#( he’s a messy flood who can’t keep his eyes open.

[zealctry]

actual picture of Hidan in the morning.

[alisonsfics]

lovers to exes, to lovers? part one

pairing: ex!tyler owens x ex!reader

summary: who ever heard of exes being civil after a breakup? not you and tyler. which makes it interesting when you both end up in the same town.

word count: 2.7k

part 2

You were abruptly woken up by Javi shaking your leg. You squinted as your eyes adjusted to the light. “We’re here,” he told you, before getting out of the truck.

Along with Javi and the rest of his team, you were chasing a string of storms in Oklahoma. You were Javi’s second-in-command. You had graduated top of your class, so you were the brains behind the operation.

The team had to drive to Oklahoma straight from a meeting in California, so you had crawled into the back seat for a quick nap.

You sat up and stretched your arms. Out the windows, you saw a rundown motel and storm chasers camped out.

You climbed out of the truck to stretch your legs after the long drive. You ran your fingers through your now-messy hair. You smoothed it out and pulled it up into a high ponytail. You met Javi at the back of the truck, where he was checking on the equipment. “Thank you for driving.” You mumbled, sleepily. He chuckled at how you were struggling to keep your eyes open. “I always drive, but you’re welcome.” He told you.

All of a sudden, you heard a blaring radio down the road. Everyone turned to look and saw a dirty truck and a camper van pull into the parking lot.

“Somebody’s overcompensating,” you muttered grumpily, earning a laugh from Javi. You turned your attention back to your laptop.

There was a commotion as the truck stopped in the parking lot. As cheers erupted, you glanced over your shoulder to see what the fuss was about.

The last thing you expected to see was Tyler Owens, your ex-boyfriend, tipping his cowboy hat to an adoring crowd.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” You complained, crossing your arms. Javi looked up to see what you were looking at. “Oh, isn’t that the Tyler Owens guy? He’s always seemed a little cocky to me.” Javi said.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, hoping you’d wake up and it would be a dream. “Yeah, it is. But, it’s also Tyler Owens, my ex-boyfriend.” You added. Javi’s attention completely abandoned the data he was reading. His mouth hung slightly open.

“I’m sorry, wait. You and Tyler Owens dated? And you’ve never told me this?” He asked, in shock. You slowly nodded your head. “We all mistakes, and oh look, mine is walking this way.” You said, rolling your eyes.

Tyler couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He hadn’t seen you in person since you both broke up. He didn’t know if he should feel as excited to see you as he did. He wasn’t hoping for a heartfelt reunion by any means, but you always knew how to push his buttons.

You and Tyler butted heads really well. That spark and chemistry is why you started dating in the first place. There was a certain passion to the way you both would bicker with each other.

But, it also ended up being why you both broke up. Because you both were too young, too immature, and also too competitive for your own good.

“I didn’t know you were chasing in Oklahoma?” You asked, crossing your arms as Tyler walked up to you. He rested his hands on his hips and took all of you in. “You not happy to see me?” He asked, cocking his head to the side.

You laughed and rolled your eyes. “Oh, absolutely thrilled. I can’t wait for you to copy my work and then take all the credit, just like you did in college.” You said, giving him a sarcastic smile. Tyler took another step towards you.

Javi was starting to get very uncomfortable with the tension between the two of you. The electricity flowing between you both was almost palpable.

“Only time I ever copied you was when I ran out of time for that project because I’d spent all night with you doing…well, you remember.” He said, winking at you. Your stomach tightened as the memories of that night went flooding through you.

Some kid in your class had tried to ask you out. You obviously told him you were dating someone, but the whole thing got under Tyler’s skin. He showed up at your apartment determined to show you that you were his.

Tyler may have been a pain in your ass most of the time, but he knew exactly what he was doing when it came to sex. He knew your body better than anyone else, still to this day.

“Tyler, this is Javi. We work together. Javi, this is my annoying ex-boyfriend, Tyler.” You said, trying to change the subject.

