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autumnalwalker · 6 months

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The Melts

Author's Note: A while back I had a bit of a ramble on how I wished that it was more common to find examples of human bodies artistically warped into new and interesting configurations presented in a manner other than horror and gave an off-the-top of my head example of a hypothetical episode of a slice-of-life series going on that theme. A couple months passed, and then with Halloween approaching, I decided on a whim to slam out a rough draft of that story over the weekend. So here we are. Summary: What if your entire body slowly melting over the course of the day got treated as being no worse than the common cold and you still have to go to work because you work retail and already used up all your sick days? Wordcount: 5,295 Content Warnings: Descriptions of the sensation of one's body slowly melting into a fleshy pile of goo, various weird anatomical modifications, spider-like creatures crawling all over people, having to go into work while sick.

Mil had the melts.

They became aware of this approximately four and a half minutes after waking up when their hand made an unfortunate squelch sound upon palming their alarm clock’s snooze button. They held their hand in place in denial for another half minute while their arm slowly stretched and drooped down into the space between bed and bedside table. They reluctantly opened their eyes and groaned at the sight of the clock’s contour pressing up through a hand whose bones had gone limp and elastic.

It was going to be one of those days.

The thought of calling in sick today briefly crossed their mind, but no, it was close to the end of the year and they’d already used up all of their sick days. Any more would have to come out of their precious holiday leave time.

It was fine, they told themself while throwing back the covers of their bed and pointedly ignoring how that arm curled back around on itself from the momentum. It was only a mild case and it would probably clear up by the time their shift was over. Enough to be annoying but nothing worth making a fuss over. Unless it was a severe case, but that almost never happens.

As a small mercy, Mil’s legs weren’t as melted as their arm so they only almost fell over immediately upon standing up on appendages that bent and swayed in spots that don’t have joints. Thank goodness for counterbalancing tails. People often called their look basic, but Mil preferred to think of it as classic. Feline ears and tails had been among the first reshapings to see mainstream adoption and Mil had personally always found more complicated additions of prehensile limbs and sensory organs to be a nightmare of overstimulation. Plus, the ears and tail were a nice aid in emoting to make up for the difficulty Mil usually had with expressing themself by voice and face alone.

By the time Mil reached the kitchen they’d found a workable rhythm to their unsteady gait that managed to keep them mostly upright. No time for anything complicated for breakfast, and probably best to keep away from the toaster in this state, so cereal it was. That had its own complications of course - grip the spoon too loosely and its weight would stretch their fingers down and apart, but too tightly and their whole hand would roll itself up and try to retract back into their arm - but several minutes of grumbling around mouthfuls of wheat byproduct and dairy tree milk where enough to convince Mil that it wasn’t really all that bad and that they’d be able to manage at work today.

They pointedly ignored the ensuing contrary evidence that came in the form of their legs getting stuck on the inside of their pants and rolling up into lumpy balls until they gave up and went with a skirt. They’d already spent all the time they normally would have devoted to their morning workout on trying to pour themself into a tight turtleneck while getting the right body parts through the right holes. Supposedly wearing snug-fitting clothing like this was an effective way to hold your shape relatively solid in a bad case of the melts - which Mil definitely (probably) didn’t have - but in practice it was not as useful a tip as its popularity would suggest.

But hey, they were fed, dressed and out of the house almost on time, so that was a victory. And it meant they were almost on time to catch the tram before it left. Oh. Wait.

It’s fine, they told themself while fiddling with the straps on the mask they’d donned on their way out the door. It would only be a few minutes until the next tram scuttled up. They’d only be a little bit late to work. Everyone would understand. Afterall, who hadn’t had the melts before? In the meantime it gave them a few extra moments to try to get their mask to squeeze their head into a less embarrassing shape. If Mil had to go in sick, it was the least they could do to try not to spread it. But if they could be considerate while not having their skull get squished in the middle into the shape of a peanut, that’d be great.

A few pats on the side of the face, a push on the the top of their head, some hard nodding, get their fingers untangled from the mask straps aaannnddd…. A plop and a dizzying snap as Mil felt their jaw distend and the lower half of their face slide fully into the mask just as the next tram arrived. Checking their reflection out in the tram’s shiny carapace confirmed that their head was an acceptable shape. Maybe a little bit snout-y, but they could write that off as being part of the feline look. So long as no one saw the mess under their mask.

The good part of being out at the end of the line like this is that Mil almost always got a decent seat on the tram and plenty of time to listen to their audio books. It almost made up for the long commute. Of course, today one earbud kept falling off the top of their head every few minutes from that ear not holding its shape well enough and the other one was worming its way uncomfortably far into an ear that seemed to be trying to swallow it through a series of expansions and contractions that mirrored Mil’s breathing. By the second stop Mil gave up and shoved both earbuds back into a skirt pocket, resigning themself to ride stewing in silence.

That silence only lasted one more stop when the bulk of the other commuters started to pour in. By the fifth stop Mil was firmly wedged between a shell-backed construction worker and a twelve-armed switchboard operator who had enough respect for personal space to keep those arms wrapped around zemself but not enough to not press three different elbows into Mil's ribs. Mil tried not to hold it against zem. It was the morning rush hour. Getting pressed together was to be expected. Even if that meant winding up half a foot taller and considerably flatter. Mil tried not to think about how many people they were spreading their melts to.

At the ninth stop Mil extruded themself from the over-packed tram and toddered over to a bench to catch their breath. If they were going to be late anyway, what was an extra minute or two to let their shoulderblades stop overlapping and left and right halves of their ribcage stop interlacing? Just a few deep breaths to puff their torso back out and they were good to go. They could fix their hair later after they got into a restroom to wash the public transit funk off their hands.

Walking into the store’s employee entrance a couple blocks down the street, Mil was greeted with the terrifying visage of their manager, Baroft. The smile wasn’t terrifying because of the fangs (Mil had been considering getting some themself for some time now but couldn’t quite justify it with how little meat they ate), nor because of the extra pair of slit-pupiled crimson eyes (pretty standard for those who could adapt to the extra sensory input), nor even for the contrast with the face’s second mouth that wasn’t smiling (that one never smiled, it wasn’t the customer service voice mouth). No, that smile was terrifying because if Baroft was happy - even worse, relieved - to see them walk in the door late for work, then that could only mean one thing.

The store was short-staffed today.

Mil would have to deal with customers.

Mil was - generally speaking - not good with people even on the best of days, and today was - as the flesh of their hand pooling at their fingertips under the force of gravity like ripening fruit would attest - not the best of days. Most of the time they got by on trading duties with coworkers to spend as much of their workday as possible on the backend duties; stocking inventory, cleaning, feeding the weavers, updating displays, etc. If one good thing could be said about Baroft it was that after seeing Mil awkwardly stumble through enough customer conversations and fitting attempts, yt had realized that putting them in a customer-facing role was more likely to lose the store money than earn it.

But now Baroft was complaining about Rangel being out on jury duty at the same time as Kalei being unable to come in due to thons kid pupating, and Paras from the evening shift had called in sick, so Mil could just imagine the sort of morning Baroft has been having, and Mil was going to have to be a team player and pull through just for today all the way through until closing time, and yes there would be overtime compensation once they made up for arriving late, and what’s Mil complaining about it’s just the melts, if they were able to get here then obviously isn’t that serious, now no attitude and best behavior in front of the customers, it was already bad enough that yt had had to call Leolani and ask eir to come in early today.

That last part cut through Baroft‘s blizzard of words and caused Mil’s heart to skip a beat. Leolani usually arrived just as Mil was getting ready to leave for the day so they didn’t know eir all that well, but the handful of brief conversations the two of them had shared always left Mil wanting to change that. It wasn’t a crush per say, only that everything about Leolani struck Mil as indescribably cool and made them wish they could be friends and hang out. Eir jacket covered in punk patches that ei left draped over the chair in the employee breakroom that no one else dared claim. Eir perfect eyeliner. The way ei could multitask taking one customer’s measurements while uncoiling eir twelve-foot neck over to help another customer pick out a suit off the rack. Eir taste in music that had made the basis for the longest interaction Mil had managed with eir.

Under other circumstances, the opportunity to spend the day commiserating with Leolani over being the two youngest employees by a wide margin and how awful the holiday rush that started earlier every year was might have almost made up for having to work late. Now though, they were suddenly feeling self-conscious about the way their spine had started to go limp in places and force them into a slouch.

Mil’s trip to the restroom to straighten up in front of the mirror was a perfunctory one. They might have arrived late to work, but no way were they going to be late to feed the weavers on schedule. Elam - in early and still in nir fall look of leaf-like orange hair and skin covered in gray keratin growths mimicking tree bark - gave a marginally less brusque than usual greeting when Mil pushed aside the heavy curtain separating the dim tailoring room from the shop, even going so far as to offer nir sympathies for Mil’s melts. Mil’s more solid hand glorped over one of the nutrient slurry canisters on the shelf as they insisted that they were fine. Just a minor case of the melts that would clear up by the afternoon.

Elam raised a skeptical woody eyebrow and offered to handle the feeding duties today, but Mil declined and stepped into the weavers’ enclosure. The way Mil saw it, they were something like an apprentice to Elam who had finally promised to teach them how to direct the weavers once the new year rolled around, so any chance to prove themself… well, it wasn’t so much welcome as not something they could afford to pass up. Experienced weaver handlers were always in demand (as evidenced by Elam being able to afford four full-body reshapes a year just to keep up the image of a tree changing with the seasons), and honestly it was the closest thing Mil had to a career advancement opportunity.

Besides, Mil genuinely liked working with weavers, they thought as the small swarm of arachnoid bio-tools began crawling all over them to get to the nutrient slurry. It was important that the weavers were well-fed in the morning before any clients came in for a fitting lest they get either too tired or too carried away with their purpose. As it was, a few of the weavers must have failed to recognize Mil’s scent and shape due to their illness and mistaken them for a client, forcing Mil to gently shoo the engineered creatures off before the threads of their turtleneck could be unpicked and reassembled into whatever pattern the weavers had last been installed with. Most of the chittering swarm sloughed off to feed once the nutrient slurry had been dispensed and Mil was able to encourage the stragglers to depart from their body heat without too much trouble.

To Mil’s chagrin, once they stepped back outside of the enclosure Elam leaned over and plucked a weaver off the back of their neck that had pushed their unusually pliant skin into a little bowl to nest in. Mil’s stammering apology was met with a laugh and an encouraging slap on the back that made their whole body ripple unpleasantly. Better than a reprimand.

Back out in the main store, Leolani had already arrived and engaged with the first customers of the morning, signing at one with eir hands while stretching eir neck over an aisle of racks to explain the fitting process to another. When ei caught Mil staring, ei sent the second customer their way. The next few minutes constituted the first grueling attempt of many that day to talk someone who wasn’t really all that interested (whether due to boredom, intimidation, lack of intent to buy, or just wanting to get their stuff and get out) through pricing options on bespoke versus alterations by limb configuration and fabric type. Or failing that to sell something off the rack, even if it was just an expensive pair of socks with the store’s monogram on it. Or failing that at least collect an email address for a mailing list. This is what made the holiday rush so awful. The rest of the year most of the store's customers were regulars who mostly had a specific goal upon walking in, but for the next couple of months traffic would surge with only a minimal uptick in actual sales to show for it. All the same, everyone that walked in had to be treated as a potential new regular just in case. As if it wasn’t already anxiety-inducing enough to deal with people whom Mil possessed at least a passing familiarity with.

By noon Mil’s ears were pressed flat back against their skull. In part, this was an expression of their mood, but mostly it was a matter of the ears’ swivel muscles losing cohesion and getting stuck in the last used position. It was making it a little bit difficult to hear clearly, but they had long since learned the hard way that making a rough guess and sticking to a script tended to be received better than asking people to repeat themselves. At last the lunch-time lull arrived and Mil was able to steal off to the break room for a reprieve. It was blessedly quiet in there save for the hum of the refrigerator holding the protein shakes Mil had stashed for days too busy for a proper lunch. Mil dipped into that stash today. Their melts were getting worse before they were getting better and the prospect of trying to wobble down the street in their current state to their usual lunch spot where they would surely be recognized struck Mil as lethally embarrassing. And exhausting.

