#sweets and treats | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starstruckkittensweets · 1 year

Text

“Everything” Pt. I | Dabi x Reader

“You love him—everything he was, everything he is, and everything he will be.”

Fandom: My Hero Academia Pairing: Dabi x Reader Words: 13.9k

A/N: I’m a slut for Dabi. Scratch that—I am a MASSIVE slut for Dabi. And that couch scene in 6x17 only solidified my obsession with him. I have no excuse for this fic, except that it’s angsty, filthy, and way too long for its own good. I just have too many thoughts on Dabi as both a character and a love interest and I shamelessly projected myself onto Reader the entire time writing this. I wanna hold him and tell him it’s all gonna be okay, but at the same time I wanna fuck his brains out like there’s no tomorrow. The second half will be uploaded later this week, once I finish editing it. I hope you enjoy! (Now let me go hide my face in shame...)

Also a huge thank you to my dear friend @lostinwildflowers, who’s just as thirsty for Dabi as I am! Birch, it’s because of you cheering me on that this fic finally got finished! (And further down the rabbit hole we go!)

Warnings: 18+ only (minors please DNI), fem-bodied reader, spoilers for Season 6 (up to Episode 17 at least), Reader and Dabi may or may not be in the healthiest mindset to fuck right now (that won’t stop em though), Reader is somewhat dependent on Dabi, oral sex (f. receiving), face sitting, vaginal sex, spanking, quirk use, branding, crying (Reader is a bit of a crybaby but she means well), hair pulling, fingering, blood tears, Dabi’s an asshole and doesn’t want to admit that Reader actually loves and cares for him

Part I | Part II

You’ve been to this mansion exactly three times before.

The first time was in the middle of the fall, when the leaves were crisp and the winds were brisk. It was an old shabby building in the middle of nowhere, worn out and run down by the countless inhibitors that came before you. At the time Dabi had brushed it off, claiming they were no longer a threat to you, that it was now the perfect little getaway from the rest of the world. (As long as the rest of the League was off elsewhere, of course.)

He had wrapped you up in his arms and pulled you down on that ratty old couch, the one with faded gold carvings and fluff poking out of the torn cushions. You had been a little wary at first; it wasn’t exactly the most pleasant smell in the world. But he kept you busy with his burning kisses and wandering hands, and eventually you dozed off right there in his arms, with his chest pressed against your back.

The second time was in the dead of winter, just before the New Year. You had forced him down on that damn couch and pressed every wad of gauze you could find to the fresh wounds on his arms and torso. The bastard had been too rough and ripped his staples again, a thin trickle of red seeping down his skin. You had yelled at him for that, as though you were his mother and not just the girl he’d preferred to keep his bed warm. So loud your voice rang throughout the halls of the mansion, enough for Twice and Toga to peek their heads around the corner to see what all the fuss was about.

The third time was a little more pleasant, on the eve of the eighteenth of January. A night of strolling around the city too far from home led you back to the quiet mansion—luckily you were the only ones there at the time. The two of you were tipsy on whatever booze Dabi had managed to get his hands on that day; your lips were thrumming from his kisses, your body as light as a feather in his arms. He carried you into a secluded room on the second floor, the one he’d claimed for his own so long ago, and his fingers pressing into the meat of your thighs. Before you knew it you were being crushed beneath him on the bed, moaning his name into his mouth as he slipped your shirt over your head.

Neither of you awoke until late the next morning, when he oh-so generously accompanied you on the walk back to your apartment, pulling a worn black hoodie over your head to hide the bruises on your neck and arms. It was frayed at the sleeves and smelled of smoke, but it was the warmest thing you’d ever worn in your life.

And now you’re standing outside this mansion a fourth time, with that old hoodie hugging your chest, keeping out the last winter chill of the season.

The League has never kept the doors locked—both for easy access and knowing just how they managed to wipe out the last group that lived in this mansion—so it’s not hard to slip in through the front. The halls are dark and silent, the scent of musk so strong you cover your nose with the sleeve of the hoodie. Not like smoke is much better, but still…

And that’s when you hear it: a faint chuckle, deep and raspy, at the very end of the hall. The slightest flicker of blue coming to life among the shadows.

You swallow once, stilling your trembling fingers in the pockets of the hoodie, and start to walk forward.

He’s standing there in the middle of the living room (at least that’s what Toga calls it; it only has a couch and a few dressers for decorations, mostly the knives she likes to keep on display for the rest of you to see). Your jaw drops at the sight of marred skin, a deep purple shade stretching across the length of his back, over his arms and down to his hipbones. He grunts as he presses down hard on one of the staples in his wrist, locking it back into place with a sigh.

You gasp, but he doesn’t turn around at the sound. Instead he rolls his shoulders back, cocks his head as he focuses on another staple splitting his skin apart.

“Dabi.” Your voice is a whisper, too quiet for him to hear. Or maybe he’s just ignoring me. You clear your throat and try again: “Dabi, you’re hurt. I can—”

He says your name then, and your blood turns to ice in your veins. He heaves a sigh as he tugs out a rusted staple from his wrist, flicking it to the ground before reaching for a fresh one on the dresser closest to him.

“I told you to stay away. So go home.”

Your breath catches in your throat; your heartbeat echoes in your ears. The black hoodie suddenly feels too snug around your neck as you glare at him, at the ragged skin his flames have left behind.

“You’re not serious. Two weeks—no, three weeks of complete radio silence, and that’s all you have to say to me?” It’s getting harder to stare at him when your eyesight’s getting all blurry. You brush your eyes with the sleeve of the hoodie, but that just makes you feel even worse. Damn smoke.

He doesn’t answer, only winces as another new staple buries itself into the skin of his wrist. You take a step forward, ready to clean the blood off his back or smack him upside the head, you’re not sure which one just yet.

But then he’s staring at you from over his shoulder, and all you can see are the patches beneath his eyes, the fresh burns stretching past the silver staples in his cheeks.

“Why are you here?” he asks, and you shiver at the forlorn look in those beautiful blue eyes. “You’re supposed to be home by now, it’s getting late. Leave already.”

“No.” The words pour out of you so fast you barely register what you’re saying. “Not again. I’m not leaving after you—” You swallow the lump in your throat, well aware of those eyes on you. “…After seeing that video—I couldn’t even…”

Fuck, it seems so long ago. Nearly a month of silence from Dabi, of sitting in your apartment wondering if you should leave the window unlocked for him even though he hates it, of checking your phone for any messages from unknown numbers, of constantly wondering if there was anything you could’ve said or done to keep him from walking out that night—

To staring at the little TV in your living room, a broken mug lying at your feet, your second cup of coffee soaking through the carpet. To feeling the tears well up in your eyes as you saw him, burn scars and all, revealing the truth about himself and the family he’d come from.

“Touya.”

It used to be your little secret. Something he mumbled into your hair as you patched him up one night, assuring him and yourself that he wouldn’t die. Something you’d panted into his mouth as he pressed you into the mattress in your bedroom, curling his fingers around your own. Something he’d trusted you with.

And now everyone knows about it; his family, his story, his name. Everyone knows and he can’t take it back.

But a part of you thinks he doesn’t want to take it back. That wild look in his eye, that gleeful smile that nearly rips his staples apart. The world is in shambles because of him and he fucking loves it.

“Touya,” you try again, “let me help you. You…you need to be cleaned up, I can take care of you…”

He makes no move to run as you step closer, hands barely brushing his ragged arms. Tears are spilling down your cheeks, mirroring the trickles of blood sliding down his chest. You can remember burning your hand on the stove so many years ago, even when your mother warned you to be careful. You had whined about the pain until she wrapped it up and gave you a kiss, chiding you for acting like such a child.

You can’t imagine being burned like this—your body being eaten by your own flames—the thought makes your stomach roll into itself.

“C’mon.” You pull him closer to the dresser, grimacing at the tray of fresh staples in front of you (as well as its bloodied twin). A familiar dance for the two of you. “I got you.”

You’re safe with me.

He’s silent as you clean out his wrists, leaving bloody tissues all across the dresser and floor, wincing at every bit of silver biting into his skin. Open, close, open, close. He doesn’t complain, not even once as you try your best to stitch him up. You keep your mouth shut, even though your tongue is burning with all the things you want to say. Too scared that even the slightest bit of noise will chase him off again, and you’ll be left at square one once more.

When the blood is cleaned off and the staples are secured, you steal a glance at the palm of his hand. Cringing as the rough purple skin stretches all the way up to his fingers. Can he still feel anything? Or are his nerves shot for good?

The thought makes your stomach churn. Without thinking you lean into his palm, splaying his fingers across your cheek.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sor—”

“For what?”

His voice is rough, and when he pulls his hand away you want to burst into tears. He gives your head a messy pat, mussing up your hair before walking to the other end of the room.

“You got nothin’ to feel sorry for, doll. So don’t go saying shit that’s not true.”

Your tongue feels heavy against my lips. “W-what?”

“You patched me up, I won’t bleed out. So you can go already.” He sprawls himself across that ratty old couch, legs hanging off the arm as he drapes a hand across his forehead. “Leave.”

“But… I don’t want to…”

Suddenly you feel like a child again, clinging to your parents and begging them for just five more minutes of fun before bedtime. There’s a horrible nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach, laughing at you, taunting you for how stupid you are.

He doesn’t want you here. Just get out of here before you make things worse.

But you know that if you walk out that door right now, you may never see this man in the flesh ever again.

You can’t let him get away. Not again—not ever.

“I’m staying.” Dabi’s eyes are practically glowing in the dark, watching your every move as you cross the room to follow him. “You don’t get to tell me that after all this time. So I’m staying, whether you like it or not. So stop trying to get me to leave!”

The chuckle he gives sends a chill down your spine. He leans further into the couch and rests his arm against his forehead.

“Everyone leaves sooner or later, dollface.”

Oh.

That’s where his mind is at right now.

He likes to put up a front. Likes to hide behind sarcastic comments and unimpressed looks. Shows off his power any chance he gets just to remind everyone how strong he is, how easily he could incinerate everyone with a single flick of his hand.

But you can still see the little boy with white hair, begging for his father’s approval, masking his sadness with a smile.

“…Well, I’m not planning on leaving anytime soon.” You flump down on the floor with a huff, back pressing into the worn out couch, legs sprawled out in front of you. “So get used to having me around.”

He doesn’t seem happy, but at least he’s not trying to get you to leave anymore. For now, at least.

The two of you bask in the silence of the shadowy room, neither one acknowledging the other. You pull your knees up to your chest and keep your eyes forward, staring at the sliver of moonlight that seeps through the single window ahead, as Dabi’s soft breathing lulls you into a semi-relaxed state.

There are so many things you want to tell him, to ask him, to scream at him. Why didn’t you come home after that night? What did I do wrong to make you stay away? Why do you insist on pushing me away when you know all I want to do is help you?

It’s still so raw, the memory of his last night in your apartment. Early February—just two days shy of Valentine’s Day, the prick—at close to three in the morning. One minute you were sleeping soundly in your bed with his arms wrapped around your waist; the next you were begging him not to leave, fat tears streaming down your cheeks.

Demanding to know why he decided to leave after all this time, after so many months of bliss. Recalling the promise you’d made to him on his birthday in this very house, in the old room he’d claimed for himself. And when that didn’t work you started throwing things—pillows, clothes, his stupid pack of cigarettes—anything you could get your hands on. Anything to get him to stay, even for just one more night.

But he’d pulled on his shirt and walked out the door—the first time he’d ever used the door instead of the window. He left you there in the living room, tearing at your hair as your chest wracked with sobs.

I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I fucking—

“Still have that shitty hoodie, huh?”

His voice is raspy when he speaks, a low sound that snaps your head from your arms. You try not to look at him as you nod, hugging your knees closer to your chest. A whiff of smoke crosses your nose when you tug the collar of the hoodie over your mouth, as though it were a scarf.

“Looks good on you, doll.” Dabi gives a breathless laugh, and it’s hard not to turn your head to look at him. Of all the things he could talk to you about, he chooses that?

Maybe it’s just his way of appeasing you, as though you’ll forget the last few weeks ever happened.

“Better on you than me; I always hated wearing it. Too stuffy and hot. It always got—”

“Caught on your staples, I know.” The words are already falling from your mouth; no matter how hard you grip your arms or bite your tongue, they just keep on coming. “That’s why you don’t like to wear sweaters, they make you itch and you overheat way too fast.”