Tyler smirked proudly to himself. He knew his words had gotten under his skin. He could see the way you squeezed your legs together, trying to ignore the familiar aching. Tyler was always good at reading you. He knew what every little expression meant.

“Yeah, man…umm nice to meet you. I gotta get going though.” Javi said, quickly excusing himself from the awkward situation.

Tyler watched him as he left and then turned his attention back to you. “You really not happy to see me, sweetheart?” He asked, taking another step towards you.

“Don’t call me that, Tyler.” You snapped, sitting down on the tailgate and grabbing your laptop again. You hoped he’d realize you were busy and leave you alone.

He didn’t.

Tyler hopped up on the tailgate and sat beside you. “You used to like when I called you that. You said it was a part of my cowboy charm. I used to just have to call you sweetheart, then you were in my arms like that.” He said, snapping his fingers.

You rolled your eyes at his clear attempt to get you focused on those long nights again. He knew it was one of the best ways to annoy you. He softly planted his hand on the small of your back, leaning in towards you.

“It’s called maturing, Tyler. Maybe you should try it sometime.” You told him, pushing his hand off of you.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “Oh really? You’re the mature one?” He snapped. He was actually surprised to hear the words come out of your mouth. You were just as immature as he was.

“I’m certainly more mature than the guy who made a YouTube channel of him chasing tornadoes as a way to get girls.” You said, snarkily.

He scoffed at the implication. “You know damn well that I care about my work just as much as you do. The girls are just an added benefit, and if you wanted to be one of them so badly, you could just ask. And that’s not what I was referring to, Ms. Maturity.” He said, looking at you with a knowing glance.

You focused your attention back on your laptop because you knew what he was going to say. It wasn’t your proudest moment.

“Yeah, look who’s all quiet now. You don’t want to talk about how the day after we broke up, I went to your apartment to apologize, and you’d slept with my best friend? That seem mature to you?” He asked, cocking his head to the side. That was probably the only grudge that Tyler still had to this day.

You pushed your laptop to the side and turned to face Tyler. You could see how upset he was. His jaw was clenched, and his face was starting to turn red. “For God's sake, Tyler. We’ve hashed this out a million times, and I’ve told you how sorry I was. It was a drunken stupid decision. So, no matter how pissed you are, I can’t undo it.” You snapped at him.

He leaned in closer to you. His face was only inches away from yours. You worried that if he got any closer, he’d hear how quick your heart was beating.

It took every ounce of control he had to not lean in and get another taste of your strawberry chapstick. He’d missed letting himself get distracted with the sweet taste of your lips.

“You know what I think it was? I think you wanted to see if anyone could fuck you as good as I did. I think you’re still hung up on it now.” He said, in a low tone.

You tried to pretend like his words didn’t make you feel all warm inside. “You think I’m still hung up on the sex? It’s been years, Tyler. Get over yourself, you aren’t the god of sex.” You lied, rolling your eyes at him.

“Oh, really?” He asked, cocking his head to the side. He grabbed your chin. It felt like the air was ripped out of you. He cockily smirked down at you.

“What’s this then?” He asked, pulling your arm up and showing you the goosebumps that were covering your body.

You pulled your arm out of his grip. “You know what, Tyler? Just do us both a favor, and leave me the fuck alone.” You snapped, walking away from Tyler. You headed over towards the diner to grab some food for dinner.

The inside of the diner was chaos. Way too many storm chasers trying to get food at the same time. You glanced down at your watch as you waited in line. It was getting late, and you were hungry.

“Hey, how’re you?” you heard a man beside you say. You turned and saw a guy smiling at you. “Respectfully, I’m really not in the mood if you’re trying to hit on me.” You said, quickly.

He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m Boone.” He said, shaking your hand. You remembered why the name sounded familiar. “Oh shit, you’re Tyler’s friend, aren’t you?” You asked, to which he nodded.

“He pointed you out before and said you guys used to date. Anyway, we have some food over near our camp, if you want some.” He offered. You quickly nodded and thanked him for the offer.

