#todoroki touya x reader
and i don‘t wanna be a memory
characters: shigaraki tomura, dabi
genre: smut and angst
notes: aaaaah oh my gosh!!! this is the fifth part of break my bones but act as my spine!! it is technically the last part of the main series, but there will be an epilogue posted to wrap up loose ends and provide more closure hehehe. as always, please heed the warnings below and stay safe!! check the comments for additional notes after you’ve finished reading! | title cred: memory by kane brown ft. blackbear
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, murder, cheating, betrayal (kind of?), one (1) slap to the face, depictions of severe mental illness (mental breakdown), one (1) big knife, cheating, a very brief trial, a LOT of crying, size kink/size difference, tummy bulge, reader is quite flexible, minimal prep, toxic relationships, guilt, self-reflection, difficult decisions that hurt to make, using sex to avoid emotions + reality, daddy kink (very slight), blood, gore (slight)
part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four ⋆ part five ⋆ epilogue ⋆ series masterlist
And despite how much pain you’re in—so much it’s practically tearing you apart from the inside out, a vicious creature with razors for claws nestled at the core of your soul—you look so fucking beautiful; ethereal, almost, lids lifting to reveal glassy irises, the gleaming trails of water adorning your cheeks catching in the neon filtering through the window, staining your skin in the most brilliant colours—corals and fuchsias, teals and ultramarines; strokes that shift and morph as they paint your flesh in time with the intermittent flashing of the signs and city outside.
A masterpiece. A living, breathing masterpiece, constantly revising, constantly changing, constantly evolving into something novel, something better, something entirely unique, chiseled by the sorrows and spirits of life itself.
And Dabi wants to leave his mark.
Blood screams in your ears as haze invades your pupils and shrouds your vision, the whole office varnished with a fuzzy mist, distorting forms and softening corners, blurring everything together until it’s nothing more than a plash of shapeless colours, dancing elegantly with grain as the image wavers, flickering like damaged filmstock as it rolls through your mind.
Fingers curling in Hawks’ hoodie, you push yourself forward, back onto your own feet, the floor rippling beneath your soles. A good, thorough shake of your head knocks the fog from your vision, lashes fluttering as you blink rapidly, Daddy’s office morphing back into smooth lines and hard edges, all dark wood and aged leather, and you inhale, lungs ballooning with the force, tissues pressed against shattered ribs, before you raise a foot, ready to enter the room.
“Don’t touch it!” Hawks shouts, an arm flying out to bar entry, sculpted muscle colliding with your chest hard enough to kick that breath from your lungs. Quickly, you look over at him, struggling a little against his strength, eyebrows knitted, the question of why murdered in your throat, evaporating into the ghost of an indignant noise, clawing at the back of your tongue. Dabi turns, too, eyes narrowed sharply and head quirked, staring at Hawks as if he’s assessing him, as if he’s dissecting him.
At simultaneous quizzical looks, Hawks looks away with a wince, as if the two of you are too bright, your rays of inquisition too strong, explaining, “It needs to be left intact, as evidence,”
And he sounds almost regretful, unable to meet your gazes.
“Yeah,” he blows the word out in a huff of breath, finally lifting his hung head to glance at you through the corner of his eye. “We don’t know where he is right now, or what he’s doing, right? This,” he gestures the office with a grand sweep of his hand, “is indisputable evidence of a man entrenched in the throes of a psychotic episode. If he—If he does something, this whole scene will be invaluable,”
“Jesus, Hawks, what exactly do you think he’s out there doing?” you ask, an incredulous laugh bubbling past your lips, though your breath is beginning to quicken, chest stuttering under the force.
“Tomura doesn’t go to court, birdie,” Dabi spits, eyes slit in defensiveness, mouth soured and screwed up into some sort of hybrid between a smirk and a grimace. “Figured you’d know that fact by now.” A pause lingers heavily in the air, Dabi’s eyes gliding over the smaller man with an assessing, aggressively invasive glare. Hawks shrinks a little, shoulders curling in on himself as he looks away, and you frown. “You sure that’s the kind of evidence you’re talking about?”
“Yeah, ‘course,” he swallows around the words, eyes scanning the dishevelled office again. “This has no worth to—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kurogiri’s conviction rings throughout the penthouse, his voice strong and stern, although his hands are quivering. “Not at the moment. There are more pressing issues at hand right now, such as where Tomura is,” pausing, the older man’s gaze scans each of your faces, slow and with thorough deliberation. “Someone needs to go looking for him, and at least one person must stay here, in case he returns. I’ll find the Boss,”
Hawks nods. “I’ll go search for him,”
“No, no, no,” Dabi begins with a shake of his head and a wag of his fingers, lips curling into something predatory. “I don’t fucking think so, bird. You’re staying here. I’ll go look—”
“No,” he nearly growls, topaz eyes flashing, Dabi’s nose scrunching at the disrespect, sharp jaw clenching twice. “You will stay here, in case he returns,” gold sweeps across your face, bright and brilliant, pricks of fire crawling across your skin. “You, too. You two are the only people he’ll actually talk to, guaranteed. If he walks into this place and finds me here, he’ll walk right out,” he stops, the blaze in his stare dimming, nearly extinguished. “And you know it,”
As much as Dabi doesn’t want to admit it, Hawks has a point.
✰ ✰ ✰
“I don’t like this,” he’s muttering around the thumb between his lips, front teeth nibbling on bloodied cuticles. He’s been pacing across the living room for half an hour now, gnawing on his skin while crystal eyes dart around the room—from his phone, to the windows, to the elevator, to the fire escape door. “I don’t fucking like this. It should be me out there searching. I mean,” he halts his stride to look at you, sitting stiff and still on the edge of the couch with your hands clasped tightly in your lap, eyes wide and breathing laboured. “I’m the one who knows him best. I’m the one who would know—or, or who would be able to accurately guess—his hiding spots,”
Silently, you shrug mechanically, eyes fixated on the corner of the glass coffee table.
“He’s such a fucking liar, that jackass,” Dabi seethes, words corrosive as they burn holes through the atmosphere. “I bet you he isn’t even looking,” he continues, pulling a cigarette from the worn white pack with his teeth, cardboard cracked and edges fraying. “He doesn’t care at all, that little prick. I bet you he’s out there running to his pathetic Chief, just like the snivelling fucking coward he is,”
Finally, your trance breaks, that singular word slicing through your stupor. “Chief?”
But Dabi isn’t listening to you, aggressively flipping open a blue Zippo and cupping the flames. “And Tomura’s fucking—fucking God knows where, doing God knows what, stupid fucker didn’t even bring his phone with him—”
“Dabi,” his name trembles on your tongue, escaping as a shaky plead—to confirm it isn’t true, to deny the worst of the worst—clawed panic seizing your heart. “Dabi, what do you mean, ‘chief’?”
“Oh, yeah, didn’t tell you, did I,” he smirks around the cigarette, words entwined with tendrils of smoke as he exhales both out his nose. “He’s a cop,”
“He’s a cop. Keigo—or Hawks, or whatever the hell you wanna call him. He’s a fucking cop,”
A loud, tinny ring tunnels through your ears, blood blistering your veins as it surges with fury.
“W-Wait—He’s a—And you—And you knew all along!?” And you can’t help the incredulous shrill embedded in your voice, standing from your spot suddenly, eyes raging as your chest begins to heave. “You—You brought a f-fucking cop into this space, into our space, our safe place, our home, as Tomura was—While Tomura was—” It’s becoming difficult to breathe now, exhales harsh and erratic as they slash through your words, thick black smoke billowing up your throat from the inferno blazing in your stomach.
Frantic eyes scrutinize Dabi’s face as realization cracks through a coating of confusion, steadily burning cigarette immobile between tattooed lips, abandoned ash dusting his chest.
“I—Yeah...” he swallows thickly, filter sticking to dry lips as they move, exhaling a weak cloud of smoke as he sits down heavily, wrung hands hung between his thighs, a knee beginning to bounce. “Yeah, I did,”
The confession cracks under the weight of culpability, but Dabi isn’t afforded a moment to ruminate on what his monumental fuck up might actually mean, the door to the fire escape slamming open, hard enough to crater the wall, the sudden entrance garnering both of your gazes.
“I did it,” Tomura’s giggling as he barrels through the door, crimson eyes burning brighter than a red giant right before it explodes into a supernova, imbued with the beautiful turmoil inherent in its death, irises bubbling as they flare with magma. “Dabi, Dabi, I did it,”
But Dabi’s barely listening, shooting to his feet the moment Tomura’s stepped over the threshold, blue eyes blazing as callous words spill from his mouth. “Where the fuck have you been!?”
And he’s so furious it takes him a second—a second longer than it ever should have—for him to notice.
Drops of scarlet ooze from Tomura’s saturated knuckles and roll down a sharp glinting blade clasped tightly in one fist, dripping thick and sticky as they drizzle to the floor, colliding against the hardwood with sickening splat!s. Specks of rust decorate Tomura’s silver strands, dried and crusty, clumping tufts together. It’s almost artful, the way they’ve splattered across his gaunt face and cream sweater, little jewels of blood embellishing his body in a manner that’s almost story-like, that builds like a fantastical crescendo, increasing in frequency as a sapphire gaze slides down his form, cautious and careful, those glittering droplets melting into a lake of blood, soaked up by cashmere, the bottom half steeped in viscous crimson.
Bewildered ruby, glowing with sheer exhilaration, searches Dabi’s face, eager and excited.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, chest beginning to stammer as disbelieving crystal scans the man in front of him. “Wh-What the hell happened?”
“I did it,” Tomura repeats, words breathless with raptured elation, megawatt smile plastered across his blood-freckled face.
“Did what?” Dabi asks, and it’s incredible the way he shifts into professionalism, the way he transforms before your very eyes, as if his whole consciousness has flipped, voice suddenly and surprisingly calm, imbued with just a touch of curiosity, the perfect accentuation. “What did you do, Tomura?”
He advances as he speaks, movements heedful and vigilant, an arm held out behind him, keeping you secured, keeping you from straying too close, too suddenly.
Scarlet eyes flash up, ferocious and twinkling, smile deranged as it twists on his lips.
“I killed him, Dabi!” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if Dabi should know. “It’s over now, it’s done. We can relax; we’re all safe—finally.”
And then, it clicks.
Only a few feet from Tomura now, Dabi cautiously comes to a halt, your nails burrowing into his bicep as you peek around his shoulder. Outstretching his arm, he offers his free hand to Tomura, cobalt eyes alert and attentive as they beseech him.
“Tomura, give me the knife,”
Tomura’s smile begins to waver, forehead crinkling as his brows wobble, but his irises are still bright and blazing.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? We’re safe now,”
“Yes,” Dabi continues, and to the untrained ear he’d sound at ease, but you can hear that slight strain, voice infused with concern and care, sentiment leaking through the cracks in his words. “And that’s fucking fantastic. Truly, it is—”
“Aren’t—Aren’t you happy? Everything can go back to normal now,” And while there’s still a smile on his face, painfully stretched across his cheeks and so sharp it’s surprising it hasn’t spliced his face clean in two, his gaze is lacquered with thick tears, a shield of water that does nothing to hide the screaming of his soul, flickering in the depths of his cavernous pupils.
When Dabi speaks again, his voice is heavy with sorrow, dripping with the unshed tears clinging to spiky lashes. “I—I am, I’m so happy,”
Truthfully, it genuinely sounds like he is, his tone warmer than he’s ever addressed Tomura with before, at least in your presence.You assume it’s because he is, on some level, happy: happy that Tomura’s home, happy that Tomura’s safe.
“And now I want you to give me your knife, so you don’t hurt yourself—so you can go get cleaned up,”
Leaning back a little and rocking on the balls of his feet, Tomura strays from the desperate hand offered, its calloused fingers wiggling in enticement, crimson eyes narrowing in suspicion, a hand cradling the gleaming knife to his chest, almost as if it’s precious, as if it’s special.
“Tomu, please,” Dabi says, voice uncharacteristically patient, and you can barely believe this is the same man from only a few moments ago, pacing viciously with caustic curses falling from his lips and quivering hands raking through his hair. It’s as though Dabi’s head is suddenly clear, trepidation and terror eradicated by the volatile delicacy of this situation, his mind a crystal lake, frozen over with a thick layer of ice, keeping it all level—calm, cold, calculated. Slim fingers flex, and he continues. “Gimme your knife, yeah? And go take a shower, you’re tracking blood everywhere,” he pauses, sapphire captivating ruby. “And then we can discuss how to, uh, how to move forward, okay?”
Glittery scarlet searches Dabi’s face, almost methodical in the way it sweeps across his features, computing and cautious—and it’s the first glimpse of your Daddy that you’ve seen in a long time.
Dabi notices, too.
“Please, Daddy,” you speak up, working hard to imitate Dabi’s serene nature, though you can’t quite quell that incessant tremor sewn into your tone. “Go take a shower, so I can hug you and we can celebrate! I can’t—” the words snag on a suppressed sob, fracturing into a hiccup. “I can’t hug you if you’re all dirty like that; I don’t want to get blood all over my dress,”
And the way Tomura’s eyes soften, the way his whole face fucking melts, instantly disintegrating the rickety pendulum between deranged joy and unfounded suspicion and stuffing his features full of pure, unadulterated love, is absolutely heartbreaking.
It’s been so long, so long since you’ve seen that look on his face, heart mutilating itself as it attempts to crawl and slink and slide between the ribs that cage it, rabid in its desperate urgency to reach its owner. You press a palm flat to your chest, a feeble attempt to stop its escape, to physically hold down the vicious sobs sprouting claws and piercing your lungs.
“Alright,” Tomura says finally, looking back to Dabi with a nod. “Alright, yeah,”
And despite his cooperation, neither bodies relax from their rigid state—not when Tomura agrees, not when Dabi’s hand finally wraps around the blood-slicked handle of the knife, not until the sound of water hitting marble tiles finally echoes down the hall.
Frenetic eyes fly to Dabi’s face the moment you’re sure Tomura’s in the shower, shoulders shrugging as your head shakes a little, nose twitching with the force of your uneven breaths. And you want to cry, you want to scream, you want to ask what the hell is going on and how the hell you’re supposed to fix this, to deal with this at all, but you don’t have a moment to voice your concerns. And Dabi, with those crystal eyes overflowing with so many emotions they almost look cloudy and indiscernible, doesn’t have a moment to console you, the obnoxious buzzing of his phone breaking your stare and collecting your combined attention.
A ferocious growl rips from his throat as he pulls the device from his pocket, features puckering as if he had just swallowed something sour before a thumb slams down on the answer button.
“Listen bird, now really isn’t the best—”
“Get out of there,” The words echo through the receiver, packaged in harsh breaths, and Dabi winces, pulling the speaker away from his ear.
“Get the hell out of there! Take the kid and the cat with you!”
“You’re sounding like a fucking lunatic, and I’ve already got one of those to deal with toni—”
“I’m serious, Dabi,” Keigo nearly coughs out, words strangled with sincerity. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry; I didn’t—We wouldn’t have—We didn’t know...This was a big mistake,”
“What are you fucking talking about?” Dabi hisses out, though he can feel it, the panic beginning to erode his heart, beating irregularly as dread eats through it. Sounds of commotion echo through the phones weak speaker, a soft harmony akin to murmuring voices and combat boots against pavement, the cocking of guns and the jingling of handcuffs.
And suddenly, Keigo doesn’t have to explain, not anymore.
“It was you,” The realization leaves his throat in a frail breath, whole body buzzing as alarm gushes through his veins, evoking a tingling rush of adrenaline to chase it, while a heavy block of bitter lead sinks in his stomach, wrapped up in an odd, inexplicable sense of betrayal and smothered in sticky, potent guilt. “It was you, you fucking bastard,”
“I’m sorry, Dabi, I’m so sorry,” the apologies shatter through the speaker, huffed out and thick with tears as the shards pierce Dabi’s ears. “Please, leave,” Keigo urges, voice hoarse, straining under the weight of remorse and responsibility. “Take the fire escape, do not go near the fucking elevator, you hear me?” The order is panted out hastily, letters flowing into one another at the rapid pace they leave his lips. “Please, Dabi,”
“What’ll—” he begins, but the words snag in his throat, and he swallows thickly. “And what'll happen to him?”
“They won’t hurt him,” Keigo breathes, voice cracking with sincerity. “I promise, Dabi, they won’t hurt him,”
“How am I—”
“I know, How are you supposed to trust me now? I know. But I’m giving you my word; I won’t let them hurt him. I know it doesn’t count for much now, but it’s all I’ve got. He’s—he’s very sick.”
“He...” Dabi stops, voice tapering off, unsure how to proceed. “He’s in the shower. Don’t—Just—Don’t fucking startle him, alright?”
“We’ll do our best,” Keigo replies dutifully, manner already beginning to morph into efficient professionalism as he nears the complex. “Please, go. Go!”
The line goes dead, that singular command echoing through Dabi’s mind as he stands stoic and still, dial tone droning in his ear, phone still clutched tightly to his head.
“Who was it?” A dainty hand finds its place on his bicep, Dabi entirely unresponsive to your touch, voice quivering with panic. “What’s happening?”
“Get Isaac,” he finally says, after a moment of prolonged silence, features deflated in disbelief, in shock—grim, grave, entirely dead with a look you’ve never witnessed before. It’s downright terrifying, sending spikes of ice searing through your skin, summoning a fierce wave of pebbled flesh in their wake. On anyone else, such a look could be accurately described as expressionless. But on Dabi...
“Get Isaac,” his stare finds your face, feet turning mechanically to face you, his eyes glazed with water. “We have to go,”
“I—We—What’s going on?” Your head shakes in tiny movements, whole body beginning to shake, eyebrows knitted in confusion as an unsteady frown carves itself into your lips.
And it’s your expression that finally snaps him out of whatever automatic reverie he had fallen into, blinking twice before warmth bleeds back into his features, comforting and familiar.
“I’ll explain on the way,” he promises, taking your face between his palms and forcing your gaze to his. “But right now, we gotta get out of here,”
“But...But what about Tomura,”
And Dabi—Well, Dabi doesn’t know what to say. A tongue runs along his top teeth, sucking with force, and he swallows, Adams apple hefting with the weight of the emotion, before his head shakes in slow, regretful strokes, bottom lip beginning to wobble.
“No,” you breathe, wide eyes searching his face. “No,”
“We gotta go,” his voice breaks as he tells you, the command weak and frail, fragile almost, and you can see the guilt and the blame and the fault overflowing in his irises, swirling around in cobalt as they engulf pinprick pupils. “They’re on their way,”
Head shaking vigorously, you break out of his grasp with vehemence, stumbling away a few steps. “No,”
“Yes,” he’s saying as he advances towards you, one step forward for each of your steps back. “Baby, we have to,”
“I can’t—I won’t—”
“Don’t be stupid!” he snarls, jaw flexing twice, that familiar sapphire blaze finally igniting in his eyes. “You must! We must!”
“Go without me, then,” you’re nodding in trembling, jerky motions, but he can see them, the thick layer of tears shielding your eyes; can hear the hesitance sewn into your voice and the horror stuffing your features. “G-Go,”
“No,” he breathes. “Princess, no,” a large hand catches your wrist with ease, halting your descent, a petulant whine catching in your throat as you attempt to tug yourself free. “This isn’t—This isn’t fair to you; you should’ve never got caught up in this mess—”
“I don’t care!” you scream, clawing aggressively at his fist. “I won’t leave him!”
“And I won’t leave you!” he shouts, hand flexing as his grip tightens to near bone-crushing, grasp searing itself into your flesh as it ruptures blood vessels, staining his palm into your skin, painted in the most brilliant greys and violets. “I’m not leaving without you. So grab the fucking cat, and let’s go,”
Your struggling halts suddenly, entire body going limp, tears finally escaping your lashes, streaming down your cheeks in glistening drops, leaving pretty shimmering trails in their wake.
“Why? Why won’t you leave without me?” The words are garbled, tangling themselves around the sobs hitched in your throat. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter,”
“Jesus Christ,” Turning with an exasperated huff, he gives a harsh yank on your arm, and you lean away from him, using all of your strength to keep your feet planted, pulling him back. “We don’t have time for this,”
“Because I love you!” he finally explodes, a flash of ink and sapphire as he whirls around, seizing your shoulders and giving you a thorough shake, scorching azure searching your face, bewildered and terrified. “I fucking love you,”
“And I love him!” The sentiment tumbles from your mouth, instinctive and automatic, before you brain can even register what just slipped from his, belatedly smacking you in the chest.
“I don’t care,” he practically suffocates on the words, letters choked out and mangled as a pair of perfect crystalline tears roll down his cheeks, overflowing eyes shining in the gold of the morning sun. “I don’t care. I love you, and I refuse to allow him to drag you down with him. I just—I won’t fucking let it happen,”
“I can’t,” you’re weeping into his chest as you finally collapse against him, the words shattered, the shards slicing your throat as you force them out. “I can’t, I can’t, he’s going to…He won’t be okay,”
“He hasn’t been okay in a long time, princess,”
His voice is so feeble, so fragile, so fractured. And you suppose….you suppose that’s true. But—
“There’s nothing else we can do right now,” Dabi continues, voice tinged with urgency. “Not yet,”
“Not yet?” you look up at him. “But—”
“But we will. I promise you, baby, I promise you we will. But right now, we have to go,”
✰ ✰ ✰
The Overlook Motel’s vacancy sign glows weakly in the faint daylight, sunbeams blanketed by a quilt of thick silver clouds, the last two letters flickering as they fight to stay alive. Dabi returns a moment later, idly swinging the key around his index finger, metal clattering against plastic with the repetitive action.
Room 6 is quaint, carpeted with orange fibers and containing a single queen mattress, a small wooden table with two wooden chairs, and an old tube TV.
The day passes impalpably, time seeming to ebb and flow like some sort of viscous liquid, alternating between thin stringy strands that drizzle themselves over your restlessly sleeping form, and thick oozing globs that trap you in their gummy clutches, stretching a singular moment into a seeming eternity as you sob into Dabi’s chest, gelatinous drops of time muffling his soothing sentiments, whispered into your hair.
By the time the sky has faded into a star-speckled indigo your throat is raw and rough, slashed to hell by your prickly cries and spiky wails. Eyelashes stick together with each slow blink of your torrid eyes, crusty and clumped together with dry salt.
Yet despite the dehydration pounding your brain and pulsing your temples, despite the exhaustion that has burrowed into your muscles and hollowed out your bones, you’re powerless to stop the invasive memories, so fresh they’re still dripping with paint, leaving a trail of their very essence across the expanse of your mind as they force their way through, throbbing in time with your head.
It has you shoving your face into Dabi’s chest again, so hard it’s almost painful, smushed against strong muscle and a beating heart, eyes squeezed shut forcefully as your head shakes and your face scrunches up, fingers tangling in his t-shirt and tugging, begging; for release, for oblivion, even if it’s just a taste, even if it’s just for a moment.
“Please,” you’re whimpering, voice absolutely shattered, words nothing more than jagged shards that slit your tongue on their way out. “Please, Dabi,”
“What is it, baby?” And he sounds almost desperate, eager to take that pain from you, to shoulder more of it, rough palms finding your face and gently forcing your head from it’s spot in his chest, tilting it upwards. “What is it? What can I do, princess? Let me help,”
“Make it—Make it go away,”
The request is broken as it escapes your lips, words cracked by the stuttered sobs hitching in your chest. “A-All of it, make it all just—just go away,” lids shutting tightly, your head shakes pathetically in his grasp, the crystal dewdrops clinging to your lashes finally breaking free, cascading down salt-saturated cheeks in glittering duos.
And despite how much pain you’re in—so much it’s practically tearing you apart from the inside out, a vicious creature with razors for claws nestled at the core of your soul—you look so fucking beautiful; ethereal, almost, lids lifting to reveal glassy irises, the gleaming trails of water adorning your cheeks catching in the neon filtering through the window, staining your skin in the most brilliant colours—corals and fuchsias, teals and ultramarines, strokes that shift and morph as they paint your flesh in time with the intermittent flashing of the signs outside.
A masterpiece. A living, breathing masterpiece, constantly revising, constantly changing, constantly evolving into something novel, something better, something entirely unique, chiseled by the sorrows and spirits of life itself.
And Dabi wants to leave his mark.
He says nothing as he crushes his lips against yours, tugging you towards him with his thumbs hooked behind your jaw.
And you go willingly, just like the good little girl you are, allowing him to drag you into his lap, emitting a soft squeak only a moment later when he flips your combined forms, trapping you between the mattress and his body, thighs cushioning his waist as he tugs you to the edge of the bed.
And it’s so graceful, so automatic, instinctual in a sense—perfect. A seamless dance you know by heart despite never having practiced, almost as if it’s innate to your very being, stitched and sewn into the fabric of your soul.
A heated mouth stamps replicas of andromeda into your flesh while his fingers burn through the lace of your panties, cremating them to tattered ruins, swirls of blues and greys blotted into your skin as he bursts vessels, scattering little smatters of microscopic red spots to adorn the galaxies he creates across your body.
Deft fingers plunge into you suddenly, and you squirm beneath him, hips pushing up into his touch, craving the calm and consolation you know Dabi can bring you.
He hushes you gently, knuckles curling as they press into plush walls, the heel of his palm grinding into your clit with each pump of his fingers. “I’ve got you, I’m here,”
But it isn’t enough: isn’t fast enough, isn’t full enough, isn’t ferocious enough—not enough to make you forget, not enough to make it better.
You can feel him through dark denim, hot and hard and slotted up against your thigh, the rough material of his jeans beginning to chafe your supple skin as he ruts against you. Little hands snake between your bodies, shifting a bit beneath him as your fingers hook in his belt loops and pull, needy and desperate with another petulant whine.
“Okay, okay,” he’s saying placidly as he removes his fingers from you, the digits immediately moving to the waistband of his pants as precious vows spill almost urgently from his lips. “I’m gonna make it all go away now, alright? Let me make it go away,”
Head nodding in hurried little jerks, soft fingers knot in the collar of his shirt, hauling him towards you and sealing the promise with a frenzied kiss. Dabi’s lips quirk up into a lopsided smirk at your zealousness, hands busy as they fiddle with the buckle of his belt, allowing the balls of your feet to push his jeans down his thighs, effectively freeing his cock.
“God, I love you,” he nearly keens, forehead pressed tightly to yours, breathing the words into your mouth. “I love you so much,”
And you can’t say them back, not yet, not with those bright, searing, longing flashes of crimson and silver slicing through your mind, but that doesn’t matter. You know now, and finally, finally that creature sheltered in his chest has calmed, is tamed, content, sated, as it snuggles into his beating heart, sharp teeth tucked away and razored claws retracted, that growling and gnashing that had become so typical, so characteristic of this entity ceasing to rattle the ribs that kept it caged. You know now, and the words twine themselves around your conjoined bodies, a protective quilt that drapes itself over your form, temporary but strong in its defence against all of the hurt and the pain and the grief, patches stitched together with your breathless little whimpers and his fractured little whines.
“Please, Dabi,” the plead’s barely more than a wisp of breath this time, delicate and decisive, and he nods his understanding, a hand wrapped around the base of his pretty cock, velvety pink and embellished with shimmering pre-cum.
A cry tears itself through your throat as dainty skin stretches and splits, thick cock filling your precious little cunt in one swift motion, a gorgeous groan grumbling behind his ribs.
And yet, regardless of the pain, your bare heels are digging into the cute indents cushioning the base of his spine, pressing him closer, insatiable in your quest for more, in your desperation to drown in his flames, to burn up in his blaze, for those pretty blue flares to consume you entirely—your body, your mind, your soul itself—in search of a singular moment of relief, of reprieve from this waking nightmare, a simple longing for an instant of pure dreamy solace—and Dabi is more than happy to oblige.
Rough palms slide down silky thighs seamlessly, startlingly gentle in their ministrations, each stroke of his fingertips against your skin painting his love across your flesh, burning as it soaks into your veins and bubbles your blood. Following the curve of your calves and the dips of your ankles, nimble fingers finally unhook your feet from around his back.
And you just can’t help the petulant whine that breaks in your throat when he breaks the kiss; and he just can’t help chuckling at your reaction, the sweet sound wafting across your face, your starved tongue following the gust across your lips, eager for another taste of him. He gifts you with another chaste kiss; something small to tide you over, before straightening up with his feet planted firmly on the ground, hands still grasping your calves as he pushes your legs up to your chest, knees bending and nearly nudging your jaw.
He leans back over you then, securing your folded legs between both of your chests, and your fingers yearn, sinking into fluffy ink the moment he’s close enough and curling, threading through the roots as you tug him towards you. He gives in easily enough, that special, beautiful, ever-present smile saturating his lips, a sentiment transferred to your own as you smash them together once again.
Tiny fingers roam the expanse of him; his hair and neck and jaw, tracing gentle lines and sharp edges, trailing down the curve of his neck and across the dips of his shoulders, over protruding bones and sleek plains of muscle, nails burying themselves in his scarred flesh.
Burnt fingers, hardened by the flames of Zippos and the handles of knives and the triggers of guns, grip your thighs as his hips finally draw back, slow and methodical in their precise actions, halting for a second before they roll forward, languidly and leisurely, as if he’s memorizing the movements, the moments, the mewls and moans each rut into you forces from your throat, branding them into the tissues of his brain.
He continues like this, deliberate yet unhurried, almost lazy in the way he fucks you, pace measured as strong hips draw back only to sink into you again, hard and deep, gyrating in fluid motions as fingers paw and scratch, as tongues lick and suck.
And it’s so good, exhaling the sweetest little hisses into his mouth with each rock of his hips, staining his tongue with the most delicious, coveted sugar—a thousand little pinpricks that melt on his drenched flesh, seeping into his bloodstream and infusing it with you—his cockhead rolling against your cervix with each controlled movement, grinding against that plush spot buried deep within you with every drag out, bestowing him with another one of those precious sounds.
Moans spill from one throat into another, high and needy as his tongue rubs against yours, soft sounds of pleasure tangling between them, within them, knotted with spit and gasps as his pace begins to quicken, those long, hard, slow strokes morphing into fast, rough pistons of his hips.
Each thrust is powerful, each thrust is purposeful, driven by pure passion, and every pound into you knocks your foreheads together, skulls ricocheting off of one another, but you barely feel the pain, each collision sending stars to blanket your vision in perfect time with the shimmering sparks Dabi’s cock sends pulsing through your body, flares of pleasure chased by thorns of pain as they shoot down trembling thighs and skitter up arching vertebrae.
And it’s all so much, mind voiding the events of the day as Dabi hacks into your receptors, invading your body like an intoxicatingly delicious virus, enrapturing you in spicy cinnamon and sharp nicotine and sweet hickory—all simultaneously too much and not enough.
If you were in your right mind, you’d be ashamed of yourself, humiliated by your desperation and neediness, by your tenacity and voracity, like some sort of depraved addict vying for their next fix, never soon enough, never enough at all, greedy and selfish in your ravenous craving for more, more, more.
Because he numbs it all, your own personal brand of novocaine, reducing the recent memories floating around in your skull to smoldering cinders, drowned out and burnt up and swallowed down by the potent mix of him flowing through your veins.
Inked lips suck your tongue into the mouth they seal, teeth scraping against the sensitive muscle in the process, his own tongue gliding over yours with stupendous authority, forcing a submission in an instant.
And it’s messy, lips slicked with sticky saliva, sliding and slotting together as Dabi tames your tongue, the steadily increasing ramming of his hips slamming your teeth together, perfect clacks to compliment the glorious symphony of erratic breaths and squeaking springs and muffled moans, each collision of bone twisting your combined features into winces, expressions easily eradicated by the pleasure that inevitably follows.
A growl trembles behind his ribs and he stands again, your legs automatically loosening from their tight bend as the weight of his chest is lifted. Strong hands loop under your knees, pushing your legs to straighten as he yanks them towards him, ankles finding their designated spot on his shoulders.
Using his planted feet for leverage, his hips brutally ram into you, rapid and ruthless in their pace, large hands still digging into the underside of your thighs as he grasps them, holding you in place.
A loud mewl lacerates your throat, slicing your tongue as it exits, and you press a palm between your hipbones, gasping when you feel the subtle bump of his cockhead through your flesh.
“I-I—You’re in my tummy again, Dabi,” you babble out, hand rubbing your heated flesh in smooth, rocking motions, whining when you feel it bulge again. “I can feel you—W-Wanna—Need’ta—”
And you can barely speak anymore, senses overwhelmed by it all, by flashes of ink and whiffs of nicotine and tastes of hickory, your mind stretched thin like a piece of heated copper, pliable and submissive to its sculptor, incapable of knitting letters into words, of stitching words into sentences.
But he knows. He knows what you need.
And he gives it to you.
Finally, he grants you that relief, that release, those pretty blue flames licking at your flesh as they drag you in, curling around your body like a protective cape as they draw you nearer and nearer and nearer until you’ve been embraced entirely, enticed entirely, soul combusting at the centre of his inferno.
And it’s beautiful, this temporary destruction, this momentary pleasure that incinerates everything—all of the memories, all of the grief and the fury and the pain—to indistinguishable ash, a fine dust whisked away by the gusts of the blaze. Cinders of sapphire sear through your flesh; down your thighs and up your spine and through your heart, cunt clenching so viciously it’s almost painful as you gush around his cock, vision flooded with azure flickers and flares.
Your body’s gone limp and lazy, mind gone dumb and hazy from it all, and Dabi leans down again, cushioning your thighs between your glistening chests and keeping you still, hips snapping once, twice, three more times before they’re stuttering to a stop, flexors pressed tightly to your ass, a broken curse spit from his mouth into yours; avid tongue weakly curling around the noise, pathetically eager to gobble up the fragments of that gorgeous sound, to swallow it down and keep it in your chest, your lungs, your heart, forever.
A shudder courses through his form, muscles quivering as his cock throbs violently, hips twitching in pitiful little thrusts as he stuffs you full of burning, thick cum, so much so you swear you can feel it leaking out of you, thick globs that ooze slow and lax down your ass and his balls, staining the sheets beneath you.
And he keeps his promise, all throughout the hours of the night, diligent in his quest to make it go away.
He fucks you until the sun begins to creep over the horizon, golden beams climbing over the city and streaming through the gaps between the concrete mammoths that border the skyline.
He fucks you until you’re too tired to think about anything else, brain turned to thick goo, filled with nothing more than the buzz of overstimulation and the harmonies of his broken moans—your name and curses, huffed out by a heaving chest—reverberating against the walls of your skull, ringing out and rendering them endless.
He fucks you until your pussy is raw and your thighs are sticky with fluids and your flesh is marred by swirling galaxies of navy and periwinkle and disjointed pleiades of notches and nicks, carved into your skin by sharp hipbones and gleaming ivory.
And you look absolutely ruined by the time morning arrives, covered in evidence of him, the most immaculate masterpiece he’s ever created, sated and cradled safely in his arms.
“Don’t leave us,” you whimper out, words sluggish as they stick to your tongue, weighted with sleep and reluctant to leave. But you need to say this, need these sentiments to be spoken, struggling against the enticing embrace of unconsciousness, tugging tenderly at the frayed edges of you mind. “Please, Dabi, don’t leave us,”
“I won’t leave you,” he promises, the words instantaneous, conjured by veracity. “I won’t leave either of you,”
“Never ever,” he whispers, planting a kiss to the crown of your head, and you can hear his heart, thumping strong and aggressive with anxiety—anxiety of the unknown, of the commitment—forceful beats rattling his ribs, sending tremors through his blood. He swallows against it, grits his teeth, and perseveres. “We’re going to figure this out, together, the three of us,”
The three of us.
As a family.
And he means it—he truly, sincerely means it, despite how terrifying it is, despite the hefty responsibility that inevitably comes packaged with it, despite the fact that he’s never done something like this before.
Because he wants to.
He wants to—for you, for both of you.
It’s only after you’ve finally passed out that he affords himself a moment to reflect on it all—the heaviness of the situation, the stress of the past twenty-four hours, his place in it all—chest stuttering ever-so-slightly with strangled sobs, gentle movements shaking your head, rocking you like some sort of grotesque broken lullaby.
Guilt, thick and bitter and toxically acidic, unfurls at the bottom of his stomach, rooting itself in the the pit as it spreads like a terminal infection, poisoning his organs one by one, slow and torturous as it engulfs them in its suffocatingly tarry embrace.
Slivers of smashed memories slash through his mind; of his behaviour towards you—the insults and the tears, the lies and the fights; of his behaviour towards Tomura—the anger and the envy, the dismissal and the dispassion—the full recognition of what he’s done, of the role he’s played in all of this, major and crucial, viciously burrowing through his mind.
If only he would’ve pushed his feelings aside, all of the terror and jealousy and selfishness, and attempted to help earlier; if only he would’ve offered that hand to Tomura sooner, tried a little harder to actually be there for him like a caring friend should be; if only he had paid more attention rather than writing everything off as drug-induced and decidedly not his problem.
If only he would’ve faced it all, full and head on, instead of running away like some sort of fucking coward for months on end.
But the past is the past, even if it’s only recent, even if it’s only from mere hours ago, and there’s nothing he can do to change it, to mend it, to rewrite it. He can only move forward, laden with his rightful guilt, a cumbersome burden he must now carry inside of him forever—an eternal punishment—and resolve to do better.
And even though he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to vocalize it, to find the strength or the words or the courage to make it tangible and known and uttered aloud, he makes a silent promise to himself, here in this motel bed, with you sleeping on his chest and Tomura simmering in his mind: he won’t let these flaws and fears harm the ones he loves ever again.
✰ ✰ ✰
Keigo arrives to collect you for questioning the next day, just as the sun is beginning its descent below the horizon, intertwined wisps of fuchsia and coral smudged across a brilliant bronze sky, waning rays catching on Keigo’s hair, engulfing him in a halo of hazy gold.
It’s downright insulting. How dare the gods play such a cruel trick, bathing this man in the most ethereal light and painting him as angelic, as saintly, when he just tore apart your entire universe with his bare hands, smiling and laughing in your company as he did it.
Dabi isn’t fast enough to catch you, wrist slipping through his fingers as you march out the door, bare feet slapping obnoxiously against the pavement with every stomp forward, until you’re chest to chest with the devil himself, nostrils flaring with fierce, sharp breaths.
He has the audacity to stare down at you with tears shielding his vision, a pretty crystal film that reflects the dying sunlight, that makes those topaz irises glitter like the most precious stones, and you can’t fucking believe it.
Molars grinding together, your eyes narrow in seething, your glare positively scalding, so bright and beautiful that it has Keigo wincing from its brilliance. You’re sure the inferno raging in your chest must be reflected in your glower, blazing with such ferocity you’re sure Keigo can feel the heat of it, soaking through your skin and into his, so fiery it turns the tears in your eyes to vapour, so scorching it leaves a red-hot brand of your palm against his unmarred cheek.
The slap is so hard, so loud, that it nearly snaps his neck, head thrashed to the side from the sheer force of it all, the ghost of the impact echoing throughout the vacant parking lot, reverberating off the brick of the motel and the metal of the Audi.
Slowly, he turns to face you again, head rolling a little as he tries to void the sudden whiplash from his neck. Honey eyes drip with viscous tears, crystalline dewdrops of salt clinging to golden lashes, chin twitching.
The sentiment wobbles in time with his chin, Keigo choking on the last few letters, fading into nothing before the whole word’s even left his mouth.
Your head’s shaking, small jerky movements as your nose wiggles, a thick film of water blurring your vision. And then you’re falling into his arms, fingers scrabbling against the suede of his sherpa lined jacket, a sob tearing its way out of your chest, splitting you open, raw and sensitive.
He catches you easily, strong arms wound around your form as you wail into his shoulder, face nuzzled against the soft fleece as stinging salt stains the material and tender regrets fall from trembling lips.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” The string of apologies is murmured into your hair as Keigo holds you tighter, crushing you against his body.
It doesn’t last long, though, Dabi suddenly prying you from Keigo’s embrace only a moment later, drawing you into the safety of his own grasp, and your body melts into his, instantly soothed by the comfort and the familiarity, the sanctuary and reprieve Dabi’s arms offer.
“Alright,” he sighs out, the word deflated and exhausted as he fixes Keigo with a levelled stare. “Let’s get this over with,”
✰ ✰ ✰
It rains every day of the trial, massive drops imbued with bellowing thunder that barrel down around you, rumbling against the slate roof of the stuffy courtroom—all dark woods polished to perfection and gleaming under the sterile lights—the incessant downpour providing an eerie hum to the whole ordeal, a sick sort of symphony to your combined suffering.