Silence—for a moment you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing. You swallow hard and twist your head, nails biting into the sleeves of the hoodie. His arm is over his eyes, but you can still see the slight quiver in his jaw when you start talking.

“I know you can’t stand being in a car for more than ten minutes, or else you’ll start to feel sick. I know you like to drink but not too much, because you hate the way it makes you feel like you’re losing control of your body. You hate the way your head starts swimming and you have to lay down with a rag on your head. I know you prefer Camels but you can’t always find them, and that’s why I keep a stash of them on the kitchen counter, in case you end up running out.”

Your hands are clenched into fists now, your heart leaping in your throat with every word you say. You have no idea if he’s even listening, or if he’s fallen asleep from exhaustion or boredom. But there’s no stopping the words from spilling out, your tongue burning with every syllable, every breath you suck in just to calm your racing heart.

“You like sleeping on your left side rather than your right because you think it helps you fall asleep faster—and it doesn’t hurt as much, the worst of your scars are on your right side. You’re a fan of that special cherry-scented shampoo in my bathroom, the one you always use whenever you beg me to bathe with you. You still have that stupid keychain I got for you last Christmas, the one that splits into two halves of a heart. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you leave out some food for the stray cats in the alley behind my apartment—because I know it’s you. Only you could leave a tray of cat food smelling like an ashtray, dummy.”

That was quite a sight to wake up to: a ragtag group of kittens right below your kitchen window, lapping up food from a little silver tin—something that had definitely not been there the night before. And while the whole alleyway smelled of smoke and ash, there wasn’t a single cigarette stub to be found on the pavement. Too worried one of the cats might decide to chew on them, probably. As much as he tried to downplay it, Dabi did have a soft spot for animals. He had a heart of his own, somewhere in that scarred, ragged chest of his.

Which is why this whole situation hurts you so much. You know he cares about whatever kind of bond the two of you have. You know he’s so much more than what he claims to be. You know that deep down inside him, he’s still the boy with the bright blue eyes—Touya Todoroki, the boy who dreamed of becoming a hero one day.

I know you, so let me in. I’ll still be by your side, no matter what you do.

“And I know that I could never leave you when you’re in pain like this, even if you tell me to.” It’s hard to keep your voice soft, but you try your best anyway. Anything for him. “Even if you scream at me and try to scare me, I’ll never leave you. Not now, and not ever. So please, just…”—suddenly there’s a lump in your throat, your eyes growing blurry at the edges—“…let me help you.”

He could scoff and brush you off. He could glare and demand for you to get out. He could crush you so easily, referring to the last actual conversation you had, where he claimed you were nothing more than a way for him to blow off some steam. He could incinerate this entire mansion, taking you down with it—and quite possibly himself. But no matter what happens, or what he may do, you have to stand your ground. You made a promise not only to him, but to yourself as well. To keep the two of you safe, even if the entire world stood against you. To love him until you took your dying breath, and to trust in him to do the same for you.

I don’t care what you’ve done or who you are, or even what you plan to do. No matter what happens, I will always have a special place in my heart for you.

Those were the exact words you’d said to him on his birthday, in this very mansion. And you still meant every single one of them, as if you’d said them just moments ago.

“…C’mere.”

Your mouth falls open when he finally moves his arm away from his face, only to drum his fingers against his bare chest. Those blue eyes are unnaturally bright, beckoning you closer—as though he’s the devil you’ve been warned to stay away from your entire life.

It’s a bit awkward at first, stumbling off the floor and crawling up the length of his body. But there’s no word of protest, no sign of discomfort as you throw one leg over his waist, settling down on his hips as gently as you can. Suddenly those scarred palms are stretching out to you, and you lean in to press a line of kisses across the fresh purple marks.

“Stubborn little shit.” The words are harsh but there’s no bite to them—only a soft glint in those beautiful eyes of his. “It’s too late for you to head back home already, isn’t it?”

You give him a shrug, dragging your mouth to the inner part of his wrist. “I guess so. Like hell am I leaving you here all alone with those injuries.”

You both know he’s lived through worse, a few misplaced staples aren’t going to kill him overnight. But you’ll take any excuse you can get to stay with him, even for just a bit longer.

He hums at that, leaning his head against the arm of the couch. His fingers are warm against your skin, brushing across your forehead as he sweeps a few stray pieces of hair off to the side. When he’s done you take ahold of his wrist again, pressing a few kisses against the fresh staples in his palm, as soft as you can manage. That gets a laugh from him—short and breathless, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Never know when to quit, do you? You keep chasin’ after me, even when I tell you not to. I thought you had a brain in that pretty little head of yours, doll.”

“I do, and I could’ve easily let you bleed out from your wounds.” You run your hands across the staples on his chest, down his abdomen before working your way back up his arms. “But I didn’t, because I’m just that kind of person.”

“Hm, a good girl who’s got a soft spot for a dangerous villain?”

“You’re not a villain,” you tell him, even though you both know that’s a blatant lie. “And I don’t have just a soft spot for you. I…”

One minute the words are there on your tongue—and the next your lips are pressed together, too afraid to speak as those burning blue eyes bleed into your own.

I love you. That’s all you have to say; three simple words, and your fate is sealed.

So…why are they so fucking hard to say out loud?

You do love him. You love him so much your chest aches whenever you look at him. It hurts whenever you know he’s putting himself in danger, risking his life to destroy what made him this way in the first place. He tries to hide it with a cocky smirk and a few flirtatious comments, but you know him better than that. This is the same man who huddles deep under the blankets of your bed with you, even though he claims they’re too scratchy against his skin. The same man who rests his head in your lap and lets you play with his hair, who will sometimes ask about whatever book you’re currently reading at the moment. The same man you’ve caught, on at least two separate occasions, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, hunched over the running sink, a thin trail of blood trickling from the staples embedded beneath his eyes. The same man who doesn’t even protest as you wrap your arms around him and lead him back to bed, reminding him of just how much he’s needed—how much you need him—with gentle kisses and soft-spoken words.

You love him—everything he was, everything he is, and everything he will be.

He reaches up and presses his thumb and forefinger into your chin, bringing your face down to his. Apparently you’re taking too long to respond.

“Listen to me, doll.” A shiver sweeps down your spine at the familiar pet name. “Are you really willing to sign your life away for a piece of shit like me?”

There he goes again, degrading himself and his worth. Sometimes you wish you could meet the man who did this to him. Stare his father straight in the eye and demand to know what prompted him to treat his own son this way. As though if he wasn’t the epitome of perfection, he was just a worthless waste of space.

“We’ve been over this, Touya.” You can see the twitch of his jaw at his name, his real name spilling from your lips. “You are not a piece of shit. And I wouldn’t be signing anything away; I knew damn well what I was getting myself into when I let you kiss me for the first time.”

A memory from so long ago, of drunken laughter and his heavy coat draped over your shoulders—and your incessant whining that the sleeves weren’t long enough to keep you warm. He had rolled his eyes and shut you up with a kiss, before scooting over to sit behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. Claiming that he would keep you warm instead, while you’d been too stunned to speak. Too preoccupied with the taste of his lips—of booze and smoke…and of the slightest scent of cedarwood.

“You’re a pain in my ass and you always know what to say to push my buttons, and I’m still pissed at you for leaving that night—and not coming to visit afterwards. You’re an asshole, no way around it.”

You can feel the tension slipping from your shoulders, the cloud of frustration finally easing from your mind as you reach down to take his face in your hands. Palms pressed against his ragged skin, thumbs grazing the staples below his eyes, savoring the way his lips part at your touch, the way his eyelids flutter as you lean in close. His fingers are burning against your waist, but you trust him not to burn you to ash. You still trust him, even though he’s given you every reason not to.

“But you’re mine. My pain in the neck, my villain, whatever you want to call yourself. My Dabi, my Touya—it doesn’t matter to me, as long as I get to have you.”

It’s the closest you can get to those three damn words without bursting into tears. But he seems to understand, because suddenly he’s twisting his hands into your hair and yanking you down for a searing kiss.

You can remember the first time he kissed you, how you knew you would never get tired of feeling his mouth on your own, or tasting his lips, or seeing the smug look on his face as he pulled himself away, just to see you breathless and begging for more. It’s still the same now, more or less, but with an underlying heat between your bodies. An undeniable wave of desire, crashing over your heads until the only thing you can see, touch, taste, is each other.

A groan slips through his mouth as he tugs you up the length of his body, mismatched lips finding their way to the familiar pulse point in your neck. He’s quick with his work, sucking a fresh bruise just below your jaw, where he knows his hoodie won’t be able to reach. It’s hard not to whine as he works his way down your neck, nipping and sucking as you bury your face and fingers into his soft white hair.

Fuck, you’ve missed this. How long has it been since he’s held you against his body like this, drawing out this wild side, this primal need for him, that only he can hope to tame?

Too long—too fucking long.

“D-Dabi,” you’re panting against his hair, moaning as he ruts his hips up into yours. “…It’s too dark in here—n-need to see you—”

He’s sitting up in a flash, one arm coiled around your waist with his other stretched out behind him. A gentle stream of flame erupts from his palm, illuminating his eyes before settling into the fireplace beside the couch. A thin trail of smoke rises from his wrist, reminding you of all the cigarettes he would smoke out on your balcony in the dead of night.

“Better, doll?”

“Better,” you whisper, and he smirks before pressing his mouth to yours once more.

For a moment, you forget about everything that’s led you up to this point. For a moment there’s no war between heroes and villains, no innocent civilians caught in the crossfire, no heartbroken memories or damning videos. There’s just the two of you within these four walls, all alone for the first time in almost a month.

And fuck if you’re not going to take advantage of every single second you can.

You push down on his chest, mindful of the scars and staples, and he falls back against the arm of the couch with a grunt. That lopsided smirk, the mischievous glint in his eye—he looks way too pleased with himself, a surefire warning to be on guard. He can be dangerously unpredictable in bed, more so after a mission or a fight with some heroes. All that adrenaline pumping through his veins gives him an extra edge, one he’s all too willing to exploit when he’s tangled up with you.

“Let’s get this off,” he mumbles, lifting the hem of your hoodie, his hoodie over your stomach.

“I’ll be cold,” you whine, but you still let him slip it over your head.

“Don’t worry, doll.” He tosses it to the floor, his mismatched lips grazing the shell of your ear. “I’ll be sure to keep you warm.”

Your shirt follows not too long after, and then he’s kissing his way across your chest, needy fingers already fumbling with the clasp of your bra. You roll your eyes and bat his hands away, and it’s hard not to giggle at the unimpressed look on his face. As though you had the sheer audacity to deny him of what’s rightfully his.

“Your turn, dummy. I’m not gonna be the only one who gets stripped down tonight.”

“Aww, this isn’t enough for you?” He motions to his bare chest with a wave of his hand, looking even more offended when you shake your head at him.

“No, not yet.” He groans when you shift a bit lower in your place against his hips, thumbing the silver button of his pants, licking your lips at the thin trail of white hair that disappears below the waistband. “I wanna see even more of you.”

“Then you better work for it,” he growls, but the feral look in his eye and the way his lip curls over his teeth tells you he wants this just as much as you do. He nestles into the arm of the couch, hands resting behind his head, as he gives an experimental buck of his hips—one that makes you gasp and your face flush with heat.

“You want it that badly, doll? Then show me what you’re made of.”

“Oh I plan to, Touya.”

You crush your mouth against his own, fumbling with that tiny silver button, sighing into his mouth when you finally manage to unclasp it. Your fingers dip down beneath the waistband, down the fabric of his boxers and over the slick patch of skin beneath. He’s so hot, literal flames coursing through his veins with every breath he takes. So dangerous, so lethal.

But you’ve never been scared of him, and you don’t plan on starting now.

He sucks in a sharp breath as he lifts his hips slightly, allowing you to slip his pants down to his thighs. But when you drag them down to his knees his hand suddenly curls around your wrist, freezing you in place.

His eyes are wide, his mouth agape, his fingers trembling against my skin.

“Doll…”

It’s not a warning, rather a plea. And it makes your heart ache in your chest all over again.

He’s always kept some of his clothes on during sex, even if they irritate his skin. Usually it’s enough for him to lower his pants just enough to free himself, especially if you’re in a well-lit room. Unless you’re in complete and total darkness, he refuses to strip down completely when he’s with you.

Part of you thinks he’s ashamed of the scars. You know exactly how much of his body they cover, from his face, down his chest, and over his legs. But you’ve never shied away from them, even when they’re still fresh and steaming. They’re just a part of him, the same as his eyes or his hair or that sharp tongue he likes to flaunt around. Another bit of Dabi you’ve grown to admire and love.