They took the opportunity to examine the patches on Leolani‘s jacket (draped over eir chair in undisputed claim as ever) while they struggled first with the shake’s cap and then with their mask. Their fingers weren’t cooperating much at all now, between having gone mostly limp and being plumped up with all the flesh their normally-flatteringly-body-hugging turtleneck was now squeezing out of their torso and arms and into their extremities. At least one or two of the patches on the jacket had to do with bands, Mil was fairly certain. Would it make for a better conversation starter to ask Leolani about those bands, or to look up and listen to the music up themself first in order to have something in common? Mil mulled the question over while nursing their shake. Better than thinking about the similarities between their lunch and the weavers’ breakfast.

As Mil threw their head back to drain the last few drops from the protein shake’s bottle, they felt their spine come loose and their head just kept going back. And down. And around. Until it bumped into the back of the low-backed chair, upside down and just above their own waist.

They had folded themself.

Mil took a breath, held it, let it out, and came away even less calm than before. Lungs not making up their mind where they should be will do that to a body.

It was fine. This sort of thing happened. Annoying, but nothing serious.

Mil tried to swing themself upright, but it was the sudden lack of back muscles that got them into this position. They tried grabbing the chair and pulling themself up into an unbent vertical, but the strain just stretched out their hands. They tried to do the obvious thing and just stand up, but folded like a wet, heavy towel as they were over the chair’s back, they couldn’t get the proper leverage and just scrambled their feet, scooting the chair along the floor with a teeth-itching squeak.

Mil heard Leolani walk in before they saw eir. Not that they could see much besides the floor behind their chair. Leolani asked if they were alright and Mil’s mind raced with enough potential responses that it might as well have gone blank. But then fear of getting stuck won out over pride. There was no salvaging this one to come out looking cool.

Mil asked for help. Just a little bit mind you. They’d be fine if they could just get themself unfolded.

Boots made for digitigrade feet stepped into Mil’s inverted view, followed by a round face with perfect eyeliner that then rotated to match their perspective in a motion that suddenly shifted the impression from serpentine to owlish. A light joke about the view from down there was quickly followed by a warning that came at the same time as a pair of hands gripping (very literally) into Mil’s shoulders and lifting. Once ei had them upright ei asked if they were good. Mil said they were and then immediately slumped forward, overcorrecting and refolding in the opposite direction.

Leolani, neck now coiled up over and around eir own shoulders like a scarf, told them to hang for a minute and then came back with a mop handle and a roll of duct tape. A comment about a friend of eirs once having done this for eir and an apology about this feeling weird was all the warning Mil got before the Leolani began working the mop handle up the back of their shirt. Ei called it the scarecrow method of stabilization. After producing a pair of compression gloves from eir messenger bag and helping Mil get them on, Leolani let them apply the duct tape in private with a reassurance that it was the cheap stuff and would come off after a decent soak in a hot bath, if not sooner.

Trying to walk with the improvised back brace was awkward, but better than the alternative. Mil shambled out of the employee break room, wondering how much longer their legs would stay semi-solid, just in time to see a regular they recognized but couldn’t put a name to walk in. Somehow additional legs were far less popular than additional arms, so this regular’s centaur pattern group body configuration stuck out. Not that Mil knew for sure whether it was hooves, feet, or claws beneath those patent leather shoes and it would be rude to ask. What Mil did know at a glance was what xe was here for. The regular’s bat-like wings (aesthetically impressive and flexible enough to clasp in the front and fold into a cloak, but almost certainly not flight-, or even glide-rated) hadn’t been present on xyr last visit to the store. Now here was something that was as close to Mil’s comfort zone as anything got.

They greeted the regular and went through their mental script for this sort of interaction, making the appropriate vague inquiries about xyr wellbeing, complimenting xyr new wings, trying not to drip on anything as their melts slowly got worse, guiding xem through the booklets of fabric swatches and catalog of styles, and dancing around the fact that they couldn’t remember xyr name for the life of them. Once the regular made their selections, Mil led xem back to the tailoring room where they handed the selections off to Elam. Strictly speaking, Mil should have left it be from there and returned to the main display floor of the store, but they liked watching this next part and were even more willing than usual today to take any excuse for a break. If anyone asks (no one will) they’ll say that they were taking notes. Or would saying that they were assisting sound better? Whatever the truth would be on most days, this time Mil simply leaned on a wall for support and watched Elam type in a console to install the selected pattern on the weavers, guide the regular into the weavers’ enclosure, and start speaking in the language of clicks, snaps, and command phrases the bio-tools had been trained on. What before had been a disorganized collection of individual lab-created arachnoid creatures became a precision swarm washing over the regular (who had been through this enough times not to flinch too much), taking xyr measurements by touch with sensitive legs able to estimate and account for offsets due to the regular’s clothes by pressure and texture alone. Once each of the individual weavers was in position on the regular’s body Elam snapped nir fingers to send the swarm skittering into a different position, held for a few seconds of processing, then snapped again for a third configuration. A larger swarm could have generated a full three dimensional scan of a target’s body in one go, but the upkeep costs on swarm size wasn’t generally seen as being worth it just to shave off a few seconds. A final command word cleared the swarm back into the corners of the enclosure.

Like most customers, the regular elected to come back later in the day to pick up xyr new suit and have any last-minute alterations made then. As opposed to partially undressing and allowing the weavers to weave the new suit directly on. Supposedly the latter option would get a truly amazing bespoke fit, but for most it wasn’t worth standing still for an extended period of time with bug legs crawling all over you and working miniaturized biological sewing machines millimeters away from your exposed skin. Maybe one day when Mil had Elam‘s job and income they could find out for themself. For now though, Mil simply offered to lend nem a hand with loading in the fabric feedstock to get the assembly process started. It seemed that pinstripes were making a comeback this season.

The next few hours were, all things considered, not too bad. A decent portion of customers were regulars rather than randoms, Mil got to watch a couple more sessions of the weavers at work, the one song that they weren’t tired of on the station the store had been running on loop for the past three weeks came on, and - most importantly - they’d managed to keep up something like an ongoing conversation with Leolani in between customers. Now if only their melts hadn’t been getting steadily worse instead of better. By the time Mil’s normal shift would be ending they were having trouble standing up for more than a minute or so at a time. Elam even offered to talk to Baroft on nir way out - ne still got to live at nir usual time today - about letting them go on home. Against Mil’s better judgment, they turned nem down, citing the appeal of overtime pay and silently fearing that leaving might reflect poorly on their performance or attitude.

So, of course, two hours later Mil’s skeletal structure gave out altogether, reducing them to a fleshy puddle on the floor. They’d felt it coming on and had just barely been able to make it back to the breakroom and out of sight of customers. Leolani came rushing in moments later, having seen their attempt at a distressed and hasty exit. If there was a silver lining to the gross (they were on the floor in a public building) and embarrassing situation, it was that their skirt had flared out enough to preserve some semblance of modesty and mostly cover up the skin-covered blob slowly spreading across the linoleum.

When Leolani asked if they were alright, Mil’s response came out garbled and bubbling. So, no, not so much.

After several rounds of “One blink for No, two blinks for Yes,” Mil managed to first turn down an offer to call an ambulance (it might be a severe case, but it was still just the melts; they would sleep it off and be fine by morning) and then to direct Leolani to retrieve their phone and its neurolink adapter from their skirt pocket and attach the adapter to Mil’s forehead (or at least a spot on Mil’s increasingly amorphous form slightly above their eyes). Neurolinks like this one were a clumsy technology, still in its infancy, so Mil had to concentrate on a single letter at a time for a second or three apiece to make words appear on the screen, but it beat the alternative. From there the two of them were able to talk - after a fashion - and settle on the plan of laying Mil out in the tailoring room, out of sight of both customers and Baroft. If Baroft asked where they were, Leolani would cover for them and say that they were handling some task or another that Elam left for them. Afterall, with Mil only being able to sort of writhe and flop around, it’s not like they were going to be able to get themself home, so may as well just sleep it off here.

Unprompted, Leolani input eir contact info into Mil’s phone before leaving them in there. Being able to exchange text messages made lying there barely able to move in the dimly lit room for the remaining hours until closing time considerably more tolerable. Almost pleasant even, despite how exhausting trying to type with the neurolink for extended periods of got to be. The white noise of the nearby weavers’ chitters and skitters helped.

And then, as the store’s closing time was approaching and the last customer left for the night, Leolani offered to take Mil home instead of leaving them in the store overnight. Mil could keenly feel the spike in their heart rate at the question rippling through their not-quite liquefied form. The added clarification that Leolani had realized about an hour ago that the two of them both lived roughly the same part of town with the same tram stop so it wouldn’t be much of a detour for eir to drop them off at their place quickly dispelled the wilder fantasies (terrifying and idealistic alike) that Mil’s mind had started jumping to.

Mil was aware, objectively speaking, that they didn’t really know Leolani all that well outside of the off-and-on conversations about hobbies and interests they’d been having most of the day and that letting someone like that know your address and handing them your keys wasn’t really the smartest idea. Subjectively speaking however, Mil was tired, young, and platonically infatuated with their cool coworker whom they seemed to be hitting it off well with.

A few minutes later Mil heard Leolani‘s and Baroft‘s voices outside the backroom’s curtain and caught snippets of Leolani offering to close up the store for the night and lying that Baroft had just missed Mil leave a minute ago. Another minute or two of silence followed before Leolani pushed aside the curtain and strutted over to Mil carrying a large bucket. It took some doing, but ei got them to fit. The melts made flesh as compressible as it made it elastic.

Somehow being scooped up, poured into a bucket, and pressed on until they fit was not the most embarrassing experience Mil had been through that day.

Leolani was able to lift Mil’s bucket with relative ease. Surprising at first, but on second thought, Leolani must have had some manner of musculoskeletal reinforcements for strength and balance if ei was walking around with all that extra weight from eir neck sitting on eir shoulders all the time.

The conversation on the way back home was fairly one-sided. It was simply too hard to concentrate on typing through the neurolink with all the novel sensations going on. Sloshing slightly in the bucket as it swung with Leolani‘s gait. Staring straight up into the night sky (or eir face) while moving. The uncomfortable warmth generated from being their own folded blanket stuffed in a tight space. The rumbling of the tram transferred through the floor and sides of the bucket making their whole body quiver and vision blur. It was fine though. Mil had never been a big talker and Leolani seemed more than willing to fill the space. Or was ei intentionally trying to keep Mil distracted from all those other less pleasant aspects of their current situation? If ei was, it was working. And it turned out Mil hadn’t even needed to ask about the band patches; Leolani had started talking at length about them all on eir own. Best of all, stuck looking out of the bucket up at the ceiling like this, Mil couldn’t see anyone else staring at them and could almost pretend it was just the eir and them without the eyes of strangers that had always made them uncomfortable.

And then Leolani was standing at the door to Mil’s apartment, holding their keys. Ei let eirself inside, carrying Mil’s bucket with eir, found their bed, lifted them from the bucket, and laid them out flat on top of the sheets. Being exposed to cool air again was a blessed relief. They would absolutely need a shower in the morning, but for right now they were too exhausted to care. They tried not to think too hard about how being rather literal putty in Leolani‘s hands felt.

Duty done and aid rendered, Leolani left the neurolink on Mil’s face in case anything came up in the night before they solidified, left the keys on the bedside table, left the lights off, and left the apartment.

On eir way out, ei suggested hanging out together sometime when they weren’t sick.

*******

Mil’s hand made a perfectly normal pap sound upon palming their alarm clock’s snooze button. Their hand was hand-shaped and none of their bones wobbled. And why wouldn’t that be the case after a good night’s sleep?

It had only been the melts.