And throughout it all, you and Dabi and Kurogiri sit together, your body squished between theirs, gripping their hands in your lap with bated breath and bleary eyes.
Tomura looks better, albeit marginally, dressed in his usual knitted sweaters and expensive slacks. Some colour has returned to his cheeks, imbuing them with a healthy glow, and some weight has latched onto his bones, smoothing out those sharp edges. Those self-inflicted gashes and gouges have begun to scab over, Tomura’s nails clipped so short they barely cover half his nail bed. His demeanour remains relatively calm, sedated by the meds the doctors have been pumping into his system, familiar fury only beginning to seethe when the Chief is mentioned.
His trial is surprisingly short, aided by the matching testimonies given by you, Dabi, and Keigo, and accelerated by Doctor Sako’s preliminary diagnosis of a severe mental illness, heavily exacerbated by stress and a raging drug addiction, with possible obsessive-compulsive comorbidity. Despite its swiftness, it’s painful nonetheless, and highly publicized, paparazzi and reporters shameless in their gluttonous quest for shreds of information. In the end, Tomura’s deemed not guilty by reason of insanity, and immediately sentenced to inpatient treatment at the Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa hospital.
The impact of the judge’s mahogany gavel is still echoing throughout the courtroom as Tomura seizes your face the very instant after the sentencing has concluded, crashing your lips together in a fierce kiss, so sudden, so immediate it takes you a moment to respond.
“I love you,” he’s practically sobbing into your mouth, his body leaning over the flimsy barrier separating the audience from the court as the tips of his plush fingers dig into your cheeks, glistening tears lining the seal of your lips and staining your tongue with salt. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much,”
You echo the words back into his mouth with a vicious cough, your sentiments saturating his throat as he swallows them down readily, both hands splayed on either side of your face, gripping you tightly to him. And it’s much too short, over much too soon, a yank on his elbow pulling him from your embrace and you whine, falling forward in his absence, greedy claws still vying for him as he moves onto his best friend.
A firm hand latches behind Dabi’s neck, knocking their foreheads together as Tomura holds him close, his fingertips sinking deep into Dabi’s flesh with the immense strength of his hold. But Dabi doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t seem to notice or care at all, his own fists tangled in the shoulders of Tomura’s soft sweater, grasping the material with such force that the skin across his knuckles is stretched taut, glowing ivory as bone.
Tears stream down their cheeks, drops of tiny crystals shimmering in the light, mixing and mingling as their noses nudge together, words flowing freely from Tomura’s lips, stuffed full of urgency.
“Take care of her for me,” he’s gasping, as if he can’t spit the words out fast enough, his nose bumping against Dabi’s again, dire and desperate. “Please take care of her for me, pr-promise me you will,”
“I will, Tomu,” Dabi’s vowing instantly with a tenacious nod of his head, words stammering in his chest, woven with a stuttered breath and infused with a half-stifled sob. “I will, I will, I promise you I will,”
“And please, take care—”
Those are the last words you hear, the last words he utters, before he’s ripped from your combined clutches.
✰ ✰ ✰
author’s note: check the comments for additional notes!
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Dabi x reader in squid game where they’re both players 👀 ✨
Squid Game AU - Player!Dabi x Player!Reader
Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.
Squid Game AU Masterlist
TW: Dabi is one of the scary players, Mentions of Violence and Murder, just a tiny bit of blackmail, implied dubcon.
30 minutes until lights out.
The clock hangs over the room, menacing streak of numbers that keep changing, leading you towards a nightmarish night, at best, and your painful death, at worst. Everyone knows what will happen; now that they're aware killing others in the dorms bears no consequence, the most violent of the players will wait until the lights are out to unleash their murderous fury in an atrocious blood bath.
And then there's you. Defenseless. Like a rabbit locked in with a pack of wolves. As much as you can rely on your wits during the game, you hadn't expected to be forced to fight for your life even at night, when there are no strict rules hanging over the participants and keeping them from hurting or killing others. There is no being smart when you're facing the sharp end of a knife or cowering under the fists of a merciless criminal, and as the numbers keep rolling above the beds, you know you have less than a 10% survival chance.
It feels unfair.
"Why do you keep looking at the clock? You scared or something?"
You raise your eyes to the man standing next to your bed, the knife hidden in the palm of his hand clicking against the metallic bars in annoying sounds. Still, your blood freezes in your veins at the sight of him; his black hair falling in front of cerulean blue eyes, the burn scars littering his face and body, the murderous fury alight in his gaze, waiting, expectant, ready to be unleashed as soon as the countdown strikes 0.
You don't know his name, and the number on his jacket is hidden under a blood stain, almost black now that it has dried, but you remember him, and more specifically the amused smirk that keeps pulling at his lips everytime he takes other players down in the games. He's among the worst ones, you know, among the criminals and murderers who are there because they need a bit of cash to escape from justice, far from the other poor souls forced to take part in such a game simply because they've been indebted after a few financial mistakes.
He's the last person you'd want to see near you when the lights go out.
Because of course, he's right. You're terrified.
"I'm not," you lie, and he barks a laugh. The sound makes you feel small, defenseless, weak, as if you were nothing but a prey cowering while the predator roars in triumph right before devouring them whole.
"Don't be so shy, princess. Want me to protect ya?"
You blink, surprised as he looks down at you, smug smirk pulling at his mismatched lips. You wonder what he did to earn these scars, if they're just the remains of yet another of his crimes, or if they're simply a red flag that you should take into account before accepting whatever it is he's offering.
It's not as if you have a choice, anyway.
And maybe he's just mocking you, playing with your feelings, giving you a sliver of hope before taking it away, but it's all you have, so you slowly nod, and whisper:
His fingers are rough, calloussed when they gently stroke your cheek, as if you were a kitten that he'd been dying to pet. His digits slid under your chin before raising it, forcing you to look into his eyes. Blue, beautiful, and yet there's a sparkle of something scary burning in the cerulean irises.
"Alright princess, I'll be your bodyguard for the night. And, don't worry..."
His thumb rises along your chin, lingering a few seconds on your lower lip before slightly pushing until your mouth opens and he can feel the warmth of your tongue on his skin as it slips inside.
He smiles, and you don't think you've ever seen anything so terrifying.
"We'll talk about the price in the morning."
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Sleeping with the Villains
Request: My request idea that popped in my head was I haven’t seen a story of shigaraki’s or dabi’s impression of them sleeping nude/naked with their S/O. I was wondering what their thoughts would be? I wouldn’t mind it if it was both sfw and nsfw:)🤸♀️
It can either be headcanoan or a fic. you can choose which one suits best for you to compose. 💕 💕 💕
Word Count: 1.5K each
A/N: I went for a more sfw vibe(‾◡◝)
His skin is rough, calloused and burned, and even if he is clean, the scent of ash overtakes that of milk and honey. Dabi is scarred, his body in deep purple patches that are pieced together with staples and on a good day, he can ignore the the pain, can push past it and focus on how soft your hand is compared to his, he can focus on you, rather than the way that that his clothes catches over his skin and pulls on the grooves and the burns. On the harder days, he has to push himself out of bed before you can wake. He has to bite down on the pain that screams for him to collapse, and he’ll swallow pain medication and drink the pain away before you can wake. He is a man ready to explode at any given minute, and he will refuse to do that in front of you.
He wears a loose fitting shirt and sweats that makes it unbearably hot and when he walks into the bedroom that he shares with you, you’re undressed. He grins at you and even if his skin does ache, he can’t deny you, and he can’t deny himself. If you want him now, he’ll give himself to you in a painful and horrible way to keep you by his side.
“I didn’t realize we were going to fuck tonight,” he says, a thin smile on his lips as he sits beside you on the bed. “You should have told me, I would've dolled myself up.” He teases, but he’s serious. He wants to be made pretty for you, to have you look at him and ignore the scars that decorate his face and his body. When you roll your eyes and shake your head, your hand curved over his untarnished skin, he deflates.
“It’s not that,” you tell him with a laugh. You mov to sit fully on the bed, your legs crossed and he’s unable to keep his eyes off of you.
He raises his brows, and his eyes are focused on the swell of your stomach, soft and full, and he hates that he wants to touch you. To simply let his body drape over you and keep you under him. “It’s not?” He asks, his throat already beginning to close and when he catches your eyes, he flashes a smile- awkward and tense. “Then what is it?”
Your hand moves slowly away from him, and even though he is warm, the fire inside of him unending and all consuming, he is cold without you. He watches as your hand falls to cup over your calves. “I just want to sleep naked with you.” He must have given you a bewildered look because when you laugh, you go to hold his hands. “You heard me,” you lilt, something so sweet on your tongue that it makes him ache.
“Why?” He’s done it before with you. Sticky skin against sticky skin, your chest rising and falling, his body shaking in the afterglow of sex as you kiss his chest. But it was always that, always after sex when you both slept naked together. Why now? Why without clothing? And even when he’s dressed, he feels so bare.
“Dabi,” you call his name and it’s like sin that slips past your lips. Your hand rises slowly to cup the side of his face and he hates how you can read him like an open book. He hates how vulnerable he’s become when he’s around you. “I just want to sleep with you. Nothing more and nothing less, honey.”
Honey. What a sweet thing to call him. A nickname that is given and told with love and admiration, and he knows who he is. Thirty people is how many he’s killed. His skin is purple and falling apart on him. He is ash and smoke, and at any second, he will fall apart. No matter where you touch, he is scarred; your touch is something so delicate and painful against his neck that he leans into it, desperate for the pain, but desperate for the touch that you are so willing to give him.
“Me too?” He asks, his clothing pulling taut against his scars and when you nod, a soft, inaudible plea on your lips, he can’t deny you. He can’t rid himself of his clothes quick enough, and yet, he takes them off softly as if he were taking off a bandaid.
Your hands replace his and when you lean over him, your chest is in his face and if it were any other time, if he were less broken than he is now, he’s sure he would have joked and teased. He’s sure that he would have used sex to distract you from seeing him. You’ve seen him before and yet, it is never enough. It’s never his skin, it’s never him, it’s a ghost of who he should be- coy and charming. Yet, here he is, having you helping him remove his clothing because if he were to do it, he'd never be bare in front of you. He’d rather burn once more than to ever have you truly see how he appears.
He is a man of many faults and when you kiss his lips, his scarred and rough bottom lip pressed against yours, he pushes you down to the bed and hovers above you. Your hands hold him tenderly, keeping him together, and you smile at him. There are tears in your eyes and he wonders if he’d match you in another lifetime. The fear. The adoration. The way that despite being above you, he’s unable to breathe properly. He can’t stand it. It’s all so horrific in a way he never thought could be real. He lays on the bed, his body vulnerable to you and your ridicule and when he looks at you, he gives you sad eyes, expecting for your face to twist once you realize who you’ve allowed to touch you.
The air is cold, and his staples are warm, and he is bare. Fear has taken over, and it’s chosen to stay, to his his eyes follow as you look at him, and when you raise your hand, letting it hover over his scarred skin, he can feel it and it’s excruciatingly painful and something that he has craved for far too long.
“Honey,” you call him, your hand curving over the crown of his head and running past his hair. You say it so dolefully that he has to shake his head and even then, your smile is one that lacks it’s usual shine.
“It’s nothing,” your name is a whisper against his lips and it’s a sin for him to say something like that. “Just-” he pauses, he doesn’t want you to stop touching him, but he also doesn’t want you to look at him. He swallows and wraps his hand around your wrist. “Do you mind just laying beside me?”
It’s pitiful. Pathetic and everything bad that he’s ever been told. He can’t stand you looking at him when he can’t feel. When he isn’t supposed to feel a thing. And yet, your lips press against his and he can taste the mint on your tongue, and he lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes tightly as you rest carefully beside him.
“Dabi,” you call him and it sends a shiver down his spine when the thin blanket is placed over the both of you. He hums in response, unable to trust his voice at the very moment. “For what it’s worth,” your breath is cool against his shoulder, “I think you’re beautiful.” He can’t help the ugly and snarky laugh that slips past his throat in some cruel joke. You ignore the mean sound and continue, your hand soft on his body. “I wouldn’t dream of ever leaving you. I think I’m too attached to ever believe that I could find someone else. You’re the best that I’ll ever come across, and I hope that when you look at me, you know that I’ll never grow tired of you.”
When you’re asleep, your name having left his lips in a mantra, he lets out a shaky breath. His face burns and he’s glad that he can’t cry. He’s glad he rid himself of that emotion. He’d never forgive himself if he cried because of you. He’d never forgive himself for being so attached to you. He holds you close and the ceiling is blurry. You’re warm in the ways that remind him of something once lost and found. You are something that he will never forget and will never forgive himself for invading your life. Sleeping bare with you was much more than nude, it was vulnerability to let you touch him and see him as him. He turns his head and kisses your forehead. “I hope that when you look at me, you know that I’m sorry.” His voice is weak and he can’t breathe, but he’s by your side and when he wakes up, he wants you to still be there.
His reflection is whole- the mirror before him clean and free of anything that would distort him. With an exposed chest, his shirt is on the sink counter, and he stands in front of the mirror shirtless, observing his body as if he had never seen it before. Tomura raises a careful hand, letting it ghost over his stomach where scars of all shapes and sizes are etched upon his body. The scars are soft, stretched skin that feels almost false under his own, the edges ragged and tickling against the tips of his fingers. He’s never had the luxury of taking a moment to stop and watch his own body, to trace over the imperfections and feel them. It’s so foreign that it makes his anxious, worry bubbling in his stomach that when you call his name, he pulls his hand away from himself, taking a step away from the mirror, recoiling as if his reflection would reach out and trap him there.
He’s never been one to be ashamed of himself, to let the words of others affect him. Time and time again, he’s been told of how awful he looks, reminded of how he’d look better if just a few things were changed about him, and in the end, he’s never cared about any of those comments. He never put his worth on his physical appearance, and that was fine for him. Still, when he sees himself he can find his own flaws, the remarks that people make, and when he sees you, he can’t find any of those. The shirt is grabbed, held tightly in his hands that he has to lift a finger, because old habits die hard.
The door closes behind him and he sees you sitting on the bed, the blanket pulled up towards the chest, gripped in your fists as you hold it close, giving him a tentative smile. Your shoulders are bare, your collarbones exposed, and with his own torso exposed, he clears his head and turns towards the door, almost hoping for an interruption but so scared that someone other than you would see him like this- scars and all.
“You’re not wearing anything,” he presumes, turning back to you, a soft shade of pink blooming on his chest and slowly creeping upwards. “I uh-” he clears his throat even if there is nothing there- “should I do the same?”
You laugh and it’s so sweet, so light and airy, that it reminds him of the first time he shared cotton candy with you. It’s a memory that he pushes away when you drop the blanket and even if he’s seen you in much more passionate ways, he still averts his eyes.
“Only if you want,” you tell him and it makes something inside of him switch, to follow the implication of a command and shed his clothing.
His shirt falls into a puddle of fabric and he steps over it, his steps quick as he goes to the bed that he shares with you. The edge of the bed presses against his thighs and he can’t seem to rid himself of his sweats quick enough, sliding them off until they pool around his ankles. He’s breathless, looking down at himself, his hands hooked over the waistband of his briefs and when he blinks, your hands are over his.
“Usually sex is a lot more fun than this,” he jokes, lifting his head and giving you a ghost of smile that quickly disappears.
“It is,” your voice airy. “But-” your knuckles are now pressed his hips and you lower them slightly, your hands cool against his warm skin- “it’s not about sex tonight.” His boxers join the pool of fabric that is around his ankles and he quickly removes his socks, climbing into bed as you back away to make space for him.
“No?” He whispers, leaning towards you, his hands on either side of your thighs as you sit on your legs. “What a shame,” he says, leaning his head onto your chest, his ear pressed against your beating heart. Your hands curve over the top of his head and he pushes himself further into you when you click your tongue.
It’s quiet for a moment and he can’t bring himself to ruin the silence, to move away from you, even if his arms are starting to tire from holding himself up. Your hand is over him, parting through his silver hair and his ears burn with every touch.
“Tomura?” He hums in response, pushing himself further into you. He doesn’t want for the moment to be ruined. He wants to stay here, uncomfortable and sore, and safe and held. He wants to be in your arms. “How about we lie down, okay?” Your hand leaves the crown of his head and when you pull away, he’s left chasing after you, trying to follow your warmth and reclaim it.
The blanket is pulled, held open for you and him, and in it, is warmth. In it, is you that looks at him so tenderly, the corners of your eyes crinkled and the little fat in your cheeks pushing upwards as you smile at him. He’s clumsy and quick, and he doesn’t care if he seems desperate to get under the covers with you, but it’s all that he wants. He just wants to be beside you.
His hand aches, and his arms are sore, and he’s beside you, his face against your chest as he holds you close to him. It truly is just lying beside you, it’s nothing more, simply being bare in front of you with the distraction of sex to occupy you or him, and it’s horrific. Your hand starts from his neck, past scars trembling under your touch that leads him to hold his breath, taking in one last breath that fills his lungs with the sweet aroma of your body wash and cream. Your hand lowers, tracing over the scars that are wrapped around his arms, coiled and pressed and whispers your name. It stops you for a moment, but when he says nothing else, devoid of breath, his lungs burning and throat tight, your hand continues to press and massage over the scars, each gentle nudge bringing forward the reminder of who he is and when his hands clamps around your arms, free of the mangled scars that are his, he lets out a mix of a whine and cry. He doesn’t know what it is that you are doing, but it hurts and he’s so desperate for the comfort that he fails to register as your hand glides down and flutters over his side, where a scar is large against him, wrapping around his side and fading once it reaches towards his stomach. It’s an odd sensation, different from his. Yours feels as if it really is a ghost that is pressing against him, something so light and foreign that it’s as if you had never touched him before.
“Does it ever hurt?” You ask, and he can feel the press of your thigh against his.
“Yes,” he breathes, unable to lie to you. What is it about you that ruins him, that makes him so weak and willing to tell you whatever it is that you want to hear. He’d bow before you, plead at the mercy of you for just a simple smile.
“Am I hurting you?” You ask and when you press down, the small shift of weight making his gasp out, he hisses out his answer.
“Yes,” he confesses. Your hand starts to lift away from him and he holds it down, his own scarred hand holds yours. “Please, don’t stop,” he asks of you and when he pulls away his eyes burn and yours look so sad and he can’t have that. He can’t have you look at him, and he can’t bear to see you so sad.
Tomura presses his lips against yours, the kiss wet and shaky and it’s more of him needing you than it is of him just wanting to kiss you. He pulls you close, his nails dragging against your soft skin and there’s this aching part of him that doesn’t want to let up for breath, he’d be happy to die there with you, his lips on yours, and yours on his. His heart echoes in his ears and beats against his ribcage like a bird with too big of wings trapped in a cage. Your hands curve around his neck, and it’s different. It isn’t a gnawing sense of pain and itch, it’s not muddled clarity that makes his stomach twist; it is simply you and your touch that keeps him grounded. He’s gasping and when he finally pulls away, gasping for breath and looking at you through half lidded eyes, he sees you smiling back at him, your chest rising and dipping and he is still with you.
“I’m still here,” you say as if you could have heard his worries. Your hand cups his chest and moves to tangle into his hair. “Whatever you want of me, I’ll give it to you.” It’s something that he will hold you to and when you press your lips against his in a fleeting kiss, he’s left wanting more.
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SOMEONE MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE
♡ hawks, aizawa, bakugo, dabi
— contains. f!reader, angy bnha men, use of dabi’s real name, non-explicit/mentions of: harassment, alcohol, slight possessiveness
“She’s not interested, pal,” he says as he snakes an arm around your waist from behind you. He left you for one minute to get drinks and all of a sudden, a random half-drunk guy came up to you, chatting you up despite your obvious protests, seemingly unaware of who you came here with. Keigo takes the seat next to you and says nothing more to the guy but as the guy protests, Keigo was quick to cut him off, irritation noticeable in his tone and expression, “fuck are you still here for?” Immediately, the guy recognizes who he’s dealing with. Panic and apologetic replaces his previously cocky expression as he cusses before excusing himself. Keigo turns back to you, pulling you closer to him as he soothes your arm. “You okay, pretty bird?”
“___, you good?” A familiar voice speaks from behind you, the source of the voice putting a hand on the small of your back, suddenly you aren’t afraid of the guys who have been pestering you for the last couple of minutes, asking you your name, your number, if you’re waiting for someone, the list goes on. Shouta directed the question at you but his eyes were glued to the men who suddenly felt threatened under his gaze. He arrived late for your date, his fault. His voice is calm but you can tell by his gaze and the shift in his breathing pattern, he’s furious, only holding himself back because he doesn’t wanna do anything that could potentially hurt you in the process. After giving him your answer, he clenches his jaw as you take your leave, but not before he stops to give them a last warning. “Don’t show your faces here again”
Katsuki is fuming, jaws clenching and hands balled to a fist as his gaze slowly alternates between your worried expression and the guy with the shit-eating grin who caused all this. He’s about ready to pounce on the stranger, and he would’ve broken the guy’s face if it weren’t for you, your hands soothing his chest, and your puppy eyes pleading for him to calm down. “Katsuki, I’m not hurt, please don’t worry.” He couldn’t even remember what the guy said. All he knows is he left you alone briefly and came back to the sight of the guy chatting you up and playing with a lock of your hair even when you asked him to stop. It takes so much from Katsuki to even relax his stance but he doesn’t want you to worry. He fixes his eyes on you, expression mellowing down as he asks you, “you sure you’re okay—” “I barely touched her—” “fuck off before I change my mind”
“Is this guy bothering you?” he says, hands in his pockets, and though his expression appears to find the situation interesting, he’s actually daring the guy to talk back, the guy who’s been sticking his face close to yours despite your painfully obvious discomfort. Poor guy’s obviously new, Touya thought. Hitting on his girl, in his own territory, too. The guy’s probably heard of him, as he doesn’t think twice before putting a distance between you and himself, nearly pissing himself when he saw Touya’s face. As soon as the guy leaves, Touya cups your face before closing the gap between you and him, planting a chaste kiss before pulling away and casting an apologetic look. “Sorry I took so long”
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tags: NSFW, friends to lovers, GN reader, Dabi POV, pre-LOV, implied PTSD, mention of child abuse, angst, hurt/comfort, blood, spit, unprotected sex, emotional sex, no power dynamic
“Let me cook for you, you look as if the wind will blow you over," you'd said.
After unlocking the door to your apartment you motion for him to step in, smiling easily as you go like you weren't welcoming a criminal into your home. He wonders what your neighbours must’ve been thinking as you passed them in the foyer with him on your tail.
He doesn't know what he expected your place to look like. It feels as if he’s standing in the middle of a staged living room, like he’s here to view a space and decide then if he wants it for himself. The image of you in the kitchen in your little apron is so domestic it steals his breath away. Somewhere deep down he yearns for that life with you, one where he isn’t scarred or defective and you wake him with a good morning kiss. The idea is so out of reach it makes him laugh.
“Just your apron,” he half lies. You chuckle and hold out your arms, giving him a full body spin, landing on your cocked hip. It’s a dumb piece of fabric, frilled straps and washed out white with ‘I like big buns’ in large font across your chest.
“Silly, isn’t it?” Well, at least you thought so too. “Reminds me of the one my grandmother used to wear. How about yours?”
A twist of his stomach. He doesn’t want to talk about this.
“Wouldn’t know, never met her,” he dismisses as he falls back onto your sofa, the springs complaining underneath him with the sudden weight.
“Don’t you speak to your family?” You ask carefully from the stove top, meeting his eyes over the quaint window in the wall between the two rooms. Family was a topic neither of you ever touched upon.
“They think I’m dead,” he shrugs, eyes casting over the framed pictures dotted around the place. Didn’t even fucking look, he thinks.
“You faked your death?”
“I didn’t fake my death!” he scoffs, left hand reluctantly rising to push up his right sleeve and reveal the whispers of still smoke rising from his charred skin “...I just let them make assumptions”.
“I never heard about a kid killing himself with his quirk, though,” your eyebrows crease into a thoughtful frown. “Surely that’s something that would’ve been on the news?”
He swallows back the biting response. Your lack of knowledge was his fault, not yours. Your assumptions can't be faulted because it’s true that it's uncommon for people to die by their own quirks even when they were incompatible because their parents would buy them prescribed support gear immediately. A story like his, especially being associated with a top hero, should have definitely been on the news.
“That’s because they never reported it,” he responds blankly, forcing his tone flat to smooth out any crinkle that might indicate hurt. He didn’t care.
An agonising silence descends upon you both. He distantly remembers those first few weeks after he’d left home, how paranoid and exhausted he had been, countless nights spent awake listening for those imposing familiar footsteps. But they never came because they never looked.
He hears your stuttered exhale and glances in your direction, met with your expression of regret and your mouth forming around words that you don’t know how to say. You’ve abandoned the simmering food to approach him, sitting yourself on the arm of the couch. If you were about to say sorry he might just combust. He didn’t need pity, he didn’t want it and especially not from you.
“Your family are... dicks”.
It’s unexpected. He snorts shortly before catching himself, hand flying up to cover his mouth to cover the grin threatening to spread across his lips. Relief replaces the sadness that had clouded your eyes and the atmosphere lightens.
“That is one way of describing them,” he muses as he leans his head back over the lip of the sofa and sinks into the pillows. You seem to take his relaxed posture as a signal to sit closer.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask softly, one of your hands resting only an inch from his own on the seat cushion. He stares at the space in between and his pinky twitches, yearning to just—
He swallows. He hadn’t long been five years old when it first became obvious his quirk was hurting him. He'd been forced into the office of a sallow faced quirk doctor by his father. He remembers well the expression she wore, how her lips pursed, how her throat bobbed as she greeted him with regret. He’d known then, intuitively, that it was over.
Betrayed by his own body. He’d burnt so much that even his mothers soft hand stung, not that he often felt it anyway. He exhales, eyes falling closed. If he cared about you less he might actually be able to stomach telling you.
“No,” he finally states and thankfully you respect it without pressing any further, returning to the food to begin plating up. He lingers uselessly, wondering if he should offer to help with anything, but you don’t make any requests for him to do so.
“It’s nothing special, just grilled fish and rice,” you speak softly and quickly, rambling, as if you’re nervous. He seats himself at the table and you place the plate in front of him. “You can eat fish, right?”
He nods, taking the chopsticks between his thumb and forefinger. It looks good, really good, he can’t remember the last time he had a proper home cooked meal. You sit across from him anxiously watching, pupils flickering from his face to the food.
“What?” he glares, self conscious. An expression of ‘I’ve been caught’ flits across your features before you gaze down at your own food, chopsticks picking at the fish.
“I just wanted to see your reaction, wanted you to like it is all,” you murmur, eyelashes casting a shadow along the top of your cheeks. He’s reminded again of how beautiful you are, how so much of your beauty is in the sincerity of your actions. With a shallow sigh he shovels a piece of fish and some rice into his mouth.
“It’s fine,” is all he says, and you’re happier for it. It’s more than fine, he wants to say. I can taste your effort and your care and I’m grateful for it, he wants to say. But he doesn’t because that would make him vulnerable, that any more cracks might just shatter him and he’s afraid to know what might spill out.
Touya is an unreliable narrator in his own life, he’s aware. He could die and no one would know the full story, you were the only person he’d let get this close to it and you weren’t even aware of that. It was frightening yet for some reason he wanted you to stumble upon it, wanted you to know so that it might relieve him of the pressure of hiding from you, so that he might finally have someone on his side.
That, or you’ll leave him.
You eat together in comfortable silence after that. There are moments when your foot presses against his and it feeds the tension but neither of you acknowledge it. Plates clink together as he stacks them together upon finishing the meal, ignoring your pleas to let you clean it up yourself.
“You cook, I clean,” he shrugs, glad his hair is long enough to hide the pink of his ears. “I am capable of washing a few dishes”.
He puts them in the small sink and turns the tap, water awkwardly sputtering out before eventually beginning to run smoothly. He dips his hand under the stream to get started when he hears you curse.
“Shit, wait, the water comes out hot at first—”
He laughs. You’re so fucking cute.
“I run 40 degrees on a good day, believe me I’m fine,” he shakes his head with an amused smile, grimacing at the faint sting as the suds meet his sutures. Your mouth hangs open while you process his words, hand suspended in the air like you want to touch him.
God knows why but he indulges you, tilting his head toward you. With a little more care than necessary you lay your hand across his forehead like a mother might to their child and he finds himself glad that he lost the ability to cry. You skin is so much cooler than his, softer too, he feels beastly in comparison.
“Do… Do you get sick often?” you ask feebly, hand slowly slipping down to the curve of his cheek and cupping his jaw.
“Thanks to my body temperature I don’t get infections all that much,” he explains and turns slightly into your palm, desperate for the loving touch. “Have plenty of other problems, though”.
His answer doesn’t seem to placate you all that much. You scan the sutures lining his face and lightly stroke your thumb along the small titanium rings that tightly hold his skin together. Like a moth to a flame he finds himself drawn forward, not noticing until your nose brushes his, and he freezes in fear that he might’ve overstepped.
But you aren’t moving, your eyes are heavy and your chin angled toward him like you’re waiting. You’re waiting for him to kiss you, he realises.
Your lips are much smoother than your hands, he notes. His mouth slots seamlessly against yours, kissing you gently first like he’s giving you the chance to regret it, but you press back against him with enthusiasm that has a familiar spring coiling in his stomach. The kiss descends then into something fervent, his tongue parting your lips and his hand meeting the small of your back. You cling to him and he pulls you firmly against his front, drinking down your pleased whimper.
You grab the lapels of his jacket and pull him back into the main room toward what he guesses will be the bedroom. Your touch is dizzying and filling, you’re salacious when you breathe his name and it shakes him, a distant bittersweet feeling at the sound of his alias. He pulls back from you, committing the whining complaint you give and the way you chase his lips to memory.
He wants to, but he can’t do it. He can’t simply fuck you like he has others. He knows as soon as he’s had you he’ll be ruined for anyone else, this isn’t something he can have only once. You mean something to him, his feelings for you are so insurmountable he doesn’t know where to put them, but he doesn’t know what you want from him. Doesn’t know if he deserves this, doesn’t know if he could stomach your rejection.
You call his name, the sound acting as a prong collar around his throat.
“Nothing,” he says.
“You’re lying Dabi, it’s written all over your face” you shake and he can feel the weight of your stare as you search his expression for answers. There’s that name again.
His fathers words fester within him like an infection. After all, Touya has always been tender. Not tender like loving, tender like a bruise. Things that appear small and inconsequential, words that you mightn’t think twice about, they’ll hurt a little more than they should. He wants to ask you what this means to you so your answer might get rid of this intolerable twisting mass that sits where his lungs should be. He wants you to clarify so there is no doubt for the stupid little voice in the back of his head to latch onto. But pride is a powerful thing, a difficult thing to let go of.
“Please tell me what I did wrong,” you murmur, thumb rubbing circles into the back of his hand in a coaxing manner, “it’s alright if you don’t want this”.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, his voice hoarse. He huffs a monotone laugh, stumbling past you to your bed and sitting on the edge of the mattress, elbows balanced on his knees in frustration.
“What the fuck does all this mean to you?” Touya asks the question through gritted teeth, ashamed by his insecurity and his reliance on your reassurance. He hears a quiet, barely there sound of surprise.
Your words trail off and there is silence. The disappointment and shame begins to settle itself into his bones and it’s more painful than he anticipated, really, he should’ve been more prepared for this.
“I love you. You’re important to me”
Whatever he’d thought of as the best case scenario, it hadn’t been that. Your confession barely registers, so far fetched it must be a joke.
Your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but you think the better of it. He feels thoroughly beaten and he can’t bring himself to meet your eyes, the first time since infancy that he has been loved and he can’t accept it.
“How could you possibly love me?” he interrupts incredulously, hands clenched and trembling. “I have nothing to give you!”
Because that’s right, isn’t it? Love is conditional. It’s conditional on what he can give you, how he can be of use to you, and he has nothing in his arsenal to offer. He’s terrified of the sincerity on your face, you must be a brilliant liar, perhaps you’d been lying this entire time. He doesn’t understand what about him you could’ve fallen in love with, he doesn’t trust it. As if approaching a cornered animal you make yourself small and it irritates him. The veil has come down and his mask is cracked, you’ve seen him for who he really is. Weak.
“Love isn’t transactional. I don’t love what you give me, I love you because you’re you," you sound so... sad.
“Well you shouldn’t,” he snaps, voice raw and trembling. “I’m not a good person”
“You’re not a bad person, Dabi! You’re hurting—”
“You can’t fix me,” He interrupts, "I'm not a charity case". The thought that you might view him as something broken is nauseating, a distinct feeling of betrayal baring its fangs and sharpening his tongue. You come to a slow stop between his knees and he peers up at you, his chin level with your chest.
“I don’t want to fix you, you aren’t a thing to be fixed,” you tell him.
“Then what do you want from me?” He trembles as the anger subsides, it leaves him naked and flayed before you. To be vulnerable with you is revolting and yet relieving all at once. It’s almost comedic how now, after years of begging to be looked at, you are here seeing him and he’s afraid of it.
“I don’t want anything from you. I want to stay by your side, as a friend or as more if that’s what you want, too”.
“That’s all,” you concede reassuringly.
“Sounds like bullshit,” he rasps, grimacing at the sensation of blood welling up between the stitches by his eyes. He wishes he could cry.
“Well, I guess I would need you to kiss me every so often,” you muse, cautious but playful in just the same way you’d been when you first met. “Maybe even text me things other than pictures of stray cats?”
“You’re lucky I even text you at all,” he jokes flatly.
“Yeah,” you reply, “I am”.
The bedroom is dark aside from the light of the hallway. It reflects back at him through your eyes, anticipation swoops into his lower stomach at the fondness you’re so openly bathing him in, and the obvious invitation behind it. He gives in.
“Kiss me again”
You nod, taking him by the wrists and guiding his hands to your waist. You cradle his face and bend forward toward him, bypassing his lips and littering his chin and cheeks with feather light kisses. The gesture makes his throat swell.
Impatient and overwhelmed he chases the path of your lips, a pleased hum radiating in his chest when your tongue teasingly flicks into his mouth, hot and wet. He tightens his grip on your waist and pulls, your knees dipping the mattress as you climb into his lap without preamble.
Determined, you coax him into the centre of the bed, hands slipping beneath the material of his jacket and sliding it down his shoulders. Without tearing his gaze from you he shucks it off and throws it over the side of the bed, touches growing more confident with each small sound you give him.
Beckoning him along with you as you settle back into the pillows, his forearms come to rest on either side of your head. He feels like he’s burning up but it’s different, nothing about it hurts, the heat engulfs him, it swaddles him and he feels held by it. Held by you. Touya presses his face into the underside of your jaw to lap your pulse, suckling the sensitive skin before abseiling down your neck and leaving soft wet kisses in his wake. Your hands run along the length of his arms, threading up into his hair, smoothing down the back of his shoulders and he pushes into it, his own fingers kneading into the plush of your hips much like a cat.
Hastily you push down your pants, shuffling awkwardly out of them and not caring where they end up. He distantly feels his hips rolling down into the mattress to relieve the throbbing of his cock as he pushes the hem of your shirt up, taking your nipple into his mouth. You suck in a sharp breath as you arch into him, back bowed beautifully, knees bending to clamp either side of his waist.
“Dabi,” you mewl. He bristles.
“Hm?” You pause.
“My name is Touya,” he winces at the break in his words and the quiver in his voice. He nips at the softness of your stomach to distract you both from the admission, tongue nearing the heat between your legs.
“Touya,” you say it slowly, like you’re testing how it feels in your mouth. Used to his name meaning a beating or an apology and now a forbidden word, he has never heard it said with so much affection before.
“Again,” he groans, absentmindedly pulling at his belt buckle with one hand to get it undone, not wanting to tear his gaze away from your face. You clasp his chin between your fingers and heavy lidded you say it again.
Touya, an angered fist gloved in flame heading toward him. Touya, his mother, cowered on the floor where she couldn't look at him. Touya, his younger brother exhausted watching him cry in the middle of the night.
“Touya,” your palm cupping the back of his neck, eyes that truly see him accompanied by a loving smile. Those two things were not to be paired together, he thought, you're dangerous not him. You hold him impossibly close, acting as an anchor as he rolls his hips forward into yours, cock hardening against the material of his pants. A wounded sound reaches his ears before he realises it was him who made it, his palms mapping the curve of your hips and coming around to push open your legs, thumbs massaging your inner thighs.
“Look at you,” he marvels at how pliant you’re being, letting him touch and mould you as he likes. Saliva floods his mouth and he presses his fingers against his own tongue, your eyes following the spit cascading down his wrist. His hand slides further between your legs, hot and teasing, while the other promptly hooks your leg over his shoulder and he turns to press a kiss to the inside of your knee.
His fingers circle your entrance and you exhale deeply, hips lifting to meet him and he presses into you with ease, your head tilting backwards with a relieved moan like your body is telling him ‘finally you’re here’ and it leaves him dizzy. His blood quickens as you pulse around his intrusion and the thought of what you might feel like wrapped around his cock has him grinding against the heel of his palm.
Your fingers curl into the belt hoops of his jeans and tug, urging that he take them off and he certainly isn’t going to argue with that. The relief is palpable when the air of the room hits his legs, kicking the material off into the corner while you enthusiastically pull the material of his shirt over his head.
He’d been so ensnared by you that he hadn’t even considered that you’d never seen the extent of his scars, and he waits for the shock or disgust that might follow. But your expression doesn’t change, the glint of hunger and the neediness of your pawing hands remain the same.
“Lube," you pant, body reluctantly twisting to reach for your bedside table, “want you to fuck me”.
He curses and stretches over the length of your body to pull open the drawer, grabbing it himself, and you murmur a quiet thank you. He lathers it along the length of his cock, it’s cold against his skin but then again what isn’t, and he relaxes his fist when he notices you staring at his little show.
“You want my cock, that it?” he purrs, a thinly veiled taunt, and he finds himself thoroughly enjoying the annoyed narrowing of your eyes. Using the leg thrown over his shoulder you pull him toward you, pelvis circling without shame, voice rough when you bite back.
“You know I do”.
You swallow around the head of his cock effortlessly, a stuttered exhale with your fists twisting in the sheets. He sinks into you frustratingly slowly, eyes squeezed shut and breath held, praying to God to he can hold off his orgasm. With the first rock of his hips his name falls from your lips and it reverberates through him, pebbling his skin, hairs on end. You’re so present with him, mouth brushing any part of his body you can reach, hands restless as they caress his rugged skin, careful as not to catch on his staples, he’d had good sex before but never like this.
Never has he been so cherished before, so overwhelmed and desperate and close to the edge just from the act of someone cradling his face. Your lips crash into his like a wave to land and the momentum has him collapsing into your torso, bodies pressed tightly together and covered in a sheen of sweat. You keen into the crook of his shoulder, the new position all the sweeter for you, and he doesn’t waste time angling his thrusts exactly where you want them to be.
“Shit,” he groans through gritted teeth. There’s a whine building in his chest along with the tightening in his abdomen that chips away at his ego. Fuck he doesn’t want to cum first, not yet, wants to stay inside you a little longer.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he rasps. His tongue dips between your lips, spit running down your chin, and he slips a hand down the front of your stomach to touch you. Your synchronized movement becomes sloppy, a startled moan and you’re clenching deliciously around him.
“Please,” you shudder, lashes fluttering and nails digging into the unmarred skin of his left shoulder, “I’m so cl-ose”.
He fucks into you deeper, pushing you further up the mattress with each stroke of his cock. Your muscles coil tighter and tighter, the sweet scrunching of your nose and crease between your brows as your mouth falls open with a silent cry. You cum incoherently around his cock, earnest in your efforts to keep your eyes open and locked with his, the intimacy of it leaves him aching.
Fighting against the urge to carelessly chase his own release he carries you through your orgasm, gently rolling his hips. He doesn’t know when the descent starts, so different from the sudden snapping sensation he’s used to, it feels like he has been stretched thin and left to slowly reshape himself. He cums and his vision whites out, face buried against your chest with your soft cooing above him, the tension bleeding steadily from his body.
He lifts his head, valiantly ignoring the faint smears of blood along your collar, and you don’t mention the red stains that are likely dried against his cheeks. You look tired, but satisfied, happy.
“You’ll regret loving me,” he falters, black dyed bangs damp and clinging to his forehead. You’ll regret it, he tells himself, so it won’t hurt as much later.
You faintly shake your head no, smile unwavering. “Let me decide that for myself, ok?”
Could it be called defeat if he hadn’t even put up a fight?
“Ok,” he breathes.