“Let me see,” you whisper, kissing the healthy swath of skin on his cheek. “You’re beautiful, Touya, and I want to see all of you.”

Touya, Touya, Touya. How many times has that name crossed your lips? How many nights had he drawn it out of you, breathless and soft as you squirmed beneath his body? How many times did you whisper it into your pillow, tears staining your lashes, as your last night replayed itself over and over again in your head?

Such a lovely name, and you’re still so proud of him for trusting you with it.

“Because you’re mine, right?” His fingers slowly unravel themselves from your wrist. Slowly, but surely. “You’re mine, as much as I’m yours… If you’ll have me, that is,” you add with a nervous giggle.

You’ve been so caught up in wanting to prove to him that you want him, that you never stopped to check if he wants you in the same way. I guess that’s what I get for being so eager.

He scoffs, tangling his fingers in your hair once more. “Fuck, you know I want you, dollface.”

Your chest swells with pride—and something else you’re not quite ready to put a label on just yet.

“I’m glad to hear that. Now lift your hips, I wanna see you.”

There’s a rustle of fabric, the sting of staples as he kicks his heavy boots and pants off and onto the dusty floor. Large patches stretch along his legs, marred skin mixed with healthy flesh, rusty staples and crude stitching piecing him all together. It’s a sight that makes your chest ache, one that would’ve made your stomach roll at one point or another. Just another reason for you to despise the bastard who did this to him.

His kisses are light against your lips, a stark contrast to the harsh rut of his hips beneath you. Trace every bit of skin and staples you can find with your fingers, ragged and smooth, until it blends together beneath your palms. Until the only thing you can feel is Dabi.

He manages to slip your pants down over your ass, letting you lean on him just enough to slide out of them and toss them on the floor. That gets a chuckle out of both of you; it’s not exactly easy to undress while simultaneously trying not to fall off this old fucking couch. For a brief moment you wonder if you should move upstairs to an actual bed, but that thought quickly turns to dust when he dips a finger into your panties, and you realize you can’t fucking wait any longer.

“Oh? So fucking wet already, aren’t you?”

He smirks against your mouth, dragging a couple of fingers across the slick patch of skin. You gasp and roll your hips, and he seems to gain some of his confidence back—you can feel it in the way he touches you, his fingers teasing your soaked slit.

“Tell me, did you just get this wet for me now, or did you walk in here already dripping like a bitch in heat?”

A shudder courses through your veins, nails finding purchase in his scarred shoulders. Not too rough, you don’t want him to start bleeding again, not so—

“Answer me.”

You’re squirming in his lap as he spreads your folds apart, his thumb barely ghosting over your clit. But when you try to squeeze your thighs together he tightens his grip and slaps your ass hard.

“J-just now,” you manage to choke out between gasps, “…I-I swear—”

“Hm, my pretty doll,” he whispers, and his fingers curl around your chin to pull you closer, “for some reason, I don’t fucking believe you.”

He’s pulling away all too soon, smirking when a whine slips past your mouth. He shifts himself lower on the couch, his head resting on the cushion rather than the arm. He licks his lips, brings his hand to his face—the same one he just had buried between your thighs—and taps his mouth with the tip of his finger.

“C’mon, doll. Sit on my face like a good girl.”

It’s almost laughable how fast you’re tearing your panties off, absolutely pathetic how easily you submit to his will. It’s been too long since you’ve had a night like this, a night where the only two people in the world are you and him.

He groans when you settle yourself over his face, nails digging into the ratty arm of the sofa, shivering at the touch of his hands on your waist. His palms are warm—too warm to be natural. And sure enough you can see a wisp of blue emitting from his palm, before he tugs your entire weight down to sit on his face.

“Dabi, wait—”

Your breath catches at the first brush of his tongue, that familiar piercing he has right on the tip—shit, he knows just how that drives me crazy—

“Y-you’re staples!” Another gasp as he holds you in place, his palms heating up ever so slightly against your outer thighs. “Just d-don’t rip them out—ah—be c-careful!”

“’S fine,” he mumbles, pulling himself away just enough to lick at his wet lips, “I know you’ll just patch me up again if I tear them out.”

You don’t even have time to argue before he’s forcing you down on his face again, lapping at your pussy like a starved man. It’s all so exhilarating—the heat of his hands, the slight pinch of the staples in his jaw, the way his tongue slides against your folds in every way imaginable—

Suddenly his lips find their way around your clit, sucking hard and fast—and you sink your nails into the white roots of his hair.

“Dabi!”

You’re grinding yourself on his face now, gasping as each thrust brings you right against his tongue, his nose bumping against your burning clit. His eyes are glowing beneath your body, matching the shade of the flames in the fireplace, casting a warm glow over the two of you. So warm, so comforting, so powerful—and absolutely feral.

He slips his tongue inside, tightens his grip on your thighs as he rocks you back and forth on his face. Your palms are slick with sweat, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as you scream out his name at the top of your lungs. So loud you’re surprised any heroes that may be nearby don’t start breaking down the doors and crashing through the windows. Though you have no doubt in your mind Dabi would refuse to stop at this point, no matter what could be lurking beyond these walls.

“Dabi, Dabi, Dabi…” His eyes flicker up to yours, his eyebrow quirked and his nose pressing against your clit. “I—ngh—I can’t take it—please, let me come—”

Like he needs to be told twice.

His nails sink into the flesh of your thighs—part of you is already wondering if you’ll still have bruises by tomorrow morning—and he starts thrusting your hips against his tongue at a rapid pace. You try your best to keep up and rock yourself against him but he’s just too fast. Never mind the strain on your muscles, the coil in your stomach that’s growing tighter and tighter with every buck of your hips. You might as well be a toy at this point, boneless and pretty, made for his pleasure rather than your own.

A doll. His doll.

And suddenly you’re bursting at the seams, the corners of your eyes sparkling with stars, the coil in your stomach finally snapping apart. Dabi’s all too eager to lap up your release, his tongue making you shiver as you gush all over his face.

“Such a good girl,” his voice is raspy as he finally lifts you off of him, circling his hands over the fresh marks on your thighs.

Your sight’s a little hazy, but you can still make out a few split staples on each side of his mouth, ripped apart between burned and healthy skin. But he’s on you before you can say a word, hoisting you into his arms and pulling you against his chest, with your legs wrapped around his waist. He presses his mouth to yours, dragging his tongue across your own, smirking when you gasp at the taste of yourself on his lips.

“Still taste so fucking good, dollface.” Suddenly he’s pushing his hands on your chest, caging you against the cushions of the couch, his elbows on either side of your head. “I think you’re ready for my fingers now. You think so?”

You’re nodding as hard as you can, nearly clunking your foreheads together, and he lets out one of those rare laughs you’ve come to love so much.

“Need to hear you say it.”

“Yes, yes—fuck, I’m ready!”

This is Dabi in his element: painfully patient, well aware of the power he holds over your body, and relishing every single second of it.

He hums in delight, slipping a finger beneath the strap of your bra, resting against your shoulder. “Take this off for me—unless you want it turned to ash.”

You’re certain the clasp snaps apart with how fast you rip it off, tossing it over the arm of the couch. He smirks again as he lowers his head, pressing a kiss to your breast. A stark contrast to the primal way he was handling you earlier, but it makes you whine all the same.

He’s slow with his movements now, kneading your breasts together, pressing a line of kisses down your chest, dragging his tongue against the pulse point in your neck. He’s so soft and gentle you can feel your eyes fluttering shut, the exhaustion from your orgasm finally catching up to me.

“Dabi,” your voice is soft against his temple, “Dabi, I—ah!”

He slides a finger inside, smirking down as he brushes his mouth against your forehead.

“Eyes on me, doll. Don’t want you dozing off on me just yet, now do we?”

You can’t find the words to answer him as he adds another finger, curling them upward, drawing out another pathetic whine from the pit of your chest.

“We’re not even close to bein’ done for the night, so you just keep those pretty little eyes open for me, and let me do all the work. You understand?”

You start to nod but think the better of it, opting to choke out, “Y-yeah, I do…”

“Hm, so you can listen.” He starts pumping his fingers at a gentle pace, keeping his other arm beside your head on the couch. You can’t stop yourself from squirming beneath him as he curls his fingers, pressing his thumb against your swollen clit.

“D-Dabi—”

“Good girl,” he hisses against your temple, “good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s achingly slow with his thrusts, dragging his fingers against every inch of you, every bit of flesh he can reach. Your hands find their way around his shoulder blades, nails cutting into the scarred skin as he presses down hard on your clit. You’re squealing against his mouth now, dragging your hands down the ragged skin, wincing when you pull away and see a faint shadow of red beneath your nails.

“Shit, I’m so s-sorry,” the bastard’s still pumping his fingers into you, “I-I didn’t mean to m-make you bleed—”

But he’s quick to shush you, his other hand hovering over your neck. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, pretty girl, it’s not important.”

Like hell it is, I’m not patching you up again just because you like it rough—

“Ah, there it is.” He smirks as he brushes his fingers upward, hitting that special spot that has you whining and squirming and digging your nails even deeper into his skin. “You gonna come for me, doll? Be my good girl and squirt all over my fingers?”

Your chest is heaving, legs raised to wrap themselves around his hips, gasping out his name as he drives his fingers deeper into your body.

“Y-yes, Dabi—fuck!” You’re so close, that familiar coil winding up in the pit of your stomach, almost there, almost there—

“That’s it, come for me. Make a mess for me, doll. Come on—oh, that’s it—so fucking good for me, aren’t ya?”

You’re shuddering against his burned chest, carving your nails into his skin as the coil finally explodes. You can feel yourself clamping down hard on his fingers, legs jerking as he traces his thumb over your clit, his voice as he mumbles a slew of filthy words against your ear.

“Hey, keep your eyes open.” He taps your cheek, leaving a smear of your juices on your skin. But he’s all too eager to press his lips to it and clean you off. “Turn around, doll, get on your knees. Can you do that for me?”

Anything for you, but your tongue is too thick to get the words out. Instead you give him a nod, twisting your body around as he shuffles himself off of you. Before you know it you’re leaning against the arm of the couch, grasping at the torn fabric as he settles himself behind you. There’s a soft rustling sound as he slides his boxers down, but when you try to glance back at him his hand curls around the back of your head, keeping your head forward and hanging over the arm of the couch.

“W-wanna see you…”

“Later, pretty girl. You’ll get to see me later.”

There’s a familiar bite to his tone; not the one that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, but the kind that makes your hands twitch and your throat burn. He’s still doubting the way he looks, even after everything you’ve done so far. Does he still not trust you enough to see all of him like you let him see all of you?

But then your mind goes blank as he leans into you, hands hot against your hips, the wet sound of slick filling your ears as he takes his cock in his hand. He thumps it against your clit, and the edge of the piercing on the tip has you trembling all over again.

“Deep breaths for me,” he mumbles, his breath hot against your nape, “deep breaths, doll…”

He pushes himself in, bit by bit, groaning when you whine his name beneath him. He’s stretching you out, so tight and warm you think you might burst, the collection of piercings adorning his cock making your eyes roll into the back of your skull. Every ridge of skin, every touch of metal and breath against your body sends you over the edge, sucking him in as he bottoms out inside you with a moan.

“Fuck, so tight…”

It’s all too much; the heat of his body against your own, the touch of his lips on your neck, and the throb of his cock deep inside you. Suddenly you’re dragging the back of your hand over your eyes, praying with everything you have that Dabi won’t see what he does to you.

It’s been so long, I didn’t think I’d have him like this again. Not after that night…

Not after what had been said. Not after he’d screamed that he wanted nothing more to do with you, that you were just a body to keep him busy in the dead of night. Not after you’d told him to get out of your apartment, to walk out of your life forever, that you would be better off without him. The words still rang in your head, echoing through those late nights in your bed, the sheets damp with sweat and the pillow stained with tears.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it, I was only trying to hurt you. Just like you hurt me. But I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean any of it, because I—

“Still with me, doll?” You swallow hard and nod your head, keeping your eyes on the arm of the couch. His hands are surprisingly soft against your hips. “Gonna start moving, you ready?”

You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his skin, both burned and smooth, against your own. “Of course I am. Just fuck me already.”