#writeblr #my writing #writers on tumblr #original fiction #body horror #sliceoflife #slice of life #short story #Halloween #If I were ever to go back and do a second draft of this the two main things I'd want to do are add dialogue and make it weirder.#More mouths and eyeballs in places they're not supposed to go. Everyone loves those right? Maybe some tentacles.#Maybe add another coworker who used to be two or more separate people before fusing their bodies together into a lovely chimerical mess.#Going all in on the neopronouns and giving every character their own individual pronouns was a fun exercise.#Mil using they/them is part of them being “basic” and boring.#I'm a little sad that I wasn't able to work a “nyanbinary” pun in there somewhere #but with binary identity already being out the window to begin with I realized that it would have been out of place/redundant.#Mil's name derives from me watching “Milo and Otis” as a kid then naming our first orange cat that #then having an old recurring catboy OC named Milo that I used a lot of games and stories I never wrote down #and then shaving off the “o” for this newest iteration to make the name a little more gender-neutral to my ears.#Everyone else had placeholder names until after I finished the story and then filled them back in via random generator.#The real monster here is capitalism and the real horror is having to go to work while sick.#I've never actually worked in retail myself so most everything I know of it comes from movies and TV. And seeing it from the customer POV.#There's a semi-upscale clothing store near where I live that I briefly visited years ago and I got halfway through this going by that memor #Then to refresh myself I went there again and straight up told an employee I was writing a story and asked what it was like to work there.#It was a strangely liberating experience. Especially with my usual social anxiety issues. (Sorry Mil those are yours too now. Lacuna too #That's where I got the thing about regulars being the normal main customers the detail about the one liked song song on the looping radio #most of the staff being older and the tailor/bespoke clothing guy being sort of a separate business within the store.

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distant-velleity · 5 months

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Act of Benevolence

Summary: Santiago has a bit of a problem. Chrysos spawns a million more internal problems trying to solve the first one. Word count: 2.4k A/N: i don't know what to tell you guys i was just kind of possessed while writing this one. it's not that great but i had to get the idea down lol... two idiots trying their best at a friendship, what more can you ask for Tagging: @thehollowwriter (enjoy the sillies)

As of late, Chrysos has found himself waiting by the school gymnasium after club activities with increasing frequency.

Because both the Film Research Club and Basketball Club meet daily, his monotonous schedule remains the same before that every day—waking up in the morning, getting ready, eating breakfast then going through all of his classes and lunch. It’s mechanical and practically muscle memory at this point with how samey it is.

Arms crossed, he impatiently taps one finger against his bicep as he glares towards the locker room entrance. Again, for the second time in five minutes, he mentally makes sure that he remembered the meeting date correctly; no, of course he’s right, they’d talked about it before homeroom and during lunch—really, why is he worrying about this? He’s the one on time, the one being forced to wait!

Chrysos huffs angrily to himself and continues his glaring campaign against the poor door to the locker room.

Just when he’s about to pull out his phone and send a barrage of passive-aggressive text messages, the door struggles and groans open. Santiago steps out, muttering to himself while hoisting his duffel bag’s straps over his shoulder. He looks up, though, and plasters on his usual antagonistic smirk when he sees Chrysos.

“Good to see ya, Goldie,” he calls out, making his way over—weirdly, it lacks his usual amount of unwarranted swagger. “I see the study session is still on?”

—So, yes, everything else about his schedule has been the same, more or less. This, however? Meeting up with (very arguably) his least favorite classmate to study? This has been a considerable deviation from the norm recently, and Chrysos isn’t sure how to feel about it. But, it is what it is, and it’s not like he can go back in time to avoid it now.

…Not that he would avoid it now if he could, anyway, but that’s a thought to file away for later processing.

“Awfully confident, aren’t you,” Chrysos says in something resembling Jamil’s dry, unamused voice, before returning to his own. “You’re the one struggling in Crewel’s class, but you’re the late one…”

Santiago winces. “Listen, it’s not even my fault! Coach Vargas got on my case for something and held me back after practice was over.”

“...So it was your fault.”

“No, it wasn’t!”

Chrysos looks at him, unimpressed.

“Ugh…” Santiago reaches up to run a hand through his hair, the red-and-blue strands of it matted and sticky with sweat. “I mean, I guess it is…? But even then, that’s not really…” He stops mumbling to himself and sighs. “Basically, my bangs have gotten a lot longer since the start of the school year, and it’s started messing with my vision during practice. I’ve screwed up a lot in the past few days.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. It sucked—well, it sucks, but especially during practice.”

Honestly, Chrysos almost wants to brush it off as nothing meaningful right away, but upon closer inspection the statement isn’t without truth. When Santiago’s bangs fall back over his face with elastic-like swinging, it’s obvious that they go past his eyes, and Chrysos only hadn’t noticed because of how they were usually parted. It’s already inconvenient underwater, trying to engage in athletic activity with long bangs—with the gravity on land, then, it must be something else entirely…

“Sucks to be you, then,” replies Chrysos, smugly smiling at the way Santiago’s face morphs into an expression of exasperation. As if I could do anything about your predicament, you goof. “We still need to go over those theory problems.”

Santiago lets out a long, overdramatic groan—indicative of a successful subject change. “I hate theory, dude… I’m so much better with the practical part of assignments.”

“That’s why you have a D right now.”

“Shut up! I’m still kind of passing!”

“That counts as passing?” Chrysos snickers silently.

“We can’t all be like you, Mr. Highest-Exam-Grades-In-The-Freshmen-Grade...”

As per usual, they bicker while walking side-by-side, all the way to the Hall of Mirrors.

It should have ended there, really. Not just the study sessions, but also a certain train of thought Chrysos intended to forget about entirely after that conversation.

He stares up at the pale purple ceiling of his dorm room.

…I still haven’t forgotten about it.

It’s already the Sunday morning after their conversation outside the gym. Maybe it’s because, while he was performing last night at the Lounge, he’d spotted Santiago in the audience—maybe that’s why he’s thinking about it again, having dreamt of a flurry of parrot feathers obscuring his vision…

Chrysos rubs furiously at his eyes and rolls over onto his side, his blanket winding around him in the process.

What a stupid dream, really. It didn’t have any relevance. Just like Santiago’s bangs had no relevance to their later studying, nor any relevance in general.

It’s irrelevant, Chrysos reminds himself, closing his eyes and hugging the edge of his blanket a little closer to himself—trying to fall back asleep despite having slept in an hour or two already. Today’s my off day: no club activities, no shifts at the Lounge. I shouldn’t be thinking about that stupid jock…

The creasing of Santiago’s eyebrows and the shifting of his eyes as he admitted he’d been struggling during basketball practice flash in his mind.

Chrysos’ eyes shoot open as he sits up, like a man possessed.

“...Dammit,” he curses aloud.

Thank the Seven he doesn’t have a roommate, because that momentary slip-up would have been downright humiliating if anyone had been around to witness it. Not that they would have known why it happened, but he has an image to keep up. And thinking about someone else this much already goes against said image.

So, clearly, he needs to get a grip. Seriously. Desperately. This is not a reasonable thing to be thinking of. Really, if he’d known this would be the consequence of spending more time with Santiago…

Maybe some time away from school will help. I’ll go into town to clear my head.

As quickly as he can, Chrysos gets up and throws on some street clothes, haphazardly brushes his hair and slips on his shoes. He’s out the door not long after, passing only a handful of other students as he leaves the dorm—

And not two hours later, Chrysos is back in his dorm with his wallet several thaumarks emptier and now in possession of a pair of golden barrettes. Because clearly, even his self-control had been thrown for a loop.

In his (admittedly nonexistent) defense, he hadn’t meant to buy them. Well, technically he had, but that wasn’t the original plan. It’s just that he saw them by the cash register of a new clothing store he was perusing through and had—for a moment—been reminded of someone fond of gold, of accessories, someone in need of a way to keep their hair in check…

And then he’d bought it as if his body were on autopilot.

Now, they sit on his vanity desk, glinting innocently in the light from his window. A reminder of his attempted-and-failed goal for that stroll in the village.

It’s fine, he thinks, or, rather, convinces himself. Since I’m an Octavinelle student, it can be considered an act of benevolence. He nods to himself hesitantly, trying to commit. That’s right. And I can just say he’ll owe me one for this. That it has nothing to do with actually wanting to help him.

…Of course, it’s not entirely true. There, begrudgingly, is a small part of Chrysos that does actually want to help Santiago out, but that’s definitely just the part of him that doesn’t want to hear any more complaints, right…? And not the part that swells with pride and thrill at the mental image of something he picked out being worn so openly.

Yeah. Definitely.

With that in mind, he reaches for his phone and pulls up his DMs on Magicam.

chry.pendant youcome to first period 10 minutes early tmrw

The response, for some reason, is immediate.

s_parro Wtfwhy

chry.pendant youll see

s_parro No explanation???ok thenif it’s a fight then I’m definitely winning tho

chry.pendant in your dreams

s_parro So does that or does that not confirm you wanna fightLike legit why do you want me to come earlydudeare you gonna answer

chry.pendant fuck around and find out

Chrysos hits send and then turns off his phone.

Come the next morning, Santiago is already in his usual spot by the time Chrysos reaches the classroom. He’s fiddling with his feather earring while gazing out the window, at the stunningly blue sky beyond the glass.

“You’re not late,” Chrysos observes, sitting down backwards in his own seat to face the other. “For once.”

Santiago glances down at him (thanks a lot, tiered benches). “I didn’t need the reminder, thanks.”

“You could use it.”

“I’ll have you know that my attendance has been stellar as of late,” declares Santiago. He sounds a little eager when he asks, “Anyway, what are we even here for? You never told me.”

Oh. Right.

Chrysos huffs and pulls his bag into his lap, unzipping the smaller front pocket. It only contains a little clear baggy with the barrettes inside, so it’s easy to take it out. “Open your palm,” he says, and drops the barrettes into Santiago’s hesitantly outstretched hand. “Since you complained about your hair getting in the way at practice.”

He almost says more, about to spill out more excuses including I just happened to find them and I don’t want to hear you whining anymore, but clams up after taking a good look at Santiago.

The boy in question is staring at the barrettes with an indecipherable expression, eyes slightly wide and lips parted. It seems like disbelief with something else mixed in, and that something else is unclear.

A pang of anxiety strikes Chrysos’ insides. He realizes a little too quickly for his liking that it’s because he’s worried about this—worried that Santiago won’t like what he picked out, or that he’ll scorn the idea of the gift entirely. Which, rationally speaking, is ridiculous: why would this notorious lover of all things shiny turn down something both beautiful and practical? And why would that rejection feel personal—

“Is there a problem?” Chrysos asks, voice low and soft to avoid any trembling.

—why is he suddenly so unsure, so concerned about this, when it really should have no deeper meaning? He can just ask for repayment and then never think about this again…

“No,” Santiago insists quickly, holding the clips in his hand with a sort of reverent care, a feather-light gentleness one wouldn’t expect from him. “I mean, I didn’t think I’d ever like something you gave to me, but this is pretty cool. No—really cool. And… and I’ve never actually received anything from a friend before; much less a friend who cared enough,” he admits in a quieter, almost embarrassed tone.

Chrysos feels the words You owe me, the ones he’d intended to say, die in his throat at the double-layered admission. “You…” He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a fish ungracefully thrust out of water, before he finds his voice again. “Then, you… you can just pay me back by actually using them,” is what he says finally, while his thoughts frantically try to untangle themselves.

He must have said something right, emotionally disoriented as he is, because Santiago’s expression immediately brightens. It feels like sunburn on Chrysos’ face, burning and weirdly pleasant. “Not gonna deny the ‘friend’ part, huh?”

“You’re the one who called us ‘rivals’ to begin with, all those months ago!” Chrysos retorts, grabbing at his curls to hide his face.

“Oops, did I hit a sore spot?” Santiago laughs, as if this entire exchange isn’t proving that he’s even more enthusiastic about having someone to call a ‘friend.’ “Well, it’s not like you can take it back now.”

Chrysos glares at him, half-heartedly jabbing him in the chest with his finger—annoyance covering his embarrassment. “Shut up already! Just—put those damn barrettes to use, got it?”