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Ash…bby…I’m just thinking about a thing.
The thing being Dabi and his fuckable-ness for lack of a better term.
Just like…how jealous Dabi gets when you’re being as helpful as you can around the LOV hideout? Cooking breakfast…tending to wounds when you can. Shiggy and Spinner have definitely noticed your presence.
You’re not doing anything wrong at all but the shorts you’re wearing are drawing the attention of other’s and while Dabi loves your confidence, he hates other people looking at you.
So he gives you a warning…then you wear them again 😈
Idk I just wanna start shit with some of my favorite characters and see how they’d handle it tbh
Lilith, my love!! Bless you and your beautiful brain 😩 I started this v drunk & am finishing it sober lmao bear with me pls.
pairing: Dabi/Touya x villain!reader
warnings: marking/branding, quirk play, possessive behavior, biting, exhibitionism, daddy kink, degradation (v light/to be safe), fingering, despite these warnings, he’s soft in this. Go figure.
“Thanks again for making breakfast. Sometimes I really don’t know what we’d do without you around,”Spinner’s smiling politely enough, innocently enough when he says it, but Dabi knows better.
He knows better, because he sees the way that fucking lizard’s eyes attach to your ass when your insist that ‘it’s nothing” and walk away to get to cleaning up the kitchen.
He sees the way Shigaraki ogles you when you take it upon yourself to tidy up the place. Bending over to pick up this and that. Shit that he knows the bastard purposefully left out of place just to watch you like he’s doing now.
He sees the way Compress can’t seem to keep his eyes off your tits when you’re hunched over trying to patch up the gash on his arm. The idiot always seems a little too pleased to complain to you whenever he’s been injured.
He sees it all. And he’s just about fucking sick of these entitled jackasses leering at what’s his.
It’s always the worst when you dress like this. Sure, he loves the view, but he hates sharing. Never has been very good at it. Never will be, he assumes.
Those skimpy shorts that and those shirts that hug your curves just the right way have the other men circling you like sharks in the water. You’re the freshly wounded prey.
It’s like they’re always waiting to pounce. Always waiting for you to open that door, just a crack. That would do it. At least they’re not dumb enough to actively pursue you. He would have to roast them if they tried and Shigaraki would likely drone on and on about that at the next meeting, if it were to happen. Another torture that he would rather be spared from.
So he thinks to minimize the risk. He asks you as politely as he can to, "Maybe not wear those shorts around the other guys, okay, doll?"
But do you listen? No. Of course you don't. Dabi didn't fall so head over heels for you, because you always do what you’re told. He figured you wouldn't exactly take to him policing your outfits, so he'd expected this.
And being the crafty bastard that he is, he’d come up with another solution.
"Hey, doll," he smiles sleepily at you from his position propped up against the counter, making you wonder when he slipped behind the open refrigerator door as you close it and nearly jump out of your skin.
"Oh!" You let out a breath, still instinctively clutching your chest, which is well defined by the low cut shirt you decided to wear today; out of spite, perhaps? He thought there was a good chance of it. "Babe, you scared the shit out of me!"
You playfully smack his chest with the pack of bacon you've retrieved from the fridge and he only smirks in reply, pushing off the counter to follow you to the stove.
His hands catch your hips, gripping them tight as he slides you in front of him, pinning you to the counter by pressing his stirring erection flush up against your ass, half of which was visible from beneath the shorts you'd decided to wear yet again today, unknowingly setting your boyfriend's plan into motion.
"Babe!" You chortle, admonishing him in a hushed tone while looking over your shoulder to see if anyone was around before you met his flickering blue irises.
"'S'matter, doll? Don't you like when I touch you like this?" His nose nuzzles into the crook of your neck before his teeth sink into it, pulling a soft groan from your lips that sends a jolt to his cock, prompting it to rise to full mast as he ruts against you.
"Someone's gonna see?" He chuckles, a warm, dark echo against your skin. "That's the idea, sweetheart. Gotta remind these assholes not to touch what isn't theirs from time to time. It's a tough concept to grasp for people like us," he murmurs, dragging his mismatched lips along the back of your neck to litter kisses along the other side.
"'M'all yours, Touya," you whisper quietly, fighting off the moan hiding just behind your lips.
"And I'm all yours. You know that. I know that, baby," his tongue runs over your pulse and that moan of yours slips out. "But do they?"
You can feel his voice rumbling in his chest as he wraps an arm around your waist, leaning forward to bend you over the counter as he grazes the nape of your neck with his teeth.
"Daddy," you whimper, pressing your palms flat to the surface in front of you, eagerly pushing back against him in search of friction.
"Mm, we'll get to that in a minute, doll," he brings his lips to the shell of your ear, letting his breath fan over it before he growls, low and deep, "Daddy's gotta make sure that everyone knows who you belong to.”
His hand drops from your hip, moving to your thigh to slowly climb up the back of it while his palm begins to heat up. You squirm as the heat continues to rise, it’s not painful yet, but you have a feeling it’s about to be.
“‘S’okay,” he says softly, a quiet reassurance in your ear. “Won’t do it unless you want me to.”
The arm around your waist slides further south, slipping into your shorts, so that his middle finger can slide between your folds.
“Fuck,” he marvels in a hushed rasp. His lids fall shut and his cocks throbs against your ass as he discovers the slick dripping from your core. “You’re already so wet for me. Willing to bet you want me to do it, huh, doll?”
He takes the lobe of your ear between his teeth, tugging gently as he plunges the finger into your empty hole, making you mewl, a cautious plea for more as you reach back and knit your fingers into his hair.
“Yeah, you want me to burn you, don’t you? Want to be permanently mine? All mine.” He draws out the the last word to the tempo of the slow and intentional rut of his hips, the idea clearly making him as excited as it’s making you.
You nod, a soft whimper spouting from pursed lips as your brows pull together, “Yes, daddy, please. Wanna be yours forever.”
A gruff grunt escapes him as you utter the word ‘forever’. He shifts behind you, sliding his hips to one side of your body to pin you to the counter and expose your ass cheek from beneath your shorts as he tugs it up high, wedging it between your cheeks to allow him access to the full expanse of your plush skin.
“You sure ‘bout this, doll?” He can feel his palm itching as it glides over the globe of your ass, he wants to do it already, but he needs to be certain. “No takin’ this one back.”
You inhale a quick breath and nod, insistent. “‘M’sure, Touya,” you breathe out. “Forever,” you repeat thoughtfully, bracing yourself against the counter with a tight grip on the edge of it.
His forehead drops against the back of your neck, another quiet groan leaving him at the thought of you wearing his mark for such an expanse of time.
It happens quickly. His palm suddenly and very briefly searing hot enough to leave a large, bright red hand print across your asscheek, the tips of his long fingers extending to peek out onto the very top part of your thigh.
You hiss, clenching damn near every muscle in your body as the worst of it hits you before all that’s left is the singing sting.
“I know, I know,” he assuages you with gentle whispers and even gentler circles on your clit. It doesn’t do much for the pain itself, but it certainly distracts you from it. “I’m gonna take care of you, alright, doll?” He seals the promise with kisses to the nape of your neck before he rests his chin over your shoulder, affectionately nuzzling his nose against your cheek before he murmurs another promise against it. “Forever.”
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❝ WE ARE ENDLESSLY BOUND BY LOVE. ❞
includes: bakugou, shouto, hawks, dabi, shigaraki x gn reader
small moments of intimacies; a glimpse into holding their hearts.
A/N aka what it’s like dating these touch-starved boys, my dearest darlings ♡ minors, ageless & blank blogs pls don’t follow me bc i mostly post smut + dark content! you will be blocked.
BAKUGOU KATSUKI ;
♡ him gently guiding you with a hand on your elbow or lower back, always keeping you in his line of sight when you’re out together
♡ helping each other dress: you fixing his tie, him zipping up your jacket; you wrapping a scarf around his neck, him kneeling in front of you to redo your laces
♡ him burying his face in the crook of your neck, soft breaths warming your skin as he closes his eyes and lays there with his arms wound around your body
♡ learning how to give a massage just so you can treat his arms, his hands, his shoulders, when he overworks his muscles
♡ kissing the tip of his nose and watching his cheeks flush right after as he looks away
TODOROKI SHOUTO ;
♡ sitting beside him, your head on his shoulder, his head on yours, sharing earbuds as you rest for the moment
♡ soft kisses to his wrist and the palms of his hands, drawing over the faint scars there with a feather-light touch
♡ peeling oranges and feeding them to him; placing the sticker that’s on the fruit on the back of his hand
♡ holding his face in your hands before kissing his forehead and down the slope of his nose; nudging his nose with yours before pecking his lips
♡ him having a list of things you enjoy on his phone; him gifting you random items purely because they remind him of you, like a handmade ring or a pretty shell
♡ looking at him only to find him already gazing at you fondly; him smiling at you when you make eye contact
♡ him laying down with his ear to your chest, falling asleep to the sound of your breathing with his arms wrapped tightly around you
♡ tracing over the scars that litter his body, tenderly kissing along each one
♡ sitting behind him in the bathroom to tend to his wings, delicately treating the plume of feathers before blow drying them to keep him warm
♡ drawing over the markings on his face before kissing his eyelids
♡ standing behind him as you dye his hair together, listening intently as he guides you through the process; him peering up at you with a soft, grateful look in his eyes whenever you’re too focused on his hair
♡ him laying down with his head on your lap, dragging your hand to his head so you play with his hair
♡ feeding him strawberries and wiping away the juice when it trickles down his lips
♡ his hand searching for yours whenever you share a bed, his ankle knocking against yours when he twines his legs with yours
♡ teaching him how to cook, and doing simple tasks together — cutting the vegetables with your hand on his over the knife, stirring a pot of sauce with your hand wrapped in his around the spoon
SHIGARAKI TOMURA ;
♡ sitting behind him and brushing his hair, combing out the tangles and weaving your fingers through the strands to gently scratch his head
♡ him looking down at your hands, comparing their sizes, running a finger along the lines of your palms in wonder
♡ interlocking pinkies when you sit besides one another
♡ making eye contact whenever he speaks; turning to face him whenever he talks passionately about something
♡ holding his hands in yours as you massage cream into them; asking him to lay down so you can circle the areas around his eyes, gently rubbing lotion into his skin
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sitting on dabi’s lap because i’m a rambling whore
no i won’t take criticism for that title
warnings: lap sitting, dick piercings, slight crying, creampie
Sitting on Dabi’s lap is a huge gamble. He is one (1) unreadable fuck.
You can very well sit on his lap and cuddle his chest with every intention of just cuddling, but he’s either gonna toss you off and pounce, almost ripping your clothes off, or he just gonna... cuddle you in silence and enjoy your body heat until he very quickly doesn’t because he’s overheated. but I digress!
That said, if you happen grind your hips over his cock under his jeans, shit goes from 0 to a hundred real fuckin’ quick-
Dabi wants your chest to his. 100%. Without a doubt. 'cause that means he gets to palm and squeeze your ass. Not to mention he gets to feel your tits to his chest, it’s a two for one! and because he’s a lazy bastard, he’s gonna let you do all the work, pulling his cock out his jeans, pulling your panties to the side (during which he asks ”why bother wearing any, doll? it’s such a hassle takin’ ‘em off,” as he smirks and coos while letting you do all the work), and slipping the head of his cock past your entrance, which always pulls a low, long groan out of him that you could hear on repeat for the rest of your life because he’s so!! pretty!! when he’s vocal!!
You can pick the pace at first, he’ll indulge you a little, but he’s not relinquishing control for very long and soon enough he would be bouncing you on his cock, the multitude of piercings adorning the shaft slipping so easily inside of your cushy walls, his fingers dipping into your hips so fiercely they’ll likely bruise while yours dig into his shoulders, your juices just dripping down his shaft and onto his jeans.
Dabi is a quiet lover, mostly letting out huffs and sighs here and there, as he’d rather center his attention on you, to watch your tits bounce for him, to make you wail and cry and sob for him, for release, for him to just fucking cum inside already-
Dabi wants you to be a begging, crying, and snotty mess before he’ll even thinking about fucking his cum into you, his main goal only being to pump you so full of his cum that it oozes out of you while he’s still inside because fuck it, he can. and he just adores the tiny little twitches your legs do when he makes you cum so hard you see stars <3
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I can't stop thinking about like, the first time you give Touya head, and he's never been the focus of this kind of thing. He's never been the focus of someone else wanting to make him feel good with no want for gain. And he melts. Your head is bobbing and your tongue is swirling and the only thought in his head is how much he loves you, that he doesn't deserve this.
And he whines, and groans, praises you with little "oh god baby," and "fuck your mouth feels so good," and "you're amazing"s.
And when he busts in your throat, his hips stuttering against his will and his hands fisting the fabric of his shirt over his belly; when his moan breaks into a quiet cry of your name, he has a realization.
Touya is willing to kill for you, that's a given. He'd burn down the world for you. But he's willing to /live/ for you, if you wanted him to. He's willing to forsake everything if it meant he could live a life with you.
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Hope I made the cut! Could you write some headcanons for Dabi? Maybe something that involves his quirk and the reader. Or anything is okay, I’m just a simp lmao
hello my fellow simp 😀🤝😐 hmmm involves his quirk ?? i don’t even know what happened but i ended up with this akshhsjskslsl. please go easy on me, i was so scared to post this 😔
hi, is your heater running ?? well you better go catch it lol i’m sorry
dabi x gn!reader
word count - 1.1k
warnings - fluff, dabi’s real name is mentioned
“i think it’s broken.” “babe, it was working just fine yesterday.”
dabi is currently leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he watches you check the heater in your house. it‘s been acting up every time he comes over. you look through the wiring even though you have no idea what you’re doing.
unbeknownst to you, dabi is amused and if he could laugh right then and there he would. what you’re not realizing is, he messed with it on purpose. this villian’s “evil” plan of getting it to stop working, is for his benefit.
he’s surprised you haven’t caught on. i mean, why would the heater act up only when he comes over?? however, dabi’s not complaining that you haven’t picked up on it. he prefers it that way. but what is the motive for his villainous act? it’s simple really. the raven haired pyromaniac just wants you to snuggle up to him and his warmth instead. he won't ask, he’d rather die.
dabi loves feeling you near him always. the first time you two cuddled, you were so careful with his scars and treated him like he was made of glass. no one ever treated him so softly and lovingly as you. and he grew addicted.
this villain got the idea in the beginning of your relationship. you always had the heater on and you rarely snuggled up to him because then you’d get overheated. so, one day you invited dabi to eat dinner and he excused himself to “use the bathroom”. low and behold, he’s face to face with his enemy.
you’re the fucking heap of metal huh? dabi would have melted it if he really wanted to. he finds a way to turn it off inconspicuously. he shakes his head as he thinks to himself, i’m way warmer babe. and that day you were so confused while dabi just shrugged as he took a seat on the couch. "let me get a blanket." what.the.actual.fuck. all of sudden you were pulled into his lap. dabi has his arms around your waist from behind. "it's easier if i do this." his hands and the temperature of his body rise. wow he really is a personal heater.
and it continues every time he comes over. you feel bad asking him to use his quirk. you don't want him to use it unless it's something essential because you don't want him hurting, especially if it's for you. that's always pissed him off.
so that's why, right now, he’s getting impatient. “y/n, forget the heater. it’s not gonna work.” you turn your head from the heater to frown at him. “baby. i don’t have the kinda money to call another maintenance guy.” there’s an uncomfortable feeling in dabi’s gut as he thinks about you having some other guy over. he caused this though ,,
so, all the man can do is scowl and tap his foot against the floor impatiently as you continue pushing buttons to try and get the heater to work. “i’ll fix it later like i always do. just leave it.” you give him the side eye. “and has that been working?” dabi sighs and decides he needs to physically remove you from the area.
“what—” dabi pulls you to him from your waist and picks you up to place you over his shoulder. mans has a mission and will have to compromise his plan to get it. “i can walk you know.” “cool.” you soon see the living room in your line of sight and the couch gets closer. your touch starved boyfriend puts you down on the pillowy cushion and sits next to you.
“i can warm you up like always...or whatever.” he doesn’t face you as he says this and envelops you in his arms and let’s you rest your head on his chest. dabi is really warm you can’t even lie. “at least pass me the remote. i’m tryna watch that movie i told you about.” dabi reaches over to get the remote to hand it to you and pulls you tighter after he does.
if you weren’t busy looking for the movie on netflix, you would’ve noticed the content look on his face. it’s like you’re the one warming him up instead of the other way around, but you don’t need to know that yet.
don’t even think of getting snacks 15 minutes into the movie. it’s too late. “no, y/n. you’ll get cold.” dabi will not release you, i’m sorry to have to tell you. places a kiss on your forehead and continues with his persuasion “besides, if you pause now, it’ll ruin the flow of the story.” pfff since when did this mf become a cinematographer
smirks at the victory as he sees you give up. to be honest, dabi doesn’t even watch the movie half the time. he’s just admiring you and treasuring the physical comfort he’s grown obsessed with. "i love you, y/n." it comes out like a whisper almost as if he's reminding himself. it still makes your world stop because he rarely ever says those 3 words. you lift your head from its current location on his chest and turn to look at him. and see that those bright cyan eyes are on you already.
you lean in to kiss dabi but he turns his head. "what's wrong?" "aren't you forgetting something?" this grown man has a slight pout adorning his relatively rough features. it's cute. you look at him confused for a bit till it hits you. slightly giggling you say, "i love you too, touya."
a small smile forms on dabi's face and this time around, he's the one who brings you in for a kiss. due to the nerve damage in his bottom lip, kissing your boyfriend has always been a bit rougher. dabi needs to feel this. so, as always he deepens the kiss and soon, the movie is long forgotten.
in the end, dabi “fixes” the stupid heater he messed with on purpose. this time though, it’s really the last time he compromises it. the maintenance bastard as he likes to think of him shouldn’t have to be called anymore.
dabi will have to find another way to get you to cuddle him. inside he knows that it can’t be like that forever. he needs to be honest with you and he will. give him time and this boy will let you know when he needs you to hold him or when he wants to hold you.
he's already shared his real name with you. why can't he share that he loves feeling you close to him? give dabi time please. it’s all he’s ever wanted from the person he loves. deep inside, he can’t wait until he can that level of openness with you. only you.
a/n - if this flops, i understand 😔🤟🏻
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Do Me a Favor?📷
Your current beau is your childhood friend and crush, Todoroki Touya. Nowadays he's known as the villain, Dabi. One of the times he comes by your place he asks a certain favor of you.
Dabi/Touya x F. Reader
Warning: Smut Ahead💋👇🏻 [18+]
"Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice I think I know enough of hate, to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice."
- Robert Frost
"Can you do me a favor, Dollface?"
That's how it started, innocently enough. Not very like Dabi at all. However you knew this was more about Touya and what led him to become Dabi. How he became a villain. Ironically enough, it was the result of a Hero's actions. You were there for it all, being around the age of him and his sister, Fuyumi. You knew how hard he pushed himself even back then. The results now marring him all over his face and body. You weren't sure if there were more scarred or healthy skin on him by this point.
Now you stood there, clutching the digital camera in your hand while he smoked his cigarette. He had been practically chain smoking since he arrived. That wasn't normal since he knew you weren't a smoker and tried his best to smoke at the window only every so often when he was around for long periods. You didn't mind though. Not today. You understood he needed it to calm all the nervous energy in him.
Taking the final drag he stood up from the couch and flicked the end of it out the window facing the alley. "Ok, Doll.", he sighed, "Let's do this." You swallowed hard but put on a brave face for him. Suddenly his hand was grasping at the back of your neck while he pulled you in for a heated kiss. After relishing in the taste of your lips and tongue he pulled away. It was the final push he needed to do this today.
He stepped back and sat in a chair along a bare section of wall. He didn't want any recognizable portion of your apartment in the video. Dabi did everything he could to keep you safe and protected, just as he had when he was still Touya. "I'll tell you when to start filming." You held the camera up to your eye, framing him in the middle of the shot. "OK, ready.", you informed him. A small smile formed over his lips. He let out a low chuckle and quietly said 'Action', but before you even hit the button he was expressionless once more.
You watched through the lens as he recited his manifesto of sorts. He listed all the crimes he's committed, depraved acts against civilians and violence against Heroes. Students even. He explained who he really was and who his father was, the now 'number one' top dog. How the sins of his father are what created him. Stain's ideals were clear in his message too. Bring down the Hero hierarchy. Damn the man. You knew the conviction in his voice was definitely going to turn the tide of the public's view on the subject.
The next part you were surprised about. He announced Hawks' real name. You knew Hawks. You two were actually considered friends. One of the few that addressed him as Keigo in private. You knew not many people knew his real name. It was a top commission secret, for the most part. Dabi went on to explain Hawks' working with the League, exposing him. His dark family history and even the names of his parents. You felt your lip tremble but steadied your resolve to hold the camera still. You had to for Touya. This was his closure.
You felt sorry for Hawks and whatever aftermath he'd face, sure. However you knew Touya had this goal in the making for years now. Perhaps even since the incident on Sekoto Peak. You had to help him finish with his plan to the bitter end. Of course your nightly prayers consisted of you practically begging that it meant he still returned to you after all is said and done.
As he spoke his final words Dabi stood and stepped towards the camera. He grabbed it in his hand covering the lens, and promptly pressed the button to stop recording. He dropped it to his side and proceeded to take in a deep breath through his nose as he closed his eyes. The two of you stood in silence before you finally brought the question you dreaded asking into words. "Does..D-does this mean you're going through with your final act..soon?" He opened his eyes and turned his attention to you. He knew you were aware of what his plan was all along. What the end could possibly mean.
Dabi bared his teeth in a tight smile as he came closer to you, dropping the camera on the cushion of the couch. He rested his hands on each side of your neck as he met your lips once again. This time his kiss was much more romantic. Slow and loving. He finally pulled back and gave a simply, raspy "Nah." You nodded. Maybe he was lying to protect you once again, but you'd take him on his word for now. You let out a breath you didn't realize you had been holding. "I promise I'll warn you when we come to the end, Princess." You gave him a warm smile as he tenderly held onto his wrists. "I know.", you replied softly. He couldn't let anyone get in between him and the goal he'd been working so hard towards, not even you; he meant it when he told you he'd try his damnedest to come back to you, however.
He noticed the slight tremors in your hands. You were scared of losing him. Dabi chuckled darkly and effectively snapped you out of your terrible thoughts. Glancing up to his face you saw the smirk on his lips. His crystal, turquoise eyes now held a darkened look. "I think Daddy should reassure you. Help you relax." You grinned at his smokey words and let out a giggle when he suddenly bent down and threw you over his shoulder.
Once he carried you to your bedroom and flopped you onto your bed he was overtop of you instantly. He kissed you hard before moving down your jaw to below your ear. You whimpered as he continued down your throat. Leaving red and purple blotches that would remain there for some time. He slid down and kept up his ministrations, bunching up your shirt and kissing the valley in-between your chest.
He took turns taking each nipple gently in his teeth to suck on. Dabi kneaded each breast as he brought himself even lower. Finally he planted a kiss on your pubic bone before hooking into the hem of your shorts and your panties and pulling them down your legs. Once they were gone his aqua eyes were met with your glistening folds. "So sweet." Dabi gave a smug laugh before running his tongue flatly along your exposed sex. It drew a loud moan from you as you pushed the back of your head further into your mattress.
You reached down to collect a small handful of soft, inky locks and held tight as you pushed his face flush with your cunt. He groaned into you, his tongue moving in and out of your fluttering hole. The vibrations only spurred you on. He brought his thumb up to spin small circles around your clit. Your moaning rivaled even the lewdest pornstar. Even with just his tongue inside Dabi could feel you clenching. "You gonna cum, ain't cha Dollface?" All you could do in response was nod. "Go on and let Daddy taste you."
Just like that your legs locked up as he brought you to your first climax. He hummed his approval at the taste of your sweetness he was grateful to be blessed with. After he slowed down his ministrations and worked you back down he sat up. Dabi gripped his white, v-neck shirt and pulled it off him. He wiped your juices from his chin with it and tossed it aside. "You ready for another one?", he asked seductively as he unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants and boxers. His girthy cock welcomed it's release and smacked against his lowest abs. You could already see the precum weeping from the tip. The sight had your breath hitching and you biting your lip.
"Yes. Please give it to me.", you pleaded breathlessly. "I need it. I need you. Please." Dabi crawled over you again, ready to oblige you as quickly as he could. How could he not give you what you wanted when you begged for him like that. It somehow made him harder than he already was. You always did that to him. Even as a horny teenager when he thought of you whenever he fucked his own fist. You were his favorite fantasy. The fact that he got to claim you and call you his own felt like the one blessing he was given in his whole miserable life.
He kissed you, hard and passionately, as he gave his cock languid strokes. Dabi lined himself with your eager hole and let out a sinful groan as he pushed inside. With his eyes closed and head thrown back. The feel of your gummy walls contorting to his size was divine. "Fuck.", he hissed as he bottomed out inside your cunt. "I fuckin' love this pussy, [Name]." His face was twisted in pure pleasure. You rolled your hips and he began his thrusting in and out of you. "Who does this pussy belong to?", he questioned as he burrowed his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder. He picked up speed as he licked and sucked along the column of your throat.
"Y-yours!", you managed to choke out. With his relentless pounding into you it was hard to remember basic vocabulary. "Say my name.", he growled into your ear as he gave a spank to the side of your plush ass before gripping your hips. As you moaned and panted beneath him, you swallowed to gather yourself and answer. "Say. My. Name." Dabi gave particularly hard thrusts to punctuate each word. "Touya!", you screamed, finally breaking from your stupor. It wasn't an odd occurrence that Dabi fucked you dumb. Often babbling nonsense and incoherent words. Something about this time seemed different. He was determined and needy.
Perhaps it was making the recording earlier and the realization that he had come this far already. He was not only close to his endgame, but had you back in his life. He was ready to take Enji to Hell with him, but even though you'd been together for a little while now it just wasn't enough. He saw no future for himself whatsoever until you waltzed back into the picture. Even more surprising to him, he was actually grateful.
You felt his cock pulse as it moved in and out along your slick, velvety walls. "F-fuck. I'm gonna cum." You felt his thrusting become erratic at the same time your second orgasm was about to slam into you. "Shit! I'm gonna cum, Touya!" Dabi regained his composure and slammed into you aggressively chasing your highs. Effectively jackhammering you into the mattress. "Cum on my cock while I fuck you so damn full, Dollface."
You let out a guttural moan as the tight coil in your abdomen snapped and sprung you into ecstacy. Feeling you tighten so much around him as you came sent him over the edge as well. He grunted as he shot his load into you, his hips snapping into you a few last times. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder as he came to a stop. "I love you.", he panted. You were a bit surprised. Dabi had his ways of showing affection and letting you know that he did but didn't always come out and say it. "I love you too, Touya." Your voice was soft and reassuring as you tried to catch your breath. You ran your fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck with one hand and ghosted across his skin as they trailed along his upper arm with the other.
"Really Babe?" He turned his head to glance at you. His smirk was playful but you could see the hope shining in his eyes. "Of course.", you cooed. You cupped his face to direct his full attention to you. You planted a kiss on his lips; while it may have been chaste you felt him relax even more and melt into you. Holding his cerulean gaze you made sure to put conviction into your words just as you watched him do earlier. "I will stand beside you and watch the world burn, even if it was at your hands."
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i take my pills and i’m happy all the time
characters: todoroki touya | dabi
genre: smut and angst
notes: ah YAY!! reader meeting enji for the very first time!! this piece is set within my touya-nii universe, approximately five months before the christmas series! as always, please heed the warnings and be safe! | title cred: happy pills by weathers
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, stepcest/pseudocest, drugs, drug overdose, tense family dynamics, dacryphilia, slight degradation, age gap, extreme codependency, generally toxic relationship (possessiveness, slight jealousy), blowjobs, semi-rough sex, size difference/size kink, minimal prep, implied trauma/abuse, panic attacks
But he’s downing those pretty white pills awfully fast, awfully frequently, more often than you’ve ever seen him consume them before, grinding ivory circles to dust between sharp molars in an almost rabid manner, like he’s desperate, like he’s dying, like he needs more, more, more.
More to numb the pain, more to burn the memories, more to silence the voices reverberating off the walls of his skull.
Each rush of artificial pleasure sets him at ease again, scorches another one of those everlasting memories, the ones that infuriatingly continue to rise from their ashes like some sort of twisted phoenix, with its razor claws and raging flames, ready to torment his mind, to torture his soul, as it rips sharp talons into the gummy tissues of his brain, splitting it open and spilling more memories from the recesses of his subconscious.
But those pretty little pills—those pretty little pills keep helping him stitch it back together, keep helping him incinerate the undead memories, destroying the eternal just for a moment, before it resurrects itself again, the instant his eyes catch on identical sapphire, blazing from across the yard.
And, oh, how you hate that fucking man.
“Feet off the dash, baby,”
“If we get in an accident you’re going to snap both your legs in half,” he pauses to look over at you, eyes serious, though his eyebrows are twitching, begging you to challenge him, to give him a reason to punish. “Best case scenario. Feet off the dash,”
The pout molding your lips is involuntary, eyebrows knitting just enough to procure a small crease between them, nose scrunched cutely. But you stay silent as you obey, ducked head nodding slightly as you retract your legs, crossing them in your seat instead.
You’ve been in the car for nearly three hours now, concrete and glass bleeding into barren fields and billowing meadows bleeding into thick, twisted forests, rendered a never-ending blur of pine and bark as Touya’s Audi zips past them.
“So, who’s going to be there?”
He shrugs, eyes never leaving the road. “Dunno. Mom and Yumi for sure, probably some distant relatives—aunts, cousins, you know—and, uh, maybe some of his friends, too,”
Humming softly, you nod, eyes drifting back to the passenger window. The last time you were faced with any of Touya’s distant relatives was at your parents wedding, a year and a half ago now. You wonder if they’ll remember you, if they’ll remember the way you acted—the way you both acted—that night.
Natsuo’s decided to host his twenty-second birthday at the Todoroki Summer Home—a sprawling mansion, complete with a swimming pool and a home theatre, or so you’ve heard. You wouldn’t know, you’ve never been.
Touya had spoke of it fondly, with a melancholic little smile on his face infused with the sugary tint of nostalgia. He had told you of water gun fights and stargazing on the roof, of sailing expeditions and bike rides to the local ice cream shop located in town, of the time he and Natsuo had consumed so much meat they threw up all over little Fuyumi’s favourite shoes and she had gotten so angry she threw one at each of them—eyes glazed under a veil of wistfulness, a wet chuckle sticking in his throat.
There’s one person who is never mentioned.
Two, you suppose, if you include the family’s patriarch.
A sharp turn knocks you out of your memories, rocks crunching under the cars tires as it slows before a terrifyingly massive wrought iron gate, metal twisted into intricate patterns, never-ending swirls that flow into one another with no known beginning or end, lined with shimmering gold.
A few taps on a keypad and they’re opening, so large that they tremble under the effort, screeching out an eerie wail that echoes among the trees, before closing heavily behind you merely a few moments later, complete with an ominous clank.
The Audi loops around the cobblestone driveway, bypassing a monstrous grey structure in favour of the small parking area off to the side, presumably leading to the backyard.
“Wow,” your breathing, twisting a little in your seat to look over your shoulder, gazing upon the magnificent mansion as Touya puts the car in park. It’s absolutely brilliant, all grey stone and glistening glass, thick crystal windows lined with gold wire that gleams when it catches in the skittish sun, busy shrouding itself between the puffs of cotton white fluff embroidering the oceanic atmosphere. Touya glances at it too, with a roll of his eyes and a soured mouth.
“Yeah, my father’s present to my mother, for bearing unbearable children and—”
Head turning back to face the parkway, his voice cuts off abruptly, nearly choking on the words as they tangle with a hitched breath, coughing around them roughly.
Wide, unblinking crystal eyes do not move from whatever it is they’re focused on, Touya’s entire body gone rigid and still, fists gripping the steering wheel so tightly you’re surprised his sharp knuckles don’t slice through the taut, thin skin that cloaks them.
Your head whips towards the source, attempting to follow his gaze, eyes scanning the massive backyard almost frantically as you search for whatever it is that has captivated your niichan’s attention.
The grass is littered with people—so many people, too many people, much more than you had anticipated—though that isn’t what’s got your heart echoing in your ears as it slams irregularly against the ribs that cage it, isn’t what’s got your breath quickening and your eyes tearing and your veins buzzing with the heady panic that surges through them.
Because you’re unable to locate what has so thoroughly captured your niichan’s interest, eyes flying back to his face, a wet gasp catching in your throat. His skin’s gone deathly pale, chalky and ashen, his nose twitching, chin trembling infinitesimally, a forceful exhale and a clenched jaw following only a moment later, an attempt to halt both.
He looks as though he’s about to be sick, and you’re just about to question him about it, to ask him if he needs anything—a glass of water or some meds—when he’s ripping himself from the car so suddenly, so brutally, it has you flinching in shock.
The driver’s door is left wide open as he stomps towards Natsuo, who in turn is desperately rushing his way, hands already held out in surrender, lips already moving as words pour from his mouth, features warped and crumpled by direness, crucial and critical.
You nearly break an ankle in your haste to escape from the car, reaching Touya right as Natsuo does, just as Touya bellows:
“You said he wouldn’t be here!”
“I didn’t invite him!” Natsuo shoots back, thumbs jabbing back at his own heaving chest as the words rush from his mouth. “Mom did!”
Touya shakes his head, in disbelief, or denial, you aren’t exactly sure which, eyes refocusing on something just over Natsuo’s shoulder, body beginning to quiver.
His chest stammers under the force of such harsh erratic breaths, the blue flames blazing in his eyes contradicting the way his shoulders sag, the way his features positively deflate, as his gaze snaps back to his younger brother’s face. “Y-You said…You promised,”
The words are breathless, broken, carried up his throat on his uneven pants and coated with defeat, with disappointment.
“I know,” Natsuo says quickly, massive hands settling on his big brothers trembling biceps, thumbs rubbing in soothing motions, voice kept calm and gentle in an effort to tame the flames. “I know, I’m sorry, I know,”
The words are smaller now, softer now, fading into nothing more than a pathetic crack of breath as they slip past his lips, jagged and sharp as the letters break apart. And the look that etches itself into Natsuo’s face is nothing short of heart-wrenching, brows knit so tightly they crinkle his forehead, features scrunched and saturated in concern as stone eyes search Touya’s.
Blood roars in your ears, terror having flooded your veins and turned your blood to concrete as you stand motionless, observing the scene. It feels private, feels as though you should look away and give them some space, as if you’re peering in on something you’re not supposed to see—never supposed to see. But you can’t seem to tear your bleary gaze from their faces, darting between the two of them as your breath escapes parted lips in little huffs.
Everything feels hazy, dreamy, almost, a heady fog of confusion blanketing your brain. You want to ask about what the heck is going on, to ask Touya if he’s alright, but the words fall to pieces before they can climb to your tongue, emitted as nothing more than pitiful little squeaks, feeble imitations of what they were supposed to be.
They aren’t listening, anyway, too busy speaking through secretive stares and quirked heads, fractured whimpers and consoling caresses. Touya’s leaning into Natsuo’s touch now, sharp teeth buried in the flesh of his bottom lip, a useless attempt to stop it from shivering, to stifle the painful sounds that keep catching on the hitches of his chest.
“What on earth is going on over here?”
Rei’s breathless voice has three pairs of eyes flashing to her face, contorted in worry, Fuyumi on her heels. Your gazes meet, and Fuyumi coos, drawing you into her arms the instant she reaches you. It’s warm, and comforting, and those tears that had been blurring your vision finally spill as you find solace in her shoulder, find shelter from the storm brewing in Touya’s chest. Gentle hands rub circles into your back, Fuyumi hushing you softly, and you cling to her, fingers curling in her shirt as you try to pull yourself closer, inhaling her calming scent, fresh sea salt breezes and the aroma of daisies filling your lungs.
Rei’s voice causes something inside Touya to snap, to shift, to crack, blaze in his gaze reigniting as he turns it on her, voice full of derision as he spits, “You!”
And although it’s only one word, no Todoroki needs an explanation. Natsuo’s grip tightens on Touya as he attempts to lunge towards his mother, Fuyumi quickly cutting in, her voice vibrating against your body.
“Don’t blame her,” she’s saying, voice firm, eyes cold as stone as she assesses her big brother. “It isn’t her fault—it was my suggestion,”
“Of course it was,” he seethes, eyes narrowing into slits. “It’s always your suggestion,”
“He’s trying, alright? And he’s doing a hell of a better job than you are,”
Touya snarls, so vicious, so vindictive it sends a multitude of chills skittering across your skin, three sharp spikes of ice shooting up your spine. “That—That m-ma—That thing has plagued our family like a fucking cancer for over—over nineteen years!”
“And now, he’s trying to make amends! To reconcile! It was his idea in the first place, to come, you know, in an effort to be a better father and foster a better relationship with his children. Why can’t you do the same?”
He scoffs, but it’s soaked in something—terror or trepidation, maybe both—mangling itself in his throat. “What a waste of fucking time. When are you finally going to stop trying to fix something that was born broken?”
And finally, you see it—him—chin hooked over Fuyumi’s shoulder as you blink watery eyes. A man, massive and monstrous, standing far off on the edge of the yard with Shouto, a heavy hand placed on the youngest Todoroki’s shoulder.
From this far, you can barely make out his features, nothing more than a blur of hulking muscles and spiked crimson hair.
But you know exactly who he is. And suddenly, everything clicks.
Shouto looks up at him, speaking briefly and holding his eyes until the man nods once, curt and serious. And then Shouto’s crossing the lawn, back straight and shoulders rolled back, face composed. His eyes connect with yours, and a small grin breaks through the bleak mask, his head nodding once in greeting.
And that’s when Touya really loses it.
With a ferocious growl, he rips himself from Natsuo’s grasp, rocks cracking under heavy leather boots as he stomps towards the house with stuttering shoulders and a rapidly shaking head, hands almost rabid as they root through his pockets.
You ache to go after him, stomach churning and chest collapsing instantly in his absence. Fuyumi tries to restrain you, but you shake your head, mumbling incessantly about how he needs you, shoving at her shoulders until you break free of her embrace, stumbling a little in your haste to follow your niichan.
“Niichan,” you pant out urgently, the moment you enter the house, your wisp of breath echoing back to you. Silence. “Touya-nii? Touya-nii, where are you?”
Feet skidding to a stop and streaking the glistening marble floor, you listen, trying in vain to calm the beating of your heart, straining to hear over its incessant thumping.
The delicate clinking of glass leads you to him, rifling through one of the kitchen cabinets. You watch him for a moment, searching the cupboard in a manner that borders on frantic, mumbling to himself under his breath until he finds what he’s hunting for—a thick, strong mug with a steady base, which he promptly smashes down on the granite countertop, sending cracks through the porcelain like sharp strikes of lightning, then bending to snort something, hard and fast.
“Jesus!” A curse escapes his lips in a gasp, whole body flinching, jittery hands nearly knocking a wine glass over. His head whips around to face you. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
You frown, head tilting. “I—I was calling your name…Didn’t you hear me?”
Eyes squinting in scrutiny, his glare sweeps across your face in search of falsities. “No,” he says slowly, finally, with one shake of his head. “I didn’t,”
And he hates the way your brow furrows in concern, written into the creases of your forehead; the way your lips tug down further, permanently etching that frown into your face; the way your eyes fill with worry, with pity, as if you can help, as if you can understand at all.
He hates that he craves your touch even more, hates how he falls into your arms almost gratefully the moment you reach him, burying his face in your hair and inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with you.
Weak. That’s it, that’s all it is—he’s fucking weak. He’s weak to you, to your touch and smile and voice, weak to the feelings you evoke in his chest, intimately, instantly, ripples of comforting tingles that torrent through his chest, filling his lungs and singeing his soul, suffocating him in the sweetest way.
And he can’t say it. He can’t seem to grasp the words, can’t seem to form them into coherent shapes in his mouth.
He doesn’t know how to.
Blazing fury sears through his veins, leaving his blood bubbling in its wake, nostrils flaring with a sharp exhale. A haze of red begins to leak into his vision, saturating the edges and crawling inward, inward, inward, until it’s painted everything in a vicious crimson, a growl rattling around in his chest, and—
“Hey, hey,” your gentle voice slices through the fog, clear and sharp, the mist of scarlet that had been clouding his vision evaporating with your touch, small palms pressed to his cheeks as you direct his gaze to yours. “What’s going on?”