He’s steady at first, mindful of his size and your position on the couch. Rolling his hips into your own, massaging your hips with his scarred palms, the occasional curse slipping through his mouth. It’s been too long since you’ve found yourself in a situation like this; despite your best efforts, you haven’t been with anyone else since that last night. Every face, hand, pair of lips against your own reminds you of him.

But now you have him, after all this time, and you’ll be damned if you don’t have him at least try to make up for the month of hell he put you through.

You’re thrusting your hips against his own, relishing the groan and startled look in his eye when you gaze up at him from over your shoulder. “I said fuck me, didn’t I?” Come on, I know you can do better than that. “So don’t hold back.”

And suddenly he’s wrapping a fist around your hair, rutting his hips into yours like an animal in heat. The wet sound of his skin slapping against your own, his cock sliding in and out of you, the feral groan he lets out in the form of your name—it’s too much too soon, leaving you gasping for air over the arm of the couch.

“Little fucking slut, aren’t ya? Always so eager for my cock. Tell me,” he sneers, and you jolt when his breath clouds over the shell of your ear, “did you come all the way out here tonight hoping to get your pretty little brains fucked out?”

Not entirely—the possibility hadn’t even crossed your mind on the trek here. But that’s not what comes out of your mouth.

“M-maybe—fuck, yes!” You cry out as his palm comes down hard on your ass, your pitiful words only fueling his ego. “S-so rough…”

“Aww, doll, I thought you liked it when I’m rough with you?” Another thrust of his hips, his cock pounding against that sweet spot deep inside you. “Let me ask you, how many men did you fuck while I was gone?”

“N-none…”

“Hm? Couldn’t hear ya, doll. Speak up.”

He smacks your ass again, eliciting another scream from your throat. “None! No one else, only…only you, Dabi…”

The tears are spilling freely down your cheeks, leaving little pools on the arm of the couch. Dabi groans again as he yanks your hair back, his lips searing against the skin of your jaw.

“Say it again. Say my name.”

“Dabi, Dabi—”

“Not that one, doll.”

Your heart thrums against your ribcage, eyes wide and teary, but you can still feel a smile on your face.

“Touya!”

He’s pounding into you at a brutal pace, one hand still wrapped around your hair as his other hand slides down the length of your body, between your thighs to circle over your burning clit. You’re gasping out his name, nails biting into the arm of the sofa, bucking your hips back to meet his thrusts halfway.

A stray tear slides down your cheek; he releases his hold on your hair just to wipe it away and kiss the heated skin below.

“Touya, I-I’m so close—so fucking close—”

It’s right there within your reach, burning on the tip of your tongue, your eyes fluttering shut with every thrust he gives you.

“Don’t hold back,” he hisses as you push back against him with a whimper. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing them in hard, tight circles. “Wanna hear you scream, got it?”

You can only nod your head, your words slurring together as he brings you closer and closer to your peak.

“C’mon, cream all over my cock—”

“F-fuck, Touya!”

Suddenly you’re tumbling over the edge, pressing your face into the arm of the couch, clenching your thighs around his hand. A tremble courses through your body, vision flooding with white, whining out his name as he continues to circle your clit, even when you’re spent and slumped in his arms.

“That’s it, doll, such a good girl for me.” But there’s a strain in his voice, a familiar fire in his thrusts as he chases his own release. “So good, so fucking good—”

Something warm and rough closes over the back of your hand; your eyes open to see his fingers lacing through your own, pinning your hand to the arm of the couch. It’s not long before he shifts himself to grasp your other hand, caging your body against the couch, his voice raspy and his breaths short against the shell of your ear.

“Gonna come—where do you want it, doll?”

You squeeze his fingers with your own, eyes fixed on the burned skin of his arm. “I-inside… Want you inside me, Touya…”

His chest shudders against your back, face pressed against your neck as he stills his thrusts, spilling himself inside of you. He stays there for a moment, panting against your skin, still holding your hands in his scarred ones, the heat of his body giving you an entirely new sense of bliss you thought you’d lost for good.

But then he slides himself out, his cum dribbling onto the cushions below, and you can’t help but giggle when his cock brushes against your inner thigh.

“Still hard?” He scoffs and starts to pull away—but your hands are already curling around his wrists, tugging him back down to your level. “Lay down,” you manage to slur out, “wanna be on top now.”

He barks out a laugh but settles down on the couch anyway, tracing the skin of your hips with his nails.

“Sure you’re up for this, dollface?” You nod, straddling his hips for the second time tonight. “You look worn out, don’t want you falling asleep on me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fucked me in my sleep,” you murmur, and he only smirks at the memory. Needy asshole. “Besides, you had me the way you wanted. And now it’s my turn.”

“Oh? And in what way do you want me?” He squeezes his hands around your ass and pulls you in close. “My cock not good enough for you anymore?”

“No, it’s more than enough.” You press your hands to the planes of his chest, smiling as he sinks into the messy cushions below. “I just wanna see your eyes when I tell you how beautiful you are.”

That’s when you see it: the tiniest clench of his jaw, the glazed look in his eye that lets you know, he thinks it’s all bullshit. That he won’t believe you, no matter how many times you say it to his face.

“…I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I said I wanted all of you, didn’t I? I meant it, even your looks. Your hair, your eyes, these scars…” You lean down to kiss his neck, eliciting the softest groan from his chest. “They’re my favorite part about you.”

“Why?” The look in his eyes is so uncertain, so terrified—as if he’s still a child, begging for someone to accept him. “They’re just scars. They’re…ugly.”

“Not really. They show just how strong you are. How strong your flames are, how determined you are. No matter what’s standing in your way, you always find a way to persist. And that’s why I—”

Love you.

You clamp your mouth shut, fighting the urge to slap both hands over your face. Idiot, you’re such a fucking idiot! Now he’s staring at you with those big eyes and you’re fucking everything up and—

“That’s why I…I want every part of you.” Anti-climactic, but it eases some of the weight off your chest. “Every bit you have to offer. Scars, fears, sins—none that scares me. I want all of them, because I want you. All I care about is you, Touya.”

He’s growing increasingly uneasy, you can see it in the way his eyes dart back and forth between your own and the ceiling, the slight quiver of his hands against your waist. Words have never really been his strong suit in situations like this, so you can tell he’s having trouble coming up with a response. So before he can you lean down to kiss him again, your hands roaming all across his body.

Actions seem to speak louder than words, anyway.

A thin sheen of sweat gathers along the healthy skin of his chest, the silver staples glimmering at the corners. He’s gorgeous in this light, sprawled out beneath you on the couch, the faint hue of the fireplace flickering over his skin. Matching those beautiful eyes, so sad and lost, and the wisps of flame dancing along his fingertips.

You lower your hand down his abdomen, over his hips, and smile when he gasps when you take his cock in your hand. Hot and heavy in the palm of your hand, adorned with little silver piercings along the base and tip. You remember asking him about them when you first started your little relationship, how he smirked when you asked him if they hurt at all. At the time he’d shrugged his shoulders and pulled you into his chest, insisting that they didn’t hurt anymore, that they would feel much better inside you anyway. Even now you still can’t believe how desperate he can be just for a good fuck.

Those blue eyes are still wide, burning with that same hint of lust from earlier. As if he’s trusting you to make him feel good—to take care of him, just as he’s always done to you.

“Breathe, Touya.” It’s hard to keep the smile out of your voice as he squirms beneath you, tightens his grip around your waist. “I’ve got you.”

And I’m never letting you go ever again.

It takes a few strokes of your hand before he’s bucking himself into your palm, silently whining for you to get on with it. You spread your thighs and position yourself over his cock—but not before pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead.

I love you.

He groans out your name as you sink yourself down onto him. That familiar stretch of his cock makes your chest shudder, a moan slipping through your parted lips. Despite the mess of cum and sweat between your bodies, neither of you seems bothered all that much. What’s the point of getting upset over it when you’re just going to add to the mess later on?

“…Maybe you were right about this position, doll.” He lifts a hand and squeezes the underside of your breast, earning a pleased hum from your throat. “Gonna enjoy seeing your face when I fuck you like this.”

“As if,” you try to laugh, but it’s hard to keep your voice steady. “I’m the one who’s fucking you this time.”

“We’ll see about that.”

But before he can move you take his hands in your own, raising them up and pinning them beside his head on the arm of the couch. Smirking at the mischievous look in those hooded eyes.

“Not a chance, Touya. You’re gonna be good for me—whatever I have to offer, you’re gonna lay there and take it.”

“Oh am I, doll? Since when did you get all demanding and feisty, huh? I guess me being gone for a bit made you needier than usual, huh?”

Probably, but there’s no way in hell you’ll admit it to his face. So instead you grind your hips down onto his, and he gasps and moans out your name.

“C-can’t say I don’t like it.” His breaths are growing shorter with every thrust of your hips. “You used to be s-so shy and timid, and you still are. Sure didn’t put up a fight when I fucked your brains out earlier, now did you?”

If he’s still talking, I’m not doing a good enough job.

“N-no, you didn’t—!” He still tries to laugh even when you pick up the pace, sinking your nails into the marred skin of his wrists. “Loved every second of it, didn’t you? I know you did—always a little slut for my cock—my little slut—”

Suddenly your nails are digging into the patches on his throat, his blue eyes blown wide with lust as you lean in close, so close your nose brushes against his own.

“Shut up. Just shut up and let me fuck you.”

Let me love you.

That seems to convince him; curiosity and lust seem to win him over as he complies with your orders, keeping his hands above his head, snapping his mouth shut for good. But then he’s moaning again as you roll your hips down, and his sounds only encourage you to go faster.

You press your palms against his chest, nails cutting into the healthy flesh beneath the staples, and start bouncing yourself up and down on his cock. His hands are free for now, but he doesn’t try to take control and subdue you. Instead he’s grabbing onto your hips, ramming himself deeper inside you with every thrust.

He’s hitting that same spot deep inside you, the one that makes you see stars and scream his name out to the world. The muscles in your thighs are burning; three orgasms in and you’re still chasing after a fourth like a bitch in heat. But it’s hard to resist the urge when you have him below you like this, staring up at you with those beautiful blue eyes, whispering “good girl” and “fuck, that’s it” into the musty air around you.

“C’mon, harder. I know you can do better than that—fuck—”

Dabi, Touya—it doesn’t matter what he wants to be called, you still end up screaming both names out at the top of your lungs. So loud you want everyone to know just who can make you feel this way, who holds your heart and soul and body in his scarred hands. Because he’s worth everything to you, someone you trust with your life even if you shouldn’t. Someone you don’t have to hide yourself from, to put on a front or a fake smile for. Someone who makes your heart flutter and your palms sweaty and your chest ache, because you—

“…Love you.”

It’s out there—you can’t take it back now. Not when you’re so close; not when he’s staring up at you like that.

As though you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

But your words don’t seem to deter him in the slightest. Instead he’s slamming you down on his cock even harder than before, swallowing your squeals as he pulls you in for another searing kiss. He’s sitting up now, arms wrapped around your waist as you bounce yourself in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” the tears are already bubbling in your eyes, “but I love you—love you so fucking much—”

“Yeah?” His voice is hoarse, as though he hasn’t used it in years. “You mean it?”

“Yes, I do! Y-you’re the only one for m-me—”

Your hands close around his shoulders, his breath burning against your neck—you can already feel the coil in your stomach, ready to snap. So close, so close—

“Almost there, doll. Ride me—give me everything you’ve got—”

You roll your hips as hard as you can, and at the first touch of his fingers against your clit you’re clenching hard around his cock. Screaming his name out as you feel every ridge and piercing move against you, inside of you as you’re gushing all over his lap.

But he’s not far behind, chasing his own release as he picks up the pace. You gather his face in your hands, running your thumbs along the lines of staples that keep his jaw secure, tasting his breath on your tongue.

And you know you should stop talking before you make everything worse, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing your mouth against his own and whispering, “Love you, Touya.”

Suddenly he’s gasping into your mouth, palms unnaturally hot against your hips—and when you give him a nod he presses his fingers deeper into your skin. A blistering sense of heat spreads throughout your body; a scream bubbles up in your throat. Touya groans out your name as he gives one final thrust, spilling himself inside you as his fingers sear their prints into the skin of your hips.

The two of you are shuddering, kissing each other furiously, blinking the sweat from your eyes. His body is already starting to overheat, a thin layer of steam rising from the stapled skin of his chest. But that doesn’t seem to be his main concern; instead he’s lowering his hands to inspect the fresh burns on your hips.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only a little,” you tell him, but he’s still kissing along the marks anyway.