“Yessir,” is the sarcastic reply he receives. And then, as if to test his limits, Santiago asks teasingly: “Mind putting them on for me? You see, I can’t really use them as effectively if it’s just me…”

“You—!!” Chrysos grits his teeth and takes the clips. He uses his other hand to quickly grab Santiago by the shirt collar and pull, forcing him to lean down. The bird beastman makes noises of complaint, but shuts up as soon as Chrysos carefully brushes back his bangs and clips the barrettes into place. It’s with a bit of pride that he notes how they go perfectly with Santiago’s earrings. “Happy now?”

Santiago stares blankly, for a moment, an odd expression on his face (is it a trick of the light or are his cheeks darkening?). “Y…Yeah,” he manages, having momentarily lost his previously playful attitude. As if he wasn’t actually expecting Chrysos to do that. “For something you did, it’s pretty good. I’ll make sure to wear them during practice. Thanks.”

“Good,” Chrysos says approvingly. “Now take them out before other people arrive and start asking questions.”

“You don’t gotta order me around, jeez…”

The five-minute warning bell rings, so Santiago quickly gets to taking off the clips. Right before they’re removed and pocketed, though, Chrysos thinks to himself for just a moment:

I was right. He really does look good in those.

(BONUS:

Chrysos is sitting at his vanity that night, brushing his hair, when the door opens behind him. In the mirror, he can see it’s Floyd who’s decided to barge in with all the grace of a whale in the royal palace.

“Heya, Lionfishie,” sing-songs the eel, leaning on the doorframe. “I heard during practice that you gave Parrotfish some hairclips.”

For the Seven’s sake. Chrysos closes his eyes, inhales, and then exhales.

“He admitted it all innocent-like, too,” Floyd continues, unbearably smug about it. “Like, straight-up said it was a gift from you, but apparently it had no deeper meaning. Guess he just doesn’t know anything about mer culture.”

Chrysos continues to brush his hair with slow, purposeful strokes. From the corner of his eye, he spots Floyd moving closer in the mirror.

“So, did you ever even state what your intention was with the gift? I mean, for all we know, it could be because you wanna snog hi—”

The hairbrush flies towards where Floyd’s head just was and soars past, slamming into the doorframe with an exceptionally aggressive-sounding thwack.

“Get out,” Chrysos demands.)

#kai's writing #twisted wonderland #twst #twst oc #chrysos pendentif #santiago parro #they'll figure their feelings out eventually lol

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clavissionary-position · 11 months

Text

🐆🍰🥳🎉(#3)

"I think she wants you to stop."

"Hahaha! Oh, she's far too smitten for that. Besides, she hasn't kicked me in the face yet."

Cyran's exasperation alone crowds the stables. Only once he nears the first stall (holding Chevalier's stallion) does his tread slow. Each subsequent step, while pointed toward Clavis, seems more inclined toward the horses to his side. By stall three his expression has more in common with the bubbly spring air outside than the retreating sun at its back.

Clavis assumes he's safe in the meantime. Until a hand claps his shoulder. Cyran's other hand pries the brush from him mid-stroke. "I groomed her when we returned from town earlier."

Irritation mars Clavis' features for a cloudy half-second. His face recomposes just as quickly, elastic from a lifetime of faking. He rips the brush back in a flourish causing the bay mare between them to sigh almost human-like. "Nothing warms my heart more than when my favorite knight and favorite horse get along, but this is my special bonding time."

Cyran stares as if he's unsure why he lets Clavis finish his sentences. He seizes the brush back. "You never come by at this hour."

Clavis slips the brush back before Cyran realizes what's happened. "Think of it as a surprise inspection."

Cyran yanks the brush and Clavis narrowly avoids smooching a horse. "Leave her out of your procrastinating, please."

The brush reappears in Clavis' hand. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Snatch. "I rather think you—"

The horse whinnies, her tail swishing against her manger and dislodging a tiny avalanche of grain.

"You're stressing her out!" comes the voice of two idiots in harmony.

The horse throws a look so tormented it may as well have found itself in an enemy camp.

Cyran is the first to stand down. He tucks his hair behind his ear and fixes Clavis with a softer, pitying expression. "The bumps are gone. I triple-checked. She's perfectly fine."

"I think she could stand to be a bit more shiny. It won't do for her beautiful master to outshine her."

"Clavis."

"I'm not procrastinating. I sent the formal request before coming here."

"That's not what Lucian tells me."

"Then I'm pleased to know that even Lucian misses things sometimes." A hint of surprise glitters in Clavis' eyes.

Cyran puffs his cheeks before sighing. He idly toys with the hilt of the sword at his belt. A long moment passes. "Okay. Fine. I'll leave you to it, then."

Clavis claps Cyran's shoulder this time, stopping him. "So you'll help me?"

"With what?"

"Picking out the best fabric. For the outfit."

"The outfit for your lover or..." Cyran glances to the side. "...for the horse?"

"For the horse of course." Clavis produces a sketchbook from who-knows-where. "There's no better way to celebrate a full-recovery than with a brand new outfit."

Cyran stares as if he's really, really unsure why he lets Clavis finish his sentences. Ever.

#clavis #cyran

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naturaldayspa · 2 years

Text

Well-groomed and smooth skin with deep cleansing massage San Jose

Massage is always done only on a cleansed face. So the skin can breathe, and the effect of exposure is better. It is an option for those who want to look fresh & young but are not ready to spend a lot of time on care procedures. Many experts at skin care San Jose recommend going for a professional deep skin cleansing massage for better skin care. Let's have a look at the details of the deep cleansing massage;

Deep cleansing massage: Deep cleansing massage is a unique massage technique for deep cleansing of the skin of the face with anti-age elements.

• Activates the removal of toxins and waste products of cells from the deeper layers of the skin in a natural way, • It has a powerful electrolytic effect has a visible rejuvenating and renewing effect. • It helps to increase the skin's elasticity due to special stimulation of the muscles of the face. • It does not injure the skin and does not cause peeling and redness. • As a result of the application of massage peeling, the skin becomes soft, elastic, and well moisturized.

After the first procedure, the skin looks much healthier. And the course application ensures the launch of natural mechanisms of the skin's self-cleansing capacity.

The massage San Jose experts say the deep cleansing massage procedure is independent care to express beauty. You can also use the latest massage brush technique. You can find this in the market. The brush-massage cleanses the skin deeper than usual washing. It is also suitable for firming, rejuvenating, and anti-aging massage. You can find a soft silicone bristle for cleansing on one side of the device. The reverse side can massage the face and neck, including the delicate area around the eyes. You can use the thermal regime with heating to 45 degrees - this relieves muscle tension & improves the absorption of the active ingredients of cosmetics. Simultaneous deep cleansing with experts at skin care San Jose will make the skin well-groomed and smooth.

#skin care San Jose #massage San Jose

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lazysimp · 3 years

Text

Innocence /// Virgin!Tamaki x Fem Reader (18+)

Click Here to read Top!male Reader

Request: Hello! Can I request a top fem reader x Tamaki. It's his first time and he's very shy and reader takes advantage of it.

A/N: Of course anon, I love the idea of corrupting a sweet innocent Tamaki

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, virgin!Tamaki, dominate reader, submissive Tamaki, mild somnophilia/dubcon, tentacles, handjob, She/Her pronouns

Word count: 4k

masterlist┃AO3

Patience had never been a virtue of yours, so when a soft timid Tamaki beats around the bush asking you out on your first date you took the first step. And when he could not find the words to ask for a second you gladly volunteered them. Instead of growing annoyed or feeling emasculated your sweet boyfriend looked at you with gratitude every time you guided the relationship.

So, when it was finally time to take your relationship with him to the next level it was no surprise that you were the one to push it there. In the dimness of your shared bedroom, you laid still in bed listening to his breathing. During the day he would never let you stare at him like this, he would grow too flustered and hide his face.

You wish more than anything he could see himself how you see him. How he is the strongest person you know, choosing to push beyond his limits every day to save those around him, uncaring if it left him in a panic after. You had to bite your tongue every time he came home from work covered in blood and dirt. You know he can handle himself but the idea that someone can look at Tamaki and still choose to hurt him baffled you.

You raise your hand to his face and brush your knuckle across his cheek. You wanted to be with him in every way, but you were so unsure he was ready. You know if you asked, he would say yes, he would never deny you. But he has never shown any sign that he wanted to take that next step.

So when a deep groan left his soft pink lips your ears perked up. Normally the only sounds he made while he slept were a few soft huffs as he shifted around. You sit up in bed, now watching his face intensely. Maybe your mind made up the sound, desperate for an excuse to jump on him. But to your delight, his mouth opened, and a single word left his lips, "Please."

This had to be too good to be true. Was your boyfriend having a sex dream? You needed to investigate. Carefully lifting the covers, you look down his slender body unit your eyes landed on his pants. You rub your eyes to clear them and make sure you were seeing things right and you were. A large bulge pushed the seam of his pants up, his erection barely contained in his underwear.

Instantly you felt heat flare-up in between your legs. You look up at his face and grow even hotter, his cheeks were dusted pink, and the tips of his pointed ears were bright red. His lips were slightly parted letting you catch a glimpse of his teeth as he let out another low groan, this one even more desperate than the last.

Without thinking you trail your hands down his chest, tracing the soft muscles until you landed on the elastic of his pants. You could feel the warmth he emitted and moved in closer until you lie parallel to him. The soft purple hair of his happy trial teased the tip of your fingers as you ever so carefully slip your hand under his pants.

You watch his face for any distress, but he held the same expression. Growing bolder you inch your hand further down until your fingers brushed against the head of his cock. You have to stop for a second, already overwhelmed at how far you have gone.

He was so warm and soft, his sweet olive smell filling your nose. You needed him so bad, needed to be close with him, touch him, love him. So you take a deep breath and wrap your hand around the head of his cock. You could feel his hot length pulse in your hand, just begging for your touch.

Needing to touch him more you place your lips by his delicate ears and whisper, "Tamaki, baby, wake up for me."

The man under you tensed and ever so slowly his eyes lazily opened, "Huh?"

You can't help but laugh at his dazed expression, he looked like a newborn fawn. "Baby, can you look down for me?"

His bright purple eyes looked at you with confusion but did what you told. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion before his gaze snapped to meet yours. "What?" he asks his eyes wide, "What are you doing?"

You keep your face neutral, not wanting to give away too much, "I could hear you begging in your sleep." You purr, "And when I looked down, I could not help but notice the tent in your underwear."

His face grows impossibly redder, and he looks anywhere but your face. Not liking that you gently squeeze your hand around his cock until his eyes snapped back to you.

"What were you dreaming about Tamaki?"

"N-nothing?"

You tsk your tongue, "That's not true, is it?" You lift the hand is his underwear up, revealing his hard cock for both of you to see. You could hear his breath hitch as he was finally able to see what your hand was doing.

"Now why don't you tell me what you were really dreaming about?"

You could see his mouth open and close as he tried to form words. His purple eyes started to grow wide and wild. Needing to stop that train of thought you decided to try something else.

"How about I try to guess what your dream was about?"

His breathing slowed and he tiled his head, "What do you mean?"

"We will play a game of hot and cold. If I am doing something you saw in your dream you say hot and if I do something that was not in your dream you say cold."

He looks to the ceiling, "I've never played that game."

You softly smile, "That's ok, we can try it out and if you don't like it, I will stop."

"A-alright," he tightly swallows, "Let's try it."

You let out a squeak of joy and peck him on the cheek, "I am so proud of you!"

He gives you a wobbly smile, but you could see his eyes starting to dilate. He was getting excited.

You look down at your hand and take a deep breath. You know he has never done anything like this, so you had to make this perfect for him. Wrapping your hand around his cock, you gently slid it down until it rests on the base.

The soft hair surrounding his base ticked the back of your hand as you let it rest there for a second waiting to see what he says.

"Cold," he mumbled weakly.

You give him a rewarding squeeze and began to pump your hand, admiring how his foreskin traveled up to cover his glands. Everything about Tamaki was perfect and his cock was no exception. It was long, almost double the size of your hand. Instead of being perfectly straight, it bent off a little to the side. You could not wait to take advantage of that.

"Warmer," he said a little stronger.

"Good boy," you praise, starting to pump your hand a little faster.