He doesn’t know! He wants to roar at you, jaw clenching under your hands, fingers immediately moving to massage the tension away, unthinking and automatic. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know…
“Let me help, yeah?”
He doesn’t want it.
Leaning into your touch, he shakes his head, grip on your hips tightening as his thumbs massage the flesh in a manner that’s almost desperate, as if he just has to feel you filling his palms or else he’ll crumble to ash, swallowed up by this cavernous house.
“I want to help,”
He doesn’t need it.
Silence rings in your ears, frequency climbing with each unspoken moment, until finally, he nods—barely more than a jerk of his head; a massive victory.
It’s extremely uncharacteristic of Touya to accept any kind of help, including yours, but it’s a good kind of unusual. It’s progress. And it sends a certain type of shock, a certain type of pride searing through your chest, an almost giddy rush of buzzing warmth surging through your body, pushing a giggle up your throat.
“I want to make you feel better,” you’re murmuring against his neck, a hand sliding down his torso, to cup his cock through his swim shorts. “Can I?”
A surprised little chuckle spills from his lips, almost absurd in its placement, and you pull back a little to look at him.
“You’re bold today,”
His voice is hoarse, rough from swallowing past the acidic lumps in his throat, from forcing down the words he could never find the strength to say.
“I jus’wanna make you feel better, niichan,” you blink up at him, barely able to obscure the grin tugging at your lips, the perfect picture of deviant innocence.
And you can see it, the amusement and intrigue playing in his eyes, dimly shining through the panic and the fear that still darkens his gaze.
But that—That feels like a massive victory, too.
You don’t wait for his answer as you slide down his body, fingers dipping into the waistband of his shorts and tugging them down just enough to free his half-hard cock. “Pretty please?”
A sudden rush of warmth bursts through his chest—a warmth that is unlike anything else, that he’s only ever felt with you, that immediately sedates the anxiety in his veins and silences the rancorous voices rattling around in his skull—and he huffs out something between a laugh and a curse, head nodding slowly. “Yeah, baby, you know what to do,” A nimble finger traces the curve of your cheek. “Be a good girl and get it wet for me, nice and quick,”
A little glint shimmers in your eyes at his approval, a determination to be as good as you can be, to be the best for your niichan, glittering as you gaze up at him. It fuels your actions, just as it always does, placing a precious kiss against the pretty pink head before your tongue laps kittenishly at it, never breaking eye contact.
And, God, he fucking loves you, he fucking loves you so much. Because he knows, knows exactly what you’re trying to do, what you’re succeeding in, and even though he doesn’t have the words to express it—can’t find them, form them, speak them—he appreciates it more than they could ever tell you, anyway.
Sighing softly, his shoulders sag as the tension escapes with the breath, palms resting on the edge of the marble countertop, fingers curled loosely around it.
You’re only able to get a few good pumps in, his half-lidded eyes shining with pure adoration as he observes you with a wobbly half-smirk, a gentle praise catching at the back of his throat as your nose bumps his pubic bone for the third time, viscous drool beginning to collect in the corners of your mouth, gleaming and messy as it oozes over the shaft of his cock, as it dribbles onto your fingers secured around the base and shimmers across your chin.
And it’s so pretty, you’re so pretty as you slobber and salve all over him, almost meticulous in the way you carefully coat him in the sticky substance, a perfect little angel staring up at him through a thick shield of water that does nothing to weaken the pure love, the unadulterated affection—so much that it’s nearly stifling, filling his throat and chest and brain as he inhales deeply; so heavy that it’s almost crushing—overflowing in your gaze. And yet, he wants more. He’ll always want more, because it’s you.
You can see it in his eyes, a blistering fire sparking to life, glowing bright and blue as it burns, your devotion fanning the flames, blazing higher and higher with every little lick and kiss and suck. And you can sense it, that insatiable need, that vicious craving, before he even vocalizes it, but you don’t dare to stop, don’t dare to disobey until his hand is tangling in your hair and pulling you off his cock.
“S’enough,” he says, yanking harshly to haul you to your feet, unstable smirk steadying in sadism at your resounding wince, adorned with a soft yelp of his name.
Large hands find your hips, fisting in the fabric of your short skirt and tugging as he spins you around, trapping you between the counter and his body. A cute little hiss is spit from between clenched teeth as the cold marble stings the bare skin of your thighs, Touya’s sharp hipbones immediately shoving your knees apart as he wedges himself between them, eager cock bobbing with the movement, almost glittering in the sunlight, drenched in sticky saliva.
“Oh, baby,” he breathes as two fingers trace the inseam of your bikini bottoms, the ghost of a giggle tickling the back of his tongue.
It’s finally hitting him. Whatever he had crushed, whatever he had snorted, just as you had entered the kitchen, is finally hitting him, pupils shrinking to mere pinpricks of black, submerged in the most brilliant sapphire, breath beginning to come in sweet huffs, lazy and languid, smile loosing from its tight constraints, fluid and relaxed.
And yet, despite the manufactured euphoria surging through his veins, laced with boiling blood as it poisons his mind, his eyes are still sharp, his smile still predatory, his senses still heightened.
Impossibly, his gifted perception doesn’t fade with his high, retaining the talent of reading you perfectly—perhaps even better now that there are no emotions clouding his brain, no traumatic sentiments dulling his senses, eradicated by synthetic opium. Now he feels clear, he feels sharp, he feels normal.
“So wet, just from drooling all over niichan’s cock for a moment?” he tuts his tongue, like it’s such a shame.
“Can’t help it,” you mumble, lashes fluttering as you struggle to gaze at him, suddenly feeling overexposed, a strip of unfinished film melting under the intensity of his flames, pricks of embarrassment stinging as they erupt across your flesh, poking through your skin as the film stock bubbles and curls.
“You’re a little whore, y’know that?” It’s nothing more than a huff of breath, infused with a light chuckle as he pulls your bottoms to the side and exposes your glistening cunt, rough pads of his fingertips swiping along it in one slow, steady motion, collecting the abundant wetness. “Such a good little whore for me,”
“Only for you,” you nearly whine, leaning forward in pathetic desperation, little hands pawing at his t-shirt, trying to get closer, trying to get more. “O-Only for you, niichan,”
“Only for me,” he confirms, cobalt eyes flicking up to meet your needy, simmering gaze, a small smirk—sharp and dangerous—carved into his lips, one of the corners twitching.
It’s impossible to ignore the overwhelming authority, influence, domination—sheer fucking power—he emits, roiling off of his body in thick coils, barely contained and chaotic in the way they spiral around you, winding and weaving into an intricate plait made from his very essence itself.
He doesn’t bother stretching you open, claims there’s no time to waste with such trivialities, not when you’re both wet enough that he’s able to push in with such ease, burying himself in your cunt with one slow, simple thrust.
And it hurts, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder as tears tinge your vision, bleary and wavering, a broken little whimper snagging on your teeth as you try to stifle it.
“Shh, baby, hush,” he’s saying, cooing and condescending as his hips begin to snap, sharp and immediate, mockingly gentle voice juxtaposing his ruthless motions.
But you can’t, fractured hiccups hot as they waft across his skin, tears prying past your tightly clenched lids and soaking into the neckline of his t-shirt.
You can’t, because it feels as though he’s positively tearing you in two, splitting you open wider and wider with each piston of his hips, with each slam of his cockhead against your cervix, tiny fissures forming in the delicate skin, raw and ruined more and more with every thrust.
“Niichan, niichan, I—it’s—ah!” you’re wailing into his neck, much too loud and mingling with the indistinct chatter flowing through the open window, carried into the kitchen on a dainty wisp of wind.
“I know, baby,” he pants, fingertips digging into the flesh of your hips, keeping you still on the counter. “I know, it hurts, I know,” his hips slow to an intimate grind, pulling back a little to nudge your face from his shoulder, sapphire enrapturing you. “But you’re going to be a good girl and take it for me, aren’t you? You’re going to be a good girl and let niichan take what he needs, right?”
A fierce rush of pride, imbued with the need to achieve, poisons the blood surging through your veins, the insatiable desire for that satisfactory fulfillment—that instant and heady gratification that comes with being good for him—sparking to life in your stomach, growling as it vies for more.
Your head’s nodding before the words have fully left his lips, eager little motions that are fluid and fast, pupils gaping, ready to devour him.
Because this is how you take care of him, this is how you help, smothering him in your love, your kisses, your cunt, and providing a much needed distraction.
Because you’ll be whatever the hell he needs you to be, if it means it’ll make him feel better.
“Yes, yes,” you’re breathing out in time with your cute little head bobs, fingers flexing on his tight shoulders, nails burrowing into sleek muscle through thin white cotton. “I can do it, niichan, I can be good for you, wanna be good for you,”
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, words stitched full of fondness, head dropping to knock his forehead against yours, nose nudging the tip of your own in a scarce nuzzle, a singular moment of tranquility before his hips are ramming into yours again, hard and fast and downright brutal.
The pace is punishing, laced with urgency and desperation, prominent hipbones carving his name into the soft flesh of your inner thighs in the most magnificent cobalts and violets, small asymmetrical galaxies created by him for you both, little universes for the two of you to live in, to escape to, together, forever.
And you’re powerless to quiet, to kill, the pathetic little noises shattering in your throat with each of his ruthless thrusts, spitting out the shards that slice your tongue, remnants of broken mewls of his title and high-pitched whines.
“Shut up,” Touya growls, though you know he doesn’t really mean it, cock twitching and pinprick pupils expanding, fighting against the drugs usurping his system, with each and every precious little sound that falls from your lips, now purposefully growing in frequency and volume. “Little slut, wants my whole family n’all of their—ah, fuck—all of their closest friends to know she’s getting fucked by her big brother,”
“Y-You love it, niichan,” you whimper out, voice frail and wrecked, words scraping against your raw throat. “I-I know you do,”
He does. You do, too.
Because, really, it’s sick, it’s exhilarating, fucking so viciously out in the open, where anyone could walk in and catch you engaging in such an abhorrent act at any time, abrupt and unexpected. It’s repulsive, it’s exhilarating, knowing that there are several people just a few feet from that open window, knowing that if you were just a hint louder, just a hint stronger, your sweet, disgusting noises would carry to them, a horrifying parcel delivered gently by the flowing breeze.
Such a thought douses the flames licking at the walls of your stomach in kerosene, blaze burning brighter, higher, stronger, ravenous in its craving for more, pushing greedy dictations up your throat, resting on cinders that sear your tongue as they leave your mouth.
“C’mon niichan, fuck me, really fuck me,” you command, nearly coughing on the flames stinging the back of your mouth. And although it was supposed to be an order, it comes out as a plead, pitiful and whiny and needy.
Suddenly, his hips still, giving one final thrust so rough it knocks a fractured cry from your chest, bruised cervix throbbing against the cockhead pressed snuggly into it.
“T-Touya-nii,” you whimper, features crinkling in confusion, glazed eyes searching his smug face. “Touya-nii, move,”
Strong hands tighten their grip on your hips to nearly crushing, and you’re positive your bones are beginning to cave, to splinter, under his sheer strength, palms halting you from wiggling.
“You’re being awfully bratty, princess,” he responds, painfully nonchalant—indifferent, that concerned facade of being discovered from mere moments ago incinerated in an instant—a slight breathlessness to his tone the only indication that he’s buried balls deep in you. “Don’t you think?”
“You know, bad girls—greedy little girls that demand things from their niichan instead of asking nice and polite—don’t get to cum,”
Keeping you firmly in place, he angles his hips just a little, knees bending and pelvis shifting until his cock is pressed against that fleshy, tender spot hidden deep inside of you.
His words feel like a slap of ice cold water, drowning those flames to smoldering embers, guilt rising from the ashes.
His hips piston just once, barely a movement at all, just enough to drag his cock against your spot, and you whine again, shaking your head as tears coat your eyes, shining gaze beseeching him.
“You didn’t even say please,” he coos, lips morphing into a taunting smirk, though his eyes are laughing, sapphire whirlpools rabid and tumultuous and soaked in amusement. “Since when did my babygirl get so rude?”
“Oh, but you did,” tattooed lips furl into something cruel, something sharp, eyes glinting as they observe you. “You are,”
“No, niichan,” you whimper, pout beginning to waver as sobs brew in your chest. “I’m not, I’m not, I promise, I just—”
“Making excuses?” he clicks his tongue in falsified disappointment, and even though it’s fake, even though it’s all an act, it still hurts, chest stuttering with a sob as your head shakes frantically, little hands pawing at his t-shirt. “Not even bothering to apologize to niichan? Such a bad girl,”
“No!” you nearly wail, gleaming trails of sticky salt adorning your cheeks as your tears spill. “I’m sorry, niichan, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, would never mean to, I—”
Hips drawing back slightly, he shoves his cock against that spot again, and you choke on a yelp.
“Do you think—you deserve—to cum?” he grunts out, question punctuated by his teasing micro-thrusts. “Huh?” His hips still for a moment, as if he’s waiting for your answer, rolling forward in fluid conjunction the moment you inhale to respond.
“N-No,” you breathe out, but that fire is beginning to flare again, glowing and growing with each rut of his hips, each grind of his cockhead against your sensitive flesh, swollen clit beginning to throb.
“No,” Touya murmurs, his mock pout having trouble keeping its form as his lips attempt to quirk up. “But you’re going to anyway, aren’t you?”
Nodding quickly, your eyes squeeze shut, shame burning your eyes. “C-Can I? Please, niichan?”
The request is nearly weeped out, lids lifting to reveal glassy eyes, protected by a thick shield of water, bleary gaze searching his face, jumbled pleads falling from your lips.
He supposes you can, he’s telling you conversationally as his pace abruptly picks up, rapid and rabid. Since you asked oh-so-nicely.
You can tell he’s feeling generous today, benevolence a product of the situation at hand and the restraining time limit you two are technically under. You know that if he had been feeling better, had been feeling fully like himself, that you wouldn’t have gotten off so easily, without a single spank or ruined orgasm to show for it.
Words of thanks are spilling from your throat, you’re sure of it, but it sounds incomprehensible to your ears, muddled and muffled as if your head’s been filled with water.
You must be getting really loud, though, because Touya slaps a large palm over your incessantly babbling lips, so tightly you can feel his blunt nails digging minuscule purple crescents into the skin of your cheek.
It happens quickly after that, so forceful your head whacks off the cupboard, the porcelain behind the wood tinkering together; so fast you’re barely able to recognize what’s happening before the flames engulf you, consume you, blazing through your veins and bubbling past your skin and blurring in your eyes, a mangled moan of his name crashing into the hand secured across your mouth, cunt pulsing.
Two more pumps of his hips and Touya’s following, a pretty broken whine fluttering in his throat as he fills you with hot, burning cum, so much, so thick you’re positive it’s leaking onto the counter.
Resting his forehead against yours, sapphire scans your face, bright and beautiful and almost breathing with his heaving chest, with the way it ebbs and flows so artfully, his gaze a captivating, ever-changing masterpiece, full of swirling love and sparkling addiction, narrowing a little as that trademark smug grin decorates his face.
“How’s that for really fucking you, y’little brat,”
✰ ✰ ✰
Grass blankets the sprawling landscape, lined by a dense forest of cedar and pine, so heavy, so thick it almost looks ominous, darkness gobbling up any rays of sun that dare to creep through the branches.
There isn’t another house for miles.
Clinging to Touya, your eyes sweep across the scene, heart beginning to smash against your ribs. There are a lot of people here—most of then you’ve never seen before, friends of friends and distant family members, all emerging from the woodwork to celebrate the supernova that is Natsuo.
Touya, though, Touya seems to know them all.
It isn’t until the third pretty girl passes him, greeting him with a simple little Hi, Touya! paired with hungry, glinting eyes and a knowing little smirk, that your grip tightens to near bone crushing, that stiff ache already beginning to throb in your curled fingers, nails digging into his scarred flesh, possessive and purposeful.
And the gentle chuckle he exhales is so breathtaking it has you choking, inhaling deep and fast in a desperate attempt to suck it in, to stash it away, safe and sound behind a cage of ivory, cobalt eyes glancing over to gaze at you with so much fondness it’s nearly stifling, large hand curling around yours and tightening, pressing those nails deeper into tattooed skin.
Don’t worry, I’m here, I’m yours, I’m yours.
It’s a silent affirmation, something he doesn’t even need to say, something the two of you have been doing since this whole thing began, something that’s become so habitual it’s nearly instinctual now, ingrained in your souls, a special mode of communication created by the two of you, for the two of you, filled with these silent little confirmations through subtle actions that mean so much, that say so much.
Immediately, the coiled tension, the jealousy, begins to leak out of your body, form melting into Touya’s a little more, head leaning against his shoulder.
“She’s just my cousin, baby,” he teases, though his eyes are shining, pinprick pupils drowning in a sea of sapphire, a brilliant smile tugging at the corners of his lips, poorly suppressed.
“And I’m your sister,” you pout, the sentiment echoing that of over a year ago, a remark made in passing at your parent’s wedding, now flipped.
He doesn’t miss the reference.
“You are,” he murmurs, palm patting your clenched hand, tattooed lips dropping a chaste kiss to the crown of your head. “You are mine, and I am yours,”
“Yours, princess,” he confirms through another kiss. “Though...” he muses, a moment later, strolling languidly with a wicked little smirk playing on his lips. “You are cute as fuck when you get jealous, y’know that?”
✰ ✰ ✰
It’s going alright for a little while—as alright as it can be, anyway.
The grand swimming pool gleams under the late afternoon sun, fastidious waves lapping up the rays and distorting them into tiny sparkles submerged beneath the surface, but you and Touya don’t go swimming, despite the fact that you’re both already wearing your bathing suits. Briefly, you wonder if Touya’s sudden change of heart has anything to do with the massive amount of people littering the yard—more than either of you had expected—or the fact that his father’s in the immediate vicinity; if, maybe, he no longer feels confident, feels comfortable, taking his shirt off around that man, regardless of the magnificent ink sheathing that silvery-pink, puckered scar tissue, turning trauma into a work of art.
Keigo arrives approximately an hour after you have, rocks popping under the tires of his sleek Aston Martin, gathering the attention of several of the guests. You’re scrambling off of Touya’s lap the moment Keigo’s heading your way, strong arms catching you effortlessly with that trademark lopsided smile and an easygoing Hey, hey!
“I didn’t know you were coming,” you murmur into his shoulder, legs instantly latching around his waist as he hoists you up, holding you tight to his chest and continuing to walk towards your niichan.
“Surprise, then,” he chuckles, and you laugh too, sighing a little as you rest your head on his shoulder.
He greets Touya nonchalantly, receiving a tight smile and twitching nostrils in response.
“I can’t stay long,” he says regretfully, topaz eyes finding Natsuo’s face. “I have a gig at seven, but I wanted to stop by on the way, just to say happy birthday,”
“It’s cool,” Nastuo nods, dismissive. “I’m glad you stopped by,”
“Another modeling job?” you question, lifting your head slightly to stare at his profile.
Keigo nods. “For watches, this time,”
“Ah, I thought it would’ve been for these,” you giggle, dainty fingers reaching up to play with the crimson studs adorning his ears.
“Princess,” Touya says suddenly, his voice almost hoarse as it molds the word, silencing Keigo’s response before it begins.
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.
Your feet sink into the plush grass as Keigo sets you down immediately, giving you a little nudge towards your big brother. And you go, dutiful as always, straight into his arms, straight into your rightful place, large palms finding your hips and dragging you into his lap again.
They’re trembling terribly, even as they grip your flesh, and you frown, eyes drifting down before looking at Touya’s leaden face. And it’s absolutely agonizing to witness the pure anguish saturating his features; the way his breathing’s laboured, exiting his nose in short uneven huffs, the way his teeth tug and tear at the thin skin of his lips, drops of ruby scattered across graphite ink, the way his eyes, pupils nothing more than pinpricks of black in tumultuous sapphire, can’t seem to stay focused on any one thing for more than a second at a time, unsteady gaze darting around the party as if he’s looking for something.
Keigo must notice, too, forehead crinkling as his brows knit, inquiring gaze finding Natsuo’s, a silent question asked in the subtle tilt of his head.
“Dad’s here,” Natsuo says simply, lightly, in answer, and Keigo’s eyes widen infinitesimally, searching stare slow as it scans the grounds.
Keigo leaves you shortly after that, citing his duty to introduce himself and make his rounds greeting family. Your eyes follow him as he flits gracefully from group to group, almost ethereal in the way he moves, a beam of sunshine bouncing off the souls of others, leaving specks of sundust after him, fine gold specks that glitter in their eyes and glimmer in their smiles long after he’s left. Such is the nature of Keigo.
Natsuo does the same, more or less, drifting from group to group, laughing and talking and nodding, playing the role of Birthday Boy perfectly.
But Natsuo always returns.
Watchful and constant, Natsuo diligently checks in with his niisan every hour or so—twice before dinner and once after—whispering questions in an almost frantic manner that you only manage to glean fragments of, gunmetal eyes searching his brother’s face—and vitals—in thinly veiled urgency.
“How many?” he asks right as he’s being hollered after to begin sifting through his mountain of presents.
Silently, Touya holds up three fingers.
You’re pretty sure he’s taken more than that, especially if you count whatever you caught him snorting in the kitchen, but you say nothing.
Really, you want to tell him to slow down—to stop—fearing he’s taking a little too much, a little too quick, except...except Touya’s finally relaxed a little, body loose and languid, face adorned with a murky grin and a belated gaze, features draped in synthetic euphoria.
You figure that, maybe, this is the lesser of two evils, that maybe he needs to do this, needs to rely on those trusty tablets and pretty powders to dull such a sharp, volatile situation. More than that, you trust Touya; trust his judgement when it comes to drugs—you lack even the most basic knowledge, and he refuses to explain, gets angry at you for even asking—so it should be safe to assume he knows what he’s doing, right?
But he’s downing those pretty white pills awfully fast, awfully frequently, more often than you’ve ever seen him consume them before, grinding ivory circles to dust between sharp molars in an almost rabid manner, like he’s desperate, like he’s dying, like he needs more, more, more.
More to numb the pain, more to burn the memories, more to silence the voices reverberating off the walls of his skull.
Each rush of artificial pleasure sets him at ease again, scorches another one of those everlasting memories, the ones that infuriatingly continue to rise from their ashes like some sort of twisted phoenix, with its razor claws and raging flames, ready to torment his mind, to torture his soul, as it rips sharp talons into the gummy tissues of his brain, splitting it open and spilling more memories from the recesses of his subconscious.
But those pretty little pills—those pretty little pills keep helping him stitch it back together, keep helping him incinerate the undead memories, destroying the eternal just for a moment, before it resurrects itself again, the instant his eyes catch on identical sapphire, blazing from across the yard.
And, oh, how you hate that fucking man.
✰ ✰ ✰
The sun is finally setting, only the rounded tip looming over the horizon, surrounded by a dim halo of golds and corals, amber light bleeding into the onyx of the rapidly approaching night, melting together to create a hazy lavender glow, weak and wavering as the dark actively consumes it.
They’ve just finished distributing slices of cake—vanilla genoise, layered with thick cream and strawberries, garnished with curls of chocolate, niichan uncharacteristically allowing you to have two slices, since he refused his own—when Touya’s head droops onto your shoulder, forehead pressed tightly against the blade.
He’d been dosing in and out of consciousness for a while now, head perking back up every time it had fallen a little too far forward, or each time his chin had collided with the crown of your head, and mumbling out some halfhearted excuse about how he’s fine, he’s okay, or he’s awake, baby, don’worry.
It's concerning for sure—you’ve never witnessed him acting in such a way, not even when he’s practically dead on his feet after fourteen hour workdays—but you had chalked it up to the trauma, to the weight and exhaustion of the whole situation.
Until he won’t wake up.
Twisting in his lap, you push his head up, heavy and loose, only for it to fall toward you again, vertebrae in his neck snapping like a frail tree branch.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, hands finding his strong shoulders and gripping, trying to push him upright. “Niichan? Niichan, wake up, the—the party’s almost over, we can go home now,”
But he doesn’t respond, doesn’t even budge—not a singular twitch or tremble, whole body leaning against the weight of your palms, solely held up by your touch.
“Touya-nii?” you shake him a little, body drooping forward further, his full weight nearly crushing against your inadequate strength. “Hey, Touya-nii, h-hey, sit up,” shrillness elevates your voice, laced with notes of rapidly rising panic, catching Natsuo’s immediate attention.
And then he’s crossing the yard on unsteady legs, stride unsure if it wants to walk or run, settling for a cursory, inconspicuous jog, large arms gathering Shouto on his way.
Big hands latch around your ribs the moment the pair reaches you, lifting you off of your niichan and depositing you gently on the bench while Natsuo squats in front of Touya, slapping his cheeks twice before pressing an ear to the tip of his nose and two fingers to his pulse.
“He’s still breathing,” the words rush from his mouth in a single breath, a palm pressed tightly to Touya’s chest, the other supporting his spine. “But just barely. I need to get him on his back,”
“Here?” Shouto hisses, heterochromatic eyes darting around the yard, cautiously taking note of the few gazes Touya’s garnered.
“No,” Natsuo shakes his head, though his eyes haven’t left his most valued patient, hand forming a sudden fist, knuckles digging deep into his older brother’s sternum, forcing a delicate wheeze from his mouth, Touya’s whole body shuddering under the impact. “Inside. Quick, help me get him up,”
“Wait,” you whimper, hands pawing at the hems of their shirts, swatted and slapped with vicious disregard. “W-Wait! What’s going on? I want to—I can’t leave him alone, I want to come, too! He—He needs me!”
“What he needs is a shot of naloxone,” Natsuo nearly growls, eyes flashing to your face. “And what you need to do is sit here, pretty and perfect as always, and let me save his fucking life,”
“Don’t get in the way,” Shouto adds, but it sounds more like a plead than an instruction. “And, uh, don’t cause a scene, you know?”
Breath twines itself around your ribs and tugs, hard and harsh, bone splintering under the impact and piercing through your words, killing them before they can reach your tongue. But they aren’t paying attention to you, or your sudden inability to breath, the three Todoroki boys nothing more than one tangled, blurry shape, rendered unintelligible by the water obstructing your vision.
“I fucking knew this would happen,” Natsuo’s grumbling gruffly as they haul Touya towards the house. “I can’t believe she thought it’d be a good idea to invite him,”
Shouto doesn’t respond, too preoccupied with murmuring out a steady stream of whispers into his eldest brother’s ear, lips moving at a frenetic pace.
“Sh-Shou?” It’s rough and strained, barely more than a frail gasp, inked fingers curling in the fabric of the younger man’s polo shirt, thin skin stretched taut and tight across sharp knuckles.
“I’m here, niisan,” Shouto responds instantly, tranquil voice wavering just a hint, worry writing itself into the deep creases of his forehead.
“I know, niisan,” his voice breaks, hand trembling a little as he presses it to his big brother’s chest, trying to steady him, to keep him upright as limp feet drag through jade blades. “I’m here, I’ve got you,”
It’s then that Touya loses consciousness entirely, grip on his baby brother relaxing, hand lolling to the side as it slips off his shoulder, Natsuo and Shouto sharing deep grunts as Touya’s weight gives in fully, his knees nearly brushing the ground as they buckle under his sudden force.
They recover quickly, though, standing straight and strong as they hoist their older brother up with them, large hands secured against his chest and his back, sculpted arms twined around his waist, looping under his own.
And then they’re too far for you to hear, whispering frantically to each other over Touya’s dipped head, sharing urgent stares through strands of ink and ivory.
Legs twitching, your fingers wrap around the edge of the bench, nails piercing the wood.
You aren’t sure what you were anticipating an opioid overdose to look like, but you weren’t expecting it to be so calm, almost gentle in a way—a silent killer, embracing its victims in everlasting euphoria so bright, so strong it’s virtually overwhelming, as it crushes their lungs and stills their heart and claims their soul, forever.
You want to go after them—you so desperately want to go after them, whole body thrumming with agitated adrenaline, but Natsuo had told you to stay put, to not cause a scene, to be calm and not escalate the situation, and you wouldn’t dare to make things worse for your niichan.
Frenzied eyes scan the space around you. They had been so efficient, so inconspicuous, that barely anyone had noticed the rapidly accelerating crisis at all, save for a few of Touya’s immediate family members, who had just happened to be sitting nearby at the time, their interest since lost now that the scene has been remedied, rectified.
Otherwise, everyone else is oblivious, and you feel utterly obsolete, watching through bleary eyes as life carries on, unfazed and uninterrupted, while your whole universe is crumbling, contorting and caving in on itself as it’s sucked into a black hole of opium.
But it doesn’t matter, life doesn’t care, continuing to unravel on its spool without a loose thread: children are still playing in the pool, the mocking ghosts of splashes and squeals of joy caressing your ears; meat is still roasting on the grill, the aroma of burnt flesh invading your nostrils and churning your stomach; harmonious melodies of laughter and excited chattering are still blanketing the atmosphere in a gentle hum, entirely unaware to your seemingly inconsequential catastrophe.
Your lungs are beginning to ache, pruned from the lack of oxygen, while every muscle in your body quivers in anticipation, in agitation, body feeling sore and heavy as anxiety begins to crush your bones.
And that’s when you see him, advancing towards you with slow, controlled, almost calculated steps.
For a moment, you think he’s come to help; you think he possesses that special Todoroki gene, that uncanny ability to read you like a well-loved children’s storybook from your expressions alone, a trait inherited by his boys.
You’re not sure how you could’ve ever been so fucking stupid.
He’s monstrous up close, a mammoth of a man hulking over you, the defined edges of his face shrouded in shadows, his back to the sun. Those eyes, a shade that you’ve come to know so well, a shade that you’ve come to love and find comfort in, a shade that now means home, glare down at you, hard and shimmering like diamonds.
They are familiar, yes. But they are not the same.
Because while Touya’s eyes are crystal, beautiful and delicate, this man’s eyes are ice, sharp and cold.
Because this man’s eyes—this man’s eyes do nothing but incite terror and disgust, features twisting up into a poorly concealed grimace as bitter hatred stings your tongue, body tensing as thick spears of contempt slice through your veins, blood bubbling in their wake, leaving behind a scorching rage unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before.
You don’t know him. Not really, anyway. You don’t know what he did, only what he’s caused. You don’t know the specifics, don’t know how this massive man was involved with Touya’s accident, with Touya’s trauma, with the family’s trauma—only that he was. Only that it’s his fault; that the blame rests on his shoulders.
He continues to stare down at you, silent and gruff, and you tilt your head in question, blinking twice, imploring him to speak.
It’s quite stoic, his random greeting, possessing an almost formal-like quality; blunt and curt and to the point and nothing like your niichan—nothing like your niichan’s apathetic, carefree lilt that flows like decadent chocolate; nothing like Natsuo, with his giggles and teases and constant innuendos.
Several seconds of silence ooze past, slow and sticky, almost suffocating as they thickly saturate the atmosphere. When it’s clear he isn’t going to continue, you address him, meek and quiet, with a nod and a greeting that’s phrased more as an inquiry.
Oh, the sheer authority a singular word can have on a weak man, pathetic and unable to resist the barely-there charm of a pretty girl.
It’s subtle, but you know the signs, and you don’t miss them—not the slightly stuttered intake of air as the term leaves your throat, not the infinitesimal gaping of his pupils or the nearly indiscernible trembling of his lips as you blink up at him again, awaiting his response.
And you smirk.
Already, you can feel the pleasant buzz of heady power surging through your bloodstream. It isn’t a feeling you get often, isn’t something you’re allowed often—not that you necessarily mind; it’s nice to have decisions made for you, free of worry and bother and the weight of responsibility. But this power—this power is familiar. It reminds you of a time long ago, a time past and better off forgotten, full of rubies and silver and watermelon gum—a time where you had the upper hand, just for a moment; a time when you were in control.
It’s possible, if Touya were here to see you, that he’d disapprove, and that thought alone is enough to make you stop, think, reconsider. The last thing you’d ever want to do is upset your niichan, but...but if you’ve got the power to make this man feel even a hint of discomfort, merely an ounce of all of the pain and suffering he’s bestowed on this family combined—well, you’re going to take it.
An eyebrow raises, and finally, the large man finds his voice.
“You’re Touya’s girlfriend?”
And, God, you’re helpless to stop the wicked smirk that spans across your cheeks, molten and sinister.
No, you’re something better.
It’s difficult to keep those baleful little bubbles concealed in your throat, to hold and hide your giggles locked behind ivory bone as the man loses his composure so quickly, so easily, eyes widening in disbelief as his head nudges forward a little, mouth opening, then closing, then opening again, lips sputtering on a huff of breath, tangled with his words.
“Oh, my mistake, I just—You guys seem close,”
“We are close, Sir,”
Ignoring you, he barrels on, tense muscles relaxing just a touch, the ghost of a chuckle tickling his tongue. “Step-sister, huh? Thank God. I was going to say, you don’t seem like his type,”
Body bristling, you tilt your head, a frown hijacking your lips. “Excuse me, Sir? What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”
“You’re too good for him,” the man says simply, as if it’s obvious, as if it’s true, an undeniable fact.
“Oh?” you ask, delicate and gentle despite the inferno smoldering to life inside of you. “And how would you know?”
He emits a full snicker at that, sharp and sardonic, features caving under the weight of his ugly arrogance. “He’s my son,”
It’s your turn to snort, head shaking in disbelief at such an illogical conclusion, as if blood relations mean anything at all.
“And? That means nothing,”
“You haven’t spoken one word to him since he was about thirteen, right?” Cutting him off, you raise an eyebrow, fluid and simple, inciting a silent challenge as your head quirks. His brows shove together in response, puckering his forehead.
“Uh, I don’t—”
“How could you possibly know a single damn thing about him, Sir?”
“Stop—” he nearly snarls, choking on the word, fury narrowing his gaze. “Stop it with the Sir,”
“How?” you press, hands balling into tight fists, sharp nails piercing soft flesh as they begin to tremble. “Huh? Realistically, how could you? How could you know his struggles, his suffering, if you’ve never bothered to talk to him about it, to listen, to care at all? Sir?”
Scoffing, the man rolls his eyes, tone dismissive, as if he’s just discovered you’re some stupid little girl who knows—and understands—nothing. “Well, it isn’t like he’d answer me,”
“Did you even try at all? Not even once? Ever?” You frown, tutting your tongue as if he’s the most incompetent man you’ve ever seen. “And now it’s too late,”
“It was always too late with Touya,” the protest leaves his mouth in a growl, the volume of his voice rapidly accelerating.
“No it wasn’t. You know it wasn’t.”
“Look, he wasn’t exactly an easy kid to talk to—Christ, you don’t get what—Don’t know the—” His breath is coming quicker now, short and uneven as it sharply interrupts his words, his thoughts, a ferocious scarlet creeping up his neck. Alabaster catches in your peripheral vision, advancing towards you.
“No,” you say, standing and shaking your head, quick little quivers vibrating through your veins, their frequency increasing as the flame of your fury burns brighter, blazes higher. “You don’t know. You don’t know a fucking thing about him. You never will. You don’t deserve to—”Pausing, something malicious glints in your eyes, a wobbly smile teetering on your lips. “He’s too good for you,”
Natsuo reaches you just as the final words fall from your mouth, eyes glazed over with fierce tears, a flimsy shield that does nothing to dull the scathe of your glare.
“Princess,” he calls to you, tender and confused, almost hesitant in a way, an arm outstretched in your direction, offering his hand, while gunmetal stays focused on his father, cautious and wary. “Come,”
And you flit to him immediately, slotting against his side safe and secure—a sanctuary of sorts—with your face half-buried in his faded t-shirt, glistening drops of salt-infused water finally spilling over those dainty lashes, leaving the prettiest shimmering trails among your cheeks as they escape, ultimately dripping off your chin and soaking into Natsuo.
Intense hatred simmers behind your ribs—hatred for that hulking man, hatred for what he’s done to the one you love the most—so potent, so deeply rooted you can feel it boiling at the very core of your soul; a scalding corrosive, acrid and toxic as it eats through the surrounding organs, as it infects them, consumes them, enveloping your entire being as thousands of tiny needles shoot through your veins.
“Where is he?” you’re practically coughing out, the moment Natsuo turns you away from the monster that bred him, that pathetic man instantly eradicated from your consciousness the moment Touya enters, burnt up in his flames.
“He’s inside,” Natsuo says softly, thick fingers brushing hair back from your cheek, a peculiar mixture of melancholic fondness lacquering his eyes, which stay trained on the rhythmic movements of his fingers, now stroking your skin. “Resting,”
“He’s alright,” Natsuo reassures. “He’s alive,”
“I want to see him.”
“You will, soon,”
“No, Natsuo, now,”
Finally, his gaze finds yours, hardening with the firmness of his voice. “No. Not until everyone’s gone,”
“Natsuo!” The name leaves your lips in a petulant whine, quivering a little as your chin puckers under the force of your pout, beginning to tremble. “That could take hours! I want to see him now! I need to see him!”
“Hey,” Natsuo snaps, large hands crushing the bones in your shoulders as his palms curl around them, forcing your feet to halt and your face to his. “Stop acting like such an entitled brat, for fuck’s sake. He needs to rest so he can recover; which part of ‘rest’ does your precious little brain not understand?”
The words are caustic, the edges of the letters razor sharp, leaving superficial splices in the soft flesh of your cheeks on their way past. Natsuo’s eyes narrow in irritation as they rapidly search your face, as if looking for an answer inherently ingrained in your expression.
“I don’t—” you begin, choking on a stammered hiccup, the ghost of a snuffed out sob. “I didn’t—I just want to see him—”
His harsh features soften as you blink several times, a vain attempt to keep your rapidly collecting tears locked behind your lash line, his tongue tutting gently, compassionate and condescending all at once, while strong arms pull you close, drawing you into shelter.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, apology rumbling in his chest. “I know how badly you want to see him. And you will, I promise. Just give him some time to rest first, okay? Don’t be selfish, now. Shouto’s up there with him,”
Pulling back with a gasp, your wide eyes find Natsuo’s, head shaking a little in alarm. “Shouto?”
“Mm,” Natsuo hums out a noncommittal affirmative, features slanting, unstable with worry. “He wanted to stay. He’s outside the bedroom, just in case Touya—uh, needs anything,”
“Niisan’s too weak to harm him,” Natsuo cuts you off, lips morphing into a wry little smirk. “ODing takes a lot out of you, y’know,”
You suppose that’s true.
The rest of the night is spent with Natsuo—on Natsuo’s lap, in Natsuo’s arms, his embrace shackling you to him, restraining you from seeing your niichan—as he continues to entertain, strong arms perpetually wound around you, large palms rubbing soothing circles into your skin—your hip and your back and your shoulder—and by the time it’s finally over, you’ve bitten your lips raw, chapped and bloody from the incessant gnawing of your teeth.
At the end, Enji is nowhere in sight. Good. You hope you—and Touya—never have to see that wretched man ever again.
✰ ✰ ✰
It’s past midnight, by the time you’re finally allowed to see him, weak and weary under satin sheets painted by pale brushes of shimmering moonlight, a patch of gauze taped to his thigh from where Natsuo had presumably stabbed him with a needle.
Impossibly, even after experiencing the caress of death’s icy hand, draped in all of the familiarity and warmth of an old, cherished friend, he still looks so breathtakingly beautiful.
Sapphires are sunken into his skull, red-rimmed and cushioned by dark violet, his hair a tumultuous mess of ink and ivory, strands curled and crusty from dried sweat. Blood has dried and scabbed over the cracks in his dry lips, and his voice is hoarse, weak.
And he is still so unbelievably angelic.
“Hey, princess,” he croaks, lips quirking up into that stupid lopsided smile that is so distinctly him, but his eyes are soft—his eyes are scared.
And you nearly shatter to pieces then and there, standing in the doorway of his bedroom, chest collapsing under a shuddered sob of his honorific, fracturing under the aching, the longing.
Then you’re running to him, nearly launching yourself onto the mattress and into his waiting arms, a soggy chuckle bubbling past his lips, face buried in your hair as you cling to him, arms and legs wrapped around his body.
You want to yell, want to shout and scream and stomp your feet, want to shake the idiocy out of him and tell him to never do that to you ever again, to never scare you like that ever again, stupid!
But you can’t, brain overridden by the intense cocktail of emotions raging inside of you—overpowering love and gratitude, clashing with chaotic anger and hatred, combining with acidic terror and fright—blending to create something indescribable, something unintelligible, something no language could ever have any hope of explaining, of molding into tangible words.
Your lips find his, messy and inept, kisses consistently interrupted by your stuttering cries, little wails exhaled into his mouth while your fingers clutch and curl and claw, scratching his skin and his scalp, unsure where they want to settle, trying to gather him up between your palms, beneath your nails.