It’s not the first time he’s branded you in the heat of the moment. It took him a while to agree to it, along with an incessant amount of begging on your part, and he’s still always so attentive to them whenever he does it during sex. It always baffles you how he can be so concerned and caring with taking care of the light burns he leaves on your skin, but he completely neglects his own.

“Touya, it’s fine, I’ll just clean them up in a bit. I promise I’ll be—”

But then he glances up at you, and your chest swells when you see the trails of blood leaking from the staples underneath his eyes. You try to wipe them off but he catches your wrists and tugs you close, pressing kiss after kiss against your sweaty palms.

“To—”

“Say it again.” His voice is almost pitiful, the look in his bloody eyes worse than any burn mark on your skin. “Please.”

In all the months you’ve known him, you’ve never heard the man beg. Not as Touya and definitely not as Dabi. But the hopeful look in his eyes makes you want to cry. To hold him in your arms and shield him from the rest of the world. To fight off his insecurities tooth and nail, to chase away all those horrible thoughts and memories that keep him up at night. To press a thousand kisses along his face and down his body, ending at his lips before giving him a thousand more.

You take his face in your hands and kiss his forehead. His white hair tickles your nose, still smelling of smoke and ash.

“You know I love you, Touya. When I said I wanted you, I meant it. I want everything that makes you, you; I want to see you grow and thrive and make the best out of this world we’re in. And no matter how many times you try to push me away—even if you think it’s for my own good—I won’t ever leave you alone. I promise to stay by your side, no matter what you’ve done or what you may do in the future. Because I love you, and I’ll say it as many times as I have to until you believe me.”

There’s nothing he can do, nothing he can say that will make you change your mind. He is the one you’ve decided to trust with your heart. The one you’ve grown to care about more than anyone else in the world. And you’ll keep saying it, even if he never believes you. Even if he never sees you in that same light.

He doesn’t speak a word, doesn’t even make a sound. He simply holds your body against his own, pressing his stapled cheek to your breasts. You can feel his heartbeat below the ragged skin of his chest, the vibrations lulling you into a light sleep.

B-bmp, b-bmp, b-bmp.

Finally he breaks the silence with a grunt, lifting you off his lap and sliding himself out of you. Your thighs are burning with exhaustion, not unlike the heat engraved in your hips. But Dabi’s careful as he swings his legs over the side of the couch, gathering you in his arms and wrapping your legs around his waist.

Wordlessly he carries you to the nearby bathroom, where he sets you down on the counter and washes out your burns. He reaches for the little tube of ointment in the cabinet—the same brand you have back at your apartment—and squirts a small amount on his fingers. You do your best to stay still as he slathers it over the burns, trying to be as gentle as he possibly can. And once he’s done he cleans off his hands, grabs a roll of bandages from the counter, and presses them over the marks on your hips. Definitely not the first time you’ve worn bandages like these on your body—or the first time Dabi’s been the one to apply them.

It’s not like him to go this long without saying anything. Not a single snarky comment or flirty remark, just to get a reaction out of you. It’s almost terrifying, the way he refuses to make any sound—or even talk to you.

Did I say anything wrong? Was I too forward with my little speech earlier? Is he angry at me for admitting my feelings to him?

“…Touya?” No answer. You clear your throat and try again. “Touya, are you okay? …Are you—”

“How can I be, after what you said out there?”

Oh.

Did you read the entire situation wrong? Perhaps he’s ready to leave you for good this time, making sure you can’t follow him wherever he goes?

The mere thought hurts you more than it should. Idiot, you’re such a fucking idiot, thinking he’d feel the same about you.

“…I’m sorry—”

“No don’t, don’t fucking do that…” He lets out a sigh, swiping a hand through his hair as he all but tosses the roll of bandages on the counter. “It’s not…you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Then…why? Why are you still pushing me away when you know I love you?

And then it hits you: the problem lies within that phrase, those three simple words that crawled their way out of your mouth. Maybe he does feel the same, and he doesn’t know how to come out and say it. Or even if he should say it. Because as much as it pains you to think about, those three little words must’ve been pretty rare in his old life with his family.

Or maybe he doesn’t feel that way at all, and you’re still stuck in a perfect little fantasy, hoping it’ll all work out in the end.

You suck in a deep breath, until your chest aches from the stretch, and begin to speak.

“Touya, do you…feel the same way about me?”

He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. You clear your throat and rephrase the question.

“Do you care about me? Say no if you don’t.” He snaps his mouth shut, and the tiniest bit of pride blooms in your chest. “So then, do you…like me the same way I like you?” And suddenly you’re a child on the playground again, wondering if your crush thinks of you in the same way you think about him.

“…I…I think I do, but…”

Blood trails are streaming down his cheeks. With every word he looks more unsure of himself, more confused, as the man he’s built himself up to be begins to crumble down before your eyes. It’s hard to breathe as you watch him break down. The blood, the scars, the way his hands curl around his face—and suddenly you’re jumping off the counter, legs shaking, heart leaping in your throat, and taking him into your arms.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You don’t have to say it out loud. You don’t have to give me an answer right away.”

You stretch out your fingers, the tips brushing against the staples beneath his eyes. He doesn’t flinch away, even as you wipe away the trickles of blood, and you sigh in relief. A small victory, one that gives you hope that maybe this can all work itself out.

“If you don’t wanna say anything, that’s okay. I get it, believe me. But please don’t push me away anymore. I want to be close to you, okay? To stay by your side even when you don’t want me to be. So please, just…let me stay with you…”

It’s an eternity before he moves again. He slides his hand into your hair and tugs you in, mismatched lips finding their way to your forehead. You lean up to kiss his split jaw, giggling softly when he brushes his nose against your own. And for a moment, it seems like everything’s going to be okay.

You’ll be alright. You can wait for him, as long as he needs you to.

It takes some convincing (and a few heated kisses) for him to let you clean out his wounds for real and reapply his staples. The bastard’s jaw is barely hanging on at this point, a look he wears like a badge of honor. He doesn’t even wince as you snap a batch of fresh staples into his cheeks.

“Why the long face, doll?” You roll your eyes and drop another bloody staple into the tray on the counter. “You know damn well this isn’t the first time you’ve done this.”

“And it’ll be the last if you keep running your mouth like that.”

“Not if I can help it—”

“Touya.” There’s a warning in your voice but he only laughs it off.

“Touya,” he mocks in a high pitched voice, “let me come! Touya, please don’t rip your staples out! Touya, please fuck me, I need you inside me!”

“Touya!” Louder this time, but he only laughs harder.

“Yeah that’s it, doll. Sure weren’t complaining earlier, when you had my tongue inside your—”

You slap his chest as hard as you can without damaging the staples. It seems to shut him up long enough for you to finish patching him up, but he’s still wearing that fucking smirk that makes you weak in the knees.

At least he’s eased up for now. As much as you adore him, it’s not easy seeing him act all unsure of himself. As though he has to hide who he really is from you.

When the blood’s finally cleared off and his scars are treated, he takes a fresh cloth from the cabinet and soaks it under the sink. He runs it along your thighs, wiping away any traces of his cum. After he’s finished you rinse the cloth with warm water and press it along his sweaty chest. Careful the fabric doesn’t get caught on the staples lined across his skin.

Once the two of you are cleaned off, he scoops you up in his arms with your legs wrapped around his hips, and he leads you back into the room with the fireplace. You’ll have to wait until you get back to your place for a proper shower; unfortunately this old mansion doesn’t have much to offer when it comes to running water. But judging by the way Touya’s carrying you, with his arms tight around your waist, you’re starting to think he’s not ready to leave this mansion just yet.

He cleans off the messy cushions—which consists of him wiping them down with a wad of tissues before flipping them over—and plops himself down right in the center. He pulls on his pants and slips on his boots, before tossing you that old hoodie of his that still smells like smoke. You pull it over your head, mindful of the bandages on your hips, and try not to think of how dangerously low his pants are resting on his hips.

He reclines back against the arm, kicking his legs up and pulling you down on his chest once more. You’re straddling his hips again, wearing nothing but his old hoodie, your face pressed against his scarred chest.

“…Wish I had a cigarette right now.”

You stifle a laugh, reach into the pocket of the hoodie, and hold out a little white package to him. His eyes go wide for a moment, before he tugs it from your grasp and gives you one of those all-knowing smirks.

“Aww, how did you know? And these are my favorite, doll.”

You shrug and snuggle deeper into his chest. “Thought you’d want one or two so I brought ‘em with me.”

He slips the little stick between his lips and wiggles his eyebrows. “So that’s why you came here—I was right after all, huh?”

“As if, fuckin’ pervert. It’s not my fault you only wanna smoke after sex.”

He lets out a chuckle, lifting a blue-tipped finger to the end of the stick. Your eyes follow the tiny flame, the gorgeous hue of its sparks, the gentle wisps that coil into the air, before it vanishes with a quick wave of his hand.

A comfortable silence stretches over the two of you. Your gaze wanders up to the window above, revealing the pale half-moon behind the dark clouds. You wonder what time it is… But then you realize it doesn’t matter and press your face against the ragged skin of his neck. It’s just you and him for now, nothing else matters right now. The whole world could burn to ashes and you wouldn’t care—because you have the man you love wrapped up in your arms.

“Tell me,” he finally rasps, stubbing out his cigarette with his thumb. A blue wisp of flame engulfs the little stick, and seconds later he’s dusting the ash off his hand and onto the floor below. “Did you mean it? What you said earlier?”

Oh, I guess we’re back to this.

You lean up against his chest, chin propped up on your palm, to find him staring up at the dirty ceiling above. His fingers drum along the small of your back, the heel of his boot thumping against the arm at a gentle rhythm. He doesn’t meet your eyes, even when you start to speak.

“You know I meant it. Every single word. I promise. I’m not gonna leave you alone, no matter how much you push me away. And I’ll keep saying it until I’m blue in the face, you got it?”

When he still doesn’t look at you, you reach up and brush the backs of your fingers over the line of staples in his cheek. He lets out a sigh before catching your hand in his own and bringing it up to his face. And it’s hard to ignore the ache in your chest when he kisses your fingers and knuckles, one by one, before stopping right at the center of your palm.

Suddenly those blue eyes are burning right through you, and the whole world seems to vanish around you.

“Stay with me.”

You nod at once. “I will.”

“Say you love me.”

“I love you—so fucking much—I love you, I love you…”

I love you.

He’s kissing you now, mismatched lips tracing over your cheek, your jaw, your neck, anywhere they can possibly reach. You twist your fingers into his hair and hold him close to your chest.

Nothing else matters. It’s just the two of you in this little mansion in the middle of the forest, the only ones who matter in this world. No heroes, no villains, no secrets, no lies. Just you and Touya, and for now that’s all you need.

Even if he never says those three simple words back to you.

“Touya—” But then he’s kissing you again, and you’re giggling uncontrollably against his mouth.

I’ve got you. I’ll stay with you for as long as you’ll have me. I’ll keep you safe, I’ll patch up your wounds, and I’ll—

“Hey, stop! That tickles!” But he keeps on nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “Touya, come on, you’re—”

That’s when you feel it, hard and insistent, pressing against your inner thigh. He only smirks and licks his lips.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?”

“Mm, I’ve been called worse, doll.” He slides a hand down to your hips, caressing the bandages, the burn marks seared into your skin. “Promise I’ll be gentle.” He kisses you again, slowly this time, as he trails his hand down just a bit lower.

It’s not perfect, the relationship you have (if it can even be called that). There’s tears, blood, burns, nightmares, and you know it’ll only get worse from here on out. What Touya’s decided to do with his life, and how he plans to leave his mark on the world—it still leaves your stomach rolling and your throat burning with tears. But beneath all the words and scars and flames, you know he’s hurting inside. And you’ll be damned if you let him suffer through this ordeal all alone.

You’re in love with him—everything that makes him the man he is. No matter how much he’s hurting, how often he thinks of himself as a failure. You’re determined to give him everything you have, in hopes one day he’ll do the same for you. To wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest and press a thousand kisses against his skin. To let him know he doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

That you’re here for him; that you’ll stay with him, no matter what may happen in the future.

So that’s why you only laugh as he lays you back down across his chest, his fingers weaving through your hair, careful not to get any of it caught on the staples of his palms. There’ll be another time for conversations like those. For now you can lose yourselves in each other, hand in hand, with the warm glow of the blue flames casting over you.