He introduced you to everyone on the team and handed you a takeout container full of food. You didn’t understand how an asshole like Tyler had a team that was full of nice people.

You started eating and listened as they all told stories about some of their craziest tornadoes.

“Oh, look who you invited to eat with us,” Tyler said, shooting you a sarcastic smile. Boone gestured over towards the diner. “Yeah, the line over at the diner was insane. I figured you wouldn’t mind.” Boone explained.

“Come on, Tyler, grow up. I’m a grown woman. I can eat where I want.” You snapped at him, rolling your eyes.

Tyler just chuckled and looked at the ground. “Careful, Boone. She has a history of sleeping with my best friends to make me jealous. You better watch out.” Tyler said, glaring at you.

The whole group got quiet. They hadn’t realized things between you and Tyler were so icy.

“I should go.” You said, starting to grab your things. You liked getting on Tyler’s nerves, but not when he was acting like an ass. Tyler quickly shook his head.

“No no, you should stay. So, what were we talking about? It sounded like craziest tornado experiences? You should remember this one.” Tyler said, looking over at you.

You froze in your seat. You knew exactly what story he was going to tell. But, you couldn’t believe he was actually going that far.

“This lovely lady and I chased a tornado one time, back when we were still together. It was right after I made the prototype to drill the truck into the ground. And she got excited at what that meant. So, we were chasing a giant storm. Then, she had a naughty little idea and decided she wanted to fuck me as we were surrounded by the tornado. And she did, and let me tell you.” He said, whistling to himself.

You could feel your blood boiling. Your face felt warm as tears starting forming in your eyes. “I fucking hate you.” You snapped at him before turning to walk away.

He yelled back at you, “Oh, come on, honey. What’s wrong? I can’t talk about the ways you did me wrong? And I can’t talk about some our best memories? What else am I supposed talk about?” He asked. He had a cocky sense of pride, knowing how much he’d gotten to you.

When it came to you, Tyler would often get blinded by his feelings and take things a step too far.

“You are an asshole, Tyler.” You said, your voice cracking with emotion. You slapped him across his face before storming off. His whole team was dead silent, having no idea what to say.

Tyler sighed to himself and stormed off in the other direction.

You ran right into your motel room and slammed the door. You’d never felt so humiliated by Tyler before. You curled up under the sheets and just prayed you wouldn’t see Tyler tomorrow.

After about an hour, there was a knock at your door. You assumed it was Javi since you hadn’t heard from him in a while.

You wiped the tears off your face and walked over to the door.

When you opened it and saw Tyler, you immediately tried to slam it shut. Tyler quickly stuck his foot in the door to stop you.

“Hang on, sweetheart. Wait a minute.” He begged you. You furiously shook your head, crossing your arms. “I don’t want to talk to you.” You protested.

Tyler held out a box. “You left your food, and I figured you were hungry.” He said, softly. You quietly thanked him and took the box. “Is that it?” You asked as he refused to leave.

“I really want to apologize, sweetheart. I was really fucking out of line. I was mad at you, but I shouldn’t have tried to get revenge. I was such a dick, and I’m really sorry.” He said, genuinely.

You went on your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around him. He slipped his arms around your waist, holding you tightly. “I’m sorry too. About everything.” You whispered into his shirt.

You both pulled away but lingered slightly. “I know there’s a lot of unresolved feelings over how we ended things, but can we at least have a temporary truce? I don’t want you to get put in harm’s way tomorrow because we’re both distracted. You don’t have to love me, but can we at least be civil?” He asked. You quickly nodded.

“Truce,” you agreed, grabbing his hand and shaking it. You earned a soft chuckle from him. “Goodnight, sweetheart.” He said, kissing your forehead.

He lingered. It felt like he was expecting you to invited him inside. Should you? That was too much, right?

While you were overthinking, he walked back to his room. You closed the door and retreated to your bed to finish your dinner.