“I—I wanna—I need to—”
“Shh,” he hushes you, grasp tightening in an attempt to pacify your erratic movements. “Niichan’s here, niichan’s got you,”
“I gotta—I—Niichan,” The whined out honorific cracks under your sheer desperation, bleary eyes pleading with him, for his help.
He knows. He knows exactly what you need.
And he’ll always give it to you.
“Yeah, baby,” his voice is soft as calloused fingers trace the curve of your cheek, swiping through salt water and gathering the remnants of dead tears. “You wanna suck my cock, huh?”
It’s horribly selfish of you, you know it is—he’s in no condition to be doing anything strenuous in the slightest, Natsuo had told you so—but you’re too greedy, your too voracious, head nodding eagerly, dainty fingers tugging at the waistband of his briefs.
He orders you to strip, and you’re nearly tripping over yourself in your haste to obey, Touya laughing a little at how Goddamn cute you are, half-hard cock cupped in his palm.
“C’mere,” he’s instructing once you’ve rid your body of those bothersome garments, patting the bed next to his hip. “Let niichan play with that pretty pussy of yours while you suck him off, yeah?”
Nodding, you kneel next to him, a knee bumping against his hipbone, thighs spread wide as a slender hand snakes between them, two fingers prodding your hole.
He teases you for how wet you already are—so easy for him, so good for him—but you’re barely paying attention, gaze focused on his pretty cock, all velvet and pink and oozing pearly pre-cum, a gentle hand fisting around the base.
Yet despite how starved you are for him, how badly you wish to drown yourself in the heavy weight of his thick cock crammed down your willing, urgent throat, to let your mind empty and thoughts halt, smothered by the sole ambition to please him—you can’t.
“Oh, baby,” he coos, and it’s so condescending, dripping with derision, a sharp flash of his usual self, peeking through the trauma. A large palm settles against your hair, Touya’s head lifting off a lush pillow to gaze down at you, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Are you having trouble concentrating on sucking niichan’s cock while his fingers are stuffed inside your cute little cunt?” he hums in question, sitting up a little further, desperate for a better view of your already tear-stained face.
“Uh-huh,” you whimper out around the head of his cock, feeling the blood surge through the thick veins twined around the velvety shaft as the vibrations of your answer shock his flesh.
“Aw, poor thing,” he tuts his tongue in callous mocking, lips wobbling in indecisiveness, unsure if they want to pout or grin, the palm petting the crown of your head tightening into a fist, strands of your hair woven rigorously through his fingers.
“Keep trying, princess,” he encourages you, pushing your head down again, a rough cough scraping the back of your tongue, slaughtered by his intruding cock. “You were doing good,”
Oh, how hopelessly good you want to be for him, aching to dispel any distractions, desperate to satisfy, to gratify.
And, really, he isn’t even doing that much with the two fingers stuffed inside of you, allowing you to bounce and rock and grind to your heart’s content, knuckles curling and pressing into that plush, precious, perfect spot at the appropriate moments.
It’s astonishing, how well he knows your body, how well he knows your mind, your entire soul itself, practically able to read your thoughts through a singular expression, a singular intonation, a singular hitch or throb or twitch.
But you know his body well, too.
You know he’s still feeling it, fearing it, that sudden brush with death, evident in the way his voice trembles, subtle tremors sewn into his tone, diluting his usual causticity and making him just a hint softer, just a hint sweeter.
You know he loves it when you suck his cock with vigour, with the desperate determination of a good girl, his best girl, with the need to prove something, to achieve that valued praise.
So you stop your pathetic little gyrating, giving up any and all focus on your pleasure for his own.
It takes him by surprise, such a sudden action, a decision made entirely on your own accord instead of guided by him, knocking a sharp gasp from within his chest, a swift huff of air that tapers off into the syrupy growl, so deep, so dark, so dangerous it rumbles throughout his body, and you moan, hips bouncing once on the fingers still buried inside of you, the action involuntary, instinctual.
He laughs then, a genuine sound you don’t get to hear often, so devastatingly charming and smooth as silk, head flopping back against the bed as he exhales a curse, still carrying remnants of his laughter.
And you can’t help the intense surge of accomplishment that absolutely soars through your chest, flames of blue that are so strong, so scalding that they nearly tear you open, searing through your heart with such vivacious zeal it immortalizes the feeling forever, melting it, molding it into strong platinum, encasing the organ.
A gentle giggle tangles itself around his cock, your spread lips morphing into a smile, gazing up at him through the thin shield of water lacquering your eyes.
Another laugh leaves his lips, his eyes shining in the dark room as he stares down at you, glimmers of amusement, of mirth and love, packaged in pure fondness and wrapped in spectacular sapphire.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, free hand moving to cradle your strained jaw, a rough thumb swiping across your cheekbone, calloused pad collecting glittering tears. “Such a good girl for me,” and it seems as if he’s in some sort of trance, almost, eyes so bright they’re nearly glowing, azure catching in the silvery moonbeams coated with sumptuous sparkles, little glimmers of his love, his devotion, his appreciation, shimmering brilliantly in his gaze. “Now, make niichan proud,”
It’s brutal, really, the way you gorge yourself on his cock, wedged halfway down your spasming throat as you attempt, vain and eager, to fucking devour him.
And the sounds he makes, the cracked whines and shattered moans and gutted groans, make it all so worth it.
Because he’s so fucking beautiful, so fucking breathtaking with the way your name fractures to pieces in his throat, with the way that magnificent sapphire roils and wavers, half-hidden by delightedly droopy lids, with the way his chest heaves and hips jerk and fingers twist, all in an effort to get more.
Eventually, though, he can’t stand it any longer, the desire to be in control winning just as it always does, rough palms pressed to the sides of your head as his hips thrust up, holding you still.
And you take it for him, you take it for him so well, just like you always do, forcing your mouth to open wider, to go further, to take more, more and more and more, until your chest is sputtering and your jaw is aching and your throat is burning, until you’re sobbing around his cock, varnishing his flesh in a copious amount of drool and tears.
A hand threads through your hair, sudden and tight, and gives on harsh, abrupt yank, pulling you off his cock.
A long, thick strand of opaque, milky substance—an viscous mixture of pre-cum and saliva—dribbles from your mouth, your lips, your chin, smearing all over his cock, a rope keeping the both of you fastened, fixed, linked.
And he is absolutely powerless to stop the broken “f-fuck,” that escapes his throat, low voice tapering off into a rough whisper, the curse barely more than a wisp of breath.
You look over at him, crystalline dewdrops clinging to your spidery lashes, decorating them like little diamonds, salt-stained cheeks glittering in the pale light, lips puffy and soaked with spit, oozing from the corners to drip off your chin.
“God, you’re gorgeous,”
“Why’d you make me stop?” And even raw and wrecked and thoroughly used, shuddering under suppressed sobs, you still manage to sound so precious, so eager to please him, to make him proud, that he can’t help but laugh again, your resulting smile gleaming in the moonlight, beams sinking into his skin like quick little shots of liquid sunshine, warm and gold and fizzing and you.
“Because I don’t want to cum in your mouth tonight,”
Large hands hoist you towards him, and you giggle, nodding your understanding, knees pushing off the mattress and aiding him in his haul, clinging to his side, a muscular thigh slot between your own, pressed tightly against your sopping cunt.
“Wanna—Um,” The words catch, fading into a mist in your throat, and you smush your face against his neck, suddenly shy. Touya frowns, shoulder nudging your chin twice, a nonverbal urge to continue. Refusing to remove your face from his flesh, you mumble into him, breath hot and wet against his skin, trembling slightly. “Can I ride you?”
Chuckling, he nods, shuffling back just a little, a gentle hand cupping your jaw and forcing your face from its sanctuary, murmuring something about how goddamn cute you are. “For a little,”
Until you cum.
It’s not spoken, but it doesn’t need to be; it’s become protocol at this point.
His cock, wet and flushed and glistening, bobs a little as your thighs pad his hips, wincing a little as the bones brush the bruises they birthed so many hours ago.
The moan that scrabbles past your lips is nothing short of mortifying, sinking down on him in one fluid motion, slow and careful and thorough, as if your memorizing it all, etching the moment into the tissues of your brain with searing cast iron—the incredible stretch as your cute cunt struggles against his girth, the sweet hiss spit from between gritted teeth as his hands find your hips and guide, the way your heart flutters, swells, warms as drowsy lids lift to glitter at you in awe as he finally bottoms out, stuffing you so full of his cock, so full of his love, you can barely breathe.
There isn’t a moment to adjust—there never is—rough palms forcing your hips to rock forward immediately, forcing a yelp to barrel past your lips.
Small hands find their designated spot on his chest, nails scratching your name across the muscles, and you begin to bounce, egged on by his patronizing praises, fuelled by the knowledge that he fucking loves to watch you use him like this, thinks you’re so fucking beautiful when you make yourself cum on his cock, that it’s his favourite sight in the whole Goddamn world.
“C’mon baby, show me, show niichan how gorgeous you look getting off on his cock, come on,”
And his voice is so soft, laced with the sweetest admiration, garnished with potent devotion as gaping pupils observe you, lined by a thin ring on sapphire that glitters any time it catches on the silver beams streaming through the open window.
So you do, hips garnering more speed with each gyration, slick clit catching on his pubic bone in perfect synchronization with the rapid brushes of his cock against that spot, fluttering lashes struggling to stay lifted.
It’s almost artful, the way your bodies conform in such blissful harmony, dancing to the melodies of blood crashing through veins and gasps catching on bones and whines cracking in throats.
“That’s it,” he breathes, hands gentle on your waist, keeping you steady. “That’s my good girl,”
It’s barely above a whisper, nothing more than a dainty wisp of air emitted on a singular exhale, but it sends a whoosh of pride, of prestige, rushing through your chest, flooding your body with a tingling warmth and conjuring bubbles of precious laughter in your throat.
The tears come, just as your muscles are coiling and insides are perishing, victim to the blue flames ignited by Touya, that inferno simmering deep within your stomach finally engulfing you in its flames, body convulsing around him.
The tears come, unpredictable, uncontrollable, unstoppable, but they’re gentle, like whispering caresses from old friends, tangible drops of love and gratitude that adorn sticky lashes and embellish pretty cheeks—a manifestation of how much you love him, how much he loves you, the force of the day and the reality of the situation finally crashing down on the both of you, here in your make-believe sanctuary, constructed from affection and obsession, tender in its idolization and infatuation.
And, for once, he doesn’t tease you for them. Because they aren’t tears conjured by his cock, by the exquisite pleasure he submerges you in—they’re from the circumstances, conjured by the brush with death that felt so scary, so real, coercing the realization that he, you, both, are not immortal, and that this danger is real, a constant possibility lurking inside those pretty pills and powders he loves so much.
He cries, too, soft and subtle and silent, pretty diamonds rolling down inked cheeks, coating the etched art in shimmering salt, adding to the magnificent masterpiece that is TOUYA.
Those eyes glimmer as they gaze up at you, ravenous in the way they quickly flit across your face with your ever-changing expression, sweeping from your crinkled forehead, twitching under the force of your knitted brows; to your whitened eyes, lashes quivering as they fight against mind-numbing pleasure; to your cutely scrunched nose and panting mouth, still sparkling with spit and pre-cum and sweat—all in an effort to catalogue your morphing face, to brand those idiosyncrasies, your idiosyncrasies, created by his cock into the tissues of his brain, the fabric of his soul itself, for eternity.
He’s still staring at you through a thin film of tears as your breathing calms, watching you with that peculiar little look, some sort of hybrid equal parts awe and fondness, so powerful it scathes your skin, so immense it’s nearly overwhelming, drowning you in the most wonderful way as it fills your chest, your lungs, your heart, engulfing your soul itself.
You’re nearly choking on it all as you inhale, deep and eager to intake more, hips still pathetically rutting against him in irregular motions, whole body jolting with each glide of your oversensitive clit across his slick skin.
And then he’s flipping you, back bouncing against the soft mattress, and he’s kissing you, scarred lips crushing yours, hasty and urgent as his tongue breaks through your lips, smashes through your teeth and claims your mouth—with all of its ridges and crevices, dips and contours—as it’s own, as it’s home.
Teeth clack together with the force of his thrusts, so hard, so painful you’re surprised one of you hasn’t chipped a tooth yet, your resounding cries, laced with pain and doused in pleasure, instantly swallowed up by his desperate desire to keep your mouths interspersed.
But it feels so good, so full, so much, like your whole body, your whole being—bones and organs and veins—has been stuffed full of him, the pure essence of his love, overwhelming your receptors and overthrowing your consciousness as you overdose on it all. And yet, you can’t help but want more.
It’s sickening, really, just how much you crave him, gluttonous and avid in your everlasting quest for more. It’s sickening, how it’s still not enough, how it’ll never be enough.
For either of you.
It births monsters in your chest, hearts and souls sprouting teeth and growing claws, vicious things that gnaw and gobble and devour—grotesque creatures that hunger for only one thing, crave only one person; gorgeous creatures that are incomplete, halves of themselves missing, buried tight and secure in the chest of the other.
They roar and rattle and growl and gnaw the ribs that cage them in their desperate attempts to get closer, to consume more, razored talons reaching between splintered bone to slash at your flesh, to split you both open and emerge, escape, from your cores—to be together, whole, complete at last.
Those tears stay silent as they stream down the bridge of his nose, dripping off the tip, little dewdrops of salt that glaze your cheeks and soak into your tongue, tiny crystals infused with his spirit, with his love and his hatred, seeping through your flesh, the newest addition to that scared collection you keep in your chest, bits of Touya that he gives you, gifts you, safe behind a prison of ivory bone.
You don’t say anything, merely kissing him back, hard and desirous, as muffled I love you’s spill from one throat into another, constant like a chant, a prayer, an acclamation, cracked only by those sharp shards of whines he can’t seem to quell.
And you nod, you accept, you take anything and everything he’s willing to give you, constantly vying for just a little bit more, humming your thanks into his kisses as tiny fingers tangle in tufts of ink-dipped ivory, tugging closer, closer, closer, legs locked around his waist, heels digging into those pretty little dents at the bottom of his spine, urging him to give you more, more, more.
And he does; he gives you all of him as his hips ram and rut once, twice, three more times before they’re stuttering, cock throbbing as it fills you to brim with thick, hot cum, so much you can feel it burning through your blood, burning in your brain.
A moan, loud and involuntary, rips from your throat as he stuffs you full of himself, one last desperate beg to give you more, to give you it all.
And it’s only several hours later, just as the sun is priming itself to begin again, casting the faintest halo of glowing amber just above the grassy horizon—a gentle warning that a new day is about to start—that he finally acknowledges it, a rapidly burning cigarette perched between slim fingers, tendrils of smoke curling through the hazy gold fighting off the darkness.
“If I had—” he begins, letters sprouting claws and sinking into his throat. Clearing it roughly, he tries again. “If I—If I had died today—” The words scathe his tongue, razored talons scraping the slick muscle as they leave his mouth, dripping full of his blood, raw and vulnerable and exposed. “I don’t—You would’ve—I-I can’t—”
“You can’t leave me alone in this world, niichan,” you whisper, lips moving against his neck, planting half-baked kisses against the scarred flesh, scattered throughout the sentence, stringing the sentiments together.
“No,” he nods, a jerky movement, the affirmation exhaled out on a deep, shaking breath—one that rattles his ribs and stutters his chest, catching on a suppressed hiccup on it’s way out.
“No,” you repeat softly, little fingers still drawing patterns across his chest, idly tracing the intricately flowing ink that stains his skin, as you’ve done so many times before.
You can’t bear to look at him—know he wouldn’t allow you to look at him, not now, not yet, so you stay put, face half-buried in his neck, clumped eyelashes, sticky and stiff with salt, fluttering against him as you blink back the sting collecting in your eyes. The leg hitched over his hip hooks, tightens and pulls—another one of those silent little conformations; I am here, I am yours, you are mine—bodies slotted together perfectly.
You can’t leave me alone in this world…And that’s why you need to be more careful, cautious; capable, culpable .
You won’t dare to say it, not aloud, not to him. Because you don’t need to. Because he knows; you can tell.
He knows. And even though he won’t vocalize it, can’t vocalize it, he doesn’t really need to. Because it’s conveyed—promised—through other means; through the tremble in his tone and the tears in his eyes and the thickness in his chest, through the kisses pressed to your head and the fingers tracing the notches of your spine and the ankles hooked around yours, protective and possessive.
“I won’t leave you,” he finally promises, though it sounds more like an affirmation to himself—a vow not to die before you do, not to kill himself of his own accord with the familiar, tender aid of pills and powders, friends he’s known so long, friends he’s come to trust.
“Good,” you hum, the gentle hands of unconsciousness tugging at the frayed edges of your mind, beginning to cast a mist over your brain, fogging up the golden daylight warming your skin. “Because I won’t live without you,”
And neither will he.
Neither will he.
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i love your squid game aus so much!! have u ever thought about cop! reader looking for their brother and vip!dabi and that scene from the kdrama where the vip summons the cop bc he found the cop pretty? but how about a little twist and this time dabi knows who the reader is and what they're here for😃 I'll leave what he does to them to you.
Squid Game AU - VIP Guest!Dabi x Infiltrated!Reader
Squid Game AU Masterlist.
TW: Noncon Smut, Degradation, Dabi is an asshole abducting Reader and making her his little sex slave, *This is Filthy*.
"What's under your mask, sweetheart? Care to show me?"
His fingers brush against your wrist whenever he takes a glass from your hand, and the fleeting contact doesn't seem like an accident, not when he smirks, sharp, white teeth glinting in the faint light of the VIP Guest room, whenever it happens.
"It's not allowed," you reply, filling your tone with as much ice as you can get away with. Every word falls from your lips dry and sharp, but it doesn't seem to deter him, and the cruel smile that pulls at his lips only gets wider as they reach his ears.
He laughs, and the glass cradled between his lean fingers slightly tilts when he stops paying attention to it. A few drops of champagne fall on the couch, run down his wrist, find shelter in the sleeve of his overpriced shirt.
"Is it privacy you want? Should have said it earlier, angel. We can go to my room and you can show me everything there."
Somehow, the syllables seem heavier than normal as they fall from his lips, as if he meant something else, a secret hidden beneath the mocking tone, yet another mystery from this shadow of a man whose mere identity is concealed behind a golden wolf mask.
And maybe the secret has something to do with the way his fingers run along your thighs under the fabric of your skirt, bold and inescapable, or maybe it has something to do with the little glance he throws at your jacket pocket where you keep a small knife, eyes knowing and filled with amusement. Either way, it's not as if you have a choice.
You follow him to his room.
And the second he turns his back to you to take off his own mask, you lunge at him with all your strength, knife safely tucked in the palm of your hand. You know men like him, rich and powerful monsters, the ones living above all laws and morality, the ones as unreachables as wraiths, no matter how much you'd like to have them face true justice.
Which is why you can't leave him a single chance to flee or attack you, and yet he still catches your wrist in firm, strong fingers, keeping you captive in his grasp even as you let go of the blade and it falls to the floor, drowning into the luxurious carpet with a weak sound.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t see right through you?”
He’s mocking, mean, triumphant on the way he looks at you, like a predator would gaze at a prey stuck in the merciless prison of its claws. No matter how much you try to kick or bite at him, he doesn’t let go, keeping any chance at escape out of reach from your hands.
“You tried to trick me, huh, sweetheart? Gotta punish you for that, tame you like the wild beast you are.”
A knife of his own slips from the inside of his sleeve and you freeze, but he simply uses it to cut the thin ribbon holding your mask over your face, letting it fall to the floor, discarded. His fingers brush against the now uncovered skin of your cheeks, hottening under his touch.
“Pretty thing, aren’t you? I’m in luck today, it seems. Or did you plan this all along? Wanted me to fuck you like the little spying mouse that you are?”
The words are disgusting as they fall from his lips, and yet he’s gentle as he cradles your wrist in his palm, soft as he lets his digits follow the shape of your jaw, embrace the slight plumpness of your lips.
“Should I fuck that bold stupidity out of you, make you my own little cocksleeve instead?”
“Go to hell,” you spit, hissing each syllable between gritted teeth. “I’ll report you all and send you to rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life.”
He barks a laugh, the sound echoing in the luxurious room, making you want to cover for your ears with your hands for the heavy threat lingering in the tone of his voice.
“You’re cute, angel,” he praises, condescending, right before placing a soft, sweet kiss on the skin of your throat. Lower, he adds, amused as an adult seeing a child make up imaginary games:
“It’s adorable, how you still think you’re getting out of here.”
In a swift gesture, he throws you on the bed, trapping your wrists in built-in handcuffs hanging from the headboard. You don’t want to think about the reasons why he’d need those other than the one you’re about to experience, and the mere thought makes you fight harder, kick and struggle in the inescapable metallic hold.
He catches your ankle mere inches before it strikes his crotch. A cold, low laugh slips from his lips, making icy shivers run down your spine.
“You never know how to stop fighting, do you? Gonna have to teach you how to submit like a good little whore.”
He tears your dress apart, reducing it to tatters that fall by your side on the luxurious bed. A second later, the blade of his knife cuts through the fabric of your bra, of your panties, right before he lets it fall on the nightstand, now discarded too.
Burning tears run down your cheeks as his fingers touch, carress, explore the now uncovered parts of your body, from the soft fat of your belly to the sensitive skin of your thighs.
“Fuck you,” you murmur, and he smiles, relishing in your despair, your humiliation.
“Do you know what we do to nosy detectives here, Princess?”
He lets the question hang in the air for a second, heavy and dreadful.
“You should thank me, really. I simply think you won’t look as good lying dead in a coffin as you’ll do as my cute little cumdump.”
He eyes you with a smirk as you lay there, defenseless beneath him, completely at his mercy, all for him to touch, to abuse, to fuck.
“P-please, don’t,” you beg for the first time as he plays with one of your nipples, nonchalant in the way he pinches it with cruel fingers, tearing a faint yelp from your lips.
“I don’t think you call the shots here anymore, sweetheart. Not like you ever did, but, oh well, you sure looked like you had fun pretending you had any chance against me.”
You freeze when he touches your clit, weakly struggling until he catches one of your thighs in a strong hand to keep you from squirming.
“But it’s all over now, angel. I’m going to introduce you to your new life as my slave, and you’re going to thank me for it, alright?”
Never. You want to say it but the two short, simple syllables get stuck in your throat when he unbuckles his belt, revealing the monster of a cock that had been dormant under the fabric of his underwear. A line of shiny silver piercings litter the underside as it towers above your tied up form, hard and menacing, the promise of yet another kind of torture that awaits you at his hands.
He smiles, revealing shining white, sharp teeth when his tip brushes against your entrance.
“Later, you’ll call me Master but for now, feel free to scream my name, sweetheart. It's Dabi.”
And you do scream it, voice pleading as the word falls from your lips when he tears into you, settling deep, deep, too deep into your walls, his huge cock filling you whole in a swift, merciless stroke.
Tears pool in your eyes, roll down your cheeks, leaving a salty taste on your tongue before falling on the silky sheets of the bed, on the soft skin of your throat. They wet his fingers when he curls them around your neck, hold not yet tightening but threatening all the same.
“Thank me for keeping you, show me your gratitude,” he orders, each word reaching your ears at the same rhythm the strong strokes of his hips tear through your insides. “Worship my cock with your tight little cunt, accept me as your Master and maybe I’ll be generous enough to let you come.”
And you almost want to do it, want to beg him, plead him, obey his every word if only he’d agree to make all of this stop, but you bite your lip and let the mere thought die on your lips as he rams his cock again, and again, and again into your walls.
“Still so stubborn, detective?” He asks, panting for breath, pleasured smile plastered on his mismatched lips. “Why? This is your true purpose, the only reason you were put on this earth.”
He leans towards you to finish his sentence, whispering filth into your ear:
“To milk my cock dry and take everything I give you like a good little cumdump.”
You let out a yelp of pure distress, of raw despair and that’s what makes him topple over the edge, fill your insides with his cum, coating your walls white until little pearly drops fall between your thighs on the silky black sheets of the bed when he pulls out.
He leaves you there, lying on the bed, wrists still cuffed to the headboard, tears drying on your too-hot cheeks, while he simply grabs his mask again, tying the golden wolf’s face over his own traits.
"I'm going back to watch the game. Stay here like a good little whore, and I'll come back to fuck you again once it's over."
The perspective makes you want to scream, to struggle, to kick and fight but the skin of your wrist is bleeding already, and your voice is raw, faint after letting so many unheard pleas fall from your lips.
There isn't anything left to say, and so, you say nothing.
Right before leaving, he reaches towards you with gentle fingers that softly stroke your cheek, a gesture that would feel like it's filled with love if you didn't know better.
"Then, I'll teach you what it means to be mine."
A smile, a sweet kiss placed on your clammy forehead, and he's gone.
Leaving you to get used to your new life as his captive.
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So, I had initially planned a whole storyline with Hawks being Reader's brother and him having become a VIP after winning the game a few years before, and ofc Dabi knowing that she was Keigo's sister and taking her also for that very reason, but it felt like a bit much dnsjkdn If I get a good prompt using that idea or if I think of something good I might use it someday though!!
Please tell me your thoughts ❤
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𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠? | 𝐝𝐚𝐛𝐢 (𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐲𝐚)
pairing : dabi x reader
genre : fluff, comfort (i think)
warnings : mentions of violence, mentions of smoking and cigarettes, suggestive content but nothing explicit, no pronouns were used but i may be wrong, NOT PROOF READ
word count : 845
synopsis : it was you and him, against everything else.
song playing : Find a Way by SafetySuit
requested : yes / ➢ no
notes : this fic is basically just a self-indulgence fic cause i really love him :)
disclaimer : this is a work of fiction, made only for entertainment purposes and in no way or form should be taken seriously. i do not own any of the my hero academia characters.
If someone asked Dabi how he ended up here, he’d shrug his shoulders, unable to answer. Even he could ask himself that same question, and as much as he tried, he just couldn’t put his finger on it. Why a villain, a wanted man, like him, is here with you, lying beside him.
You weren’t anyone special. You were no hero, you didn’t work at a hero agency, and your quirk was less than impressive, but for whatever reason, it was you that he fell into submission for. Perhaps it was the way you looked at him with unjudging eyes? The way you listened to him explain how rotten the hero world actually is without calling him a crazy bastard of a villain. The way you never flinched when he touched you, or when his flames nearly licked at your skin. The way your fingers caressed his skin, and the way your arms wrapped around him, making him feel warm— dare he say it almost made him feel safe somehow.
You were just another random face he thought he’d never see again, but somehow, before he knew it, he felt himself opening up to you.
Taking another inhale of his cigarette, he felt you shift next to him. He watched as you tiredly pushed yourself up, hands coming to rub your eyes. When you blinked a few times and made eye contact with him, he exhaled. The gray smoke spiraled in the dimly lit room, the scent of it tickled your nose.
“Did I wake you?” Dabi asked.
You shook your head, readjusting yourself so you were facing him.
“Just felt a little cold without you holding me.”
He scoffed at your words, “You starting to get clingy now?”
You knew it was a rhetorical question, but you thought about it anyways before answering him.
Your response to him caught him off guard, just slightly. He watched as you craned your neck slightly, the burn mark he accidentally gave you a while ago, peeking from the collar of your t-shirt. In a normal case, Dabi wouldn’t give two shits if he happened to burn an innocent bystander. But the cry you let out when you got caught in the middle of a fight between him and some hero, the way you crouched in pain as your hand clutched where he had burned you. The sight itself often plagued his thoughts, especially on the nights where you were asleep and he was awake, staring at your unmoving form.
Bringing the cigarette in between his lips again, he inhaled. Holding the smoke in his mouth, he reached over, his hands grabbing your chin to bring your face closer to his. Your lips were centimeters apart, and you slowly let your eyes meet his.
‘Open.’ they told you.
When you spread your lips apart ever so slightly, Dabi exhaled, the smoke clouding your vision, the smell almost making you dizzy, and then you felt a pair of lips slot over yours. You brought your hands to his chest, your hands clenching at the fabric of shirt. His hand that held your chin slid itself to the back of your neck, his free arm lazily rested around your waist, softly bringing your body closer to his. When his lips began to move more aggressively, you let out a whine, pushing him away slightly.
“Dabi,” you breathed, his lips now pressing small pecks on your jaw, “I have classes today. Maybe I should-”
The man didn’t let you speak as he slid a hand up your shirt, his warm hands running down your bare back, eliciting a soft sigh from your lips.
“One more hour,” he whispered, resting his forehead on your shoulder. You felt his arms tighten their grip on you, and you could feel his slow and steady breath on your neck.
“One more hour, just stay.”
With a press of his lips to your shoulder, you sighed, and Dabi knew you had given in. You felt him smirk against your shoulder as he hummed in satisfaction— and when you ran your hand through his hair, bringing your lips to press a soft kiss to the top of his head, he felt himself melt into your touch.
“Aren’t you, ya’know, scared of me?” he asked you one night.
You both were lying on your bed, your head against his chest, as he played with your fingers.
“Why would I be scared of you?” your voice was quiet, interlacing your hand with his.
“I’m a wanted man you know,” he rested his chin atop your head, “I kill people, I’m in a criminal organization, do I need to go on?”
A soft scoff escaped your lips as you tilted your head up to look at him.
“If I was scared, I would’ve told you to go a long time ago.”
Within these four walls, nothing mattered. The fact that he was a criminal, the amount of people he’s killed, none of that mattered to you. Deep down you knew, you’d always find a way into him.
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you like your girls insane
notes: wow i actually finished one of my wips before the end of the year, i am both shocked and pleased with myself. this piece actually drew inspiration from toga’s backstory which i adore by the way and partly from watching seasons 2 and 3 of You, Victoria Pedretti honestly had my heart as Love and was perfect to me! a bit darker i think that i usually go but as always, minors dni for dark themes
warnings: 18+, Pro Hero/Villain(?) Touya, established relationship, slightly toxic dynamics, cheating/infidelity, mention of branding, blood, torture (not explicitly described), murder (not explicitly described), semi-rough sex, low key yandere vibes, possessiveness
You look back at him and you’re happy, you’re feeling like yourself and not at all the repressed persona you’ve put on for the world, Touya lets you be you. You’re so dazzlingly beautiful when you finally have the opportunity to be yourself, your eyes are clearer and your smile bigger and you just exude joyfulness and relief and delight.
“Do I look pretty Touya?” you ask him as if you were a bashful girl on a first date for the very first time. “Am I pretty?”
He reaches a hand out to help you climb out the bed and holds you tight against his body. “You’re the most beautiful girl, you’re my doll. You’re mine.”
Todoroki is a household name known by everyone in the hero world, Endeavor setting the path for his offspring, his youngest and oldest son that followed along his path to also become a Pro Hero. He’s proud of all his children and their accomplishments, but it’s a silent agreement within the family that he’s particularly proud of Shouto and Touya for following in his footsteps. He’s retired happily and watching his boys make their own way in the hero world. Their flames are a direct reflection of their father’s quirk, burning hot and bright and strong.
Touya used to be somewhat of a problem hero, not because he was bad at what his father raised him to be but the reputation of his personal life captured the attention of everyone. The hearts he loved to break, the outlandish things he says simply because he can, the attitude he flaunts because he knows that he won’t get much repercussions from his actions. He’d been a smug bastard when he broke into the hero charts at his debut, but all of that changed when he had met his pretty little girlfriend.
The story was that he rescued her from someone that kidnapped her, that he saved her just before her kidnapper was going to hurt her, but the assailant committed suicide before Touya even had the chance of attempting to subdue and bring him in.
It was a traumatic experience for you, his girlfriend, so much so that it ended up bringing the two of you close together and you saw him as your hero.
Funny enough as soon as he had settled into a relationship with you, all of the scandals that Touya loved to incite had stopped. He had become more well spoken and more mindful of his actions, though it’s not to say he didn’t get a little cheeky every so often for the press just for old time’s sake. You had helped him mature, paparazzi photographing your dazzling smile when you and Touya were spotted out together in public. There was a lot of speculation about your relationship to Endeavor’s oldest son but everything was kept under wraps; the Todoroki family knows how to protect their privacy when they really want to, and you and Touya seemed to live in your own little bubble from everyone else. You were the envy of many girls and women everywhere for being the object of Touya’s affection, that you had taken away his single status and therefore the fantasy that he was available to anyone.
You were unbothered by Touya’s many devoted fans because all that mattered was that Touya wanted to be with you and that only his opinion and attention mattered. His fangirls didn’t matter, the paparazzi and nosy photographers didn’t matter, no one but you and Touya in your own little world. To the outside world, you were Touya’s pretty little girlfriend that he had rescued and you fell in love with him and he fell for you.
To Touya, he knows what you really are.
Are you soft and sweet with the most pretty moans and tinkling laugh he’s ever heard? Yes, yes you are.
But you’ve got a side to you that has to stay hidden, another persona that gets his loins excited and what made him intrigued in you in the first place. And while he likes when you’re soft and sweet when the two of you are in bed after intense lovemaking or when you sit down with his parents for dinner and talk of plans of eventual marriage, he loves when you’re actually yourself for him. Because he’s grateful for the real you that uncovered a part of himself that he would have never realized on its own.
You awakened a side of him that he had never known about himself and it was all thanks to you.
“… Police are still connecting the string of murders of young women within the area. The methods to the girls deaths are by multiple stab wounds but with no weapon found nor DNA found on the bodies of the victims. The ages of the girls are all within their lower to upper twenties, all of them unrelated to one another but the killer appears to stay within a certain district to choose their victims.” The newscaster announces on the television as Touya dresses himself in his civilian wear. He’s half listening to the report and thinking of the errands he needs to run before going back to his private home that Endeavor had built for his eldest son. He says nothing as hands touch his back from behind, drawing down his spine and a sigh lifts through the air to his ears. The lacing of his boots requires more attention and he wonders where he can stop by to pick up for dinner.
“This was really fun… when do I get to see you again?”
It’s not your voice and it gets on Touya’s nerves a little but he’s sure to keep a straight face when he looks back at the random woman he picked up from… he doesn’t even know where. He just knows how to sneak without it rousing any suspicion from camouflaged paparazzi; he has to be on the down low lest it blow up into the tabloids. Since you came along, his reputation has been carefully crafted to a settled down man that is now a far cry from the heart breaking boy he used to be. And that still has to be kept up, no matter the circumstances because you made his life better.
“Yeah… let’s do it tomorrow? Same place and time?” Touya says as he finished up lacing his boots. His jacket was thrown onto the floor and he gets up from the bed, picks it up to dust it off and puts it on. “I got something special planned for tomorrow, just for you.”
An excited gasp and a happy little giggle.
It irritates Touya but he goes through this.
“Gotta be on my way. I would say wear something nice tomorrow but… it’s not really gonna matter.” Touya winks before he shuts the door behind him. Whatever person out there designed love hotels, Touya wishes he could give his personal thanks to that smart motherfucker. The hood to his jacket is pulled over his head, a face mask, and sunglasses put on to cover his identity. Touya walks through several alleyways, looking nondescript as he passes by several people in most unoccupied alleys before he makes it back to the main street where crowds of people still walk in the lively shopping and dining area.
He blends in seamlessly amongst the crowd, they’re all unknowing that Endeavor’s oldest son is among them.
The first stop is a shop that he had something special bought just for you and he intended to surprise it with you tonight. The sales associate practices discretion in giving Touya’s purchase to him and is careful to not draw attention to him while he’s in the store. Touya checks the gift himself to make sure that it’s going to be to your liking before finalizing it. It’s wrapped in a pretty box with a simple bow for you to pull at and let the satin fall away easily.
The gift was important to get but the most important stop is getting food, tonight was supposed to be his night to choose what would be to eat for dinner. He promised you that he’d be home a certain time and he knows that he’ll be just a teeny bit late due to his activities and that no doubt you will be found seething with irritation. He can deal with your irritation and your attitude at his tardiness since it was nothing new, what was important was securing the food and your gift.
Touya carries the takeout and your gift back to the home he shares with you. “Babydoll, I’m back home now.”
There’s a crisp ‘shh!’ that comes from the kitchen and Touya thinks that for a minute that you were shushing him but he realizes that it’s not your voice; it’s actually the sound of a knife blade being sharpened. He walks to where he knows you are and finds you at the kitchen countertop, busy with a knife against a sharpening stone and your eyes set in concentration. Your attention is gained when Touya approaches the kitchen island and set his items down on the top.
“Welcome home Touya, did you have fun tonight?” you welcome him stiffly while keeping your eyes on the knife. It glints against the warm kitchen light and you know you’ve done enough on the block, having polished and reformed its edges long enough for a while but the simmering anger that you’ve been trying to keep in check needed something to concentrate on. “Did you have fun leaving me waiting for you?”
Touya sighs as he comes up behind you and presses his front to your back, grasping your hands in his to stop your motions. “I’m not late, I came home exactly when I said I would (Name). It’s just a few minutes past, you need to loosen up a little.” he tells you but presses kisses to your temple to placate you and keep your anger from boiling over. Truthfully Touya does like pushing your buttons every so often but he knows when to tease you and when not to. “Don’t be upset babydoll, I brought a gift for you.”
You roll your eyes and move out of his hold so that you can glare up at him. “A gift isn’t going to change that I know you fucked another girl behind my back again.” you huff out as you cross your arms over your chest. “You’re so shameless, do you even care about me at all?”
Touya snorts but approaches you carefully, he likes to see the fire in your eyes when you look like you want to kill him. It makes his cock twitch in his pants but he knows better to not offer it right now, at least not with that kitchen knife so close by you. He tips your head up to look at him and offers you his most sincere smile. “Why would I be ashamed? I like what we do, I like this about us.”
Still you’re unconvinced and huff out again, slapping his hand away from you and leaning against the kitchen countertop.You’re stubborn but Touya is unrelenting as he tucks his hand into your yours, forcing your arms to uncross and takes you to the pretty box that sits right there just for you. The label does not go unnoticed by you and you seem to visibly relax a little at the gift; he knows that you’re a sucker for a high end designer name. He’d shower you in anything you wanted whether it was jewelry, shoes, skincare, or his cum. Because you were the best thing to happen to him and he’d give anything to keep you beside him, he was not in lack of money due to an inheritance in line for him along with the revenue he makes already. Money was no issue and Touya knew that the spoiling is what partly rooted you to him especially since you admitted that you hadn’t grown up with much compared to his well taken care of childhood.
You stand by the gift and delicately pull at the bow, the satin coming undone easily and it shines so prettily under the light of the kitchen. The top of the box is lifted with the tissue paper pushed aside and inside is a pretty white dress, the softness of the linen glides beneath the tips of your fingers as you pet the collar of the dress. You adore the lace trim and the pleating detail at the bodice, your sour mood from before forgotten briefly as you hold the shoulders of the dress and lift it up from the box to see how long it is. The dress is pulled from its packaging and instead of the usual short little numbers Touya frequently fills your closet with, this dress is a bit longer and just stops above your knees.
It’s quite innocent as opposed to the things Touya usually asks you to wear.
“You like it doll? I thought I’d change it up and get something different.” Touya asks but he knows that you adore what he got for you. One of the many things he can brag about is his good taste and how well he’s pegged your sense of fashion.
“I love it Touya, you really remembered when I saw this in the window when we went out the other day. I hate it when you’re so sweet to me.” you say as you hold the dress up against your body and examine how it looks fully. “… Just ‘cause you bought me this doesn’t excuse what I know what you did by the way.”
Ah back to the subject before, he knew that the dress would only capture your attention for so long.
“Wear it for me tomorrow doll, I set up a date for us.”
“You are such a shameless fuck.” you say it but there’s not much malice or anger behind your words. “Do you get off on making me like this? Do you like being a bastard just to do all this to me?”
There it is, that excitement that drew him into you and made him fall over you. You have that little glint in your eye when he does this, coming home smelling like another girl and not bothering to hide his infidelity. It does make you angry but you’re so controlled at it that he’d think that you actually didn’t care but he knows that you do. Touya knows how to make it up to you every single time though and sometimes adds in something a little extra just to sweeten you up. You call him a shameless fuck but he only became that way because of you so really you’re the one to blame for all this.
You’re the one to blame for the person he’s become.
Touya moves to the takeout and removes the takeout containers from the plastic bag, the smell of one of your favorite restaurants permeates through the air and he hides the smug smile that wants to come onto his face as he sees you eye the food. He knows that you’re irritated from him cheating again but it’s also part hunger that attributes to your attitude. There’s no other experience in the world than soothing your girlfriend’s anger by giving her food. You did wait patiently for him to come home after all and he delivered on the promise of bringing back something.