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki x y/n #mha x reader #mha x you #mha x y/n #dabi #touya todoroki #dabi smut #touya todoroki smut #mha fics #smut #sweets and treats

259 notes · View notes

starstruckkittensweets · 1 year

Text

“Snowdrop” Pt. II (Kenny x Reader)

Fandom: Attack on Titan Pairing: Kenny x Reader Words: 8.1k

A/N: It’s been...84 years since I last posted the first part. It stands on its own but it doesn’t dabble into *the good stuff*, and thankfully this one does! It’s strange returning to a fic after so much time has passed, especially with a character I don’t always write for! Nevertheless I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Warnings: 18+ only (minors please DNI), medieval setting, fallen kingdoms, heavy swearing, hunting and animal death, talk of killing and fighting, Reader practices archery and actively hunts, soulmate bonds, Reader realizing she may or may not be h-word for her soulmate, Reader is also a virgin, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), dirty talk, hair pulling

Part I | Part II | Part III

Through some unspoken arrangement, you start traveling with him officially. He no longer talks about leaving you, and you no longer berate him about the queen. Instead, the two of you spend your days traveling through the remains of the kingdom—the same one your parents loved so dearly—eager to get as far away as you possibly can. At night, you sleep beneath the canopy of the nearby forest, or right underneath the stars, if Kenny is in a particularly good mood. Those nights are few and far between, but they’re your favorites.

Slowly but surely, you realize life with Kenny Ackerman isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Sure, he’s still rough around the edges, and his mouth seems to grow fouler every day, and there’s no changing his huntsman nature any time soon. But he talks to you a bit more than he used to. He actually shuts up and listens when you tell him the stories your father used to tell you—about the vast forests, the rushing rivers and crashing waterfalls, and everything along those lines. Once in a while, he’ll even ask you about your old life, back before Frieda took over the kingdom and became queen. Those seem to be his favorite stories to hear, although he’ll probably never admit it.

It’s the little things you grow to enjoy. The usual tossing of the scratchy brown blanket on colder nights. The exaggerated grumble in his voice as he pays for your meals along with his own. The way he tips his hat over his eyes, as if he thinks it’ll hide his face completely—and sometimes, if he’s really annoyed with you, he’s swipe his hat off and slap it right on your head, before walking off as though nothing had happened. That’s happened more than either of you care to admit, but every time it does, you always have a hard time wiping that damn smile off your face.

Maybe it’s the soulmate thing. Yeah, it has to be.

But life with him has been far from easy. There are still ruffians out there, secretly working for Frieda, searching every city and village for even the faintest trace of you. They’re all the same to you, whether they’re castle guards, off-duty knights, or just simple villagers looking for a reward from their beloved queen. Although you’ve traded your torn skirts for tunics and trousers (at Kenny’s suggestion), your face is still recognizable. You’re nowhere near safe, despite the lies you tell yourself at night. It’s a hard truth to accept, but one of these days, you know Kenny will no longer be here to protect you.

You have to be ready when that day comes.

“Teach me to fight.”

For the first time since you met him, Kenny looks genuinely shocked. He lowers his blade, the small cleaning cloth dangling from his fingertips. His eyes are wider than you’ve ever seen them; in this bright afternoon sun, in the heart of this forest’s clearing, you notice just how strong those flecks of blue are—and how…captivating they can actually be.

You expect him to laugh, like he always does whenever you say something he deems ridiculous. Or brush you off, or ignore you completely. But instead, he keeps staring at you, his mouth pressed into a thin, tight line.

“No.”

You blink. “Why not? Isn’t it better if I should know?”

He must know it, too. He can’t keep protecting you forever. Worst case scenario, if the two of you end up being separated, you have to be prepared to defend yourself. Besides, it would take some of the weight off his shoulders, if he knew you could handle yourself in a fight. So why is he against the idea in the first place?

He lowers his eyes, scraping the cloth along the blade once more. “You shouldn’t have to learn.”

“But why not?”

When he doesn’t answer you, you take a seat across from him on the forest floor, crossing your legs in front of you. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, but only for a split second. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he decides to give you an answer.

“It’s dirty business. A hole you can’t crawl out of. It’s hard to stop once you start. And I know you wanna learn and all,” he cuts you off, the moment you open your mouth, “but just listen to me. You shouldn’t have to do that to yourself.”

You keep your lips sealed, waiting for him to continue. He clears his throat, places his blade down, and leans in close to you. His knee brushes against your own, rustling the red-brown leaves below.

“Listen, kid. You think you’d be able to kill someone, if you had to?”

You want to say yes so badly, just to prove him wrong and insist you can take it. But as the words sink in, you realize the weight of what you’re asking of him—and what he’s asking you, right now.

You remember that fight in the tavern, just a few weeks ago. How you flinched away when Kenny brought his knife to the balding man’s throat. How you kept replaying the sound of his blood spilling onto the stone floor, over and over again in your head for nights on end. How the sound haunted you, every time you closed your eyes.

Could you really be able to do that to someone? End their life with a clean stroke, just like that? Even if they were totally deserving of it…would you be able to swing that blade?

Maybe taking a life had more weight to it than you’d originally thought. Maybe, just maybe, being a huntsman for most of his life had taken a toll on Kenny, in ways you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Still, you’re persistent as ever. You shake your head and look him directly in the eye, hoping you’ll be enough to convince him.

“If it came down to it—if it’s my life or theirs—I think I could do it.”

He stares at you for a long time after that. Seconds blend into minutes, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll spend the rest of the day here, staring at each other until the sun goes down.

Suddenly, Kenny shakes his head, tipping his hat over his eyes—and a breathless laugh leaves his lips. Not a mocking one, but a real one.

“Fine, have it your way, kid.” He pushes himself off the ground, and you’re quick to follow his lead. “You have any experience with weapons?”

A silly question to ask a princess, but you were lucky enough to have a father who had a passion for hunting and fighting in his spare time. “I used to practice with a bow.” You used to spend hours out in the meadows with your father, hitting that silly red target until your fingers ached from the cold.

“Tch, a coward’s weapon.”

Your skin prickles at his voice. “No it’s not!”

But Kenny seems so sure of himself—and judging by the smirk on his face, he’s having way too much fun riling you up. “Sure it is. You like to stand back and hit your target from a distance. Stay away from the actual fight. I’ve seen it before.” His fingers dance along the handle of his blade, the one he always seems to go for in the heat of battle. “Now this—this will win you fights. Not some shitty bow and a few arrows.”

You roll your eyes at his dismissive tone. He might be right, but you’re not about to give up. You have a special bond with shooting a bow. Even now, nearly a decade later, it still reminds you of your father.

“I don’t care. My father taught me how to use a bow. I’m not going to give up on it.”

For a moment, Kenny’s face softens, and you think you see something flash in those dark blue eyes of his. But then he’s turning away from you, heading over toward the pair of horses you’ve tied up a few yards away, right at the edge of the clearing. His black stallion snorts, and the silver mare blinks sleepily at you.

A spare gray blanket is draped across his stallion’s back, hiding the stash of weapons Kenny always likes to cart around. He’s picked up a few new blades over the last couple weeks, adding a new sword or two to his collection. But his favorites have always been the knives—especially the curved one he always polishes. It’s probably the only one he ever bothers to clean and keep nice.

“Stubborn little shit,” he grumbles, tossing the blanket off to the side. “No use in changing your mind, is there?”

You tilt your head, lips already parted to ask what he means by that—but then he turns around, and your throat tightens at the sight before you.

It’s an old bow, but still strong and sturdy. You’ve seen this kind before; in fact, it’s the same kind of longbow your father used to practice with. Made of yew with a strong bowstring, and a simple but elegant look to it. Beautiful in its own fierce way.

How long has he had this for? This is the first time you’ve seen it, and you definitely would’ve remembered him snatching up a bow as beautiful as this one from the knights and guards you’ve encountered. Has he been hiding this from you, for all this time?

He all but shoves the bow into your trembling hands. The yew is smooth, practically polished, and the grip made of firm leather. You trace your finger down the curve, savoring the gorgeous sight in absolute silence.

“Take it,” he grumbles, and his hand lifts up to touch the brim of his hat. “Don’t have much use for those kinds of weapons, anyway…”

A soft thank you dances along the tip of your tongue—but your mouth is too dry to get the words out. And when he reaches around to hand you a small quiver, your throat begins to burn.

“If you want, I can get you some more arrows. They’re always easy enough to find. So just deal with these for now.”

There are six arrows in the quiver—more than enough to practice with. Steel arrowheads, white feathers, and just as sturdy as the bow itself. Seeing them now makes you think of all those memories you have, of watching your father practice shooting his bow in the meadows behind the castle. Of the whistling sound each of the arrows made, and the slice of the bowstring in the warm summer air. And then, of the smile he would send your way, and the way you eagerly clapped for him, before begging him to teach you how to shoot. Even at a young age, you were desperate to be more like him.

Your chest feels tight. For the first time in almost a decade, you feel as though you have a piece of your father right beside you. As though he’s not completely gone—at least, not anymore.

“…Well?” You tilt your head up and blink at the huntsman, who stares at you expectantly. “Aren’t ya gonna thank me, or what?”

Heat crashes over your face. “Oh, yes! Thank you… It really means a lot to me, Kenny.”

It’s rare that you ever use his first name, just as he never really uses yours. But hearing it now seems to soften his face, and he pulls his hat even further down his face. A moment later, his hand is against the top of your head, fingers ruffling through your messy hair.

“Just don’t point that thing at me. Ain’t lookin’ to get killed just yet.”

So you practice. For hours and hours, until the sun starts to sink against the horizon. Leaves are tinted with orange, dark shadows coil around the forest floor. The bow feels natural in your hand—strong, dependable, and part of you.

But it’s also been so long since you’ve actually held a bow in your hands, much less shot an arrow and hit your target. Six years in the castle dungeons has taken its toll on you, and you’ve nearly forgotten how to reign in your strength and position your body in all the right ways. It’s strenuous work, but you’re more than happy to have a bow back in your hands.

You barely pay any attention to Kenny, who’s seated in the shade of a nearby tree, still polishing that stupid curved blade of his. Once in a while, you’ll catch him staring at you, before he scoffs, rolls his eyes, and turns back to his work. You only shrug your shoulders and continue practicing. He can make his comments all he likes—nothing can put a damper on your mood now.

You start out small, getting a feel for the bowstring and how it snaps against the yew. Then, you try it with an actual arrow. You’re not surprised when you completely miss your target. You just have a lot of catching up to do.

Arrow after arrow, you practice your aim and your stance. But you’re so engrossed in your training that you barely take note of your surroundings, or the footsteps that inch closer to your spot in the center of the clearing. You don’t even notice until something warm rests on your shoulder, and a shadow crosses your own on the orange-tinted grass.

“Don’t curl your shoulder,” Kenny grunts, setting your shoulder back. “And relax your arm. No wonder your aim is shit, with a stance like that.”

You have half a mind to snap at him, but you follow his advice. Rolling your shoulder, relaxing your arm—it all starts to feel natural. The lessons with your father come flooding back to you, one after another.

And suddenly, you’re back in the meadows behind the castle, with your father positioned behind you. His hands are over your own, directing the bow to the center of your target, whispering words of encouragement in your ear. Lessons with him used to make you feel so warm and safe—only on those days did you feel truly safe, that no one would dare try to hurt you. Now, you feel something a little similar, with Kenny helping you instead of your father. But his warmth is much different than your father’s, if you can even call it that to begin with.

The tips of his fingers press into your lower arms, calloused palms brushing along your skin. His breath falls over your shoulder, and for a brief moment, you almost forget to breathe. That’s when you feel the inside of your wrist begin to burn—right where those three damn words are written into your skin. You grip your bow tighter and take aim at the tree, but almost immediately, Kenny tugs your shoulder back.

“I said don’t curl it,” he grumbles, and you can almost see him rolling his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, kid. Listen for once.”

“I am,” you hiss between clenched teeth. But to your surprise, there’s no real malice in your tone. “Why are you even helping me? I thought you said this was a coward’s weapon.”

“Shut it. If you’re gonna insist on using it, you might as well learn to use it properly.”

You take aim again, purposely refusing to curl your shoulder (and rolling your eyes when you do), and point the arrow in the direction of the tree. The bowstring rests against your lips, the familiar tension sending a shiver down your spine. The huntsman’s hands trail down your arms, keeping them steady against the warm wind.

“Don’t forget to breathe.” You can feel your skin pebble at his voice, hot breath spilling down the back of your neck.

