,” Lan Qiren said accusingly, even though the initial adornment – a belt loop made from moonstone and jade – was entirely appropriate, even by Lan sect standards. “You were denied the chance then, and now you make it everyone else’s problem. Is that it?”

“Perhaps,” Wen Ruohan said. “It’s been so long, how would I remember?”

Lan Qiren rolled his eyes and gamely lost to him at weiqi a few more times.

It was perilously easy to slip back into the comfortable camaraderie that they’d developed on his last visit, he reflected as he prepared for bed that evening. It was something he enjoyed - something they both enjoyed - and if Lan Qiren only kept his opinions to himself, convinced himself to actually bend for once, he might be able to actually keep it, this time.

The next morning, he went to the extensive library kept by the Wen sect and took down several books on anatomy, carefully copying out the goriest parts of it in his best calligraphy; he wasn’t an inspired painter like the nameless ancient that had done the pictures that now hung in his room here, but he excelled at dry and lifeless copies, which was about what you wanted from an anatomy text.

He finished the small booklet within a few days, and gave it to Wen Ruohan one evening before dinner.

“What’s this?” Wen Ruohan asked, flipping through it with a slightly bemused expression. “Medicine?”

“Anatomy,” Lan Qiren corrected. “Since you – like that sort of thing. It’s a gift.”

Wen Ruohan blinked very deliberately. “Little Lan,” he said, staring down at one of the more explicit illustrations. “Did you get me a gift to help me torture people better?”

“I got you a gift because you’re my sworn brother, and you’re taking care of me,” Lan Qiren said with as much dignity as he could muster in light of the patheticness of his abject surrender. “I got you this gift because it seemed relevant to your interests. Anyway, it’s not something I can share, or even really countenance – and in all honesty I would prefer that you not do it while I’m around, or at minimum try not to mention it to me, to make it easier to look the other way – I mean, it’s not going to be easy, but easier – well, my scruples aren’t important. It’s something that matters to you, so I’ll just –”

Wen Ruohan cleared his throat, interrupting him. “You don’t need to worry about that,” he said, looking at the space above Lan Qiren’s head for some reason. “The Fire Palace has had trouble keeping my interest recently; the entertainment has gone stale. I have moved on.”

Lan Qiren had not expected that, and he smiled happily, his pricked conscience unexpectedly granted a reprieve. For some reason, it made Wen Ruohan stare at him.

“Well, I’m happy to hear that you’re not torturing people for sport any longer,” Lan Qiren told him, in case it wasn’t clear. “As for the booklet, even if it’s not quite right for your interests right now, I still hope you enjoy the work...I’ll get you a better gift next time.”

“No need to strain yourself,” Wen Ruohan said. “I will be pleased no matter what it is, I’m sure.”

He gestured for Lan Qiren to enter the dining room first, which Lan Qiren did. Oddly enough, despite his cliché and rather condescending reassurances, Wen Ruohan looked especially pleased throughout dinner, almost as if he really meant what he’d said.

It was nice, Lan Qiren thought, to be liked. One could get used to it.

His injuries were healing very well, between the medicines Wen Ruohan’s doctors plied him with – Lan Qiren attempted not to calculate the value of them, certain that they were probably worth more than a small sect’s heirloom treasure – and the rich spiritual energy Wen Ruohan insisted on infusing him with, morning and night. Lan Qiren tried to protest that the latter was unnecessary, but Wen Ruohan had stood on his rights as the host, and at any rate he simply had so much qi that the effort seemed not to wear on him at all. So Lan Qiren let him keep doing it, Wen Ruohan’s warm hands conveying warm qi as he spoke to him of various matters, important and trifling, and Lan Qiren – liked it.

“In the Nightless City, we release lanterns several times a year, not just on the Lantern Festival,” Wen Ruohan murmured into Lan Qiren’s ear as he sat there, eyes growing heavy as his rules-mandated bedtime approached. “It’s a celebration of the sun as our sect’s sigil. The lanterns come in all shapes and sizes and colors, and we light the flames with spiritual energy. There’s a day not far from now where we will do it; people are making preparations already. Your body is still stiff and unbending, your wounds still healing – you’ll be here to see it.”

Lan Qiren nodded.

“Good,” Wen Ruohan said. “Very good…ah, little Lan, what a strange thing you are. When you were gone, I thought of you often no matter what I wished. I thought that I could cure it by having you here, but now you are here before me, every day, and yet I think of you no less. It seems that seeing you every day does not cause me to tire of you.”

“Yes, you’re very easily amused,” Lan Qiren said, his eyes sliding shut as the warm qi circulated through his body. “I think we long ago established that.”

“Is there any feature of yours that you actually like, little Lan? Or is it all self-depreciation?”

“I have a good brain,” Lan Qiren said. “I’m creative and analytical, and I explain things well; I make for a decent or even accomplished teacher. My musical ability is good, both in terms of playing and composition. Also, I’m informed that my face is first rate.”

Wen Ruohan laughed behind his shoulder. “I stand corrected.”

When they parted that night, all was well.

The peace did not last until morning.

#mdzs #lan qiren #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #spilled pearls

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