He never thought of himself as a guy that would settle down with anyone, at least not for the long term. Touya liked being selfish before and catering only to himself but since you came along, you’ve changed him into someone that likes to spoil someone else. There really is a joy in taking care of someone else, gifting them with things just because he knows that you’d love it, and he likes that he takes care of you. With you, Touya does imagine marriage in the future when the both of you are ready and he wants to a good husband to you.
You really have changed him for the better and for the worst.
The dress is set back inside the box again while dinner is eaten at the dining table.
The only sounds are the clinking of the cutlery against the dinnerware and food being chewed.
There’s still tension in your shoulders even though your face is relaxed.
“You should be excited for our date tomorrow, I know I am.” Touya tells you as he scoops more food onto his plate. “It’s been a while since this last happened.”
“And what if I don’t show up then? How would you feel if I didn’t?” you ask these questions as if it were threat that you really wouldn’t show up for the plans Touya set up. “You ever think about that?”
Touya knows that you wouldn’t pass this up, he knows what you’re really like beneath those sweet doe eyes of yours and that you’re just itching to unleash tomorrow. But he does like to play and knows how to goad you, he knows how to draw out the real you when he sees that you’ve put on that innocent front for too long. He only does what he does so that you can relax and just be yourself just for him. You really are the sweetest thing he’s ever met in his life but god you are also the sickest.
He loves that about you.
“You’re not answering me Touya.”
Ah, he was so caught up in admiring you that he almost forgot.
He merely shrugs his shoulders and tells you, “It’s up to you if you don’t want to, I know I can’t make you show up to something if you don’t want to go. Just means that you’ll be sitting here pretty for me until I get back again ‘cause I’m still gonna go.”
Your eyes flick towards him and your jaw tenses. “How many times with this new one?”
“Three times.” Touya answers honestly.
“You love me.”
“I should kill you.”
“I’m fuckin’ serious Touya, I can kill you.”
“Yeah baby, you can but you won’t.”
You would never and he knows that you would never, who else could you run to and give you what he gives you? Who else would indulge in the sick and twisted part of you all while making sure you live in comfort and luxury? Who else would accept you wholly as you are and still be able to keep you in check? You’re right when you say you could kill him but no one else is like Touya who adores you so deeply and has dug so deep in your heart that you couldn’t rip him out even if you tried.
He’s your everything and he’d do anything for you.
The plate you were eating off of is clean of food and pushed away. You look towards Touya and ask, “Dessert?”
“In the bag.”
True to his word, there’s two containers of your favorite dessert from where Touya ordered. “These are both mine, you don’t deserve it.”
Touya chuckles and continues to eat off his plate. “I won’t take my portion if you say you’re going to show up tomorrow.”
“You know that I will, why would I not show up?” you scoff as you open the container but then sigh happily at your favorite part of a meal. Sweetness bursts on your tongue when you take a bite and you practically swoon, a soft mumble of ‘so delicious’ whispers past your lips before you take another bite. “What time?”
He informs you of the location and time of the date he set up, finally getting up to wash up the plates in the sink. “Wear the dress babydoll, I got it just for tomorrow.”
“Oh so I’m only going to get one use out of it huh.” you say before biting into your dessert again. “If you weren’t from a rich family I would tell you to be more careful with your money. Buying something so expensive only for it to be used once is such a waste. You need to be more mindful of your finances. If I had money like you, I wouldn’t spend so audaciously.”
“You say that as if you aren’t apart of my family.”
“You are, you’ve already been apart of my family for a while so that makes you rich too.” Touya tells you as he finishes washing up the dishes. “I’m gonna put a ring on that finger of yours one day when it’s the right time. But you’re my family (Name), everything about you and who are you is mine.”
You finish off eating the first container of dessert and pick up the second one. “Don’t sweet talk me, I’m still mad at you.”
“Save that energy for tomorrow, you know you’ll need it.”
You jab your fork into the dessert and present a piece of it in front of your boyfriend. “Only one bite, that’s all you get.”
“You’re the sweetest.”
“And you’re the worst.”
He loves this banter with you, it actually makes him feel tender and warm and this weird domestic life that he thought he would hate feels so right with you. He’s grateful for the single bite of dessert you allowed him to have and he’s grateful for you for coming into his life. Touya means it when he says that he’s going to marry you but in the meantime he wants to focus on the now. The excitement of tomorrow has him all abuzz and he hopes that he’ll get enough rest for the night. “I’ve got a half day on patrol but then a meeting for a few hours after it. I’ll text you when I’m on my way to the place. It shouldn’t take long to set everything up.”
“Sure but I just have one request.”
“Anything for you doll.”
You hold up the satin ribbon that decorated the box and drop it in Touya’s hand after he wipes his hand dry of the dishwater. “Make some use of this tomorrow, it’ll make me happy.”
“I like making you happy.”
“Only after you get me mad first, you dick.”
Touya only leans forward to kiss your cheek and carefully tucks the ribbon into his pants pocket. He wants nothing more than to fuck you on the kitchen countertop, just feels like he has to have you right then and there but you sashay away with the second dessert and tell him you’re going to eat on the terrace. You are still mad at him after all so he lets you have your space for the meantime as he goes to the living room where his phone is.
The tv plays in the background with the volume on low as Touya talks on the phone with his mother, a commercial playing into between news segments that doesn’t have his attention. The news comes back on just as you enter the living room and plop down on the couch, curling up against the seat cushions first and then pulling the throw blanket over your legs to keep you warm. Touya’s eyes catch the brief news headline on television as he listens to Rei speak from her end about the next upcoming family dinner she wants to host. As for you, you watch the television intently as the newscaster brings up the next report.
It’s the report of the murdered women again in the city district, warnings cited that women should not attempt to walk alone and to be on alert for their safety. The chief of police is making statements about the string of murders and that he promises that the gruesome killings of the young women will end and that the killer will be brought in. Tension is in your shoulders as you watch the news report and your hands slowly clench the blanket but Touya is quick to be by your side, using his free hand to tilt your head up to look at him and presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “It’s okay doll, nothing is going to happen to you.” he murmurs while putting his phone on mute for a few seconds as his mother continues to talk.
“Promise?” you look up at him, delicately moving his hand so that you could lean your cheek in his palm. He knows that you’re not actually scared but you lean into the part of a frightened damsel, “Nothin’s gonna happen to me?”
“I promise, not while I’m all around.”
Touya’s learned from an early age to wake up early in the mornings and you’ve begrudgingly synced with his schedule, usually taking some time to just talk to one another before he has to get up and start getting ready. Your legs are tangled in one another and he holds you close, his fingers playing with the strap of your negligee as you and him make small talk. “You know your mom wants you to stop dying your hair, she told me.” you inform Touya while your fingers trace the ridges of his abdominals. “She misses your natural hair.”
“I know she does, but I like having this dark look. I think it makes me look badass.” Touya chuckles but does silently note that maybe he’ll remove the dye more towards the end of the year, perhaps closer to Christmas so that it makes Rei happy. “What do you think?”
“I think you look fine, I’m sure your parents are relieved that you took all those piercings out of your face.” you chuckle and snuggle further into Touya’s arms. You were given credit for his outward physical appearance too, Endeavor’s eldest son debuting with piercings on his ears, his nose, eyebrows and his lips and after meeting you the majority of his face jewelry was removed save for his double helix on both his ears and one nostril piercing he decided to keep. He now looked more cleaned up since you came along. “Makes you stand out a little less.”
Touya hums nonchalantly.
“You got everything ready right?” you ask, lifting your hand and Touya links his fingers in between the spaces of yours. “Everything is set?”
Touya nods his head, glancing down towards you and noses against your temple. He’s excited for tonight and can’t wait at all but he has to keep his cool for the entirety of the day, still has to wear the mask and uniform of a hero until tonight. At least you get to hole up at home unlike him, you don’t have to face anyone out there for your obligations because you don’t have any for the day. Touya likes that he’s made your life comfortable and that he provides for you, something he didn’t ever think that was possible for himself.
Reluctantly the time comes for Touya to start getting ready for his day and you simply roll over in bed to continue to sleep. By the time Touya has his bag packed, you already drifted off to sleep and he pulls the cover over you after kissing the top of your head. The dress he bought for you is hanging in the closet and he knows that it’ll look gorgeous on you tonight.
Usually he likes to take his own car to work but today, he calls on his father’s driver to pick him up from his home outside the gate. He’s an old gentleman that’s worked for the family for a long time and has seen Touya from when he was a baby to the grown man he is now. Small talk is made between the two of them until Touya is dropped off the agency and waves off the chauffeur, securing the bag on his shoulder before entering in. He’s greeted warmly by sidekicks, fellow pros, and the other staff as he makes his way through the building.
In the locker room as Touya gets changed into his uniform, he feels the presence of one of the pros that joined with him recently. A younger guy, just by a few years, but he’s got speed and skill that impresses him. Blond hair and bright red wings are in his peripherals and Touya turns his head to greet him, “Hawks, the early bird as usual.”
“Mornin’ senpai, you seem in a chipper mood today. Got something planned?” Hawks says as he starts to change out of his civilian clothes into his hero clothes. “Date night with your pretty lady?”
“Nothing big, just something low key for us.” Touya answers lightly but is slightly unnerved by Hawks. He knows that he’s keeping himself under wraps that no one else notices, that he’s not acing any different at all, but there has always been something about Hawks that makes him incredibly perceptive to the people and world around him. It’s what makes him a great hero and what makes Touya keep him at arm’s length. “You could stand to go on a few dates yourself.”
“I suppose so since you gave up the single man mantle then it could be my turn. Maybe I’ll get lucky like you and pick up something pretty when I’m recusing someone.” Hawks engages in the banter as he quickly dresses himself, his locker shut and already getting started for the day.
The day passes by in such a blur that Touya barely registers it, only really gaining his reality back as he undoes the tie around his neck after leaving a meeting in regards to the current cases that are still unsolved by the agency and the updated crime statistics. He leaves through the backdoor of the agency after disguising himself, not needing to be recognized as he walks the streets among the civilians again.
The closer Touya gets to his destination, the more excited he becomes.
He checks the time and sees a text from you informing him that you’re getting ready at the moment. For now he doesn’t respond back and continues to walk towards his destination: the love hotel he was at just the day before. With his bag still tucked securely by his side, Touya sees the girl he was with just the day before waiting by the entrance. She waves her hand and smiles at him, he returns it simply for formalities sake because after tonight he won’t ever see her again.
Cash payment to secure the room for the night and he chooses a plain room with no theme, he thinks that kind of thing is cringe and Touya knows that it doesn’t appeal to you either. God forbid he ever choose an ugly room, he would never hear the end of it from you. With the door closed, he quite literally has to control the shake of his hands as he takes off his mask and glasses, and the hood from his jacket pushed off his head. Another text from you that tells him that you’re on your way, it will only take fifteen minutes.
“So how was your day?” he asks just to kill some time, make it seem as if really is interested in this nobody girl he chose. She’s cleaning herself up in the bathroom and leaves a crack in the door open so that she can have a conversation with Touya, completely oblivious as he’s readying himself in the other room and texting you at the same time. When she comes out, he has to play impressed when she comes out wearing a set of black lingerie. It does look nice and he won’t lie this chick does have a bangin’ body but the pretty lingerie isn’t on you and she isn’t you.
“Aw, I told you that it wasn’t necessary for you to wear something nice.” Touya neatly folds his shirt and puts it into his bag. “I told you that it wouldn’t matter if you did.”
“Yeah well, maybe I didn’t listen on purpose.” she’s coy as she comes up to him and hugs her arms around his neck. “Will I get a punishment from you Pro Hero?”
“Something like that.” Touya then directs the girl on the bed, fishes out a pair of metal handcuffs from his back pocket. Thankfully the bed has a headboard for him to link the handcuffs and restrain the bitch, tells her to test it out with just a simple tug. The metal clinks against it but otherwise does not give way, though he doubts this girl is strong enough to free herself. And her quirk isn’t meant for fighting or for being able to call for help so he’s in the clear for any push back that most likely will not happen. “One other thing…”
From his front pocket, he presents the the satin ribbon from your gift yesterday.
“Nah, I want you to see everything. Makes it more special.” Touya says as he silently directs the girl to lift her head up from the pillows and ties it as a gag around her mouth. “Yeah… this’ll do.”
There’s a knock on the door that pulls the girl’s attention and she makes a questioning sound, but Touya is giddy because he knows that it’s you that finally arrived. So he’s happy to let you in, happy to see you wearing the dress he bought for you, and happy to pull you in for a kiss as he brings you into the room and shuts the door.
You pull away from Touya, giggling a little but staying in his embrace. “I missed you…”
“Missed you too babydoll. No one saw you right?” Touya asks you just for his own peace of mind.
“Please, I’ve never been caught before ever.” you scoff as you pull out his embrace and walk towards the bed with the restrained girl on the mattress. You observe her briefly as she looks in question between you and Touya, just a little tilt of your head as your eyes look her up and down. Then you look back at Touya and ask him, “So is this what you’re attracted to now? This is the kind of girl you go for?”
Touya sighs up at the ceiling, knowing that this was coming but he’s always prepared for it.
Every single time.
“Doll, you know that’s not the case. You know that you’re the only one for me okay? We go through this every time and I always come out in the end with you, don’t I?” Touya tells you as he takes your hand and pulls you back to him, swaying a little back and forth as he holds you. “You know that you have nothing to worry about. In fact I do this for you so that you can have your fun, I don’t like seeing you get all stiff when you haven’t done this in a while.”
You roll your eyes and just exhale a breath out. “I know, I know it’s just… she’s too pretty.” you say as you glance over to the girl restrained to the bed and still processing the situation that she’s in. “Did it have to be a pretty one?”
“What, you want me to pick someone ugly?” Touya laughs out.
“Yeah, pick an ugly one next time. Not someone who looks like she could, like, be famous online for being pretty and posting thirst traps and shit.” You pout and glare forward at Touya’s collarbone. “You want me to look like her? Dye my hair that color? Have tits like that too?”
Touya rubs his hand at the small of your back and kisses your forehead to soothe you. “I don’t really wanna pick someone ugly… I want a good picture when I do this too.”
He’s pushed back by you and slapped in the face but Touya’s unbothered by your anger; he stoked it on purpose because he loves seeing you getable riled up. But what he said wasn’t a lie either, no other girl will be as beautiful as you but shit he used to bag nothing but the hot ones before you came along so he’s just used to picking them up. He fights off your slaps and ignores how you call him a son of a bitch, not at all bothered but instead his cock gets hard in his pants and he smiles fondly at you. “Easy babydoll, I love you okay? I love you.”
“Asshole!” you huff at him and stop your assault but still sigh out, “I love you too.”
Looking over to the girl on the bed, you once more observe her from where you stand and cross your arms under your chest. “That’s some sexy lace she’s wearing, you were planning on having some fun beforehand?”
Touya’s at his bag as he answers you, “I told her to not bother with wearing anything nice, I knew that it would be wasted on me but she came like that anyway.”
You step closer towards the head of the bed and lean down just a little, ignoring the muffled whimpers the girl below you gives out. ‘She’s too pretty’ you can’t help thinking to yourself and push some of your hair back behind your ear. You do appreciate the ribbon from yesterday being utilized and it does make you happy that she won’t be able to say a word for her last remaining time here.
Two taps to your shoulder and without looking back, you simply lift your hand and hold the item that is placed into its palm.
A blade flicks out when you press the button and immediately the girl on the bed starts panicking, muffled sounds of distress and her pulling against the handcuffs.
“Relax I won’t touch you at all,” you inform her as you walk back to the foot of the bed and lightly tap the tip of the knife against your collarbone, “but this is still gonna hurt.”
Touya watches as you quickly sink the blade into your right shoulder and through the fabric of the dress but it pulls out clean without any blood. There is no wound that appears on your shoulder, only the rip where the blade penetrated your dress but it’s clean underneath. There is no wound on your shoulder from the knife but the girl on the mattress sports it instead, a surprisingly clean stab wound as fresh blood oozes from the opening.
She’s screaming against the gag and wildly looking down at the stab wound that appeared on her own body instead of yours.
You look back at Touya, expertly spinning the knife between your fingers and ask him if the room was soundproof enough.
“I fucked that bitch to the point she was screaming like she was getting murdered so I think we’re in the clear.”
“Ugh really?” you huff out at Touya and glare at him. “Are you fucking serious Touya?”
“What? You know that I already fucked her, it’s nothing new.” he shrugs his shoulders in answer.
You turn around and put one hand on your hip and gesture the hand holding the knife towards the mattress and point the tip of the blade towards the girl. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you have to word it like that? All you had to say was, ‘Yes it’s soundproof enough baby.’ You didn’t have to spiral into detail about how you fucked her!”
“I did not ‘spiral into detail’, you are exaggerating. And you know what (Name), even if I was vague about it you would either poke or prod me into telling you what it was like or you would make your own assumptions and accuse me anyway.” Touya argues with you but he did word it the way he did purpose to make you upset, that you’re finally shedding that pretty, demure mask you put on when you’re out in the world and he’s happy to see you be that unhinged pretty girl that he first met when he thought you were a hostage. “C’mon doll, you really wanna argue?”
“Fuck you Touya, you took us here! Don’t make me seem like I started this when you know exactly what you are doing! You just enjoy pissing me off, I fuckin’ see you rock hard over there and getting your jollies off of making me like this!” you yell at him, getting wilder and huffing and looking like you just want to kill him and he loves it! “I swear to god Touya, one of these days you really will make me kill you!”
Ah your regular threat but Touya isn’t scared of you, he isn’t scared of you and your quirk which you’re right, you can absolutely kill him with it easily, but it’s never going to happen. “Relax yourself (Name), focus on what’s important. I love you and you love me, we’re walking out this place together.” He eases you with gentle words from where he stands and gestures towards the bed again. “You want something to take your aggression out on? Use that one first and you can ride on this dick next.”
And Touya watches from where he stands and watches you torture that poor girl he picked without ever putting your hands or that knife directly on her body. Your special little quirk that was never recorded in the registry and in your hospital file, your parents thinking that you were without a quirk when you reached that age for it to manifest and therefore they tried to protect you from the world when really the world should be protected by you. You’ve got a terrifying quirk and you’ve utilized it perfectly, perfected your skills and intelligence to never be caught by anyone, playing the part of a quirkless, innocent and helpless girl in this society when in reality you’re so crazy with bloodlust.
You’re his crazy little doll.
His favorite name to call you because of your quirk, transferring pain and injuries inflicted on yourself to others, like a voodoo doll.
Touya fell in love with you instantly, he fell for that wild and giddy look when he first watched you torture the man he thought was your kidnapper. He was wandering the red light district and when he passed by an abandoned building, something to it had called him to enter it. Touya feels that it was the red string of fate that gave him that instinct to search out that building that fateful night, finding you bound to a chair with tape over your mouth. And of course upon seeing a Pro Hero, you played a damsel in distress to be freed. That night he met you felt like such a blur but when he looked at you, there was something about you that was screaming at him to have you.
And he knows that night you could have killed him, because you tried to lose him in the building so that you could sate your bloodlust. But he had found you just in time, hurting yourself enough and transferring that pain onto the man who made the mistake of targeting you. And Touya didn’t watch in shock but rather in fascination, the pure honesty on your face as you tortured the man who kidnapped you without ever needing to get close to him.
He remembers you looking at him and he thought you would do the same thing to him too, and honestly Touya would have been helpless to a quirk that could kill him from afar. Instead you looked down to the erection that Touya did not realize he was sporting and asked him, “You like what you see?”
That night Touya watched you murder a man and awaken a part of him that he felt like he had been denying. Because while being a Pro Hero was great, he got to be just like his father and had a purpose, Touya hated that he had to hold himself back from hurting the assholes he apprehended. That on some level he knew he’d get a thrill burning villains alive but he just couldn’t because heroes don’t kill. He lived vicariously through you, watching and aiding and abetting you all while loving and adoring you at the same time. Because he accepted the way you were instantly and you accepted him, two messed up minds that make the perfect couple.
You’re his perfect half.
Touya watches you finally kill the girl in bed, stained red on the sheets and still dripping fresh. You climb onto the bed, straddling the dead girl on her stomach and the fresh wounds you inflicted on her with your quirk stain your pretty white dress that’s filled with the cuts from the knife you used. He observes how you touch where the pulse is on her neck, checking for sure that she’s dead, and he groans how you smear blood on your cheeks, down your neck and collarbones, down that teasingly low v neckline and gather more to wipe it on your dress.
You look back at him and you’re happy, you’re feeling like yourself and not at all the repressed persona you’ve put on for the world, Touya lets you be you. You’re so dazzlingly beautiful when you finally have the opportunity to be yourself, your eyes are clearer and your smile bigger and you just exude joyfulness and relief and delight.
“Do I look pretty Touya?” you ask him as if you were a bashful girl on a first date for the very first time. “Am I pretty?”
He reaches a hand out to help you climb out the bed and holds you tight against his body. “You’re the most beautiful girl, you’re my doll. You’re mine.”
He doesn’t care about your bloody hands as you reach up to touch his cheek. He’s sure that the adoration you have in your eyes reflects his own, you’ve told him before that he’s got intense eyes just like his father but there’s a glint in them that isn’t inherited from either of his parents. No that glint in his eyes is because of you, the credit all goes to you and he loves you for it. When he leans down to kiss you, the world falls apart and everything feels right for him. That where is now is exactly where he is supposed to be and there’s no where else Touya would rather be than with you.
Touya leads you to the connecting bathroom to wash you up, he starts up the shower to bring it to the right temperature while you take the time of taking your dress off. It drops to a heap on the floor and you sigh at your own appearance in the mirror, admiring your reflection but hating the feel of blood beginning to crust brown on your skin as it dries. Touya brought a small bag of your toiletries knowing how unwilling you are to use the soaps and shampoos provided by the hotels you stay at.
You’ve made Touya into someone that gets off on watching you torture and kill people, completely against the credo of a hero, but also into this caring man that he never thought he could be. He shows it on how he washes you off, the temperature of the shower exactly to your liking even though it’s just a touch too hot for him. He’s gentle in how he cleans you up, makes sure not to miss a single spot as he rubs a washcloth over you that has your favorite body wash lathered into the fabric. Taking care of you has become part of his purpose in life and Touya wouldn’t wish he had a different life at all because this is perfect.
When you’re washed clean, you’re moved to the tub that’s filled with clear, warm water. The water sloshes in the porcelain as you ride Touya’s cock, hips moving sensually as you keep your hands braced on the edge and soft little moans spill from your lips. “Your dick always feels bigger in me whenever we do this.” you giggle as you grind yourself in his lap. “You always gets so excited when this happens.”
“And you, doll, are always wetter and tighter when this happens.” Touya shoots back. He cups one of your breasts in his hand, feeling your soft mound and can’t help slapping it a little just to watch it jiggle from the impact. Your pussy clenches briefly around him and you still concentrate on your movements. Soft words echo into the bathroom, words like ‘I love this’ and ‘I’m so happy’ are a complete opposite from your activities from before. But what happened in the bedroom stays there and what’s happening in the tub is what’s more important now.
Touya sometimes wonders if you can see the hearts in his eyes when he looks at you, because he can certainly see yours.
You’re spearing yourself on his cock, more aggressive as the water in the tub begins to slosh over the edge and onto the white tiles of the bathroom. Your head thrown back and eyes to the ceiling, you’re losing yourself on him and thinking back to the girl you just killed. The adrenaline of the kill spikes in you and instead of sensual, you want to get fucked as meaningless as Touya did to that girl. “How’d you fuck her? Better not have fucked her like you liked her.”
“Course not doll, would never…” Touya groans.
“Show me how you fucked her.”
And the flip switches per your command, Touya lifts you off his cock and turns you around to be put on your hands and knees. You brace the edge of the tub as your hips are pulled back, exhaling shakily as his thick cock breaches you from behind. Being with Touya feels like coming home, being able to unwind and let your shoulders pop as tension is lifted away and you become enraptured in your own little world with him. You curse quietly at first as he sets the pace behind you, a slow tempo at first and it irritates you because you know that he did not fuck that other girl soft like this. But when you turn your head back to yell at him, he thrusts forward roughly and the complaint is wiped away and only your sweet moans are fucked out of you.
The water splashes when Touya’s hips meet your ass, watching as the flesh bounces and jiggles with every impact. He fucked that girl the very last time in this position, doggy style and not wanting to see her face so that he could bliss himself out thinking of you. Truth is Touya can’t fuck you exactly how he fucked that girl, there’s too much love there for you, but he can at least fuck you close enough where you get the idea. That it’s impersonal and means nothing, that’s how it always was with those girls before you and the ones he fucks to lead them to their deaths by your hand.
“Ah! Ah f-fuck! Sh-Shit Touya!” you whine and struggle to keep yourself braced against the tub. But you can’t help leaning your chest further down the water, more than half of it sloshed out the tub due to the rigorous fucking, arching your back more for your lover and presenting your ass to him. Touya leans more over you to take advantage of the position, to fuck you in that angle that he knows that you love and his cock can reach inside you and drive you fucking wild until you’re cumming too much that you beg him that you can’t handle it.
Your little sobs turn him on because as much as you loved the power you held with your quirk in that bedroom not too long ago, you love to also relinquish that power over to him every single time when it’s all said and done. You have no means of defending yourself when there’s no weapons for you to grab and use your quirk but there’s no need to, because Touya’s never had to use his quirk on you before.
His fingers touch a part of your hip and feels the differences of a healed scar versus smooth skin.
Scratch that, he’s used his quirk on you once.
Touya pulls out of you and you curse at him, beg for him back inside you but he pulls you up by your bicep, throws down a towel on the floor where the bathtub water splashed over the edge because god forbid either of you fall and break something on wet tile. And he puts you against the bathroom countertop, the edge of it pressed into your lower back as Touya lifts one leg of yours and holds it by the back of your knee. You’re sure to brace your hands on the bathroom marble, your head falling back when Touya sinks himself into you again and your eyes cross for a few seconds.
And he fucks into you, this time you’re like a rag doll as you let Touya unleash his own pent up energy into your cunt. It’s wet and squelching down there, turquoise blue glancing down to the ring of cream around his cock and he hisses out a drawn out, “Fuck…!” You can’t stop gushing for him, your sobs and praise for how good he is fuels him. His eyes are then drawn to the scar on your hip and he touches it delicately at first before grabbing your hand and having you trace the scar that he gave you.
The fucking brand that you begged him to give you after you declared your love for him.
“This’ll show that I’m yours forever.”
His name right there on your hip, burned by a special fire that emitted from his palms and even surprised him. Touya knows that you’re one of a kind to awaken a different fire within him, that you affected him both inside and his quirk as well. You accepted the pain of it, you wanted it after all, crying and gritting your teeth as hot pain seared into your skin. And the wound took a while to heal but you took it like a champ, you had your own light scarring in your skin when you overused your quirk too much but this one you’d love forever.
His name right there on your hip and only for him to see.
Just like how only this side of you is for Touya.
“Look at me right here doll, look at me.” he commands you, his hips unfaltering in pace as he continues to fuck into you. Your head lazily comes forward and you use the arm still braced on the countertop to pull him closer to you, sighing as you’re hiked up against the countertop a little higher and hang onto Touya. “You’re my fucked up little doll, aren’t ya? No one has a clue what goes in that pretty head ‘cept for me.”
“Y-yeah, only you Touya.” you whimper out as you curl your arms around his neck to hold him closer. “‘M the only one for you, I’m yours…”
Such a dreamy sigh from your pretty lips, he almost wanted to kiss you. But Touya encourages you to talk more, he wants to hear all your nasty and heartfelt thoughts about him. He’s the only person you can be one hundred percent honest with no matter what. “I fuckin’ love you Touya, love you… love you so damn much! Wish you weren’t a hero sometimes so tha’ I can keep you inside me—fuck —keep your big cock in me!”
“It’s so fuckin’ soft inside you babydoll, goddamn look at you…” he’s so in awe, all this sentimental and mushy shit that only you bring out in him. Touya’s so lovesick for you that he feels like it’s just not possible for him to fall for anyone else. Your pussy is clenching around him with those velvety, soft walls and gushing wet every time he fucks up into you. When he presses balls deep into you, you ooze for him and cream around his dick that drives Touya wild and makes him feel like he’s going to bust early. Your pussy is like heroin to him, he feels so addicted and doesn’t ever wanna quit being inside you.
Your hand touches the back of his neck and pulls him down for a smothering, messy kiss. The two of you are chasing your highs, doesn’t matter that the your tongues are uncoordinated and your teeth clash a little, neither of you is trying to make this moment beautiful.
It’s raw desire.
“Fuckin’ hell you’re all mine and I’ll kill any motherfucker that wants you.” Touya growls when he pulls away from the kiss and he pummels your insides with his cock. He knows that the likelihood of you leaving is low but he wants feed his own fantasy, satisfy the bloodlust he wishes he could indulge in but can’t. So he talks like this and imagines it in his head, any man that comes near you he incinerates with his flames to stake his claim because there will be no one after him. He’s your end all, the last partner you are ever going to have in your life. “Ya hear me doll, I’d fuckin’ kill for you.”
Such violent words bloom a soft sentiment inside your heart, you hiss out a drawn out ‘Yes!’ and hold Touya tighter and egg him on. “Yeah baby? You’d kill for me? Kill for your babydoll?”
And Touya goes on to describe how he’d kill for you, how he’d torture and maim with his quirk and becomes more feral the more he goes on. He fucks you hard against the countertop that has you scratching and clawing at his back, has you crying and screaming over how good you’re getting fucked. That as rough as it is and almost feels he’s fucking you like he hates you, there’s still love underneath and he could never fuck you as if you were the random whores from back then.
He’s long dropped your leg from his hold and you’ve wrapped it around his hips while your other leg can barely keep you balanced on the ground. You’ve let Touya take control and drink in the desires he wishes that he could fulfill, desires that you’ve been doing for years and were happy to bring Touya along as long as he never betrayed you.
You know he won’t, he’s too in love with you and too in love with fucking your cunt to ever entertain the thought.
Does he piss you off on purpose sometimes? Does he get on your nerves when he gets too teasing? Does he infuriate you that he always chooses beautiful, pretty girls to fuck around with and then let you have your revenge by killing them?
Yes to all of the above.
But Touya cares for you when it’s all said and done, pampers you and croons sweet words to you that he hasn’t said for anyone else, caters to you because no one else could get him so weak the way you make him.
“T-Touya, ‘m gonna cum! Wanna cum for you Touya!” you sob into his neck, the coil inside your tummy growing tighter and waiting to release.
“Fuckin’ hold it, not yet!” Touya growls, “You cum when I tell you to, understand?”
Your curse at him and tell him that you could kill him for ordering you around like that because you’re not used to being told to hold back your orgasms on command. Nevertheless you do listen to him and try to hold on the best you can. Although when Touya bites down hard on your neck, you transfer the pain over to him and he feels it instead and it makes his hips stutter into you and almost cums on the spot.
“Spiteful bitch!” Touya cusses you out. He lifts you to fully sit on the countertop and roughly pushes you back that makes the back of your head slam against the mirror but thankfully no cracks against it. Your legs are roughly spread open after you’re pulled towards Touya with your ass hanging off the edge, his cock thrusts into you without any warning and your eyes roll to the back of your head in pleasure.
“P-Please Touya, jus’ wanna cum for you!” you whimper. Your hands find his on your hips and you grasp his wrists needing to feel a sense of security as he roughly fucked you. He’s got his hand over the scar on your hip, his name, and you just feel the barest brush of his thumb gently rubbing back and forth. No matter how hard Touya fucks his cock into you, there’s always that barest touch of love that is there.
Touya shakes off your hand on his wrist and directs it to your clit, tells you to touch yourself for him and keep talking.
You’re babbling about your love for him, how good it feels to get his cock in you, you start begging and pleading to just finally let you fall over the edge and just fucking cum already!
It’s overwhelming as you touch your clit coupled with the rough way Touya moves inside you, your pussy is overwhelmed and you choke out, “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum!”
Your body tenses and the peak of your high crashes into you as Touya watches from his point and continues to fuck into your fluttering little hole. He grins like a loon as fluids squirt all over his lower stomach and cock and moves into overtime. “Fuck, goddamn I’m gonna cum so fuckin’ hard ‘cause of you! You gonna take all this cum, yeah doll? Take it all in that tight, little pussy of yours?” Touya asks you but he knows right now that you’re incapable of speech. You can only muster jittery little nods as you brace your hands on the countertop and the only sounds you make are the moans Touya continues to fuck out of you. “Keep the pain to yourself this time.”
Touya pulls you up enough and hugs you to him so that he can lean down and bite you again. No pain blooms on his shoulder and he’s glad that you listened this time, your legs kicking out in reaction to the pain from his bite. He groans and holds you tight as his cock twitches and finally releases into you, painting you white inside and letting his own tension finally snap.
In the aftermath of an intense orgasm and mind blowing sex, you and Touya just hold each other while you gather your breaths. You turn your head away from Touya’s and look over at the bathroom door, it wasn’t completely shut and you can see just a peek into the bedroom.
It’s gonna be such a bitch to clean all that up.
You and Touya take another bath for actual leisure, sitting across from one another instead of in each other’s arms, you’ve got your legs pulled to your chest while he’s leaning against the tub with one leg propped up and the other stretched towards you. And you two make small talk about how his work was that day and if you did anything at the house, all domestic small talk between a couple, it’s almost as though one of you didn’t just murder someone in the other room and you didn’t fuck the shit out of each other from the adrenaline rush.
And while the two of you are drying off and putting on the spare clothes Touya brought, you look over to him and ask, “So that’s how you fucked her? Exactly like how we did?”
There you go again, looking to start another fight.
“C’mon (Name), you know when my demonstration of how I fucked that rando girl ended and when I started fucking you for us began.” Touya sighs out as he dries his hair with a towel. “Let’s not do this, we had a good time okay?”
When the two of you are dressed in spare clothes, you and Touya look at the dead body in the bed and feel exhausted at the thought of cleaning up. He’s stuffed your tattered dress into his bag to dispose of it later and starts to pull on gloves but then you tell him not to bother. “I can’t stand looking at her face, she’s still way too pretty even though she’s gone now. I want you to burn it, I don’t her to be recognizable.”
“Doll, I can’t burn the body in this room without alerting the entire hotel.” Touya scoffs but the mention of it gets his heart rate going. “We need to be cleaner than that.”
“Then fuck it, burn this entire place to the ground. There’s probably a few rapists or human traffickers in here somewhere that deserve to die.” You shrug your shoulders as you zip up the hoodie that was brought for you. “C’mon, I know you want to. There’s barely any staff here, we can’t filter in and out this room to clean up, and it’ll be so much easier. Even if they do trace the fire back to a quirk user, there’s hundreds of other people out there that can use fire also. Your quirk is not unique Touya, it’s just stronger than everybody else’s.”
Touya puts the gloves back inside the bag and considers it; he had scoped out this hotel just a few weeks ago to get to know the layout and blindspots, routed the best path to not be found and the alternates too. Usually there’s no cameras within proximity of love hotels to keep anonymity and he decides that it would be best if you left the hotel first and be out of range before he joins you.
So he decides ‘fuck it’ and opens his palm, instead of the regular fire that he inherited from Endeavor, a blue flame flicks brightly that reflects his excited emotions.
Meeting you manifested this blue fire that Dabi didn’t know that he had; the blue fire that he used to brand his name into your skin.
“Easy babe, I know you’re excited but that would make this incident stand out even more. Bring it down a level okay?”
You’re right, Touya didn’t tell anyone about this new fire that awakened in him and he didn’t plan on telling anyone about it soon. He’s mulled it over if he should introduce it into his hero work, especially to stand apart from Shouto who inherited both fire and ice from old mom and dad, but he was still iffy.
The bright blue fire is brought down to a glowing orange and red.
Touya has you take the bag after disguising your appearance, tells you which street to meet you at once he’s finished setting the hotel ablaze. The body is the first to burn, as per your request, so Touya makes quick work of going to different corners of the hotel to set it on fire before moving to the exterior. And by the time he meets you at the corner, he ushering you away from the hotel that’s now burning brightly and the most nearby heroes are attempting to put out the flames.
In the backyard of the house, Touya builds a small fire and burns the gifted dress while you sigh sadly at the sight. You watch the fabric curl and burn away, your heart heavy that such a beautiful piece wouldn’t be worn by again you. Touya offers to buy you the same dress again when he sees how upset you are over it but you shake your head and just tell him to not get you something as nice for next time.
“I’m getting cold so I’m gonna head inside, don’t stay out for too long okay?” you tell him before kissing his cheek to go back inside the house. “Love you.”
“Love you too doll, I’ll meet you in there shortly.” Touya says as you walk away. The bag that he brought with him is sitting by his feet and he kneels down to it to fetch a pack of cigarettes that he knows he stuffed in there somewhere. He feels his knuckle bump hard against the knife you had used earlier and pushed it away. And he feels something soft, nothing of yours that he recognizes he packed inside and he unzips the top completely to look in and see what he was touching.
Touya frowns at what he finds.
A single red feather.
He picks it up and holds it in between his thumb and forefinger, looks at it displeasingly. He wonders if he should speak to the feather, knowing that Hawks can interpret the vibrations if he’s close enough. Touya thinks on it before he finally says, “You better watch yourself.”
The red fire is burned away by his blue flame, gone in a matter of seconds and merely ashes that blow in the wind.
And he walks back inside where you sit on the couch with that same throw blanket over your legs just like the other day. The news is playing about the mysterious love hotel fire, the reported number of bodies found so far and the question of how the fire had started in the first place. Touya will tell you about his find later on but not right now, he wants to enjoy the day for what it was and worry about problems tomorrow.
Touya sits next to you and pulls you in to curl against his body, you’re asking what’s for dinner and what could deliver this late at night since neither of you are up for cooking again. You and Touya look the part of a normal couple, living in domesticity and bickering lightly about which takeout would be superior for the evening while mentioning about the upcoming dinner with the parents.
“I still think you could choose someone less pretty next time.” you say over takeout food for the second night in a row.
“Yes babydoll, I’ll keep that in mind.”
For now, Touya can only think how grateful he is to have met you and have you, to be the one to hold you and be the only person to know what your quirk is. He’ll worry about the possibility of what that red feather might have heard but for now, Touya ignores it to keep the peace for the night and to keep you happy.
174 notes · View notes
✯pairing: prisoner! dabi (todoroki touya) x reader
✯synopsis: Struggling with your constant loneliness, your friend suggests you write letters to inmates, thinking it would do you good to have some type of human interaction. Unfortunately, you end up taking interest in the wrong inmate.
✯warning: fem! reader, she/her pronouns, dubious consent, mental coercion, sexual coercion, manipulation, knifeplay, choking, degradation, humiliation, toxic relationships, spit kink, marking, quirk play, burning, Dabi burns the skin of your thighs, blood and injury, yandere, yandere dabi, dark content, creampie raw sex, wrap it before you tap it, rough sex, oral sex, cunnilingus, dabi has genital piercings, slight size kink, stockholm syndrome, cum eating, and that's it I think.
✯note: just wanted to let you know that I do not condone this behaviour! Also! Shoutout to Jeannie! @nakachuchu My lovely girl! Thank you so much for beta-reading!!
“You want me to write letters to prisoners? Like...a penpal type of thing?” You tilted your head in curiosity, causing your friend to reach over and pinch the fat of your cheek. Scowling, you swatted her before signalling her to continue speaking.
“Yeah! Look! There’s a whole list of people you can send letters to! You can also see the crimes they committed, mostly for safety purposes but it’s still interesting. Their date of birth, an intro, and their inmate numbers. Just scroll through and see if anyone interests you okay? I gotta run,” she said as she pressed a kiss to your forehead and made her way out, giving you a sheepish smile before closing the door.
You went to lock the door, dragging your feet as you threw yourself on the comforter and inhaled the soft scent of your detergent before turning to look at your laptop. Your curiosity gets the best of you as you search for the site. Looking at their profiles wouldn’t hurt, would it?
Scrolling down, you mostly avoided the copious amounts of people who committed some type of murder, which was quite concerning seeing as a number of them were said to be released in the next ten years. A few profiles caught your attention.
NAME: Shigaraki Tomura
D.O.B: April 4
INMATE NUMBER: 23452
CONVICTED OF: Mass murder, Mass destruction, Terrorism, Familicide, Assault, Kidnapping, Torture, Theft, Mutilation, Vandalism, Sabotage, Kidnapping, and Conspiracy.