Breathe in, breathe out. You close your eyes and reopen them. The wind caresses the loose strands of your hair, pressing gentle kisses along your face.

The bowstring snaps forward, and there’s a thunk as the steel arrowhead lodges itself into the rough bark of the tree.

“Ha! I did it!” You beam up at Kenny, who watches you with a lopsided smile on his face. “I finally hit it!”

His palm covers the top of your head, mussing up your hair for the millionth time today. For some reason, though, you feel cold when he pulls himself away.

“Nice job, kid. Keep it up and you’ll be a sharpshooter in no time.”

Is that so? The thought makes you smile. If only your father could see you now…

But when Kenny starts to turn away from you, your heart drops to your stomach. Suddenly, your mouth moves before your mind can.

“Thank you, for helping me out. I really appreciate it. You know, even if it’s a coward’s weapon.”

The inside of your wrist itches when the words leave your lips. Kenny stares at you, eyes a dark shade of blue in the light of the dying sun. Perhaps it’s just the orange tint of the sunset—but you swear you can see a splash of pink dancing across his cheeks.

“…Whatever.” He turns away fully, tugging the brim of his hat down over his eyes. “Just keep practicing. And don’t get yourself killed.”

He doesn’t talk to you for the rest of the night, but you don’t mind. In fact, this is the first time you actually enjoy the silence between you. It actually feels natural.

For the first time in years, you fall asleep with a smile on your face, with your fingers curled around the yew bow, and Kenny’s stupid scratchy blanket draped over your shoulders.

The next few weeks are spent wandering the forests, practicing your aim and your stance. When you get tired of shooting at trees, Kenny suggests shooting at animals—the smaller ones, of course. At first, you’re appalled, but then you realize winter’s only a few months away. The two of you won’t be able to rely on tavern food forever.

Kenny helps you with picking out game. Squirrels, wild turkeys, rabbits—it’s all food, one way or another. Meat is meat, and as Kenny insists all the time, “It tastes much better if you kill it yourself.”

It makes you sick, the first time you bring down a rabbit. But once it’s skinned and cooked (and the urge to vomit has left your throat), your growling belly wins you over. The meat…isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. But maybe that just has to do with the way Kenny prepares it.

But once you get comfortable with the practice, Kenny leaves the hunting to you. He prefers to set snares around whatever campsite the two of you make for the week, instead of going after game himself. You can see his reasoning—one morning, the two of you woke up to see a belt of fat rabbits hanging from the snares he set a few days before. When you ask him about it, he simply shrugs his shoulders.

“Don’t really like to get my hands dirty out here. Snares are cleaner than knives, anyway.”

Yet, he doesn’t have a problem with killing people. But you keep your mouth shut. You don’t want to get on his bad side so early in the morning.

It takes about a month or so for you to realize the changes in your behavior—both professional and personal. You don’t stick your nose up to hunting for game anymore. You’ve gotten used to the nighttime chill that settles in your bones when the sun goes down. Kenny’s soft snores become a comfort, rather than an aggravation. In fact, when it comes to the huntsman—your soulmate, the voice in your head is quick to remind you—you’re starting to find yourself feeling more and more at ease with him. Dare you say it, you’re starting to trust the man.

You blame the marks on your wrists, the stupid promise of soulmates written on your skin. But something tells you there’s more than that. There’s more than the words that keeps drawing you toward him.

And as the summer months go on, you suspect he might be feeling the same way.

He ruffles your hair more often than not. He gives you gruff compliments every time you bring back game. On colder nights, you lean in close and drape half of the brown blanket over his lap. This particular practice quickly becomes a ritual, and even when it’s warm out, you rest your head on his shoulder and snuggle in close. He mutters under his breath about it, but he never shoves you away. Instead, he lets you stay and sleep with him, silently watching over you with his knife in his hand.

You’re starting to feel safe with him—but that’s what scares you the most.

Because these feelings of warmth and protection and security…aren’t that simple. You enjoy the way he feels against you at night, with his shoulder pressed against your cheek. You enjoy the constant head pats and scarce compliments—even if they are a little backhanded sometimes. The way he looks at you, the way he holds you, the way he pulls you close every time the two of you come across a new village or town—everything sends a shiver down your spine.

You enjoy his attention. You want more of it.

No, not attention.

You just want him.

In the dead of night, when Kenny is fast asleep beside you, you bury your face into his shoulder and breathe in his scent. Musk and pine, with a touch of smoke. Smoking used to be a hobby of his, in the earlier days of your traveling. He always used to laugh when you scrunched your face up in disgust. But he only smokes once or twice now, just to get on your nerves.

The scent clings to his clothes, his skin. The pine of the forest around you, the sweat of his brow, the scratchy blanket around you two—all of it just feels like home.

Your eyes burn with tears, but you press your face deeper into his shoulder before they get a chance to fall. The words etched on the inside of your wrist begin to itch.

Maybe this is what your mother always meant when she talked about soulmates. This overwhelming sensation, when your chest feels full, your mind can’t stop racing, and your fingers quiver uncontrollably. All you can think about is how much this man means to you, how much you want him to remain in your life.

Love.

The word tastes funny on your tongue, and you almost laugh, in spite of yourself. You’ve got to be kidding. The words Kenny Ackerman and love belong nowhere near each other.

But you can’t stop yourself from thinking about it. There’s a part of you that loves this man—this aging, foul-mouthed, murderous man.

You don’t get much sleep that night.

The summer breezes turn icy. Leaves sprinkled with red and brown and yellow begin fluttering to the ground. The air grows crisp and cool. The dirt of the forest floor is no longer soft, but hard and stiff. It crunches beneath your boots with every step you take.

Autumn is fast approaching. You need to find shelter, to wait out the upcoming winter months.

The nights are getting even more unbearable—apart from the shift in weather. It’s getting harder and harder to keep your distance from Kenny. Bumping into him on the road, giving him backhanded compliments more often, even stealing his hat right off his head to wear it. When the moon is high and the owls sing, you find yourself snuggling close for warmth. He allows you to stay, but there’s always that little voice in the back of your head, wondering how long it will last.

“I’ll set a few snares,” he says, his voice ripping you out of your thoughts, “try to see what I can find. You alright out here for a bit?”

You flash him a smile and tap your bow, hanging from your left shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Try not to get into any trouble out there, okay?”

He scoffs before reaching out to touch your hair. “Should be telling you the same thing, brat.” His fingers feel warm, brushing along the skin of your forehead. “We’ll head out tomorrow. Deal?”

“Deal.”

With that, the two of you split up, and you sling your bow off your shoulder and draw an arrow, eyes pried for any lingering game.

It’s becoming more difficult to find good animals out here. What with the colder months looming over you, game has been growing scarce. It’s not long before the animals become nothing but skin and bones. Of course, you always have a supply of dried meat that Kenny likes to keep around, but until you find some shelter and properly store it, it won’t do you much good.

There’s a river a few yards away—you can hear the water crashing all the way from here. A spark of hope comes to life in your chest. Water means animals. You’re bound to find something over there, if you’re patient enough.

As you head for the river, you think back to your conversation with Kenny, and the smile you gave him just before he left. A forced smile, one you practiced in the halls of your castle, before and after Frieda took over the kingdom. It kept you alive for nearly a decade, trapped under her rule and caged within your own home.

You haven’t smiled like that in months… So why are you starting to do it now? And with Kenny, no less?

The answer swirls around in the pit of your stomach: it’s the only way you can cope with these growing feelings inside of you.

The two of you are soulmates, and that’s something neither of you can escape. Your fates are intertwined, you’re destined to stay by each other’s sides. For any other pair, it would seem logical to enter a relationship. But with everything you’ve seen of him so far, you can’t see Kenny committing to something like that.

You can’t see him devoting himself to something as silly as soulmates, especially with the life he’s led.

It would be easier if you didn’t have to deal with these bothersome feelings. Why do you want to be near him so badly? To hold his hand and have his arm around your shoulders? To see that rare smile of his and be the only one who can make him laugh? And maybe, just maybe, to feel his mouth against your forehead, and perhaps even your lips—

The thought makes your skin crawl, but in the most pleasant way possible.

A rabbit leaps out of the bushes just as you make it to the river. In a flash, the bowstring snaps and the rabbit squeals. It lands in a heap of light brown fur, an arrow lodged in its neck.

A pool of red spills out onto the dark forest floor. You heave a sigh as you yank the arrow out and grab the animal by its hind legs.

At least you’ll be able to eat good tonight.

Nights with Kenny are always the same: meals eaten in silence, with the fire crackling between you, before splitting up to do your bedtime routines. Kenny’s mostly consist of cleaning his beloved blades and checking the snares one last time, and yours consisting of wrapping yourself in that old scratchy blanket and fighting to get at least a few hours’ worth of sleep. Recently, you’ve started waiting for Kenny to finally settle down, so the two of you can share the blanket before falling asleep.

But tonight, you crave something different. You don’t just want to sleep by his side anymore. You don’t just want to feel his warmth seeping into your left shoulder.

The writing on the inside of your wrist burns. It hasn’t stopped itching since the day you realized these feelings for him.

Something hot slides down your cheek. Your voice gets caught in your throat as you raise a hand to wipe it away.

There’s a groan from the man beside you, and immediately, you feel your heart drop to your stomach.

“Kid,” he mumbles, voice still groggy with sleep, “what’s wrong?”

There it is again—kid—that simple nickname you’ve grown to hate and love, all at the same time. Before you know it, the blanket falls off your lap and into the dirt below—and your hands are curled around the front of his shirt, mouth crushed against his own.

You pull away almost immediately. The taste of salt and smoke is splashed across your lips; dark blue eyes burn into your own in the darkness. Your fingers quiver against the collar of his shirt.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it.

All the words you want to say—all the words that you should say—are right at the tip of your tongue. But for some reason, not a single one leaves your lips. Your mouth trembles beneath his gaze, and for a moment, you want to kiss him again, and the thought simply terrifies you.

But then his hands are cradling the back of your head, pulling you in for another kiss.

You start to lose yourself in him: the faint scent of smoke, the sting of salt, the scrape of his teeth against your own. His fingers twist in your hair, bringing you closer to his chest. The skin of your inner wrist burns like nothing you’ve experienced before; and when you bump against Kenny’s arm to hold him close, he lets out a pleased groan.

Looks like he’s been feeling the exact same way about you as you have been about him.

Suddenly, kissing him isn’t enough. You want to feel him, in every way you possibly can. You want to give him something to show your gratitude—not just as a soulmate, but as a protector. As a shield from all the evil in this wretched world.

You lower your hands, fisting the threads at your waist—and that’s when he stops you, fingers clasped over your own.

“You don’t have to.” His voice is a bit raspy from the heated kiss, but firm all the same. “Not now. Not like this.”

“…Why not?”

He sputters for a moment, eyes dropping down to the forest floor. For a moment, in the dying embers of the campfire, you think you see a faint shade of red dusting his wrinkled cheeks.

“Are you serious?” he grumbles, still not meeting your eyes. “I’m not—you’re just…fuck, kid. Are you really gonna make me say it?”

You know exactly what he’s insinuating. You know exactly what you want to do with him, what you want to do to him. Six years under Frieda’s close eye hasn’t made you completely clueless to the human body, and what it can be used for.

Obviously, you were far too young when your mother was alive for her to explain the concept of love and sex to you. And your father was always too bashful to bring up the topic himself. But people talk, especially in the underground dungeons. You caught bits and pieces from stories, asked questions to the women trapped in the cells around you. You don’t know everything there is to know, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn.

And right now, you’re confident enough in yourself to reach up and tug at the first few buttons of Kenny’s shirt.

He groans when you pull apart the fabric, exposing his collarbone to the cool night air. You lean in and kiss the soft skin below, subtly moving yourself into his lap. He doesn’t stop you; his hands remain in their place right against your hips.

“I don’t mind,” you murmur against his heated skin. “I want this. Do you?”

He swallows hard, before his voice comes out in a groan: “Of course I do. Just don’t push yourself.”

You have half a mind to ask him what he means by that—but then your hand brushes against his lower half, and you feel something pressing into your inner thigh. Something hard.

The dying embers illuminate his roguish grin. “You sure you can handle it, princess?”

Your whole body flushes with heat at the name. It’s supposed to be a title, spoken with respect and admiration from those around you. But when it comes from Kenny, you suddenly feel dangerous. This is all wrong, very wrong—princesses aren’t supposed to give themselves to huntsmen like this—and yet, it all feels so fucking right.