A shiver traveled through his body at your words. You made a mental note to praise him more. As you gently pump your hand on his cock another idea popped into your mind. With your free hand, you pull up his nightshirt revealing his chest. His nipples were soft little peaks begging to be touched.

With one hand toying with the far nipple, you bent down and took the other into your mouth.

"Bunny," he cried, "Warm."

You hum your approval, sucking the tight bud into your mouth while you pumped your hand, once, twice, three strokes. His hips started to lift in time with your hand, creating even more delicious friction.

"So good Bunny, don't stop!"

You press your teeth down onto his nipple biting the tender tissue until it formed a still peak. Needy cries filled your ears as you started to stroke him at a punishing pace, already feeling his cock pulse in your hand.

"Hot, hot, Bunny it's so hot." He cries, his hips sloppily meeting your hand.

You force yourself to keep steadily pumping, knowing the consistent pressure is what he needed to finally tip over the edge. And you were right, with his hands white knuckling the sheets he came with a silent cry, his face contorted in pleasure.

You watched mesmerized as he releases all over your hand and his stomach. You ease your grip on his cock, not wanting to overstimulate him too much, and instead weakly kept your wrist moving, letting him ride out his high. His chest rapidly fell up and down as he tried to catch his breath.

As he came back to reality, he looks down at you with a wobbly gaze, “I’m sorry.”

Your hand flies up to cradle his cheek, “What are you sorry for baby?”

He looked down at the mess on his stomach, “I came too early, I messed the game up.”

You take a second to try and find the right words and finally settle with, “We are just having fun Tamaki, there is no winning or losing.”

His hands lift to cover his face, “But I finished so fast, it’s humiliating.”

“Hey,” you coo, “It’s just me and I thought you cumming so quickly was hot.”

His hands lowered slightly so his eyes could look at you skeptically.

You laugh, “I am serious, the way you could not control yourself and cried out will be the fuel of my late-night fun for weeks.”

His hands fell from his face and the look in his eyes changed completely, “You think about me when you touch yourself?”

"Yeah baby. You are all I can think about when I touch myself. I think about how your cute little ears twitch when you are embarrassed, I think about how good you look in your hero uniform, and I especially think about the look on your face as you take down a villain. But do you want to know what gets me off every time?"

He nods eagerly, the embarrassment of finishing quickly long forgotten. You crook your finger at him urging him to lean in closer. When his pointy ear was inches from your mouth you whisper, "I think about how you would use your quirk to fill me up until you are the only thing I can feel."

He shoots back and looks at you with a mix of curiosity and horror, "You don't mean. . ."

You nod, "That is exactly what I mean."

His entire face grows bright red, "B-but that is so, so dirty."

"That is why it's so hot."

"What do you say we continue our little game but it will be my turn to say hot or cold?"

"Y-you want me to touch you like that?" He whispered the last word.

"Yeah baby, I want you to touch me like that."

He bites his bottom lip, "What if I mess it up or hurt you?"

"You have nothing to worry about baby, I will be in charge the entire time."

The worry on his face eased a little at your words but you could see he was still fiddling with his fingers.

"Why don't we start off slow?" You suggest, rubbing your hand along his bicep.

"You can put your hands anywhere on me and I will say hot the closer you get to where I want your hand to be."

"What if I touch you somewhere you don't want to be touched?"

"Impossible," you mumble, "There is nowhere I don't want your hands to be."

A high whine left his lips, the sound sending heat flashing through you. Oh, you wanted to ruin him, and you were pretty sure he would let you.

Not wasting any more time you wrap your hand around his wrist and lift it towards your chest, letting him get a feel for your skin. His breathing increased and his eyes grew wide as you dragged his hand up your chest until it rested near your collarbone.

"I am going to drop my hand, remember I will let you know where to touch me, all you have to do is follow my cues.

He nods, barely breathing as you drop your hand from his, leaving him free to explore. He takes a few seconds to compose himself, staring at his hand touching you. His soft cock was already filling again, ready to stand to attention as he carefully dragged his hand down the side of your arm. He looks to you for instructions.

"Cold," you mumble as his hands drift off to your hands. He nods, his fingertips sliding up your arms. Involuntary you could feel goosebumps follow the trail of his fingers. If he ever figured out how much power he held over you, you would be doomed.

His fingers trail up until his hand settles around your neck. "Warm," you groan pushing yourself closer into his hand.

With his first hand occupied his second slips under your shirt, sliding up the soft material until he revealed your breasts to his view. You could hear his breathing stop completely as his gaze locked onto your soft peaks.

"Breath Tamaki," you order, "In and out, that's it." You watch his chest rise and fall slowly as if it took intense concentration to remember to breathe.

When his breathing grew steadier his hand reached out and slid up your stomach. "Warmer," you reach out to bunch the blankets in your hands, needing something to keep your hands busy.

His brows furrowed as his long cold finger circled around your areola, watching in amazement as your nipple bunched into a tight peak. "Warmer," you say, needing him to deepen his touch.

Thankfully he seemed to understand what you wanted as his fingers pinched the bud and rolled it. You could not stop the whine from leaving your throat as he flicked his finger against your nipple.

Growing bolder from your reaction Tamaki dipped his head until his mouth was only a breath away from your nipple. Again, his bright purple eyes look up at you for approval.

"Hot baby," you bring your hands to thread through his hair as his lips wrap around the swollen peak, sucking it into his wanting mouth. His cheeks hallow as he takes long drags, his tongue lashing the tender bud resting in his mouth.

Small mewls of approval leave your lips as the hand on your nipple pinches and pulls, a stark contrast from the soft teasing of his mouth. The difference in touch left you reeling, if you thought you were wet before, you were fucking dripping now.

"Tamaki," you push his head in closer, wanting more, god you wanted so much more. He strengthens the suck on your nipple until you were sure he was going to leave a mark.

The hand on your nipple leaves and started to trail down the softness of your abdomen, caressing the skin. "Warmer," you moan, hoping they would go where you wanted. And he did, his fingers lift the elastic of your panties and his palm resting on your mound waiting to be told what to do.

"It's hot inside," you urge knowing he can feel how hot and wet you were already.

One finger pushes down, slipping into the middle of your slit. You both let out a groan of want as his finger settles in.

With the tip wet his finger slid through your folds, exploring your wetness. As his finger dips down toward your entrance you mumble, "Cold."

He lets out a huff, sucking harder on your nipple as his finger moves up. In the quiet of your room, you could hear the lewd sounds of his fingers sliding up as he looked for your slit.

After a few misses attempts you could feel him grow more agitated, his teeth now nibble on the tender bud of your nipple. "Patience baby, move your finger up, just like that, a little to the side- there!"

Your hips lurch up into his hand as his finger finally brushes across your clit. Your hands in his hair tighten to a bruising hold but he didn't seem to mind, in fact, your reaction drove him even further.

His soft fingers hone in on your clit, rubbing the of it gently, a little too gently.

"Harder Tamaki, touch me a little harder."

And the good boy did as he was told. His middle finger pressed down on your clit, making small circles before settling to rub one side. You were feral, having him touch you like this was better than any fantasy your mind had made up to help you get off. There was no comparison to having the real thing.

While his mouth distracted you the fingers into your cunt grow longer and softer. You look down in confusion unsure what was going on only to see purple tentacles now circling your clit. One large sucker on a tentacle latched onto your aching bud, now sucking on it like a mouth.

Your head falls back, too overwhelmed to watch anymore. You could already feel the tight group you had on your control slipping away. Following the cues of your body, Tamaki used another tentacle to tease your entrance. It circled around the tight hole, wetting itself in your juices before carefully easing inside.

He releases your nipple to watch his tentacle sink deeper inside you. The tightness of you around him would fuel his fantasy for years to come. He had always felt deeply for you but doing something like this with you made everything click into place. There was no one else in the world he would ever want to share this with and being with you for his first time was something he would never forget.

He moved his tentacle up inside you, remembering something Mirio had told him a year earlier about a g-spot. It seemed his best friend was right. You bucked wildly into his hand, he could tell you were fighting to keep control of your movements, but he wanted to see you lose control, he wanted to see his bunny become wild.

So when the sucker around your clit strengthened its pull you had no hope of maintaining your hold. In a matter of seconds, blood rushed into your head in a beautiful release of pressure. You hold your hands in his hair steady as you ride out wave after wave of sweet release, lengthened by his touch.

As you slowly come back into your mind you could feel Tamaki placing small kisses around your neck, guiding you back into reality. You let your hands fall from his hair and fall to your side.

"You made me feel so good baby," you praise, pulling him in for a hug.

"You really liked it? What I did with my quirk?"

"Fuck Tamaki I don't think I will ever be able to get myself off again without your help," you look down at him, "Nothing could compare to that."

A bright smile spreads across his face, "I am glad I made you feel that good bunny. I am happy to do anything to make you feel good.”

"Mmm, anything?" You look down at his body and smile.

His head tilts and he follows your eyes until it lands in his erection. His breath sputters as he tries to wave it away, “Wait, you don’t mean-“

“Riding your cock?” You offer.

“I, you, you want to- “

“Ride you. Yes baby I want to ride on that pretty cock until I can’t speak.”

His mouth open but no sounds come out, for a second you worry you have finally push him too far but suddenly he snaps back into focus. “Yeah, bunny, I want to d-do that too.”

You give him a relieved smile and get to work. You quickly take of your panties and swing your leg over his lap, positioning yourself to hover over him. You reach down and grab ahold of his throbbing cock still slick from his earlier release.

With you already being prepared all you had to do was allow your knees to sink lower, slowing impaling yourself onto him. The stretch burned as the head popped past your entrance.

You force yourself to look up and meet his eyes and it was beautiful. He was an absolute wreck, already gasping for air and you were not even halfway down. His pupils were blown out, eyes barely focusing until you grab his hair and force him to look down.

“Watch baby,” you coo, “Watch me touch you like this. No one but me will ever get to see you like this but me.”

He whimpers but complies, watching you sink down the last few inches. You lean forward and press your lips to his, wanting to be surrounded by him. Needing his taste on your tongue. At the same time, you start to lift your hips, admiring the feel of him slipping out of you before sinking back down.

With each rotation of your hip a new whine filled your mouth as he tried to stay in control. You broke the kiss and ordered, “Put your hands on my waist.”

He complied, his fingers digging into your hips and helping to increase the power of each thrust.

“Y-you are so perfect,” Tamaki panted as you rocked your hips forward in time with his. “I never want to be without you.”

“My baby,” you groan, “You are a natural, feel so good inside of me.”

His breath hitches, you could feel him growing closer, the hands on your hips weakening and the trusts becoming more desperate. Wanting to cum together you grab his hand and direct it down.

“Touch me Tamaki,” you beg, “I want to cum on your cock.”

Without needing to be told twice his hand came to life spurting three tentacles. The smaller two spread open your cunt making it easy for the third to latch onto your swollen clit.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, your head falling forward to rest in the crook of his neck. “Just like that Tamaki, please keep fucking me just like that.”

And as always, he did as he was told. His thrusts remained the same speed, driving you higher and higher, the sucker on your clit took long pulls, mercilessly milking the pleasure from your body.

“Ah, god Tamaki, just like that,” you babble, unsure if the words were even able to be understood.

He beamed at the praise, shifting his hips to get a better grip. The next time his cock plunged inside of you is struck up, nailing your g-spot. There was nothing you could do to stop the shock of pleasure suddenly blasting through you. Before you could even moan his name, you were swallowed whole by your release.

You convulsed in his arms, your mouth opens in a silent scream as your pussy clenched around him, sending him spiraling too. In the middle of your haze you could make out his dick pulsing inside you, filling you to the brim with his cum. His tentacle still sucking on your abused nub.

Unable to hold yourself up you collapse onto his chest. His strong arms wrapped around your back, pulling you in closer to his chest. Resting your cheek on his pec you could hear the faint sound of his heartbeat as you both caught your breath.

“Wow bunny,” Tamaki said breathlessly, “That was amazing!”

You kiss his sweaty neck weakly, “Yeah baby it was.” You look down to where your bodies were still joined and could barely make out some of his cum already starting to seep out of you. “Tamaki, I don’t think I can move.”

“Oh good, because I don’t think I can either.”