My name is Shigaraki Tomura. I like playing video games and causing destruction. You may be judging me for the crimes I committed but I don’t really care. I don’t regret anything I did and once I get out of here, I’ll continue being the same, doing the same things, upping my kill count. My favourite video games are--
You hastily scrolled, not wanting to read any more of the man’s profile. His picture showcasing his lips spread into a sadistic smile, dry lips cracked and bleeding as his red eyes stared into the lens of the camera. His long, shaggy blue hair messily framing his face. He would’ve been quite an attractive man if it weren’t for his crimes.
NAME: Eren Yeager
D.O.B: March 30
INMATE NUMBER: 83747
CONVICTED OF: Mass murder, Mass destruction, Genocide, Terrorism, Treason, Crimes against peace, and Insurrection.
My name is Eren Yeager. I’m 19 years old. I like long walks on the beach. Send me a letter if you’re interested.
Hard pass. You rolled your eyes as you continued to scroll. It seemed as if nobody was able to catch your attention. You continued to mindlessly scroll only stopping at a certain profile. He had spiky black hair and piercing cerulean eyes. There were dark purple areas near the lower half of his face as well as under his eyes. Silver staples glinted in the light, holding the skin together as he smirked into the camera.
He looked as if he didn’t care to be there. Cocky, almost.
D.O.B: January 18
INMATE NUMBER: 78987
CONVICTED OF: Arson
SENTENCE: 5 years
They call me Dabi. I’m 23 and I’ve been in this hellhole for almost 5 years. I signed up for this penpal thing because I was bored. I’m a pretty nice guy who likes all sorts of things. Send me something if you’re interested, yeah? You know where I’m at, so don’t be shy ;).
You couldn’t help but blush at the last sentence. He seemed to be a good candidate to speak to. You shot up, wanting to be his penpal before anyone else could snatch him. You exhaled briefly before opening another tab to search for any stationery sets, wanting to send him the prettiest looking letters you could make.
My name is Y/n Y/l! I’m 19 years old! I’m a pretty nice girl who likes all sorts of things. I mostly signed up for this penpal thing to ease my friends' nerves. She thinks I’m lonely lol. I’m an only child and I grew up in the city! I’m excited to learn more about you! What’s your favourite colour?
Was your letter too short? Would he respond? Do you even know how to mail a letter? Various thoughts and doubts continued to plague your mind. You clicked your tongue, brows furrowing as you opened your door, shuffling inside picking up your phone to inform your friend that you had already dropped off the letter and were just waiting for a reply, in which she replied with a long keyboard smash and an onslaught of emojis.
It would take at least a week for him to respond. If he even responded.
The week went by quickly. You repeated your usual schedule of eating, going to school, and sleeping. Throughout the week, all you could think of was your letter. Your anxiety continued to create several scenarios where Dabi would make fun of you, ignore your letter, or maybe even kidnap you. All your thoughts and worries washed away when you got to your front doo and you saw a letter sticking out of your mailbox.
You excitedly squealed before reaching for the envelope, rushing inside your house, not even changing your clothes before you were plopping on top of your bed with theletter in hand. You ripped the top using a box cutter, eagerly pulling out the piece of paper that slightly smelled of cologne and ash.
How was your day? My favourite colour is blue. What’s yours? I like your name. It’s cute. I’m glad your friend bugged you. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have such a cute penpal. It would be nice if you could send me a picture of yourself, don’t worry, I’ll do the same. Write back soon yeah?
It was the start of a new friendship.
My day was good! I had to go and buy groceries but they didn’t have the tea that I like which sucks. Anyway, I like blue as well!! It’s such a pretty-looking colour. How are you? I hope you noticed that I included a picture of me as well! As for your picture, I’ve already seen what you look like. You are...Very handsome.
You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? Ah, I can’t believe I’m talking to such a pretty girl. My heart beats a little harder whenever I look at the photo you sent me. Sending such a nice photo for me to see. I decided to send a photo anyway. I’m sure you’re weak for me now. More handsome than the picture they put up on the website no? Also, my hair isn’t actually black, it’s white. Surprise. I hope you like white-haired guys.
“Yo Dabi. I heard you got a penpal, how is she? Cute?” a voice rang out as the door to his cell opened, revealing the warden of the prison. Bright blond hair with a little scruff on his chin, a smirk plastered on the bastard's face and he leaned against the now shut door. His hands shoved into the pockets of his pants.
Hawks loved to bother him. He just looked so cute when pissed off. A scowl present on his handsome face, his brows furrowed in irritation.
“What about her?” he nearly growled, his hands clenched into fists.
Hawks raised his hands as a sign of defeat, showing Dabi that he meant no harm and was just curious, seeing as Dabi had never been interested in anyone for as long as they were friends. He came closer, sitting across Dabi on his bed before nodding at him, signalling him to talk about the female that caught his attention.
Dabi sighed before reluctantly speaking. “She’s a cute little thing,” he breathed, eyes sparkling at the thought of your pretty face. He leant back, reaching for an unknown object under his pillow before briefly pulling out what looked like a polaroid and handing it to Hawks who took it, careful to not leave any smudges.
“Wow. You weren’t lying. She has really pretty eyes, no? I bet she’d look cute begging and drooling for cock. I can tell she’s a desperate little girl just from looking at her. Fuck. Look at her. She’d be such a good cocksleeve,” Hawks continued to rant, biting his lip as he continued to stare at the polaroid.
Dabi couldn’t help but scoff. This man had nothing but audacity. Visibly drooling over a photo of his girl, his cocksleeve. He was aware that you’d be an exceptional cum slut. Such an obedient little toy you’d be for him.
“You’re getting out in 4 weeks aren’t you? Are you gonna tell her?” Hawks queried, passing the polaroid back to its rightful owner before leaning back, gazing at his friend's slumped figure. He looked back up at Hawks, smirking before speaking.
“I’ll surprise her.”
I’m so bored! I hope you’re having more fun than I am. I’m currently stuck inside my home, trying to finish my English essay. I want to choke myself. I wish you were here with me. You’d be pretty entertaining, distracting me from my essay is just a bonus. Ah, I don’t know what else to say, I feel like I’m just complaining at this point. What was your week like? I hope you’re not as bored now that you have me :)
Your doll <3
Dear pretty girl,
Of course, I’m not bored, especially not when I’m writing to you. Getting your letters is the highlight of my week. Maybe you’d like to send me a little more, hm? Maybe help me cure my loneliness? Don’t worry, I’ll send some back. Hopefully, it’ll be enough of a distraction for you.
You couldn’t help but gasp as you read through his most recent letter to you. Your face warming up at the thought of Dabi in his cell with his cerulean eyes trained on the half-naked picture of you, grasping his semi-hard cock before pulling it out of his pants, slowly stroking it.
You could almost hear him moaning, moaning your name as he continued to get himself off to the picture of you. You wanted him to use you. You wanted him to cum because of you. You couldn’t help but slip your hand under the band of your panties, your fingers spreading your lips, arousal dripping down your ass.
“Fuck,” you whispered. You dipped a finger into your quivering hole, easily gliding in due to the copious amounts of slick. You bit your lip, fucking yourself with a lone finger as you continued to reread his letter to you.
Biting your bottom lip as you suppressed your desperate mewls. It was only noon. Deciding to slide your middle finger in, the stretch made you grimace. You weren’t accustomed to using fingers. You mostly stimulated your clit and orgasmed from that. You couldn’t help but whine. You knew that he would be much bigger than your two fingers, stretching you to limits when he would finally fuck you with his cock.
You were almost drooling at the mental image of Dabi fucking into you, his large cock lewdly bobbing up and down as he made his way towards you, his scarred chest broad and well defined. He placed his hands on your hips, tightly gripping your thighs before smacking the side of your left thigh, the stinging sensation made your clit jump.
His rough hand made its way from your mons to your neck, caressing the skin with the tips of his fingers. Your digits quickened, release within your grasp. He would then bring his index and middle finger up to his mouth, his long, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth, using his fingers to gather his spit, rubbing it on the pads of his fingers before using the same digits to circle your nipples.
“My doll’s so sensitive,” he would say with a grin.
Your body curled into itself, your fingers still lodged into your sweet cunt as you spasmed, cumming all over yourself as shivers and electricity made their way from your pelvis to your toes, the feeling had you squealing as your fingers ceased to stop, overstimulating yourself unconsciously.
You slowly pulled your hand out of your pants, the pads of your fingers sticky with your sweet release. It would be such a waste to not show Dabi.
Giggling, you wiped your fingers with the wipes on your bedside table, completely shedding your clothes right after and reaching for your phone and placing it on the sheet of your body, standing up to make your way to your closet. You quickly grabbed your chosen outfit, grinning as it was exactly what you needed.
That was forward. Not gonna lie, I was caught off guard, but I can’t say I don’t hate the idea of you looking at my pictures, maybe doing more. I hope you’re not lying about reciprocating because then I’ll be embarrassed. Hopefully, you still like blue.
“Dabi, you got mail,” a fellow inmate grunted before tossing the letter on his lap, the content of the envelope feeling much thicker than your last letter. His mouth curled into a smirk, his head slightly bowing, the shadows of his hair hiding his handsome face as he made his way into the washroom, not wanting anyone else to see your beautiful self.
He knew you’d be his good girl. You were so naive and trusting it would’ve been a surprise if you hadn’t sent one, or maybe a couple judging from the thickness of the envelope's contents.
He quickly ripped into the letter, immediately getting a whiff of your floral perfume. The mere scent of you had him vibrating in excitement. To his surprise, inside of the envelope was another envelope, this one much smaller in size. He decided to read your letter first, wanting to see just how you had reacted to his inappropriate request. He smiled. You were too easy.
He tucked the letter into the pocket of his shirt, moving on to open the smaller envelope. It was filled with pictures of you, almost a dozen he counted. Your body in various poses, but still clad in a light blue lingerie set, along with matching thigh highs. Shuffling through the pictures had him licking his lips.
One photo caught his eye, seeing as there was writing done with a pen visible on the pack of it. In bold letters, it said, “I want you to burn your name into my skin.” He couldn’t help but laugh in sheer shock. You were crazy.
He still felt something in the envelope, it felt like a lump of some sort. He exhaled shakily, pulling out the same pair of panties you were wearing in the photos. The crotch is stained with your arousal. He brought the fabric up to his nose, inhaling your scent deeply before exhaling. He was trembling with excitement. He had to see you soon.
Fuck. You’re a daring girl, aren’t you? Sending me those naughty pictures along with the little bonus. You’re just waiting for me to break out of here just to fuck you senseless. The number of times I came on your panties because of your pictures would surprise you. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about how pretty you’d look swelling my cock down your throat. Why don’t you come to see me next week? I’ll put you down as my visitor. Don’t disappoint me, doll.
You were nervous. Dabi had asked you to visit him after several weeks of exchanging letters, each letter getting lewder than the last. You couldn’t help but rub your thighs at the thought of seeing him in person. You both have sent each other risque pictures but this was different.
A shiver ran through your spine. Your imagination running amok as you make your way inside the prison. Passing several large-looking guards as you let them inspect your belongings, walking through the scanner to ensure them that you had no weapon before you were escorted to the area where inmates would be able to talk to the visitors.
You felt his eyes on you before you could even see him, your figure covered by the tall security guard who led you into the room. You could see his figure hunched over on the other side of the glass, his hair now white with black tips, his spiky hair tousled.
His legs were in a typical man spread, the fabric of his jumper stretching across his thighs, a visible bulge in his crotch area. You sat down across from him, placing your phone on top of the counter as you went to pick up the built-in phone as he did the same. His slender fingers wrapping around the device before picking it up and holding it against his ear.
You could hear the small breaths he took, your breath quickening. It was surprising quickly you had become his bitch. Already panting for him as if you were in heat when all you did was sit across from him. Your thighs rubbed together, clenching as he smirked widely at you before speaking.
The deep timbre of his voice had you gasping, your grip on the phone visibly tightening before stuttering a small ‘hello’ and ducking down. Lowering your head in embarrassment, staring at the skin of your thighs which were barely covered by the fabric of your skirt.
“Why so awkward, doll? Look up at me, yeah? Show me that pretty face,” he pleaded in a mocking tone. Pouting slightly before batting his long lashes. You timidly looked up at him, only to be met with his smirking face.
“I-I’m sorry...I’m shy,” you mumbled into the phone, focusing on the light switch behind his head to prevent your cheeks from heating any further.
“Yeah? Baby’s shy? That’s so cute, but you barely spoke to me and that hurt’s my feelings,” he frowned before continuing. “I think you have to make it up to me. I mean--It’s the right thing to do. Telling me all those nasty things on paper and not doing them in person? Seems a little unfair to me, doll.”
Your eyes shook a little as your anxiety began to rise. You were scared. Knowing Dabi, he’d ask you to do something indecent. Shakily sighing before piping up.
“W-What would you like for me to do?”
“Touch yourself.” he deadpanned.
You froze, Unsure how to respond. Your mouth parted into an ‘o’, your breath caught in your throat. Your thighs now tightly clenched, slightly rubbing them as you feel your panties dampening at the thought of touching yourself in front of Dabi, in front of the guards. Biting your lip, you shook your head lightly, avoiding his piercing gaze and he leant back in his chair, sighing disappointedly before running his hand through his messy hair.
“I...I can’t Dabi,”
“And why not?”
“It’s embarrassing...I’m gonna get in trouble,” you faltered, your free hand balling into a fist as you bit your lip. You didn’t want him to be upset with you, especially when you both had just met. He would stop speaking to you immediately. No doubt about it.
“Oh. You think I’m embarrassing, huh?” he kissed his teeth. “Is that it? I’m not good enough for you? I’m not even asking for much, doll.” he drawled, his voice getting louder with each word.
“No! I don’t! I just--I want you. Only you. I don’t want everyone seeing my body when I belong to you.” you mumbled, tears gathering in your eyes before hastily wiping them off, sniffling lightly as you waited for him to continue.
“Oh? You just wanna be a good girl then, don’t you? You’re gonna show me how you play with yourself in private aren’t you?” he cooed, placing his elbows on the counter as he dragged his chair closer to the partition, his face now barely inches away from the glass divider.
“I’m your good girl…” you whimpered lewdly, your doe eyes glazed over with lust as you gravitated closer to the glass divider, your breath lightly fogging it, causing Dabi to chuckle. You looked so fucked out already. Your eyelids are drooping as well as your bottom lip jutting out.
He chuckles lightly before continuing.
“I’ll work something out yeah? Just come back tomorrow. Same time.” he smiled before blowing you a kiss. The guards informed you both that visitation hours were over. He got up, waving his hand before he turned, back facing as you sat, the phone still in hand before you scrambled to get up, the nice guard leading you out of the prison and wishing you a nice day.
You let out a shaky breath, feeling as if you could finally breathe. Dabi was--suffocating. It felt as if he were commanding everything you do. If you moved, it was because he let you, if you breathed, it was because he wanted you to.
He owned you, and you liked it.
“I’m gonna have to take you up to see the warden.” the guard stated, staring down at your figure before walking off into an unfamiliar hall, not even glancing at your figure as you quickly followed him.
The white walls were plain, no painting nor decorations present. Both your footsteps echoing before he comes to a stop, almost making you bump into his bulky figure before he turns and knocks on the door to his right, signalling for you to open the door before leaving you to your devices.
Your eyes met with his. Lounging on the couch beside the desk. He was wearing a black sweater along with a matching pair of sweats, still, manspreading as he smiled at your shocked figure, patting his lap, beckoning you to come over.
You dumbly nodded, walking towards him as if you were under his spell. Unable to freely control your body under his burning gaze, his half-lidded eyes staring you down from across the room. He rubbed his thighs, his slender fingers grazing over the obvious bulge in his pants before grasping it fully, adjusting himself.
“Sit,” he commanded, sliding his fingers up the skin of your thighs, his scarred palm pressing flat against you, roughly squeezing your thigh before tugging at your skirt with his free hand, letting you plop yourself on one of his legs. Even when sitting, his figure hovered over you, intimidating you even further.
You couldn’t help but stare at him, wanting to inspect and take in each detail on his face. The way his lips were quirked into a smirk, his bright cerulean eyes burning at you from under his tousled hair.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he breathed, smoothing his hands up and down the length of your thighs, his grip tightening significantly when you involuntarily grind your pussy against his thigh, the thin material of your panties allowing you to feel the muscle of his thigh flex.
“You’re so naughty.” he teased lightly, leaning down slightly to peck at your bottom lip before pulling away. Surprise was written all over your face, your lips forming an ‘o’ with your eyes wide. He couldn’t help but inhale sharply, his cock twitching at your cute expression before he fully slotted his lips against your parted ones.
His large palms grab your hips to pull you further into him, your chest pressing against his as he continues to explore your mouth, his tongue licking at your bottom lip before delving into you.
You bucked your hips, the feeling of him nipping at your lips had you quivering in his hold. Grinding your barely covered cunt repeatedly onto his leg, the friction had you near cumming. So sensitive. Pulling away from you, your lips chasing his. Your pretty lips were bruised, pupils wide open and glazed with lust, with want.
You couldn’t help the whimper that slipped past your lips, your tears sliding down the chub of your cheeks. You wanted him so bad.
“Look at you, grinding your cute pussy desperately on my thigh. Do you wanna cum that bad? Do you want me to make you cum?” he continued to taunt you, nipping your ear with his sharp canines.
“Respond when I’m talking to you, slut. Are you that dumb that you can’t even hold a proper conversation?” he kissed his teeth, “Pretty girls like you have nothing in their heads. You’re just a little dummy, aren’t ya’?”
You moaned in reply, nodding your head before he tilted your chin up, kissing you harshly once more as his free hand grabbed the underside of your other thigh, spreading your legs even wider as he dropped you onto both of his thighs, your barely covered cunt now resting on top of his hard-on.
Your hips moved on their own, gyrating in small circles, mewling as your clit is being rubbed by his stiff cock. Running your hands down his chest and to his pants, attempting to dip your hands below the band of his loose sweats before you felt a sting on your cheek, your head now facing a whole different direction as you slowly turned to him, your hand coming up to hold the cheek he harshly slapped.
“Did I say you could touch me there?” he sneered, his expression filled with disgust as he peered at you sitting on his lap. Malicious intent oozing rolling off of his figure. Even when sitting, he was taller, his figure easily towering over yours.
He clicked his tongue, slapping the other side of your cheek lightly, pressing you to answer his question. Your tears were heavily streaming down your cheeks now. “Don’t go crying on me now. You wanted this. You knew what type of man I was before coming here. Don’t act surprised when I treat you like a slut when you’ve been acting like a slut.” he drawled, playing with the fabric of your skirt, activating his quirk, his pointer finger now aflame.
“Now. Answer me. Did I say you could touch me there?” he growled, his face nearing yours as he stared down your trembling figure. You shook your head quickly, wanting to avoid his harsh gaze. He sighed before harshly pressing his lit finger onto the sensitive skin of your thighs, effectively burning the skin, causing you to yelp and jump away, only to be restrained by his free hand as his finger moved down slowly, a line now visible.
His finger curved, drawing a half-circle before his finger came back to the spot it originally burned, your screams falling deaf to his ears. He pulled his finger away, extinguishing the flame before using the same hand to wipe your tears away, but to no avail, you continued to sob, his efforts in cleaning you up fruitless.
You hesitantly glanced at your thigh, the marred skin red and blotchy, a contrast from the colour of your skin. Your flesh was burnt with a ‘D’. You were his property now, and you had the proof to show it. You continued to cry, regretting your decision to come here in the first place, thinking you could change him and help him live a good life after being released from prison.
You couldn’t be any more wrong.
He couldn’t contain his snickers anymore, now fully laughing at your miserable face, sliding his arm off of your back and clutching his stomach with both arms, his stomach muscles aching from just how hard he was laughing.
“Aw, don’t look at me like that, doll. You asked for it. You knew that fucking with me would get you in trouble, but you did it anyway. Now, look where that got you, hm?” he hummed, nosing into your hair before pulling away to observe, only for him to move back, his breath fanning over your face. His tongue dipping out to lick at your salty tears.
Your stomach turned. You wanted to hurl, feeling his disgusting tongue lick st your cheeks, the sensitive skin of your thigh twitching in pain periodically, your skin already blistering. You had no choice but to endure his ministrations, the feeling of his filthy hands grabbing you while he pulled away to press kisses onto your eyelids.
“Will you behave now?” he taunted, his left hand wrapping around your neck and tightening his hold significantly, your breath getting caught in your throat as you instinctively grasped his wrist in an attempt to stop him. All it took was a glare from him that had you pulling your hands off of him in an instant, choosing to leave them by your sides, balling them into fists to prevent yourself from doing anything drastic.
“I said, will you behave now?” he arched a brow.
“Yes,” you whispered hoarsely, your throat raw from the screaming that you had done just moments ago. Your eyelashes were wet with tears, your nose running as you shakily exhaled, trying your best to calm yourself down. He smiled contentedly before moving to press a kiss on your chapped lips, his tongue dipping into your mouth.
You sat there unresponsive, unable to will yourself to reciprocate his kiss. You could feel him getting upset, his fingers tightening around your thighs as he continued to kiss you, sucking on your tongue lightly. A whimper escaped your lips before you could bite down on your tongue, feeling him smirk against your lips and he trailed his fingers up your thighs.
He pressed the pads of his digits against your panties, rubbing your lips gently through the thin fabric. Suppressing a groan as he moved your panties to the side, wanting to dip his fingers inside your cute little pussy. He still remembered your taste from the little gift you sent him, he spent days sucking on the crotch of your panties as if he were a starved man.
Now, he wanted a taste straight from the source.
The door slammed open, causing you to hump, only to be held down by Dabi who has now resorted to sucking marks into your neck, glaring at the unknown intruder as his tight grip prevented you from turning.
“What the fuck do you want, Hawks?” he snarled, brows furrowed as he continued to glare at the man named ‘Hawks’.
“Woah, chill. I just wanted to let you know that playtimes over. You said 30 minutes, and I gave it to you.” he stepped towards your figures, tugging Dabi’s hands off of you before they completely went limp, dropping down the sides of your thighs as Hawks gently pulled you off of his lap, sliding his arms under yours to prevent you from falling over.
You were in shock. You were unaware of who this man was, but you knew one thing. His glorious red wings were trailing behind his figure, thick, wavy blond hair slicked with gel. He had a little scruff on his chin, his mouth twisted into a smirk as he gazed at your dishevelled figure.
“Watch yourself, Hawks. She’s my girl.”
“Ah, so possessive Touya. Is she really your girl? Even after you burned her skin and made her cry? Oh, don’t look so surprised. Why would I let you use my office to fuck around if it didn’t benefit me in any way? Don’t tell me you’re that naive.” Hawks drawled, his eyes now dull, his lips twisted in a sinister smile as he wrapped his arms around you, crossing his arms over your chest as he pulled you into his chest.
Dabi quickly stood, making a move to lunge at the man currently holding you in his arms before he paused. Hawks’ wings were raised, his feathers hovering over the both of you, ready to sink into Dabi’s skin if he made one wrong move.
“You watch yourself, Touya. You’re under my house. I let you get away with enough shit as it is. How do you think you got your pretty girl’s panties? Hm? Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” he smiled, lowering his wings slowly before clearing his throat and speaking once more.
“Get out of my fucking office and go back to your cell. Don’t worry about precious Y/n. She’ll be well taken care of.”
Dabi huffed, slowly walking towards the both of you before moving to gently grasp your hands, placing your stone-cold palm against the rough skin of his cheeks, nuzzling into your hand as he pressed as many kisses he could. He then dropped your hand, grasping your chin with his fingers before kissing you right on the mouth.
He briefly pecked your lips before moving away, only to move back and place several more pecks on your lips and the corner of them. He pinched your jaw, signalling you to open it, which you obediently did, your jaw hanging open as you watched him collect spit in his mouth, dribbling the spittle into your mouth before closing your jaw for you, his left eye dropping into a wink.
“No matter what you do, she’s mine. She knows it, and so does her body. Better luck next time, Keigo.”
Then, he was gone.
You were still being held by Hawks, quite tightly might you add. You lightly tapped his forearm, not wanting to upset him, seeing just how gruff and merciless he acted towards Dabi made you weary. Sure, he got Dabi to leave, but was it for your safety or his benefit?
He deeply sighed, letting you go before leaning back on the desk. You turned towards him, bottom lip tucked under your teeth with your voice caught in your throat. His head was hung low, his shoulders and wings drooping as you stood still, unsure if this was your cue to leave.
As you turned to exit, his wing extended, blocking you from the door. You faced his hunched figure, ready to beg for him to release you, but he suddenly spoke.
“What are you doing with a guy like that, dove?” he asked, pointedly staring at you. His gold, hawk-like eyes piercing through your figure. Rubbing his rough palms on his tan cargo pants. His thick brow quirked, signalling you to respond to his question.
“I--I don’t really know to be honest. We’re not in an exclusive relationship. I liked him. I did...but I’m not sure how I feel now,” you pouted, the sight of your burn mark catching your attention, tears welling in your eyes as you thought of the mark---thought about what it meant.
Hawks followed your gaze, his eyes landing on the prominent ‘D’ marked into your skin. He sighed once more, moving behind his desk, opening a drawer, in his hands a small metal container. He handed the box to you, which you gratefully took. It was ointment. You couldn’t help the smile that tugged your lips.
“Come on. I’ll take you back to the front. We don’t need anyone else to take advantage of you today, hm?” he softly chuckled, attempting to lighten the mood.
You hummed in response, beaming at his handsome face as he tucked you under his wing, wrapping his arm around your waist as you made your way out of his office.
Your walk down the hall was silent. Hawks made sure to not pry into your business, not wanting you to think that he was siding with Dabi at all. He had no problem with the man himself, but it was still his job to keep prisoners in line, even if he did play favourites.
Hawks pulled his arm away from you, the both of you now standing in front of the entrance as he used his bright-red wings to conceal your figure from the guards’ peering eyes, not wanting them to jump to conclusions. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his surprisingly thick chest, his back muscles rippling under your touch as you continued to inhale his cologne.
“Don’t be so sweet on me now, I might end up falling for you,” he winked before lowering his wing in front of his face, using his red hand to pick a lone feather off, placing it in your hands, unflinching. “Stay safe now, dove.” he winked before stuffing his hands in his office, turning around to walk in the direction of his office.
You clutched his feather to your chest, the feeling of your cheeks heating up as you continued to think about the blond man. You were completely enamoured with the man and he had no clue.
It’s been a few days since your last visit to the prison. Your burn was nicely healing, but you were aware that it would be forever visible. You did your best to ignore the sick feeling in your stomach whenever you stared at your thigh, your mind reeling back to the agonizing moment he marked you.
You sighed. You’ve been having trouble sleeping these last few days. Always feeling paranoid. It was as if you were being continuously watched. You continued to dismiss it. Even if Dabi had gotten out, he would have no way of knowing where you lived.
You decided to stand up, feeling slightly more dry than usual. You lazily made your way outside of your room, strolling into the dark kitchen, too lazy to turn on any form of light. Grabbing the carton of milk and placing it on the counter, turning around to fetch a glass. You suddenly froze.
The hairs at the back of your neck stood up. You suppressed a shiver. It felt as if someone was watching you. Their eyes pierced into your back as your grip tightened around the glass. You swiftly turned around, only to find nothing but darkness staring back at you.
You sighed in relief, licking your dry lips before pouring the milk and placing your lips on the glass, while leaning your weight on the counter as you closed your eyes. Your mind drifted to a certain white-haired male. You had mixed feelings about him.
Even after what he’s done, you were still unable to suppress the feeling of butterflies in your stomach whenever you read his past letters. After most of the pain subsided, a part of you felt proud to wear his mark, but another part of you felt sick to your stomach.
You placed the glass in the sink and made your way out of the kitchen, The lights were off but the moon’s light still faded in your room. The moment you walked in, your nose was filled with the smell of smoke and a familiar cologne. Your eyes darted around the room, only to find a tall figure sitting in the corner of your room.
Their head hung low with their elbows on their thighs, not even bothering to look at your figure. You didn’t need light to know who was sitting in your room. Your body was unmoving, unable to will yourself to move as you were afraid to make any sudden movements. As you made a move to step back, the room now was illuminated from the blue fire dancing on the palm of his right hand.
His head rose, his piercing cerulean eyes making contact with yours. He smirked, moving his hand closer to his face to observe the fire. He then leaned back into the chair, extinguishing the fire in his palm before digging into his jacket before finally pulling out what looked like a cigarette.
He placed the cigarette between his lips before lighting up his index finger, lighting it before deeply exhaling and placing his hands on his thighs once more. He continued to stare at your figure standing at the doorway, his eyes half-lidded as he almost seemed bored.
He gestured for you to come towards him, patting his thighs with his left hand as his right hand continued to do the ‘come hither’ motion, which had you squeezing your thighs together, a detail that caught Dabi’s eyes.
You reluctantly made your way towards him, afraid that he would set the building on fire as a consequence. It was late and all your neighbours were asleep. You didn’t want to endanger their lives, especially their childrens’ lives by not obeying.
Hesitantly sitting on his lap, you swung both your legs over his, already knowing what position he wanted you in. Your cunt was pressed directly on his half-hard cock, your palms pressed against his chest as you leaned closer, unable to stop yourself from touching him.
He blew the smoke in your face, the action making you cough as well as making your eyes tear up. You attempted to shield yourself but he gripped your arm, the tightness of his hold quickly making you drop your defences as you turned your head away from him, not wanting to cough directly in his face.
He kissed his teeth before pinching your chin with his thumb and index finger, swiftly pulling you in for a kiss. His soft lips pressed against yours as you lightly whimpered, gripping desperately at his forearm and placing his slender hand on the column of your throat, unable to suppress the moan that escaped your lips when he experimentally squeezed.
His tongue swiped at your bottom lip, begging for entry as he dips his muscle into your mouth, languidly licking into you as he swallows your moans, caressing your tongue with his. Your tastebuds were invaded with the strong flavour of smoke, the taste of him mixing with the taste of the cigarette.
Dabi groaned. He missed the taste of your sweet lips slotted against him. It had only been a few days since he last placed a kiss on your lips but to him, it felt as if those days lasted for months. The sweet sound of your moans was music to his ears. He couldn’t help but smirk against your mouth and tighten his grip around your throat. He was going to punish you for making him wait.
He pulled away, peering at your desperate face with his eyes clouded with lust. Even without looking at him, you could feel his heated gaze on you never leaving your figure as he continued to stare at you silently. You wished that he would stop---that he would just take what he wanted from you and leave, but you knew better.
“Did you miss me, doll?” he asked in a teasing tone, mockingly pouting at you before he made a move to ravage your throat, wanting his spit and bites to litter the expanse of your skin. He wanted people to look at you and see that you were owned, that you submitted to one person and one person only---nd that person was him.
You were speechless. What could you possibly reply with? Especially when he was well aware of your feelings of dislike for him, especially after he had marked you mercilessly, forcing you to parade his branding on you, the hideous scar ever so present on the skin of your thigh.
“Come on, are you telling me that you didn't miss me? You didn’t miss my tongue? My fingers? I guess I wasn’t able to properly use them on you but… We did other things, no?” he traced the mark he had left behind, a sick but almost loving look present in his eyes.
You couldn’t help but flinch away from him, the lingering fear that he’ll hurt you even further was everlasting. But he touched the wound gently, making sure to not apply too much pressure to hurt you, which let you breathe a sigh of relief.
In the span of less than a second, he had a switchblade pressed against the sensitive skin of your neck, and you could feel just how sharp it was. If he added any more pressure you were sure that you would bleed. He spoke once more.
“Tell me, did you miss me?” he pressed. His eyes narrowed into slits as he continued to gently caress your thigh, a contrast from what he’s doing to your upper body. You whimpered softly, afraid that he was just going to cut you up either way.
“I missed you so much,” you whispered meekly, eyes closed to avoid his burning ones. You felt his shoulders shake, his laughter bouncing off the walls as he pulled the knife away from you, pressing a loving kiss on your nose as he continued to chuckle to himself like a madman.
“I knew you missed me. Was that so hard?” he pressed a kiss to your lips before continuing. “Look at how pretty you look all marked up. Seeing you all fucked out and mine. I’m so hard for you, doll. Can you feel me?” His voice dropped into a whisper, taking your hand and placing it on his hardening length.
You gasped softly, the feeling of his hard cock through his pants had you pathetically wet, the thin material of your panties already sticking to your folds. Your mind was flashing red alarms, the better part of you begging you to get out of there, to scream, to not give in to him. But, you couldn’t find it in yourself to push him away anymore, not when you knew that he was the only person capable of giving you what you wanted.
“Please, Dabi,” you begged so prettily, his brow quirking up at your sudden submissiveness. He licked his lips, the thought of you being so compliant and sweet to him made him want you more. You were such a precious little thing, how could he deny you any longer?
“Tell me. What do you want? What are you begging me for, dollface?” he pressed, nosing into your neck as he inhaled your scent deeply.
“I want you. I want you to use me. Play with me. Please make me yours. Show everyone that I belong to you and only you.” you cried, desperately grinding on him to persuade him, to convince him that you wanted nothing more but for him to defile you.
“Oh? Will you still want me, even if I want to cut you up? To run my knife across your skin until you’re bleeding?” he taunted, testing to see if you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you. You took a moment to respond, his question catching you off guard before you exhaled and stood your ground.
“Yes,” you said, brows furrowed. You were determined to prove your loyalty to him. He was your salvation. He would be the only person for you, the only one to care for you. Even if he did hurt you. He didn’t mean it, it was only to ward off any unwanted suitors. He just wanted to let the world know that you were his, that you were taken.
He laughed, his voice bouncing off the walls as he threw his head back. You were too amusing. He was going to enjoy breaking you.
“You said you wanted this. So fucking take it, slut.” he seethed, pressing the blade on your sternum before quickly swiping at your skin, a thin coat of blood covering the silver blade of his switchblade. Blood slowly seeped out of the cut he made, his tongue coming out to lap at it.
You laid there, all naked and spread for the man as he continued to indulge himself using your body. Fulfilling all his thoughts and fantasies as he dipped his head between your legs, staring intensely at your glistening sex. He licked his lips before gently pressing the knife against the sensitive skin of your thighs, quickly swiping the knife across, your blood slowly oozing out as his tongue made another appearance.
“Dabi… Please, no more,” you pleaded, brows furrowed. You wanted nothing more but for him to mark you, but you had been waiting patiently for him. You wanted him to take you. After weeks of satisfying yourself, you were tired. You wanted him inside you, and you wanted it now.
“What did you say?” he nearly snarled, head snapping up to meet your eyes.
“I-I just want you to put it in, please. I’m so wet and ready for you, Dabi,” you turned away, unable to peek at his expression, afraid that you’ve angered him once more. You heard his switchblade click back into place before a thud resounded in the room, signalling that he had carelessly thrown it on the ground.
“I’m sorry, doll. I won’t let you wait any longer, yeah?” he pressed a kiss onto your fresh cut, his action making you hiss in pain. He sat up, taking off his shirt and moving to the waistband of his pants. You laid there, mesmerized by his toned upper body, his chest scarred just as his face is, the staples glinting under the moonlight as you continued to gape at him.
“Let me?” you tried, sitting up as your fingertips grazed the top of his pants, already hooking your fingers on and slightly tugging even before he signalled you to. You quickly made work of his pants, shoving them down, only to be met with his thick cock. The tip was red and leaking of precum as he smirked down at you.
His cock was long and thick. You barely held in your gasp as you were met with the several piercings adorning the underside of his cock, the metal glinting in the moonlight that seeped through your window. You couldn’t help but rub your bare legs together.
You had only felt and seen the outline of his cock. You couldn’t help but stare at it, jaw dropped open as you gently wrapped your fingers around it, your head moving forward to envelop the glistening tip into your hot mouth but you were stopped by Dabi himself, placing his large hand on the top of your head to gently push you away from his cock, his actions making you pout.
“You can suck it all you want later, doll. Right now, I need to be inside you,” he pushed your shoulders down, your head landing on the pillow with a thud. He didn’t bother taking the rest of his pants off, they stayed bunched around his thighs as he stroked his cock, gathering spit in his mouth before letting it drip on the palm of his hand, lubricating his cock.
You whimpered quite loudly, wishing he had spat on your cunt. You loved being belittled, being treated as if you were worth much less. It made your cunt throb with need. Your desperate actions were not ignored by him. He let out a breathy laugh before grasping at your thighs and spreading them apart, your cunny now on full display.
He licked his lips before gathering more spit in his mouth and letting the spittle drip right on your little pearl, the feeling of his hot spit trickling down your folds had you shaking. You silently wished that he would stop teasing you and just take what he wanted. Sensing your annoyance, he pressed a peck against your folds and grasped his cock, slapping it on your mons.
He teased your cunt with his cockhead, repeatedly thrusting against your dripping lips before pushing it in without warning. His girth had you furrowing your brows, and the feeling of his piercings pressing against the walls of your pussy had you wrapping your arms around his neck. You pulled him into a kiss, your tongue furiously lashing at his tongue as he swallowed your whimpers.
His cock seemed neverending at this point. You took inch after inch, finally bottoming out when the tip presses snugly against your soft cervix, eyes widening at how deep he was. He pulled away from the kiss to observe the bulge his cock made in your stomach, almost moaning at the sight of it.
His hands trailed up your stomach and stopped to cup your right breast, dipping his head down to slip the nipple into his mouth while his free hand toyed with the other, pinching and rolling the little bud between his fingertips while he waited for you to adjust.
“Fuck. Look at you. All filled with my cock. You did such a good job taking it, doll,” he mused, his tongue circling your nipple as he pulled out, only leaving the tip in before harshly plunging his cock inside. His ministrations caused you to freeze up, your mouth opening into a silent scream as your nails dug into his back.
“Is my cock too big for you? Is it splitting you open?” he spat, now roughly fucking his cock into you as his nimble fingers snaked up your neck to lightly choking you as you took hold of his wrist, already struggling to breathe.
“Speak, slut.” he commanded, slapping your cheek with his free hand, the grip he had on your neck tightening significantly.
You choked a little before barely rasping out a response. “T-Too...big.”
He laughed before rolling his hips into you, his thrusts slowing as he opted to fuck you deeply, wanting to hit your sensitive parts. He wanted you to cream on his cock, to squirt around it and scream for him. He wanted your first time with him to be sweet and memorable--if you could even call this sweet. Because from here on, you would be nothing but his cocksleeve, a hole for him to use.
You squealed, your fingernails deeply scratching his forearm as your legs locked around him, goading him to fuck you faster, to finally finish you off. He chuckled once more before taking his hand off of your neck, pulling you into his arms so you were sitting on his lap. He then moved you both off the bed, his arms grabbing the underside of your thighs as he pressed your sweaty back against the wall.
You wailed as he dropped you on his cock, this angle reaching much deeper than your previous position, his thick cockhead pressing so roughly against your already bruised cervix. His cock was already creaming at the base, your essence dripping down both your thighs and as well as his balls.His thrusts resounded with a wet slap as you continued to moan into his neck, licking and sucking at the expanse of his skin.
His speed quickened, now vigorously fucking you. He was eager to make you squirt on his cock. He wanted you to milk his cock for all it was worth, wanted your squirt to spray and make a mess of you.
“Dabi. D-Dabi! Touya!” you moaned into his neck, your fingers loosely threaded into his white hair as you felt your stomach tense, the overwhelming feeling of your orgasm approaching as his cock continuously pounded your spot.
“Is it right there? Does it feel good there? Are you going to cum soon, dollface? Tell me. I wanna hear you. I want you to tell me when you’re cumming,” he growled, his grip on your thighs tightening as his mouth latched onto your neck, his teeth not so gently biting onto your skin.
“I-I--It’s coming out!” you squealed, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as your cunt tightened around his cock, your pussy soaking both of your thighs and the floor as you finally came. He continued to fuck you, uncaring if you were sensitive or in pain. He wanted to cum inside you, to fill your already creamy cunt even more.
He let out a grunt as you gently pressed a kiss to his earlobe, your hand rubbing at his back as you whispered sweet words of encouragement. Telling him that you wanted his cum, that you wanted him to fill you up and make you permanently his. He gasped as he felt his balls tighten.
“Fuck. I’m gonna fill you so well. I’m not gonna stop until you’re dripping with my cum. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he breathed into your ear. His hips stuttered, the feeling of your orgasming pussy felt much better than he imagined, your lewd words did nothing to help him. He wanted to prolong this for as long as he could.
“Please, give it to me Touya.”
He shoved his cock into you one last time, his cum-filled balls pressing against your cum coated perineum as well as your ass. He let out a breathy groan of your name as his cock continued to spurt his white cum into your pussy.The hot feeling of his cum filling you had you clenching even harder, milking him for all he's worth.