After you finished your food, your mind wandered back to Tyler. Something about the way he apologized made you feel like that spark was back. There was a certain twinkle in his eyes.

Ignoring all your better instincts, you reapplied your lipstick, fixed your hair, and headed towards Tyler’s room.

You wiped the sweat off your hands and onto your jeans. You were shocked that you were walking towards Tyler’s room. For years, you’d sworn that you’d stay away from him if you ever saw him again. That just goes to show the effect he had on you.

You took a deep breath and picked your hand up to knock on the door. Before you could, you heard someone talking. You quickly let your hand fall to your side.

You couldn’t knock on Tyler’s door hoping for a one night stand if Boone, or one of the guys, was inside with him. You slowly started to back up when the voice got a lot clearer.

It was a woman. And she wasn’t talking.

“Oh, fuck, baby yes. Harder please, you feel so good.” You could feel your eyes go wide. You quickly took a few steps back.

The tears started forming in your eyes, and you didn’t even know why. You shouldn’t have been surprised.

You started to run back to your room. You would have been mortified if anyone caught you. Now, Tyler’s truce made sense to you. He wasn’t trying to make amends, he wanted to ease his conscience before he hooked up with some girl. You felt so naive.

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[lovelettersforthedamned]

Congrats on 400 followers!

I don't know if I can request two prompts, but could you write "they know about this. about us." and "your morning voice is so hot." "what?" with Poe? Pls make it smutty

Honey

✮ poe dameron x f!reader

✮ word count: 1.4k

✮ summary: A day off with Poe is rare, so might as well start it off right.

✮ warnings: fluff, smut, MINORS DNI, 18+, thigh riding, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, lowkey a situationship lolz.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

main m.list ⋆ poe dameron m.list ⋆ four-hundred follower bash

not my gif. credit to the owner.

Having a day off was a rarity, but having a day off the same day as Poe? That was nearly impossible. 

You and Poe have been sneaking around for a while. The thought of everyone knowing about your business with the Resistance’s poster boy gave you a headache. Whatever was going on between you two was good with the both of you, and you’d like to keep it that way. 

Your sleep schedule was jumbled, from hours spent late in the night to early mornings, you were swamped. And though you wanted to sleep in, your body’s natural alarm decided to wake you as the sun rose. Cursing to yourself, you turn to Poe, sleeping soundly in your bed. 

He’s lying on his stomach, and his arm draped over your waist as his curls sprawled over your pillow. His grip on you tightened as you moved closer to him, the heat of his skin radiating, causing you to curl up next to him. 

Your eyes grew heavy. Poe’s soft breaths act as a lullaby until your holopad wrung. The blasting sound of the incoming call woke you both. You stumble to the bedside desk, fixing your appearance, not bothering to check who it is before answering. 

Rose’s face appears and you turn to make sure Poe isn’t in view before turning back around, “Hey, Rose! Is there something wrong?” A bright big smile is plastered on your face, an obvious cover for your true state. 

Her eyebrows furrow. “No,” she starts, “I was just wondering if you’ve seen Poe? He was supposed to send me the report for the new pilot.” 

Poe was fully awake at this point, and you looked in the corner of your eye to see him looking at you. He shrugs and mouths “day off”. You hold back a laugh before turning back to Rose, “If I see him I will let him know.”

“Mhm…,” her words drag out as she puts the pieces together. “Poe! I expect that report in my hands first thing tomorrow morning,” she speaks louder to make sure he can hear from your bed behind you. 

Your eyes widen. “Yep,” Poe calls out. 

“Enjoy your day off, (Y/N),” she says before ending the call. 

The moment you put down the holopad, your eyes are trained on Poe, worry and anger flooding through your veins. His arms are open, welcoming you back into his hold. You waste no time before settling in the sheets, nuzzling against Poe’s chest. 

You break the comfortable silence, “They know about this. About us.” 

“Only Rose does,” Poe mutters, his voice still raspy from sleep. He’s always been the person to try and ease your worries, but with this, he knows he won’t succeed. 