You slouch down even more, “I think I will just lay here for a little bit; you feel so warm.”

The arm around you gives you a tight squeeze, “Sounds good to me bunny.”

#tamaki x reader #tamaki smut #tamaki x female reader #tamaki x y/n #tamaki amajiki x reader #mha smut #bnha smut #tamaki x you #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bnha x fem!reader #mha x female reader

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endhisbloodlineinmyesophagus · 2 years

Text

More Zaddy Brain Rot + Spicy Hand Headcannons

alright hear me out, two words: Leather Gloves

Warning: NSFW 18+ ONLY

The moment a slight chilly breeze wooshes in, Silco is gloved and loaded. In a dedicated drawer he has a collection of leather gloves crafted from the finest material. Some are customized with spikes and studs on days he needs to deal with business while the others are plain or embroidered with his signature crest all of which vary in shades of black, brown and red

Today was a casual day and called for his usual black simple, smooth fitted gloves. They slipped on easily, giving each digit a warm and welcoming hug. They were indeed a perfect pair.

The crime lord truly felt powerful when he wore them; he would often greet you with his hand extended out which you would take in your own and lay a kiss on the knuckles. Electricity would shoot up your spine as the icy fabric met your lips; your eyes locking in place with his. He didn’t need to say anything because his mischievous glare said it all. He expected to be treated like the royalty he is and you obeyed every command.

He knows it doesn’t take long to lure you into his office and If seeing him in his gloves wasn’t enough, feeling him is a whole other level. He would press you up against the edge of his desk before hoisting you to now sit on the wooden furniture. At first his roaming fingers would leave a cool trail behind, giving you an instant rush - every inch of your delicate skin was shivering with chills - he’s only just begun and you were already a melted puddle under his touch.

Of course the cheeky bastard would take his sweet time; dragging his hand at a tantalizingly slow pace up your plush thigh and towards the lacey undergarment he’s specially handpicked for you. He’d hook his first two fingers under the elastic band and pull it just enough for it to snap back causing you to squeak. Those same two troublesome fingers would graze ever so lightly towards your clothed slit while his free hand snaked its way through the valley of your breasts and firmly braced around your throat eliciting a faint gasp from you.

He’d soon become impatient of the endless teasing and feathered like strokes and have a carnal need to touch your supple skin. He’d loosen his grip from your neck and cup one side of your face, the velvety texture of his gloved thumb outlining the shape of your lips. “Open.” he’ll demand and you’ll do as so. Your tongue would loll out for him and without a second thought you’d wrap around his intruding finger; gently sucking. He’d growl his next order, “Off.” and you’ll slide your tongue back and replace it with your teeth, giving enough force for him to slip his thumb out. You’d repeat the same action for each individual finger and free his ever so wicked long fingers.

If you weren’t behaving he’d take the lovely opportunity to teach your bratty self a lesson. He’d force you to kneel before him, crammed between his spread legs. His thumb and forefinger pinching your cheeks together, pressing your lips into a pout. His expression was stone cold, the same one he uses to mark others with fear, unfortunate for him it didn’t have the same effect with you. No problem, he has alternative ways to break you.

Your stubbornness got the best of you today; “Count to ten.” his sentence didn’t register in your mind when he planted the first smack on your ass. You merely whimpered when he repeated the action; each slap increased intensity, echoing louder and louder throughout the corridor due to the leather. When you reached ten you were a sobbing mess, you could barely feel your ass thinking he had slapped it right off. His demeanor softened, soothing your raw, reddened bum with the coolness of his gloved hand.

#arcane #silco smut #silco imagine #silco headcanon #silco #silco arcane #silco x reader #hhhnnnnggg #thank you for coming to my tedtalk

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duskamethyst · 3 years

Note

PIERCER TOJI MMM ok but when you’re getting a clit piercing and he can feel your sensitive clit throbbing as he’s prepping everything and he teases you for the slick that’s dripping onto the piercing chair !!!!!

❥ part. Ⅱ of piercer!toji.

a/n: if anyone wishes to get their private parts pierced, please be aware of your surroundings. whatever is written is for fictional purposes only.

warnings: body piercing, needle (mentioned once)

taglist: @noritoshiikamo @lazy10ieiri

“spread a little wider, sweetheart. i need to see properly.”

“uh, right. sorry.”

your naked lower half makes you feel conspicuous as you sit on the chair. you’ve always wanted to do something a little extreme and most of your friends that got their body parts pierced recommended toji’s parlor. whether it’s because of his service or his looks, you don’t know, you didn’t ask but you can confirm on the latter so far.

that doesn’t mean it eases your nerves, though– not from the gaze piercing through you and the lopsided grin on his lips from where he sits between your legs.

lips pressing in a thin line, you comply by spreading your legs wider, body heating up as toji silently observes your naked and exposed sex.

“that’s a good girl.” he puts on his black, elastic gloves and turns to you with a satisfying smile while he brings the chair closer. “do you mind?”

“n-no.”

you probably already had an inkling of what’s about to come but the first touch of his fingers on your puffy folds still can’t stop your legs from jerking in surprise. his eyes immediately flicker over to your legs– toji thinks he barely did anything but your response sparks amusement in him.

spreading your folds with his fingers in a ‘v’ motion, toji gives himself a more unobstructed view of your glistening cunt; already wet and slightly dripping with slick, slowly forming a translucent pool underneath.

even with the throb forming inside his pants, toji maintains his stoic facade. if only he could lick you clean.

you can’t bear to look at him and turn away in embarrassment, missing the glint of something primal in his eyes and the quick dart of his tongue to return moisture on his parched skin while he takes his time checking what he needs before proceeding to the next step.

“kinda wet, aren’t you?”

of course you already knew that much but the fact that he casually points it out makes you wish the ground opens and swallows you whole.

“i’m not.” a blatant lie is all you can muster, all while you’re well aware that you’re fooling nobody.

“right.” he replies sarcastically and lets out a chuckle as he drinks in your flustered countenance. “of course it’s not you making a mess on my chair.”

toji notices the flash of worry and guilt across your face when you finally turn to him, and how you’re trying to make up words in your head but nothing manages to pass your lips. toji learns that you’re quite the shy one, despite wanting to get your most private part pierced by him and he can’t help but want to tease you a little more. so cute.

“guess my eyes are just deceiving me, hm? this surely can’t be ‘cause of me.” his mouth lifts in a wry smile as his dark gaze bores into you, savoring every bit of your expression. “you seem a little tense. anything wrong?”

“just nervous– ‘s all.” you stammer. no words can describe how you want to close your legs shut, but his hand keeps you from doing so.

“i understand,” his other hand runs up your inner thigh, kneading the flesh gently to soothe your nerves when in actuality, he only wants to know how soft you feel and catch the way your body squirms in response. “it hurts a little, but it’ll go away in a few days.”

“ah, yeah– i heard.”

you exhale sharply as you watch his hand move higher, caressing your skin lightly with gloved fingers before ghosting his touch over your throbbing clit. his eyes fixate on you the whole way through, a satisfied grin twitches on the corner of his lips when he hears the gasp you let out.

“guess you’re right. you’re just nervous.” he hums as he boldly gives a light press on the bundle of nerves, feeling it pulsate beneath his thumb as it gives you a little stimulation. “quite easy to tell.”

toji doesn’t move his finger as if refusing to give you the relief you need, and with all the willpower you have left, you dreadfully hold back from moving your hips against the pad of his thumb.

“it- it is?”

toji adores how meek you sound and this situation makes him wonder how cute you’d sound if he has his tongue lapping off your slick, face buried onto your wet cunt as your whine and whimpers fill up his studio. would you still be this shy? or would he have your fingers tugging his hair already?

“mhm. especially when you’re gonna have a needle going through such a sensitive spot, right?” a mocking tone laces in his voice knowing that you’re itching for him to alleviate the dull ache.

at this point you can barely process the words coming out from his mouth as your mind is clouded with your want for him to touch you more. “yes..?”

“don’t you think we need to.. clean you up a little?” you don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until he abruptly pulls his hands away, and your cheeks heat up at the sight of his latex gloves glistened with your slick around his fingers.

“guess i got what i needed to see.” toji gives you a coy smile. “don’t worry, i’ll make it nice and pretty, yeah?”

#robin – writes. 🔮#toji smut #toji fushiguro #jjk smut

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todoscript · 4 years

Text

coming home and finding out you fell asleep with lingerie on

characters: bakugou katsuki. todoroki shouto. genre: smut. warnings: 18+. very heaty moments. katsuki and shouto have no restraint. author’s note: This came out of nowhere, but I had an urge to write some spicy stuff so this is what happened. I was going to add Izuku too, but these things became longer than I thought they would (sorry baby). I’ll probably post his version of this with another character in the future though! The actual steamy stuff is written underneath the bulletpoints & read more! ;-)

bakugou katsuki

isn’t surprised to see you passed out on the couch with a small blanket over you, being that he arrived back at your shared apartment late at night due to another full day of hero work

cue his expression softening to those secret endearing eyes of his he never shows in front of you as he watches you for much longer than necessary, breathing in and out evenly in your sleep

but hey, can you blame him? you’re pretty damn cute when you’re so sound asleep like that—word by word thoughts going through his head right now

he knows you can’t stay here for long though. it gets pretty chilly in the living room and he doesn’t want you to catch something, considering how flimsy the blanket is that’s covering you. the material barely reaches to your ankles.

“Babe. Hey, babe. I’m home, c’mon let’s sleep on the bed,” he says low in his gruff voice, running a hand up your arm that’s clad in the blanket.

shakes you a bit to stir you awake so you can both walk to the bed together, but you don’t budge the first couple of times, only humming in your sleep

so he takes it upon himself to carry you to your room and properly get you to bed

however, when he moves the thin blanket off of you, that look of surprise slowly envelops his face when he sees inches of bare skin unveiled the more he pulls the sheet down

- - - - -

You’re practically naked aside from the sheer, wine red lace that only covers your most intimate parts, and even that isn’t enough to keep Katsuki’s eyes from wandering and his thoughts from wandering further.

With the blanket drawn off you, there isn’t a barrier to keep the cold from nipping at your skin—a sensation that agitates you awake as you stretch out your sleepiness on the couch. You’re still unaware of the lecherous eyes that stare at every angle you offer them. Spreading your body out like that, where the fabric clings to you, accentuating all your curves right in front of him? You may seem half-asleep, but there has to be a vixen at work inside that mind of yours. There’s no way you can’t be aware of what you’re doing to him.

It’s not until you rub away some of your drowsiness that you finally perceive the blonde kneeling before the couch. The surprise at discovering his attentive, red eyes glaring at you startles you to attention. You fix your hair, moving the strands out of your face and cleaning off the invisible marks of drool that might have abided your lips.

“Oh, welcome home, Katsuki,” you manage to greet, but Katsuki does not return your welcome. Instead, you feel his large calloused palm run up the length of your legs, and you realize the situation you’re in—how you decided to surprise him that night, wearing a new matching set of dark red lingerie, only to end up dozing off on the couch waiting for him. Though it seems it wasn’t all for naught. With the carnal expression he gives you in your most vulnerable state, he’s more than surprised alright. He’s absolutely thrilled.

Katsuki’s hands explore across your skin, mapping through every expanse despite being more than familiar with the territory. But in actuality, he’s paying all his attention to the lace—the fabric seeming so flimsy, so obscenely indecent on that figure of yours, yet at the same time, equally exquisite. You don’t wear lingerie often, but when you do, it always spurs something to tighten down in his pants, seeing you like this.

His hand trails up the material, tracing the texture before slowly inching his fingers beneath the waistband. “Mm, babe, were you planning something? Looking all sexy, wearing this—” he snaps the elastic against your bare skin, stinging any sleepiness lingering in you away as you wince at the sensation, “skimpy thing while I was gone? You must be desperate to get fucked, right?”

Even if you want to answer, he doesn’t let you. Any words desiring to leave stay trapped in your throat when Katsuki suddenly leans in to fervently capture your lips.