“I think so.” Your fingers fumble with the thread of his trousers, sliding them through one another as fast as you can. Then, as he lifts his hips, and you slide his pants down to his thighs, you gaze up at him with wide eyes and ask, “Can you teach me?”

His fingertips dig into your hips, so hard you start to think you’ll have bruises by tomorrow morning. Within moments, you’re lying flat on your stomach, elbows propped up against the dead leaves of the forest floor, and Kenny’s rough hand fisting itself in your hair. The slight pain sends a shiver down your spine. It scares you, but in the most pleasant way possible.

You’re far past the point of thinking Kenny will hurt you. You trust him with your life. You feel completely safe with him. And for that, you’re willing to let him do anything he wants with you, both your body and your soul.

“Start slow,” he growls as your hands brush the growing bulge in his boxers. “No need to rush.”

You smirk at the thought—you have no intention of doing so. You’re going to savor this moment for all it’s worth, every little bit.

The waistband of his boxers catches against your fingertips—and suddenly, his cock is in your hand, hard and red and leaking and simply massive. You almost choke at the sight. How is he this big?

His dark chuckle sends a chill down your arms. “Too much for you already, princess? You’re barely even touching it.”

You pout only for a moment, and then you’re dragging your fingers up and down, gently massaging his throbbing length. The bead of fluid that gathers at the tip catches your eye, so you smear it across the head with your thumb. He groans again, hand tightening against your scalp, heavy boots scuffing up the dirt and leaves from below.

It’s amazing, watching such a strong and seemingly fearless man writhe and moan like this. It gives you such a powerful feeling—and suddenly, you want more.

You lick your lips and lean down, sliding your mouth over his cock. Words spill from his mouth, but you don’t catch them. You’re too busy hearing your heartbeat echo in your ears, too focused on the taste of him in your mouth.

It’s strange at first, when your only instinct is to pull back and gasp for air. But you breathe through your nose, leaving your mouth free to pleasure him. Slowly, you start to move your head back and forth, relishing the soft moans that fill the darkness around you.

Leaves crunch under heavy boots. Calloused fingers lick at your scalp, your cheeks, your throat, before pulling back and wrapping themselves in your hair. The sound of your name between those ragged breaths of his make you shudder.

“Princess,” he hisses, barely managing to compose himself, “you alright?”

It’s hard to talk, so you pull away with a wet pop and smirk lazily up at him. “I’m okay. You sure it’s not too much for you, though?”

And then his hand is at your nape, pushing you even further down his body. “Fine—but you won’t be if you keep running that pretty little mouth of yours. Now suck.”

You take him into your mouth again, but this time, you bob your head even faster than before. He’s getting desperate, you can feel it in the way he grips your hair, moans your name, your title—as though you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

You jerk your hand upwards, sucking on the tip of his cock, big eyes fluttering up to savor the sight of his face. Jaw clenched, teeth bared, eyes half-open—seeing such a powerful and dangerous man fall apart like this is simply beautiful.

Especially when you’re the one making him feel this way.

His nails dig into your scalp. His cock twitches violently against your tongue. A low moan slips from his mouth, in the form of your name, and suddenly, something hot and salty spurts onto your tongue. You pull away slightly—Kenny loosens his grip on your head but still keeps his hand steady—and you lap up the remains of his release.

When you’re finished, and his body sinks further against the tree he’s propped against, you press a soft kiss to the head of his cock and tug his pants back up. But you barely have time to buckle his belt before he’s pulling you into his chest, kissing you roughly, even though your lips are sticky with his cum.

“Fuck it,” he grumbles hoarsely, and suddenly you’re straddling his lap, as his fingers pull at the threads of your trousers. “Lay back. Fair is fair, right?”

His wolfish grin sends a shiver down your spine. Your trousers loosen around your waist, and he tugs them down to your knees before slipping them completely off your legs. Your cheeks burn when he presses you down on your back, using his overcoat as a barrier to protect your warm skin from the freezing forest floor.

“I’m gonna fuck you properly, once we find a place to stay,” he murmurs against your cheek, and a moan bubbles up in your throat. His fingertips hook beneath your panties, pulling away the last scrap of fabric that shields your body from him. “But for now… Spread those legs for me, princess.”

You obey him at once, and he settles himself between your bare thighs, your panties barely hanging on by your ankle. You’re needy, skin practically burning with desire—but now, having him so close to you, so close that you can feel his hot breath against your most intimate parts—oh gods, you can already feel how wet you are—it makes you blush and bury your face in your hands. Suddenly, those dark blue eyes are too much for you, as handsome as they are.

But his hand curls around your wrist and tugs it away from your face, and you’re forced to meet that roguish grin you’ve grown so accustomed to. “I don’t think so,” he remarks slyly, wetting his lips with his tongue. “I wanna see your face when I make you cum on my tongue.”

His words send a tremor down your spine; your thighs tremble against the palms of his hands. Never before have you heard something so foul, so filthy—and yet, with every word he speaks, you can feel yourself getting wetter. He seems to realize this, too, and he drags a long finger against your slick folds. You gasp when he gathers some of your wetness onto the tip, only to lap it up with his tongue.

“Just as I thought,” he growls, but to himself or you, you’re not sure. “Come on, princess. Don’t be shy, let me see.”

You shudder violently at the first swipe of his tongue, his hot breath clouding over your slickened skin. You reach down and twist your fingers into his hair, matching his movements from earlier. He starts out slow, licking from top to bottom, occasionally swirling his tongue over your clit. And for a moment, you start to relax—and you have to admit, it feels nice.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

But then he slides a finger in, long and thick, and your toes curl in the dirt. You slap a palm over your mouth at the last second, muffling your moans as you writhe against his overcoat.

Kenny. You want to say his name, but you don’t have the strength to speak.

“Aww, come on now, princess.” There’s an edge to his voice, a dangerous glint in his eye as he glances up at you. Your face burns with shame as his tongue pokes out from between his lips, already glistening with your slick. “If you can’t take a couple fingers, how do you expect to take my cock?”

He starts moving his hand at a gentle pace, curling his finger in an upwards position. Your head falls back against the coat, thighs tightening around his wrist—only for him to push them away with his other hand and wrap his lips around your little clit. This time, you cry out his name into the darkness, arching your back as tears gather in your eyes.

“That’s my girl,” he growls against your clit. He sucks a bit harder, teeth scraping against your sensitive nub, and your head begins to spin.

“Kenny,” you choke out when he slips in a second finger, “Kenny, I-I…”

He leans up and smirks down at you, thrusting his fingers into you at a faster pace. His lips are shining in the moonlight, traces of your juices still glistening on his chin.

“Use your words, princess.” Your back arches again when he curls his fingers just right, hitting that special spot deep inside you. “Tell me what you want.”

Too many thoughts racing through your head, too many words buzzing on the tip of your tongue. It’s all just right there—just like the winding coil deep in the pit of your stomach. The pressure slowly building up inside of you, clenching your thighs and whining out when he forces them apart once more.

“C’mon, you can do it.” Another thrust of his fingers, another pitiful whimper of his name. “What do you want me to do to you, princess?”

Something hot and fierce claws its way from your chest—an animalistic urge, one that compels you to sink your nails in his hair and yank him closer, closer to your burning clit. Tears are slipping from your eyes, your voice scratching your throat when you finally find the strength to speak.

“You… I want you…to move your fingers… Give me more.”

His smirk only grows wider at your confession, his tongue tracing along the outline of his lips, and you’re quick to jolt away when he shamelessly presses his face against your clit. Flicking his tongue and curling his fingers and snickering when you moan out his name into the cool night air.

“That’s my good girl. That’s what I wanna hear…”

Your head twists against the fabric of his coat, fingers scraping through the dark roots of his hair, thighs clenching as that damn coil keeps winding inside your stomach. It’s getting so tight, too tight you almost can’t breathe—gasping for air with every brush of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers.

A tear slips down your face when you feel him add a third finger. The stretch is too much, it’s too tight, and you’re struggling to breathe as it is—

But you can’t deny it feels so fucking good.

“S-so close… Kenny, I’m…”

“Hm?” Through your tears you can see him glance up at you, lips still wrapped around your clit. “You say somethin’, princess?” But he’s still suckling in between his words; it’s almost impossible for you to answer him.

“…I-I wanna…”

“Y-you wanna what?” he mocks, tearing his face from your slick—and you nearly sob as he slides his fingers from your heat. “I told you to use your words, didn’t I? So use ’em. Go on, I’m listening.”

That primal urge bubbles in your chest once more—not unlike the adrenaline after a successful hunt or atop a racing horse in the fields. You can feel it under every inch of skin in your body, prickling with fire, searing with such heat it’s almost unbearable. And the sight of his smug face only makes it worse; it makes you bare your teeth and clench your fists and squeeze your thighs around his hand. Trapping him against your burning flesh.

You’re a princess—the true princess of this kingdom. A title granted to you at birth, passed down from generation to generation, royal blood and power coursing through your veins. And you will answer to no one, especially this rugged huntsman who’s hell-bent on driving you insane.

Even if he does have your words engraved on his wrist. You refuse to yield to anyone.

Including your soulmate.

“I didn’t tell you to stop.” Your voice trembles, but it’s enough to make his eyes widen and his jaw tighten. “I…I want you to use your fingers. And your mouth.”

“…Is that right?”

And suddenly he’s hovering over you once more, forehead pressed against your own, his hands unbearably hot against your thighs as he pulls them apart as wide as he can. Your heart leaps in your throat, hands quivering beneath those steely blue eyes, in the faint light of the campfire beside you.

“A bit greedy, but at least you’re learning to use that mouth of yours.” His fingers are teasing your entrance, his thumb swirling over your clit at a soft and gentle pace. “You really want that, sweetheart? You want my fingers deep inside your pussy? Want me to fuck you with ’em, lick your pretty little clit until you cum on my tongue? Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

You swallow hard, trembling arms resting around his shoulders. “Y-yes, I do…”

“Then I wanna hear you say it.”

A deep breath—and then you’re staring right into those steely eyes, your blood singing in your veins.

“…I want you to fuck me with your fingers. Make me cum on your tongue. Please, Kenny—I need you—”

The plea in your voice pushes him over the edge. He’s groaning into your mouth before moving down the length of your body, sliding two fingers into your slick heat, his lips finding purchase against your swollen clit. And suddenly your fingers are tangled in his hair once more, hips rolling against his mouth, that familiar coil winding up in the pit of your stomach.

Your whole body is throbbing, skin ablaze against his own, stomach rolling and tightening with every thrust of his fingers, thighs clenching around his head as your eyes burst open to meet his own and suddenly—

“Kenny!”

Your voice echoes in the air as your vision sparkles with stars. As the coil finally snaps and you’re tumbling over the edge, barely registering his tongue lapping up your release between your thighs. Moaning when he slides his fingers out of you and replaces them with his tongue, shivering when the scruff of his chin brushes along your inner thighs.

A minute or so passes before he pulls away, dipping his fingers into his mouth before caressing your face with his free hand. His palm, albeit rough and scarred, is comforting against your cheek, and you don’t hesitate to nuzzle into its warmth when he positions himself over your body for the third time tonight. Your eyelids are heavy, chest still heaving from the heights he’s taken you to. Heights you didn’t think were even possible until tonight.

You can only hope there will be more nights like this one in your future.

You find yourself dozing off as he cleans you as best he can, with a spare rag from one of the saddlebags and some water from his canteen. A soft smile stretching along your face as he wipes down your thighs and dries you off, before slipping your panties back over your legs. Reclining against the tree closest to the campfire and tugging you into his chest, before throwing the familiar scratchy blanket over your lap and tucking it around your body.

You’re too tired to speak—honestly, you have no idea what to say, even if you could talk right now. So instead you lean up and press a kiss against his cheek, right above the line of scruff on his chin. He grunts and shrugs his shoulders, mumbling something about getting too soft, but you can’t really focus on it now. You’ll ask him in the morning, after the two of you get some rest.

But you’re awake enough to hear him chuckle as you curl yourself into his chest, arms wrapped around his waist beneath the blanket, as he pulls you in close to press a kiss against your sweaty forehead.

“Sleep well, princess.”

#kenny ackerman #kenny ackerman x reader #kenny x reader #attack on titan #kenny ackerman x you #kenny ackerman x y/n #aot x reader #aot x you #attack on titan x reader #kenny ackerman smut #fairytale au #soulmate au #aot fics #smut #sweets and treats

73 notes · View notes