“If Rose knows,” you turn to face him, “then everyone does.” 

He laughs. He knows that your worrying isn’t funny, but he can’t help but laugh. You playfully smack his arm and try to move away from him, but his hold is too strong. “No, wait,” he says between giggles, “you look cute when you’re worried over things that don’t matter.” 

“But this does matter, Poe–,” you’re cut off by a small kiss.

Poe’s hand is holding the side of your face, his thumb stroking back and forth as he looks at your features. “Your morning voice is so hot,” he whispers.

Your face scrunches in confusion, “What?” 

Poe doesn’t even respond to your question, he dives in for another kiss. But this time, he fully pulls you in, the kiss is messy and desperate. Although you two spent the night entangled in each other’s arms, you couldn’t get enough of him. 

You’re both naked from the night before, the heat from your skin makes it almost uncomfortable under the covers. Poe must have thought the same when he threw it off, the fabric lying on the floor. You giggle at his actions, the cold air shocks your system. 

Poe pulls away panting, “Get on top of me.” His voice was soft but demanding. The lust in his eyes was entrancing, and along with the rasp in his voice, you were trapped. 

You sit up and swing your leg over his waist before lining yourself with his hard cock. You were just about to lower yourself before he grabbed your waist, stopping you. Looking up, you’re confused. Isn’t this what we wanted? 

He must have seen the confusion written across your face because he laughs before speaking. “Sorry, I should’ve been more specific,” he starts, a slight blush rising to his cheeks. His hands on your waist have subconsciously started stroking the skin there, “Ride my thigh, (Y/N).”

“Oh,” you perk up at his request. You back down to his thigh, place your wet core onto him, and start grinding. 

With the way you’re moving, the friction on your clit is perfect, causing you to throw your head back and let out a dangerously loud moan. The walls on the base have always been thin, and you knew that, but you didn’t care, especially when Poe’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the galaxy. 

His cock is resting on the outside of your thigh, the tip leaking with precum. Your hands were once placed on Poe’s chest, but now one of them is holding his hand to your hip and the other is jerking him off. 

Poe’s body tenses at the sudden stimulation before he lets out a low groan. The sound of his pleasure urges you to keep going. You move your hips faster as you tighten your fist around the tip of his cock. “You’re gonna be the death of me, honey,” he slurs. 

You take a mental note of the new name he used for you, storing it in the back of your mind. 

Your legs are shaking and tired, but you’d be an idiot to stop now, especially when you’re this close. Momentarily pausing your movements, you lean down to give Poe a quick kiss, “You wish.” 

Leaning back up, you can feel the coil in your stomach edge its way closer to the tipping point of pleasure. The grip on your hips tightened catching your attention and making you look at the desperate man below you. “You’re right there,” he kneads at the skin there, “I can feel it.” You nod, unable to form a coherent sentence. “Cum for me. Please, I need it,” he tenses his thigh, the muscles now acting as more stimulation for your aching clit. 

With this new angle, you cum instantly. The sight of you coming undone causes Poe to cum with you. Your hand is a mess. Your fist is covered with ropes of cum, the warm liquid running down your fingers. 

As you come down, you collapse onto Poe’s chest. You’ve both made a mess, you could feel it. Your inner thighs are sticky and uncomfortably wet, causing you to try and dismount yourself off of his thigh. But with shaky legs, you fail. You barely raise your leg a few inches before the muscles shake, causing it to collapse back into the sticky mess. 

Poe notices your discomfort and quickly flips you so that you’re the one lying on the bed. He presses a delicate kiss to your forehead before whispering, “I’ll be right back.” Your eyes are closed as you nod. 

You can hear the sink running from the refresher before a warm cloth is placed on your core. Your eyes widen at the feeling, before relaxing at the sight before you. Poe is cleaning you up with such care. He wipes away all remnants of pleasure and triple-checks that he got everything before he even thinks to clean himself up. 