Despite the usual rampant pace of his actions, you soon adjust into his air of lust like it’s second nature. Your tongue mingles against his through each succession of your lips locking together, your hands twining into his ash blonde hair. Katsuki gets to work at removing his shirt with one hand, but remains mindful at busying the other by palming at the lace, gathering your flesh in his grasp before the other joins in on the ministrations.

He finally makes his way onto the couch with you, towering over your body and revels in the noises sounding past those pretty lips when his fingers find your center. All the sensations pile in your body, making you tremble in waves. The wetness already seeping through your delicate panties becomes slicker at his touch.

“Barely even did anything and you’re already this fucking wet? You really do want to get fucked don’tcha?”

“God, yes, please Katsuki. Please fuck me, I want you to fuck me so bad,” you whimper, not sugarcoating your words. You need him right now. Need him so much you’re willing to beg for him without restraint, dropping every ounce of your dignity if it meant he’d pound into you and relieve you of that ache building in your lower-half. It’s to the point where just the sound of his belt unbuckling around his pants is enough to delight and send tingles of anticipation to your cunt.

“Oh, don’t worry, babe. Waiting on me all this time? I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. All. Fucking. Night. Long.” The tone his timbre descends toward incites a whine past your lips, and he smirks at the desperate sound.

“But on one condition.”

“W-What?” You’re quick to reply—anything to lessen the delay and continue the heat of your passion. However, you’re hesitant at what this condition might entail, especially when Katsuki’s grin widens further. His hands do not relent in pulling and pressing against you through the red material of your lingerie.

“I get to fuck you in this thing.”

todoroki shouto

grumbling on his way home because of how late it is and how long you must have been waiting for him

his old man just had to drone on and on at him when the former pro hero visited his agency that night

because of that, he enters your shared space where the silence and dimness of the apartment are what welcome him

he wishes you were the one that would greet him instead, arms open for him as you ask about his day

but he’s more than aware you fell asleep waiting for him all this time

especially when he strides into his bedroom and beholds you laying on your large bed with a fluffy robe wrapped and tied around your body. your eyes are closed in slumber and you’re curled up atop the sheets

you look so precious to him, he can’t stop an adoring smile from finding his lips

he slightly nudges you. when you slowly rouse awake, your small, dozy movements add to his endearment for you that spurs his lips to your forehead while you adjust to your surroundings

“Love, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Let’s get to bed.”

you hum a pitched “alright” in reply that comes out in a whine while you rub your eyes, saying you should get changed then

he sits on the edge of the bed, watching you saunter to the bathroom as you untie the sash of your robe along the way

just before your figure disappears inside however, he catches your skin, decorated in intricate black lace when you let the fluffy material fall below your shoulders

- - - - -

Shouto can’t help the look on his face while he unknowingly ogles you, eyes growing lidded with every peek of your body shown through the sizable crack of the door. He almost releases a groan when the long robe obscuring him from the rest of you finally piles in a heap on the floor and catches the full appearance of your body covered in the enticing black set.

The way it enhances your curves and brings out the beauty of your skin tone is beyond sinful in his eyes. He’s wondering how something so dainty can incite such a hardened reaction from him so quickly, and why he can’t seem to tear his gaze away at your mussed form still ridden with bits of sleep. You must be a succubus, right? Because how can you look so innocent, yet so tempting at the same time?

His attention on you leads to him lifting off the bed and striding to the bathroom, still trained on your figure with only lascivious thoughts running through his mind. He wants to touch you, squeeze you, feel the elaborate, lacy texture of your lingerie as he presses your soft lips on his, and hear all your lustful cries in the course of his insatiable greed.

Utterly devour you.

You have absolutely no idea what’s going through him right now, too occupied tidying bits of yourself in the mirror with a set of sleeping clothes lying on the counter, waiting to replace your beribboned attire. You wore this with the idea of wanting to treat Shouto to a good night of passion, but considering the time and how he must be tired after a long day at his agency, you figure it’s too late for such desires now. Oh, how wrong you are.

Undoubtedly so as the moment your fingers find the clasp on your back holding your bra together, they’re thwarted by a hand wrapping around your wrist and moving them out of the way. Within that instance, you’re also spun around. Your back presses against the sink counter as you come face to face with the sensual glint in Shouto’s gray and blue eyes.

You feel small underneath his unwavering, heavy gaze, squirming in place while his hands still grip your wrists that subdue any thought of you getting away from him. “Shouto, I need to get changed so we can go to sleep—”

“How long have you been wearing this?” he interjects, ignoring your plea and slipping a finger beneath the satin strap of your bra. Meanwhile, the other hand caresses up your warm, bare thigh until it arrives at your panties’ lace. The gestures leave the air hitching in your throat. You have to swallow down a gulp in order to reply to him amid his methodical strokes and caresses.

“I had it on all evening…” you admit, voice becoming quiet. Shouto hums at your answer, leaning into you and pressing your back further against the counter. He traces up your form with not only his hands but also his eyes, committing your bewitching state to memory, familiarizing himself with the intricate patterns of your lingerie.

“For that long, love? You expect me not to appreciate the effort and thought you put in, bearing your pretty body in this—” he palms at your breast through your underwear, rousing a moan to slip from your lips, “and waiting for me this entire time?”

“I-I thought you’d be too tired to—ah—t-to do anything so I figured we should go to sleep now, mm—” You find it hard to keep your voice steady. Not with Shouto’s ministrations descending to your cunt, stroking the wetness gathering at your center that saturates the crotch of your black panties. He captures the slickness around his fingertips and earnestly licks it off with his tongue, admiring your taste while keeping such intense eye contact. It makes your cheeks burn and your arousal heighten.

“On the contrary, baby, seeing you in this just riles me up even more. Makes me want to ravage you while you’re wearing it,” he tells you with an edge in his tone that reduces you to whimpers. Before you can come up with any coherent thought, he hoists you up onto the bathroom sink, effectively spreading you open in front of him as he kneels eye level toward your clothed pussy.

“And that’s exactly what I intend to do. So sit there and let me admire you as I appreciate everything you have to offer.”

#bnha x reader #bnha smut #bakugou smut #todoroki smut #bnhabookclub #bakugou x reader #todoroki x reader #katsuki smut #shouto smut #bnha imagine #bnha scenarios #bakugou katsuki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #bakugou imagine #todoroki imagine

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drarrily-we-row-along · 3 years

Text

Day 133: Married

"Look at him," Draco said to Pansy, tipping slightly further than he'd intended to when he was trying to get a better look at the ridiculously hot bloke leaning against the bar.

"Who?" Pansy asked, whipping her head around to follow Draco's gaze.

"Him," Draco said, extending his arm and bumping his finger into Pansy's nose because his inebriation had apparently affected his gross motor control. "The one with the arse," he said, admiring the lovely, round shape wrapped in tight denim. "Don't you just want to sink your teeth into it?" he asked.

"Draco, wh-"

"And that hair," he added, imagining what it would look like if you released those dark curls from the elastic currently binding them. "Imagine sinking your fingers into that long thick hair, maybe pulling it a little while you-"

"Draco-" she started again.

"Shush," he chastised, "Don't interrupt a good day dream," he said, glaring at her. He returned his eyes to the man at the bar once more, "And look at his shoulder muscles," he added, admiring the way his t-shirt pulled taut across his broad shoulders. The man reached back and scratched his neck, forearm flexing, and Draco might have drooled a bit.

"Draco," she tried again, "How drunk are you?"

He glanced at her before hearing the man laugh and looking back over to see his head tilt back, exposing his throat. He was too distracted to even wonder why he knew that the laugh belonged to the man in the first place. "I'm going to talk to him," he said resolutely before throwing back the shot that remained in front of him and shoving his chair back.

(Read more below the cut)

He smoothed his hair and blew out a nervous breath as he made his way over to the bar, sidling up next to the handsome stranger, "Hello," he said.

The man turned impossibly beautiful green eyes on him, an eye brow rose as his eyes drifted over Draco's face. "Hi," he replied in a voice that felt like honey in Draco's veins as the corner of his mouth ticked up, exposing a dimple.

He swallowed and the man's eyes dropped to his throat. "I'm Draco," he said, holding out a hand.

The man's smile widened, "Harry," he replied, clasping Draco's hand in his.

The name was a bit plain, but Draco could imagine the way it would feel in his mouth as he neared an orgasm, open and delicious. A shiver traced it's way up his spine. "Nice to meet you," Draco replied. "Can I get you a drink?"

"I'm just drinking soda tonight," he said, nodding toward his cup.

Draco frowned, "Then why are you here?"

"Waiting for someone."

Jealously burned hot and bright in his stomach. "Well where are they?" he demanded. Harry opened his mouth to respond but Draco continued, "It seems pretty rude if you ask me."

"Does it?" Harry asked, his voice warm and amused, and almost fond.

"Yes. Is it a friend?"

"More than a friend," the other man replied, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"A lover?" he asked.

"Closer."

He felt nauseous, "Are you married?" he asked.

"I am," the man replied, holding up his left hand so Draco could see the ring.

"Oh," he whispered, why did that make him feel so sad? "Right," he said, sniffling and blinking against the stinging wetness in his eyes.

"Draco," Harry said, reaching toward him.

"No, it's okay," he said, nodding to himself. "It's fine. You're very kind but-"

"Draco," he repeated, taking Draco's left hand and holding it up, "It's you, you nut," he said with a laugh, "You're my husband," he added, pointing to the matching wedding band on his finger.

"I'm your husband?" he asked incredulously, looking between his ring and the man's face.

Harry nodded, laughing softly at whatever expression was painted on Draco's face.

"Wait a minute," he said, pointing a finger at Harry. The other man held his hand up in surrender and Draco spun around and made his way back to Pansy. "That is my husband?" he hissed.

She took a sip of her martini and turned her gaze from the woman a few tables over. "Yes, darling. I tried to tell you."

"He's my husband?" Draco asked, his eyes feeling suspiciously misty again.

Pansy rolled her eyes, "Yes. This happens every time you drink Frangelico. We need to stop letting you drink those birthday cake shots."

"It's my birthday?"

She shook her head, "No," she said in exasperation. "You just like the way those shots taste."

"Oh," he said, frowning again.

"Tell Harry it's time to take you home."

He glanced back over to see that Harry was leaning a hip against the bar as he watched Draco talk to Pansy. Harry gave him a little smile and Draco's insides turned to goo. "Alright," he replied, smiling helplessly back. "Night, Pans."

"Good night, you lush," she replied fondly but Draco was already half way back to Harry.

"Hey," Harry said, giving him a little smile. "Ready to go home?"

Draco nodded and Harry held out an arm for him. He slipped his arm through the other man's and he apparated them home.

"This way, love," Harry called once they landed and Draco got his bearings.

He followed the other man back into a cozy bedroom and watched as Harry stripped out of his shirt. "Oh sweet Merlin," he murmured as his eyes traced the defined musculature of Harry's back.

"What?" Harry asked, turning around and revealing an equally defined front. Draco's jaw dropped and Harry grinned at him, "I always forget how gratifying this is."

"You," Draco said, completely missing whatever it was that Harry said, "You are gorgeous."

"Thank you," Harry replied, stepping closer.

"Can I?" Draco asked, reaching out a hand toward the other man's chest.

He huffed a laugh but nodded.

Draco reached out and trailed his fingers over Harry's clavicles and down his chest, brushing over his lightly defined abs before tracing his way back up once more.

"Draco," Harry breathed, eyes closed as he stood perfectly still, letting Draco's fingers dance along his skin.

"You are unfairly pretty."

Harry's eyes fluttered open.

But before he could say anything Draco asked, "Can I kiss you?"

"If you want to," Harry replied.

He leaned in and pressed his lips softly to the other man's and it was like slipping into a dream he'd had a hundred times. He knew these lips, he knew this body; Draco groaned, pressing into Harry and melding their bodies together.

"There you are," Harry said when Draco drew back far enough to trail kisses along Harry's jaw.

"Love you," he murmured.

"Love you, too," Harry said, tipping his head so he could brush his nose over Draco's.

He sighed and pulled Harry closer, resting his head on his shoulder and hugging him tight.

"Alright?" Harry asked, hands stroking soothingly over Draco's spine.

"Tired," he replied.