Sweat was dripping down both of your bodies. Your heavy breaths were the only thing to hear in the room as he gently let you down, slipping his cum covered cock out of your abused pussy. As you were about to make your way to the washroom, you were stopped by Touya who sat on his knees and moved his face between your thighs as he used his hand to press down your stomach, his thick cum dripping down his awaiting mouth.
You slapped a hand over your mouth as you watched him lewdly eat his cum out of your pussy, his tongue laving over your sensitive clit as he used two fingers to scoop his cum out of your pussy.
You placed your hands on top of his head, gently pushing him off before he stood to his full height, towering over you. He made you back up into the wall, his head dipping down to meet your gaze. He gently cupped your cheeks and pecked your lips, his tongue licking over your kiss-bitten lips before he pulled away, a thin line of saliva connecting you.
“Do you love me?”
You felt your heart skip a beat. Your mouth gaping as he waited for an answer. Did you love him? He made you feel alive. The risk of being with him made your heart beat with both excitement and anxiety. Pushing away all your doubts and questions, and like the naive little girl you were, you answered him with full confidence.
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Dance With Me
Pairing: Touya Todoroki/Dabi x reader
Word count: 2.3k
Warnings: ridiculously soft, but there are brief mentions of; death & burns
Notes: All the recent talk about dancing with your faves got me thinking, so here's a quick little fic about dancing with Dabi.
It's one of those rare, vulnerable moments with him. There's rain trickling down the windows outside, softening the light spilling into the dark bedroom that casts over your bed.
He's sitting up against the headboard with your head resting on his stomach, your arms draped around his hips, as you start to drift off to sleep.
There's an uncharacteristically warm smile on his face and he's stroking your hair, staring down at you and wondering for the millionth time why life has afforded him even a moment with you. He firmly believes that he doesn’t deserve this much, but he’s grateful for it. For all of it.
"'M gonna take you dancing one day," he murmurs, delicately dragging his knuckles along your cheek. "I promise."
You're already half-asleep, thinking that maybe you're already dreaming too, but you smile against the unmarred skin of his abdomen and nuzzle into him, taking the opportunity to press a gentle kiss to his belly.
"I'd like that, babe," you whisper the words, sighing contentedly as you settle once again, letting the rising tide of slumber take you under.
He knows that you would. You'd love it and that's why he's intent on keeping this promise to you. He didn't make them lightly, after all.
He knew from the moment you first took his hands in the kitchen that day. When that song that still you adore so much came on and you gasped, wasting no time in pulling him away from the stove to pull him close to you.
He'd never danced with anyone before that, but dancing with you? He fell in love with it right away. He knew he was clumsy, but lucky for him, you always seem to have an endless store of patience tucked away.
You positioned his awkward hands for him, one around your waist and the other clasped with yours while you held onto his shoulder and set the rhythm for him to follow. Swaying side to side, two warm bodies flush up against each other in the most domestic setting that he could think of.
And he didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate it at all.
He actually treasured the leisure of it all. He appreciated the intimacy, even. He’s pretty sure that’s when he knew. Not when he let himself believe it, but when he knew that he was in love with you.
Something about the way that you let your head fall against his shoulder. How you closed your eyes and hummed along to the tune playing on the stereo like there was no place in the world you’d rather be. The way that you pulled him in and held him, suspended him, in that moment with you.
He knew that it was possible to feel like time had slowed down or almost stopped. He’d experienced that before, but never like this. Never during a moment that he actually never wanted to end.
He truly never wanted it to end. If could have actually willed time to stop, he would’ve. Would’ve played that song on a never-ending loop and danced with you until the both of you dropped and even then, he wouldn’t let you go.
The song’s become a favorite of his. He’s even caught himself humming the melody from time to time, bobbing his head or swaying side to side when he’s alone—when he’s missing you.
He may have snuck said song into a few more playlists or yours. May have thrown it on some of them more than once and if you’ve noticed, you haven’t bothered to fix it.
As much as he’d like to sometimes, he can’t seem to bring himself to ask you to dance. The most he can do is tamper with your playlists in hopes the shuffle algorithm will grant him an excuse to take you by the waist and twirl you around the living room.
But now that he’s come to terms with everything, now that he’s finally reconciled with himself that he’s in love with you and there isn’t anything that he can do to change that fact, he wants to tell you somehow. He isn’t quite sure that he’ll be able to get the actual words out, but he reckons that he can say something else. He can ask you to dance, at least.
He’d heard somewhere before that people say “I love you” in different ways. He didn’t believe it at first, because it sounded like a load of shit at the time, but he thinks that he understands now. Perhaps he’s already told you that he loves you in his own way.
When he tells you to be careful on your way home from work. Asks you to stay on the phone with him until he hears the door to your apartment lock behind you. How he kisses you goodnight and holds you until he’s sure you’re fast asleep before he pulls away to sneak in one last cigarette. How he watches from the window he’s posted up beside to watch your chest rise and fall, reassuring him that you’re still breathing.
Maybe you’ve already figured it out. He knows that you’re eons better at these types of things than he is; it wouldn’t surprise him if he did outright confess to you and you just giggled and said, “I know.”
You’ve said it. You’ve said it countless times by now, but he’s never been able to return the favor and he just wants to try. He wants to meet you halfway at least. He wants you to know that he does care—that he trusts you. Because that’s what love is, right? Giving someone the means to destroy you and trusting them not to.
That’s how the two of you end up here: at his grave.
You don’t have any idea why though. Haven’t the slightest idea why he’s brought you to this cemetery in the dead of night. The time of day makes sense, given his wanted status, but not the location.
It’s cold out, but he’s got you tucked beneath his arm, your own is wrapped around his waist, and the heat he’s giving off keeps you plenty warm as you trudge through the shallow layer of snow on the ground.
There’s rows of graves that stretch out before you and he hasn’t given you any indication as to where you’re headed, so you just traipse along beside him, letting him lead the way.
You can sense how tense he is, see it on his face with just a glance. You reach up to grasp the hand draped over your shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze, prompting him to look at you and he seems to touch back down to earth from wherever he just was.
“You okay, baby?” you ask quietly, the softest of smiles on your lips. The one that gives him the confidence to nod and not feel like he’s lying.
“Yeah,” he reassures you with the smallest smile that he can muster, but it’s enough to soothe your worries. “‘M fine. We’re almost there.”
You’re not sure where “there” is still, but the closer you get to it, the more uneasy he seems to become. He looks unusually unsure, an emotion that you aren’t used to seeing on his face.
You’re busy trying to figure out the mystery of why you’re here when he stops you dead in your tracks at the answer.
“This is it,” he says somberly, glancing down at the ornate gravestone before you. You glance at him curiously and turn to inspect the headstone, receiving no answers to the plethora of questions flying through your mind.
“I don’t..I’m sorry, babe, but I don’t understand,” you say slowly, curling into him to seek his warmth as you read the name on the headstone again. “Who is this? Is this..Endeavor’s son? The one who passed away?” He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the grave.
“No,” he says plainly, only serving to leave you more confused as he takes a slow breath and lets it out in a sigh. “He never died. This is me.”
“Wha—what?” You pull away just enough to step in front of him, reaching up to press a hand to his cheek and guide his gaze to meet yours. “What do you mean?”
“My real name is Touya Todoroki,” he says quietly—honestly, as he places his hand over yours.
He turns his head to place a kiss to the inside of your wrist, letting his eyes close as his lips linger on your skin while he steels himself to continue. His eyes open slowly, finding yours staring straight back into his, bewildered.
“It’s a long story. One that I don’t think I should tell the entirety of in this weather,” he looks up at the flurries of snow now falling from the midnight sky and briefly spares another glance at you before he looks down, back at the grave that apparently belongs to him.
You step to his side again, wrapping both arms around him as you stare at the marker and he returns the favor, folding both arms around your frame to hold you tight and offer you his spare heat.
“I didn’t plan it. Didn’t mean to do it, but..” he trails off, looking lost in thought. Lost somewhere. “But I lost control. Burned everything in sight, myself included.”
You see the way his eyes settle on his scarred skin. How the look on his face betrays his tough exterior and offers you a glimpse into the terror of what he must have experienced that day. It chills you deeper than the gust of wind that blows you impossibly closer to him.
“Touya,” you say his name so easily, so beautifully as you step in front of him, your forehead pressing to his chest while you hold him tight. Tight enough that he feels like he might not actually fall apart at the seams; you were always holding him together. “I’m so sorry. I don’t—I don’t even know if there’s anything that I could say, but,” you tilt your head up to look at him and if that isn’t love in your eyes, he doesn’t think that he’ll ever see it in his lifetime. “I know that I love you.”
Your hands are freezing when you touch his cheeks, but he warms them. His eyes fall closed, like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say, because he has to. He’s never prepared to hear you tell him how much you care. It suffocates and soothes him simultaneously. It’s a dizzying juxtaposition that he’s learned to prepare himself for.
“I love you, Touya.”
He could never have prepared enough to hear that. His eyes open and it almost feels like he’s dreaming, floating through a state of semi-consciousness where everything is almost okay. Where the pain of the past can’t ensnare him so violently. Where you are. Where you exist.
With you, he’s safe. He’s almost whole. As whole as he can be with what’s left of him.
He wants to say it back, but he can’t. He wants to offer you what you have so selflessly given him, which is everything. He wants to give you the world, but he can’t offer you that just yet. He doesn’t know how.
He only has one thing to offer you in this moment. Something that he promised you weeks ago by now.
All he can muster is a smile before he pulls away, letting his arms fall free from your waist as he reaches into his back pocket to retrieve his phone. He spies the tilt of your head and holds up a hand politely as he navigates through the playlist he crafted specifically for this very moment. The whole thing is made up of only one song: yours.
He presses play and tucks the device back into his pocket before he offers you his hand, his smile soft and his eyes softer.
"Care to dance with me, doll?"
It's something that he’s never done before. He’s never put up a fight, but he’s never been the one to take you by the hand and pull you in close to sway with him.
At least, not until today.
The gesture would seem trivial to some, but you know that it’s not. This whole moment is anything but small. He’s let you in on such an intimate secret. He’s proven to you that he trusts you, with his life, essentially. And now he’s reaching out to you for the first time, instead of letting you come to him when you suspect he might need you to.
You look at his hand with a soft smile, taking it as you find his eyes and his arm catches your waist, pulling you flush up against him. Right where he always wants you to be.
He allows himself to exhale when your head falls against his shoulder as the two of you rock from side to side in tandem, swaying together as one.
Beneath the sky of the full moon. Above the surface of his empty grave.
The entirety of the song nearly passes before he speaks again.
“I always keep my promises,” he murmurs in your ear, warm breath draping over your skin. You turn your head, asking your quiet question into the crook of his neck.
“Hmm? What promise are you talking about?”
“I promised I’d take you dancin’, doll.”
He can feel the way that the corners of your lips turn up. How you hold him a little tighter as your melodious giggle tickles his neck. It puts a genuine smile on his face, one that you wish you could see, but that you can feel as his lips meet your temple.
There’s no way of knowing how many repetitions the song had made by the time the two of you were through dancing. You didn’t know and you didn’t care, but the snow beneath your feet had disappeared. Along with any what ifs that had remained between you before your dance under the stars. Now you know.
You both just know.
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WHAT IS LOVE IF NOT REDEMPTION?
PAIRING dabi/ todoroki touya x fem reader
A/N many thanks to @httptamaki for letting me join your birthday collab! please read the other entries +here! and the fattest smooch for @iznku for beta-reading this! ily both <3
EXCERPT He won’t break — not any more than he has already. And, even if he does, if it’s by your hand, then he wouldn’t mind a single bit. If your touch signs his death, he thinks he could go to heaven.
WARNINGS smut, fingering, vag sex, dabi is touya, dabi is a lovesick fool (as is canon), major abuse of brackets my beloved ♡
MINORS, AGELESS & BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+ ONLY.
There's a clatter to your left, the sound of metal clanging against metal, then of plastic being torn to shreds and waded through afterwards. A stray cat, you guess, or maybe a raccoon. More and more have been creeping out lately. You hope it finds whatever it is it's looking for, though the disaster of a town you live in seldom grants wishes.
The wind howls with each step you take down the winding path. There's a lull when you pass the old bakery, and your fingers wriggle to zip up your jacket before the gale returns tenfold. You should probably invest in a scarf — one that's so long you could cut gloves out of it, too, to save some money. For now, though, you settle your hands back in your pockets and trudge home.
There's a group loitering by the entrance of your apartment building, young adults who have nothing better to do than share a cigarette and pass around a can of beer, as if all that matters in the moment are the laughs they share, not the volume of their raucousness, nor the cold that nips at your cheeks and makes you wade through their huddle.
The sign plastered across the lift is crooked, but you already know what it says in that chipped away, bold font. “Out of order” for the third week running. At least the long walk up the staircase helps warm you up.
Light filters out through the gaps between the door and its frame, and you would probably be more alarmed considering the area you live in, had you not already known who was behind the wood. You don't remember him texting you that he'd be here, so it must have been a spur of the moment choice. You just hope he's not covered in blood like the last time he decided to surprise you.
You almost think he's dead with how he lies on your sofa, head resting on the back of it as he tilts his head to the heavens, as still as an ocean, calm unlike the breeze that flitters into the room.
"Hey," you murmur, toeing off your shoes and hanging up your bag and coat.
The first thing you do is give him a quick once-over. He's fine, thankfully. No more blood on your floor, no more staples poking out of your sofa. The next step is shutting the windows.
His response is a mere grunt until you sit beside him. Then, his eyes are fluttering open and he's tipping his head the slightest degree to look at you.
You sigh. "That obvious?"
There's a smirk tugging gently at the corner of his lip, and his eyes are so intense — they always are, that vibrant, melancholy blue telling stories he can't quite voice yet — staring as you slump into his lap and avoid his gaze.
Smoke weaves through the threads of his trousers, ash lingering around the tattered holes in the fabric, but it's comforting. It's something you've grown to find a home in. Blazing fire no longer reminds you of devastation and despair, families wailing for help, loss and death and hopelessness; instead, you think of hands that drum along your cheek to an unheard song, you think of fingers slotting with your own cold hands, warming them up without needing to ask.
"You eaten?" Dabi asks, fiddling with the belt loops on your trousers, letting his hands wander just beneath the hem before they move away entirely, poking at the very top of your knee only to find their way back to your belt loops.
"Not since lunch."
It's nearing midnight now, and you're beyond surprised that your stomach hasn't started growling for food already. You should probably make something to eat, but you’re savoring the feeling of being in his arms; it's been a while since you've been this intimate with him.
"I brought food."
Your hand finds its way to his, and he stops moving, letting you cover the back of his hand with yours. There's a teasing smile on your face as you let the cold from your fingertips sink into his unmarred skin, trailing them down to the scarred flesh of his wrist, tracing the fatigued metal found there.
"As in… You bought food with your own money, or you robbed a helpless little food stall on your way here?"
He pinches your thumb in retaliation, but his touch is as harmless as always. "Does it matter?"
You shake your head at his reply, but share his fond smile.
"Have you eaten?" you repeat his question.
"Nah. I would have, but someone's—" he jerks his knee up slightly to jolt your body where you're still sprawled across his lap "—in my way."
Another pinch, to your hip this time, before his hand eases you up.
He goes to the kitchen and you stay behind, watching him open the fridge and flit between the cupboards, wondering whether or not you should ask why he's here.
He's carrying a box when he returns, a single fork balanced on top of the lid. Just a plain, white box with no emblem on it to hint at what it is or where he's gotten it from.
He hands it to you, and the curiosity must be evident in your furrowed brows; all he supplies you with is: "Not stolen. Paid for it myself 'n everything, so even if you hate it, we're finishing it."
(You both know he doesn't mean that. He's never been averse to taking your leftovers. He's grown to like all the foods you hate, if only for the way your face sours when you taste them, and then sweetens like sugar as you offer it to him, instead.)
All your questions are answered when you open the box and see 'happy birthday' written in perfect cursive atop a layer of fresh cream; succulent, fresh fruits skirt along the edge of the cake and blue icing drips around to complete the decor.
(He had told you he didn't remember when his birthday was. "Childhood trauma," he'd brushed off with a laugh, "never really celebrated that shit at home."
Your birthday became his, too.)
But it wasn't your birthday today.
He's staring down at the cake when you turn to him, awfully fascinated by the elegant piping, too busy eyeing up the fresh fruit to notice your mouth open and shut as you think of what to say. Instead, you place the box back in his lap and head to the kitchen.
After today, you should start collecting candles. For now, though, a matchstick will suffice as decoration.
You wedge it into the cake and he snorts at the realisation, pinching the tip and setting it alight.
"Make a wish, birthday boy."
"This is stupid."
"Hurry, the cake's gonna melt."
Maybe it is a bit stupid. Two adults — one working 12 hour shifts in a run-down store in the middle of nowhere, the other a notorious villain — huddled around a store bought birthday cake, wishing on a matchstick.
You think you understand why that group stayed outside. You don't really care about the wind that rattles your shutters, nor are you paying attention to the sirens in the distance. All you can think about is how pretty he looks above the small glow of the match; in this moment, the only picture ingrained in your head is of him, stupid smile and all, blowing out the little spark. All that matters is the way his lips pull into something soft, something almost childlike right after.
"Happy birthday, baby," you murmur, nudging him in the arm. "You're, what, pushing thirty now? Forty?"
"You into older guys?" He teases, grabbing the fork and breaking off a bite of the pastry.
Despite the occasion, Dabi feeds you first, and he's nothing if not insistent on doing so.
"Only if they look like you," you reply, tugging the utensil from him and feeding him a too big slice. "Say 'ah'." Frosting coats his upper lip, and he glares at your giggling form, nudging you back when your shaking shoulders bounce off of him.
"C'mere," he rasps, muffling your laughter with those sugary sweet lips of his. It's a little rough, a little messy, with his scarred lips brushing against your grin before he dips to focus on your bottom lip, spite sinking into your flesh as be bites with vengeance.
You hum at the taste of the frosting, flicking over the blue icing before he tangles his tongue with yours. The sharpness of strawberries lingers in his mouth, cutting through the sweetness as his tongue slides along yours, curving over the point of your canines before he finally pulls back.
The fork in your hand clatters to the floor, but neither of you pay attention to it. His eyes are simmering with unbridled desire, rooting you to your seat with their intensity — they, alone, are enough to bring great heroes to their knees, yet you feel nothing but exalted under their laser focus, as if the universe is your oyster and you are unstoppable only because he thinks so.
When he tips his head to yours once more, you expect the lust blooming in his eyes to translate into teeth clacking against yours, to a controlling grip on your cheeks as he tilts you into a long kiss. Instead, however, you're met with a soft caress, patience and gentleness moulding your lips to his as he steals your breath away.
Hands wander up the sides of your body until one settles on the nape of your neck, holding you steady and close, and the other curls around your back, keeping you there, right there.
A groan bubbles in his throat when your fingers slink up the marked skin of his neck and weave through his hair, tugging on the strands to bring him even closer.
Another break and his breaths, light and airy, warm your wet lips. There's a timid smile lilting his lips, a fleck of frosting dusting the upturned corner, but he looks perfect. You want to sit and stare at him for longer, memorise the curve of his lips, the heat of his hands on your body, the way his eyes, half-lidded, look at you as if you're all that matters to him.
(You are. You are. You are, but he's never been too good at voicing his vulnerability.
He doesn't need to speak to convey the message, though. You know. You know. You know he loves you.)
He puts aside the cake box and pulls you to stand, hands on your hips, feet almost touching, so close and yet not close enough.
A tentative wisp of a kiss dances over your lips before he asks, "Can we… Bed?"
Your nose grazes against his when you nod your head and, without another word, follow him to your bedroom, hand in hand.
There's a quiver in his hands as he takes you to the bed, only noticeable because his touch is all you can focus on as you settle beneath him. There's hesitance in his fingertips, a nervous tremble that cumbers his gentle touch, but you lay there, perfectly still, perfectly pliant and perfectly patient.
(Sometimes — more often than not, truthfully — he doesn't believe he deserves this. He bides his time, waiting for the ball to drop, expecting the universe to steal away the slivers left in his rotten hands, to tear him apart until he's a shell of the man he is right now, until he's nothing but a broken, hollow body with nothing to give and even less to lose.
Until that fated day, he'll take and take and take. How can he not when you offer yourself up to him so sweetly, so foolishly?)
When you are bare beneath him, his breath hitches in his throat. This isn't the first time he's seen you like this, but it feels different. Maybe the bedside lamp's bulb has changed, or the moon has tilted just for you, for him, for this moment, but you're swathed in a mixed honey and silver glow and he can't look away. He can't peel his eyes away from the arch of your back, from the shiver that racks your body when he slides his fingers along your wetness.
Your voice has never sounded so gratifying, and he swears he can feel himself grow intoxicated just by the lilt in your voice; a flick of the wrist, a graze against your labia has your sighs keening, makes you pant a little more wantonly, and he’s damned if he doesn’t try to elicit more of your singing.
It’s when you whine — desperation leaking into the dulcet syllables, drawing them out so he can bask in your craving — that he slips his fingers in, one, then another to stretch you out a tad further.
(You should never beg for anyone or anything, least of all him.)
Your pelvis digs into the mattress when Dabi crooks his fingers, body mimicking the way they curl as he pumps them in and out, back and forth, savouring the way your walls clench around them. He knocks the breath out of your lungs when he leans over you to litter kisses up the side of your neck, teeth leaving tiny crescents as he trails up, up, up to your ear. Just as his lips sweep across the shell of your ear, a third finger joins the mess between your legs, and he buries himself as deep as you allow.
A sharp trill runs down your spine when he nibbles on your skin and his fingers pinpoint those sweet spots in your core, tapping away diligently to bring back those honeyed moans.
His mouth finds its way back to yours as the coil in your stomach winds tighter, following along the curve of your jaw before slotting against yours in a slow kiss. You’re groaning into his mouth, helpless to the way he does that special something with his tongue that has your eyes rolling back.
“Cum for me.” His voice is raspy, headier with impatience and laced with a rampant longing to see you fall apart. “Fuck, please, wanna feel you.”
It isn’t long before his other hand slides up your thigh, thumb coming up quickly to prod at your wet lips before returning lower, rolling over your clit in steady motions until you feel the coil snap.
There are no shrieking whines or shrill cries, not when he swallows down your sobs so eagerly, as if he lives and breathes for you pleasure.
(He does, he thinks. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do to make you happy, to bring you to unimaginable heights, to keep you safe and sound and alive.
He wishes he could do more for you — buy you the books you’ve got an eye on, give you a real house with heating and proper lights, get you a car so you’re not stuck walking home in the dead of night — but there’s only so much a man with his face plastered on wanted lists can do. He’s not the kind of man who can waltz into a library, and he’s more adept at blowing up cars than purchasing them.
You tell him that he’s doing enough, that he doesn’t need to go out of his way to do something for you. That doesn’t mean he’s given up on learning the recipe to your favourite meal. He can’t afford a two-storey house, but he’ll get the seasoning perfect, if it’s the last thing he does. He promises.)
A tremor runs through your legs as you gradually come down from your high. Little puffs of air warm his face as he dips in to kiss you, languidly scraping the metal of his scars over your chin before his lips seal over yours once more.
“You okay?” Your murmur is so quiet, he wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t so focused on you, if he was any less attuned to everything you say and do.
“‘m fine,” Dabi replies, and he wishes he could be half as soft as you, wishes he could stay silent and just listen to you for the rest of his life.
Your hands follow the lines of his shoulders until they cup his face, thumbs tracing over the rough patches beneath his eyes with a delicacy he doesn’t deserve, with a fragility he has longed for for too many years.
“You’re crying,” you say.
He can’t. He shouldn't be able to. He doesn’t know when he last cried, can’t even remember the feeling of tears pouring down his face. But then he wonders when your face had become blurry to him — when he tips his head to yours and it’s as if he’s seeing you from a far distance, he wonders if you’re really there.
“‘m fine,” he chokes out once more.
(He is, he truly is. How can he not be when you’re right there? When you’re holding his face in the palm of your hands, and he can feel the flutter of your lashes on his cheeks, when your wispy breaths fan over his lips and he can taste you in the air. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, or how he’s crying, just that he is.
It’s irritating that he can’t see you properly, that you’re a warbled mess beneath him, but at least you’re there. You’re there, pecking his lips so gently, so how can he stay frustrated?)
“Are you sure?”
He nods, nose brushing against yours, forehead still resting on yours, mouth barely detaching from yours. He’s so close, and yet it’s still not enough. It’s that selfishness of his rearing its twisted head; he wants to be closer, wants to forget where you begin and he ends, wants to be buried in your body and carved into your bones — he wants to squeeze his body against yours until you’re bursting with desperation, with an unquenchable hunger, just like he is. He needs you, more than anything, he needs you to see how you’re embedded in his blood, his soul, his very being, how you’ve engraved yourself into the crumbling walls of his heart, how your name is written on every cell in his body, how he is nothing without you.
His body sinks into yours, and he can feel the press of his length against your pelvis, relishing the way you push back onto him, just as needily. You want him. You want him just as much as he wants you.
Your hands wander down his body as he steals your lips in another kiss, and then another, and another, until the skin is rubbed raw and swollen, and then another.
You’re unnecessarily gentle as you push his trousers down, as you graze your nails along the slant of his hips.
(He won’t break — not any more than he has already. And, even if he does, if it’s by your hand, then he wouldn’t mind a single bit. If your touch signs his death, he thinks he could go to heaven.)
And you’re unfairly soft as you stroke his length, as you tease the tip, but make him wait no longer than mere seconds. His desperation is tangible, suffocating almost, but you don’t cut through it and mock him, you bathe in it, breathe it all in and reciprocate. When he cants his hips against yours, when he buries himself, inch by slow inch, into your body, he sighs with relief.
He has an aversion to heat — some days (most days, really) he can’t stand the sight or feeling of his own flames — but when you’re wrapped around him so tightly, surrounding him with your own warmth, your goodness, he wonders how he can ever bring himself to dislike it. It feels like coming home, like finding the final piece of a puzzle left untouched for years, like a mother’s embrace when her child’s been out at war for too long.
Your nails dig into his skin, marking dents he’ll trace over for as long as they last, as you usher him to move. There’s a sigh caught in your breath, a whimper escaping in its stead when he rears his hips back then fills you up once more.
“More, please, baby,” you ask, breath pitching so sweetly, so eagerly, and he’s at your mercy, resigned to do your bidding for the rest of his life, though he will never complain.
His hand unclenches the sheets, treading down to yours to pin it above your head, and then he repeats with the other. Palm to palm, fingers entwined with yours to never let go, he dips his head to capture your lips in another bruising kiss as he thrusts in again, and again, and again.
It’s a slow, relentless motion, burying himself so deep your body has no choice but to mould to his shape, drawing out those saccharine sounds from you with every stroke. The bed creaks every time you arch off of it, the headboard knocks against the wall in sync with the wet sounds of his skin slapping against yours. Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into his lower back and he savours the feel of you pressing into him, careening up against his chest, pulling him in by his shoulders until he’s flushed against you, until not a single breath can pass between your bodies.
You’re gasping against his lips, hiccups jolting out of you with each drive of his hips, and you sound so needy, so wanton, that his hips surge forward with renewed vigor, sheathing himself so deep and then grinding his pelvis against yours. A thrill sparks up your spine when your clit catches on his body, and he rolls his hips to send shockwave after shockwave right through that little bundle.
“Ah— shit, shit, shit,” you mewl, bucking your hips for more friction, more of his touch. “Please, baby.”
“Fuck, what do you want? What d’you want, baby, tell me ‘n I’ll give it to you." He groans, revelling in the way your walls flutter around his length, how he can taste your craving in the grooves of your tongue, smell your lust floating in the air around you. "Give you what’ver you want, fuck— I swear.”
"Jus' you— oh god, just wan' you, Da—"
"Touya," he chokes out, burying his head in the crook of your neck, tightening his grip on your interlaced hands. "Please. Touya."
"Touya, want you— want you so badly, please."
"Yeah?" He pants, nestling himself further, so his mouth can kiss away the sweat shining on your skin and his chest scratches against yours with each thrust. "You want this? You want me?"
"Yes, yes, Touya, please. Need you, need you so much."
God, Touya doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing that — it's like a choir of angels praising him, singing his name as if it's the only prayer they know. He's found heaven between your thighs, but salvation drips from your lips every time you call his name, every time you whimper a little ah, Touya, please, every time he feels your body mould to his, seeking out his touch. He may be a sinner now, but he thinks he was a saint in his past life — why else would he have been blessed with you? How else could a man destined for hell believe he has a chance of absolution?
"I've got you," he says, and he can feel the flex of your thighs around him, can distinguish that keen in your voice to know you're nearing your end. "Fuck, I've got you, I swear, 'm never lettin' go. Fuck— fuck, baby, c'mon. C'mon, I can feel you, 're you close?"
"Yeah— yeah, 'm close, 'm s'close. Touya," you whine, a tender, impatient little sound that embeds itself into every recess of his mind, driving him insane with how much he wants to please you, wants to hear you call for him until your throat goes raw, until it's the only word you know. "Touya, please— please, cum with me. Wanna feel you cum f'r me, baby, please."
And who is he to disobey you?
His hand travels the length of your body, finding your clit easily, rolling the bud around until you're curving into him, stuttering his name between quiet sobs. He's helpless against you, at his wit's end when you cry his name so preciously, so deliciously, high off the way you use your free hand to drag his face back to yours and steal his breath away.
"Please, Touya," you pant, eyes half-lidded, but he can make them out through his tears; he can see the adoration softening the corners of your eyes, see the awe that wells at your lash line. He hopes beyond hope that he looks half as blissful as you do right now. It's the least you deserve. "I love you s'much, Touya."
There's nothing else he can do but let his tears fall as he bottoms out in you, as he lays his forehead on yours and whispers a fuck, I love you. Love you more against your lips, as he fills you up and feels you tighten around him in return.
His mind goes blank. Nothing flashes through his head as he basks in the feel of you fluttering around him, until he becomes a bit more cognizant, as he remembers the starry look in your eyes, as he replays you telling him, telling Touya, that you love him.
Your chest grazes his as you slow your breathing, but he can't bring himself to move off of you. He could die here, he thinks, happily buried in your arms. Your body, his coffin — he'll find a home in your bones, like he has in your hands, in your heart, reside deep in your marrow until the end of time.
"Touya?" You call, and it feels like a fever dream. He's terrified that if he opens his eyes, he'll be met with a cold, empty bed and no signs you've ever lived here, no proof you've ever existed, no evidence you've ever loved him. He doesn't answer. He wants to hear you say his name again, and again, and again, until you grow tired of it, until he's overstayed his welcome in your life.
So he sinks into you instead, head on your chest, listening intently to the way your heart beats, thinking (foolishly, hopefully) that it's pounding just for him. His arms wrap around you, so tight the metal digs into you, yet you stay still, you let him mark you up however he wants to, however he needs to.
He can feel himself slowly drift away, succumbing to sleep the longer you play with his hair, the longer you trace over the scarred lines in his body, the longer you let him stay by your side.
(He thinks you should let him go.
He won't ever let go of you, but you would be better off without him.
Yet, no matter how many times he says that to himself, he'll never voice it aloud in fear of you agreeing.)
It's that selfish part of him that has control now, that makes him embrace you just a little harder, that makes him murmur don't leave me, instead, that bares another part of his heart to you, and relishes the whispered I won't, Touya, you promise in response.
(Touya thinks he's in too deep, falling in love with someone that can leave him at any time, being vulnerable around someone who can take his heart and tear it to shreds right in front of him.
He also thinks he's an idiot, because if it was you breaking his body and burning his heart to ashes, he'd gladly hand you another piece and watch you do it all over again.)
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I ONLY JUST SAW U ANSWER MY ASK RN
but omg dabi was so spot on mans is a pervert through and through
also, i feel like he'd be so shameless abt it
he'd even walk around w ur underwear balled in his hands or something and if you see it and tell him to give it back to you he'd absolutely enjoy that reaction, tell you to 'make him' give it to you then, if you so desperately want it back
cw: smut, mdni 18+, pervert!dabi, um panty stealing? creaming in panties, voyeurism, masturbation. reader has no pronouns but femal a story described.
dabi is the biggest pervert known to man and you will not tell me otherwise.
like he’s probably been stealing your underwear for weeks until you have absolutely none left and only when it gets to that point does he show up with your favourites between his fingers and a sleazy smile on his face, causing his piercings to ripple. “lookin’ for these dollface?”
you’d make an effort to reach up and snatch them away from him, feeling hot under the skin and tips of your ears because you’d been looking for those since forever but he keeps pulling them above your head, seafoam eyes dropping to the way your tits bounce when you try to grab them. fuckin’ nasty lol. and then finally dabi drops your precious lace undies to the floor, watching eagerly for the cringe in your face as you bend to snatch them up.
his eyes follow your ass and then slither down to your face as you note the slick film of dabi’s cum against the flimsy material— you force an expression of disgust but internally, your insides churn and your core grows heated and wet from the thought of your belongings being used by the villain to get off. “never said i’d return them to you in the same way i got ‘em,” he tells you, leaving you embarrassed and ashamed.
what he doesn’t tell you is that he comes back later that night to see you rubbing the tainted panties into your clit— smearing the traces of his release into your puffy and abused folds lined with sweet nectar. dabi can’t help but pull his dribbling cock from his slacks, running his rough palms up and down his shaft to spread the film of his precum along it. you put on a pretty show for him, all because of the underwear he took and touya can’t help but wonder if you’ll leave your panties out for him again— to steal and use and dirty like he’s done before.
he cums when you do, in thick heavy ropes of white from his place on the balcony a street away. your name falls with a curse on his lips while your back arches off of the bed while you finger your cunt through your high, panties pressed hotly against your core— squirting a clear liquid with the shout of dabi’s name.
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Love Taste - brat! Todoroki Touya x fem! domme! Reader
a/n ; I got a nice little request for a subby Dabi so of course I had to deliver! Sorry if it sucks I'm very tired!!!
summary ; you peg dabi, but you gotta tame the brat first.
words ; 1.3k
warnings ; fem reader, domme reader, pegging, sub dabi, brat dabi, cum as lube, dirty talk (m), praise (m), unedited, I'm sure I missed some but I'm tired hahaha
He was angry. Well, he tried to be angry. Tried to show you that he wasn't going to put up with your shit, but you both knew the truth.
He actually liked giving up control, letting you take the lead and doing whatever you liked with him. He liked that freedom, the way it felt to just exist for a little while. And if things worked out (they always did) you both were cumming over and over by the end of it.
But the thing about Dabi was that you had to get him there. Had to tame his bratty side and thrust him into subspace before he would obey you and take whatever you'd give him. So he's angry, but not really.
"Don't you fucking touch me," he spat, venom dripping from his lips as you finished securing the ropes that bound his wrists to the headboard. "I can burn these puny little ropes in a heartbeat why the fuck do you think you can do this to me?"
"Then burn them," you said nonchalantly, moving back to admire the view. Before you Dabi laid bare on the mattress, cock standing at attention, rows of silver piercings glimmering in the low light. The bridge of his nose and the small pieces of healthy flesh on his cheeks were flushed, his eyes already lidded, he was ready for you.
He answered you with a click of his tongue, both of you knowing he would do no such thing. "That's what I thought. You don't want to be a brat, you want to be a good boy for me."
You slid off of the bed, leaving him alone and unattended, to secure the strap-on to your body. The dildo you chose was pretty: long and veiny and marbled a bright blue and purple. He was still getting used to this, so you opted for something less intimidating. For now.
Dabi's eyes grew wide when you turned around, cock swinging languidly with the motion. You still wore a pretty set of lingerie, keeping yourself mostly concealed to him. He exhaled a hiss through his teeth, gaze focused on the length between your legs. You saw his throat bob with a thick swallow, and smirked.
“Like what you see, pretty boy? Want me to fuck you with this?”
“Fuck no, don’t you come near me with that thing.”
“Well, if that’s what you want, I guess we’ll just call this whole thing off,” you moved to unfasten the contraption, but a soft ‘wait’ stopped you.
“Don’t-” he growled, frustrated, “I mean I want…”
“Use your words, baby, what do you want me to do?”
Dabi looked away, unable to meet your eyes as he spoke, “I want you… to .. fuck…. me…” his voice grew quieter with each word, his face growing hotter at the admission.
“Yeah? You want me to fuck you? You gonna be a good slut for your mistress?” You crawled to him on the bed, a bottle of lube in your hand that he didn’t seem to notice, and slotted yourself between his thighs. His knees fell to the wayside, giving you full access.
He still wouldn’t meet your gaze, but that was fine, you’d have him a drooling, begging mess in a moment. Pouring some lube into your palm you stroked over your silicone cock, the movement drawing his attention back to you, finally. Then, you pressed it against his dick, making him shudder.
Taking both in your hands, you started sliding your palms up and down both of your lengths, adding a thrust at an uneven pace to stimulate those pretty piercings that laddered up his underside. Dabi inhaled shakily, holding his breath to keep himself from moaning, but a gentle, encouraging squeeze drew those sounds out of him. It rumbled deep in his chest, up his throat to fall from his lips.
“Yeah? Like the way my cock feels against you? Like it when I stroke us both? So fucking dirty, you really are a slut for me aren’t you?”
He answered with another click of his tongue. You paused, pulling away completely.
“The fuck- why?”
“Brats don’t get to have their dicks touched, I thought you’d have learned by now, Dabi.”
“I’m not-” you could feel the frustration bubbling up, he was close now. He gritted his teeth, levelling you with a glare. “I’m not a brat.”
You scoffed, pouring more lube into your palm, “Yeah? You think so? Then prove it. Tell me how much of a slut you are for me, that you’re a whore for your mistress’s cock.”
From his vantage, he couldn’t see you slick your fingers up with the lube, couldn’t see them hovering dangerously close to his tight hole.
“I’m…” he groaned, “you’re really going to make me fucking say it.”
“If you want me to take care of you, prove you aren’t a brat.”
“I’m… I’m a slut for you, I’m nothing but your whor----hhhahhhhhhh fucking hell.” You interrupted him mid-sentence by pushing two fingers into him, making him clench and making his dick throb.The moan that tore from his throat was deep and the feeling of your in his ass made his eyelids flutter.
Slowly you started working your fingers in and out, scissoring them to stretch him and prepare him for you. “What was that?” you asked, teasingly, with that smirk on your face again.
“I’m your fucking whore, god it feels… fuck… I’m your slut, m-mistress. Hnnghh shit that’s good. Right there y-yeah like that. Fuck, mistress, keep doing that.” He attempted to rock his hips into you, but you held him back with your other hand on his thigh.
“Please, please I need more,” there it is. “Please I need you, need you to fuck me. God, fucking dammit please.”
“Well since you asked so nicely,” you said, adding a third finger and making his back arch. He groaned long and deep and his eyes clenched shut at it. “Mmmm you look so pretty like this, baby. See how good it feels when you behave?”
He managed a nod, but it quickly turned into a needy whine when you pulled your fingers from him. “Mistress-”
Again, he was cut off by an intrusion in his ass, this time the head of the dildo slowly pressing into him. Dabi hissed at the additional stretch. “Fuck… hhhhfffuuuuccckkkk,” he groaned again, elongating the syllable as you pushed further and further in until you were hilted. You paused there, letting him adjust to you while your fingers wrapped around his neglected cock.
“Ah!” his whole body convulsed with a wave of pleasure when you gripped him, drawing more pretty moans as you stroked him slowly.
“You ready, baby?”
You set a ginger pace at first, once more pleasured sounds fell from his open mouth you sped up, pumping his cock while fucking his ass. The sounds of your hips snapping against him filled the room alongside his unabashed moans.
Dabi’s thighs began to shake, and you knew that he was close. Shifting slightly to pull his thighs over yours and leaning forward, you angled yourself to hit his prostate just right; sending waves of pleasure coursing through him.
“Oh fuck, oh.. Ohhh god mistress please… I’m gonna cum, please let me cum. Please I n-need to…”
“Cum for me, pretty boy,” you cooed, picking up the pace on both his dick and his clenching hole. That was all he needed, his body twitching and back arching as hot spurts of creamy white cum coated his belly and your hand. You used the slickness to continue stroking him until he was long finished, overstimming him in the most delicious way.
Soft whines and pleas for you to stop filled your ears and you smiled sweetly at him.
“No, baby, we’re not done yet. Keep being a good boy and I’ll make you cum over and over.”
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