You grin at the gesture. When Poe tosses the cloth in the hamper, he returns to you. Laying on top of your naked frame, his curls tickle your chin. “You’re a real gentleman, Dameron,” you mumble into the crown of his head. 

His arms tighten around you, “Only for you though.” 

“Oh yeah?” You start, “Why’s that?”

He takes a deep breath before sinking further into your hold, “Good night, (Y/L/N).” 

“The day just started. You have all day to explain what you meant by that, and the ‘you’re gonna be the death of me, honey’,” you lower your voice to mimic his, eliciting a laugh from Poe. 

He lifts his head and pauses before pressing a warm kiss to your lips. “Patience is key,” he whispers before laying his head back down on your naked chest, “...honey.”

✮ author's note: i love poe dameron smut!! thank you anon :) come join us in my bash!! we can't wait to see you!!! don't forget to like, comment, and reblog to support me and my work. ok, bye ily

[p1nkcanoe]

Pink... pink pls can we get cum bulge or something with Dew and Mountain? I'm on my knees begging

!! anatomy isn't accurate or whatever, but it's fanfiction and i'm drunk so who gives a shit?

“I know you can take another one–you can–you want it?” 

“Yes,” Dew grunts in between Mountain’s thrusts pistoning into his ass, mouth open wide, breathing hard. He’s so full of Mountain’s cum already, it leaks from his hole and sticks to his thighs, but Mountain keeps giving it to him, keeps promising him more, and he can’t find it in himself to say no. They’ve been going for what feels like hours. Dew’s legs feel like jelly, his hole abused. 

“I’m gonna give it to you–gonna–oh–” The hold on his skinny hips tightens impossibly tighter and in a moment he’s falling boneless in Mountain’s hands as he floods his ass with another load. 

Dew’s cum so many times that he hasn’t even gotten close in the last thirty minutes. He’s painted Mountain’s and his own chest in his own spend and his cock is so thoroughly spent, so sensitive, that the slightest brush of the underside of his head against Mountain’s stomach makes him cry out in overstimulation. Mountain’s in rut, it hits every year around this time, and Dew just happened to be the (un)lucky guy to take his knot… Over and over and over again. The big guy’s insatiable, relying on stamina rather than instinct to drive him to completion, and Dew doesn’t know how much longer he can take it.

“Look,” Mountain grunts. He slows his thrusts and leans the little ghoul back on his cock. “Look how pretty your belly is.” 

Dew looks down, down at the messy skin of his stomach, and what he sees makes his breath catch in his throat and his dick jump for the first time in many minutes. The usually flat plane of his stomach is round, bulging just under the soft skin near his belly button. Pretty. Mountain thrusts up and pushes his huge cock wholly inside, hitting Dew deep in those sensitive areas and sending him mewling. “Look,” Mountain says again and slides the palm of his hand from his hip around to his belly. He pushes into the soft flesh, feeling himself inside there and moaning low and drawn out when he feels himself inside. “So pretty.” 

Dew hums, drops his eyes to Mountain’s hand pushing in and in and in. His face feels impossibly hot along with every inch of his skin. 

“Just imagine how pretty you’ll look when you catch. When your belly swells all big with my kit.” 

“Wait–what?”

“Gonna breed you so good, get you so full that there’s no way you won’t catch.” 

Dew sputters, places his hands on Mountain’s pecs and tries to push away but Mountain wraps his hands around his back, pulls him down flush on his cock and into his strong chest. Dew shakes his head, “Wait, dude. Cmon–”

“You want it, I know you do. I can feel you around me, pulling me in, begging for my seed…” 

Mountain attaches himself to Dew’s neck, adds to the necklace of purple and red bruises around his collarbones with sharp teeth and tongue. Dew claws at sweaty skin, carves lines down his chest. Mountain groans, holds him tighter and gives him another mind melting thrust that sends Dew’s eyes rolling into the back of his skull. “Fuck, Mountain. What’s gotten into you?” 