Harry pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Time for bed, then."

They went through the familiar motions of getting ready and climbing into bed together. "Harry?" he asked, once they were settled in under the covers and Draco was resting with his ear over Harry's heart. "Thanks for always indulging me."

Harry hummed and Draco could hear the smile in his voice, "It's no hardship," he said. "It's tremendously good for my ego," he added with a little laugh.

"You know you're the only one for me, right?" Draco asked.

He kissed the top of Draco's head, "Of course," he said. "It's not like you don't recognize me, you know. Your conscious mind may forget but your body always knows me. It's why you always cry when I tell you I'm married," he teased.

"I do not," Draco protested.

"You do," Harry argued, "Every time. It's one of my favorite things."

"You like to see me cry?" he asked, vaguely insulted.

He felt Harry shake his head, "No, I love to see the look of wonder on your face when I tell you that we're married," he replied.

"I always feel that way, you know," he confessed, "Even when I'm completely sober. It's incomprehensible to me that you would want this life with me."

Harry held him a little tighter, dropping another kiss to the top of his head, "The feeling is quite mutual my love," he replied.

And they spent the rest of their lives feeling the same; beyond lucky and amazed that a love like this could belong to them.

------------------

Day 132: Tinder Date Gone Wrong | Day 134: Break Up

#100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #one year of drarry drabbles #drarry #drarry ficlet #drarry drabble #love #established relationship #silly #married #cute #drinking

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shiggyscumrag · 3 years

Text

How the MHA boys react to their chubby s/o wearing their clothes<3

I also plan on making a demon slayer and haikyuu version so look out for that hoessss

Midoriya Izuku

Dude he would flip, but like in a positive way-

He would get so flustered and immediately start muttering on and on about how pretty you look and try to poorly hide his embarrassment

He would find it really cute, plus he wears slightly bigger sized shirts so it wouldnt fit to tight on you

And even if it did he would find it absolutely adorable

You wearing one of his shirts that literally say "shirt" and a pair of his sweats to go along with it and it would be one of his new favorite things

He would ask if he could take a picture to save as his new homescreen deadass

He just cant get over how adorbale you look so of course hes gonna get all flustered and lovey dovey

10/10 would cuddle you for the rest of the night and not let you leave. Sleepover timeeeee

"What are you wearing?" He said as he stumbled across you in one of his shirts and sweats. You were bored and uncomfy in your jeans and tshirt so you decided it was a good idea to steal some of your boyfriends clothes to get more comfortable. Of course he was a little smaller in size then you but it would still work.

"I got uncomfortable and I thought you wouldn't mind if I borrowed some clothes to change into. I can change if you want-"

"No no no, you're okay! I mean I like you in my clothes, and I'm glad they make you comfortable! I just didnt know what you were doing and I was a little confused at first but you look really cute so I really don't mind at all, I swear! I was just a little startled-" you were interrupted by Izuku's rambling. He always did this when he was nervous. All you could really do is chuckle, and have your cheeks blush slightly at the compliments while getting comfy on his bed.

Bakugou Katsuki

Bakugou thought it was a dumb idea at first, like he just didnt get it

Though after your persistent meddling he gave in and gave you one of his shirts

After you put it on and showed him he got all flustered and very horny

He felt weirdly proud about it, it was like a way of marking you as his and he liked that

And omg when you stole and wore a pair of his boxers, he fucking malfunctioned. Heres how the scenario would go in my head-

"Welcome back Katsuki!" You said cheerfully from further inside his dorm.

"Ah, what are you doing here shitty woman! I'm tired and want to go to bed-" he stopped mid sentence when he saw you laying on his bed in his boxers and his classic skull tshirt. He didnt realize how horny he had been but now the bulge in his pants was very prominent and uncomfortably tight.

"See something you like katsu?" You teased. You knew he had been stressed from interning lately and I mean so have you, so why not kill two birds with one stone?

"Hell yeah I do." He said crossing the room fast and finding your lips. A heated makeout session started, you had sat up and placed your hands on his chest starting to undo his tie and unbutton his uniform shirt. He pulled away and smirked grabbing you by the chin making you look at him.

"You're such a naughty girl." He pulled his pants and boxers down in one swift motion, hissing when the cool air hit his cock. "Now get to sucking slut." You smirked and went down to lick his slit, some pre hitting your taste buds making you mewl. You began to bob your head at a steady pace. He groaned as his head fell back, a hand falling behind your head guiding your movements.

"Such a good little slut for me. Got any panties under here?" He said snapping the elastic of his boxers, leaving a delicious sting on your hip. You hummed causing another groan to rip through his throat. He pulled you off his cock with a pop.

"Is that a yes or a no sweet cheeks?" He said dragging his thumb against your drool soaked lips

"No sir, I dont have any panties on." You say, eyes half lidded and full of lust.

"Good answer-" He started as he pinned you down on the bed and left a chaste kiss on your lips. "Cause I was gonna take em' off anyways."

Kirishima Eijiro

When you first ask if you could borrow a shirt and pants to wear to sleep in his dorm he gladly excepted

He found it to be quote on quote "the manliest thing ever"

He would feel bad that his clothes are tight on you so he buys a couple over sized ones and wears them to get them to smell like him and next time you come to trade out hoodies he gives you those in hopes it'll make you feel more comfy

He would def also steal your clothes

He would love to wear your hoodies around the dorm and flex about having them

He loves that you feel comfortable enough to wear his clothes and to also let him wear yours

It's a trust and comfort thing that he finds the most adorbale

It makes him feel so happy, you make him so happy<3

You heard a knock on your door. You got up from your bed and made your way to the door as whoever it was continued to knock. You opened it up to see a red head with sharp teeth grinning widely at you.

"Hey kiri!" You said wrapping your arms around his neck as you leaned forward to place a kiss on his cheek. He wrapped one arm around your waist and chuckled at your kiss.

"I came by to swap hoodies again! Yours stopped smelling like you." He said with a pout on his lips.

"Ah its okay baby, I'll give you another one!" You said with a smile.

Todoroki Shouto

Shouto would be confused on why exactly you would want to wear his clothes when you have your own that are perfectly fine

But he would still find it oddly comforting and very cute

He didn't really know that was a thing that couples do, you know trading clothes

So you would steal his hoodies and you would give him yours to sleep in

Dude he would get so happy

He would put your hoodie on for the first time alone in his dorm after you dropped it off and gave him a kiss goodnight

So he puts it on and just feels so comfy and at home in a sense. He just feels so calm and at peace with the world

Plus when he realizes it smells like you he goes wild

Would sleep in it every night and every morning he would fold it neatly and place it on his pillow so that when he gets home after a long day of class and interning with his dad he can wear it straight out his shower and smell your scent and be able to go to sleep peacefully that night

He can only hope his hoodies make you feel the same way yours do to him

"I can have this?" He says holding out the hoodie of yours you just gave him to be able to wear, a stoic expression still painted on his face.

"Well yeah! I thought since you let me have yours that you could have mine!" You said with a smile. Shoto couldn't help the heat that started to flush his face. He never knew that this is what couples do. He just knew they cuddled, kissed, held hands, and went on dates. He didn't know you could exchange clothing as a form of affection, but when you asked to have one of his hoodies he did love the idea of you wearing them. Shoto liked it even more when he saw you around the dorm in them.

"Thank you y/n. I appreciate it greatly." He spoke.

"Of course roni!" You said leaning in and pecking his lips "Goodnight, sleep tight and don't let the bed bugs bite!" You said skipping towards the girls dorms.

"Goodnight. Sleep well." He said softly. You smiled and waved goodbye. Once you rounded the corner and he could no longer see you he entered his room now staring at the hoodie once again.

He pushed the hoodie over his head and put his arms through. He adjusted the material until he was comfortable. He looked in the mirror and stated to go red. He was wearing your hoodie. He started to get this euphoric feeling of relief. A sense of home is what he felt while wearing it. He tucked himself into bed and laid his head on his pillow when he got a sudden whiff of your scent. It smelled like you too. He felt even more comfy now. He went to sleep peacefully that night. It felt like he was going to sleep in your arms. It was amazing. He now wears it every night and when it doesnt smell like you anymore he asks for you to wear it to make it smell like you again. You have definitely created a monster-

Mezo Shoji

Shoji is a pretty big fella and because of his quirk his clothes are kinda unique

BUT his pants and boxers are normal and can fit you fairly well

I feel like he would also get over sized clothes to lounge in so he feels less restricted so that's a bonus for you

So now you steal his pants all the time when your too lazy to go to your dorm and change or if you haven't done laundry and your out of comfy clothes

Plus you steal his boxers to basically substitute them as spandex shorts

I feel like he wouldnt know that he would like seeing you in his clothes until he did and he would get really happy.

And he finds it incredibly sexy when you wear his boxers, like damn you finna get WRECK-

You have once again stolen one of Shojis pair of boxers to wear as spandex, cause their just so comfy! Your boyfriend was currently downstairs in the kitchen getting you guys snacks for your movie night in his dorm.

You had gotten one his boxers and hid your panties in your pants and folded them nicely over on the nightstand. He came in with his hands full of popcorn, candy, and drinks. Not the healthiest but for sure yummy!

"Here let me help bubs!" You say getting out from under the blanket and standing to help grab stuff from his hands. He stared down at your lower stomach, hips, and thighs seeing them covered in the print of one his boxers. He was used to you stealing his pants and boxers but their was something different this time. Something in him snapped. "You okay Shoji?" You asked placing your hands on his chest after already setting the drinks and candy down. Popcorn still in one hand he took the other and stroked your cheek.

"I'm okay love. I see you stole my boxers again." One of his arms finding its place to settle on your hip.

"Oh yeah I did. I didn't feel like running back all the way to my dorm just to change." You spoke "Is that okay?" You asked, a silent plead in your eyes for it to be okay with him.

"Yeah it's okay." He said bending down and nuzzling his cheek against yours. You hummed in contentment before speaking.

"I'll get the movie ready!" You said running over to his laptop on his desk across the room. Shoji saw your pants folded neatly on his night stand where he was gonna set the popcorn and drinks so they were easier to reach. He set down the popcorn on the bed and picked up your pants accidentally unfolding them and causing your panties to fall on the floor at his feet. A flush crossed Shojis face, a scorching heat firing through his body. This is the straw that broke the camel's back.

You couldn't figure out what movie you wanted to watch. You just scrolled and scrolled and scrolled through Netflix's recommended page finding absolutely nothing. Next thing you knew you felt Shojis hands wrap around you waist and his face right next to your ear.

"Shoji what are you-"

"No panties huh?" He interrupted.

That's all you needed to hear to know you were gonna have a long night filled with hours of unwatched watched movies and a bunch of screens saying "Are you still watching?"

Hanta Sero

He would praise the ever loving dog snot out of your bro

Dude he would praise you left and right, up and down, side to side which is basically the same thing as left to right but we wont talk about it

He absolutely loves it

He never knew he needed this until now and he is never going back

He loves how you look in his clothes so he would for sure start getting slightly oversized stuff so it will fit you more comfortably so you dont have an excuse not to wear his clothes

Even though he would be perfectly content if you only wore them in his dorm, he just wants you in his clothes now 24/7

He would also steal your clothes<3 and he would always say he likes how they smell like you AHHHHHHH

"Come on, do a little twirl for me!" Sero teased as he spun his finger around in a circle.

"Sero!" You said, you could feel your face growing hotter by the second. He loved when you got all hit and bothered by his praise so he always teases you.

"You just look so damn good~" he said as he snaked his arms around your waist. He leaned in making you eager and lean in as well. Just as your about to kiss he pulls away.

"Sero stop teasing!" You whisper shout, a bit of whine in your voice.

That's when he leaned down fully and gave you a kiss on your lips. You depended the kiss and started a full on make out session. His hands trailed down to your ass grabbing it firmly cause a gasp from you. He took that as a chance to slip his tongue in. After a couple minutes you both pulled away for air, slightly panting and a string of salvia connecting your lips.

"You look really cute in my clothes but I think they'd look cutest on the floor-"

678 notes · View notes

inkykeiji · 3 years

Text

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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