“Just keep taking it. One more. Can you do that for me? One more–that’s all it’ll take…” 

Dew wants so badly to object, to tell the massive ghoul off and tell him to knock it off, but the rut-lost look on his features is too much to deny and his dick is too good, too hard in his ass, and he looks down, cries out when he realizes his dick is filling back out against his own desires. The bulge in his tummy continues to swell. 

Mountain wraps his arms tight around the ghoul’s waist, lifts him up so he can lick over the center of his sternum, and slams him back down in once motion sending the ghoul reeling for purchase on his shoulders. His thrusts stay brutal and bruising after that and Dew holds on for the ride. The head of his cock rubs against Mountain’s belly, drags through the mousey hair that leads from his chest all the way down and tickles his frenulum. He’s close before he realizes it, fueled by the desperate noises that fall from Mountain’s lips and the ever-growing bulge of his knot against his hole. “Cmon, Mount,” he gasps. “Give it to me.” 

“You want it?”

Dew cringes, nods despite knowing what the ghoul really wants. “Yeah, I want it.” 

“Then beg for it.” 

And against all thoughts in his brain, he does.

[marsmarbles]

TeeHee have a DamselDuo one shot I wrote. They make me ill. Yay!! (1129 words)

Scott woke up in a cold sweat. His limbs ached, like he had been sleeping there for years instead of just a few minutes. As he surveyed himself for damage, memories came flooding back to him.

Burning hot lava. He had fallen in, been consumed by it while on his nether trip. He can still feel the fire licking his cheeks, encasing his face. Surveying his arms, he could still see burn scars that weren’t going away soon. They would stay to remind him of what he’s done, who he’s just killed.

Who he’s killed. Instead of his arms, his vision focuses on the chains trailing down his left arm. It fazes through the wall, because it’s not actually physical, just an illusion. Scott can see the vague color change from bright green to more of a lime, and he knows what color it will eventually become when it reaches his wrist.

You died. A voice whispers in his ear. Do you know what you did, Star?

“I’m pretty fucking aware, thanks.” He tries not to let the panic seep into his voice, but fails miserably. He can’t deal with the speakers right now, he has to check that he’s ok. Scott jumps out of bed, tripping his way out of the door of his cottage as he runs desperately to follow the chain. It turns from green to lime to a sickly yellow, confirming his worst fears. But really, they were confirmed the second he woke up.

He realizes halfway to his destination that he doesn’t have any of his items. His things were turned to ash in the lava, all of his iron armor and quartz lost to the fire. He ignores this best he can, trying not to think about the hours of work he wouldn’t get back.

Instead he runs faster, his footfalls echoing across the valley. Scott can feel tears prick at the corners of his eyes, whether from the stress or the wind whipping at his eyes, he isn’t sure. The other house comes into view, half built with three walls and several support beams. The chain shrinks as he gets closer, revealing the almost sunflower yellow. 

He rips open the door, looking around the house. Joel is in the middle of the floor, curled up with his head between his knees. “Joel, Joel, I’m so sorry! I-I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to, and-“

“Get out.”

“What?” 

Joel lifted his head from its perch. Scott realized his normally perfect hair was tangled everywhere, the green streak having changed to yellow. His eyes were a similar color, as were the chains around his wrists. He looked horrible, to put it lightly, as it was obvious he had shed at least a few tears. “You promised that you would keep me safe. You lied to me. Get out, Scott, before I go hunt down Pearl.”

“Joel, I-“

“Do you not have fucking ears? I said, ‘get out!’”

Scott flinched away, but refused to leave that easily. When Joel saw his stubborn expression, he just shuffled away and put his head down again. Scott looked around the half finished house, trying to find something, anything, he could use to apologize. He didn’t think he could stand for Joel to be mad at him, not like this.

Scott made his way around the house, doing his best to avoid the sullen figure on the floor. He opened the chests quietly, finding building supplies, stray snacks, and… a hairbrush. He smiled softly and picked it up, heading over to Joel and sitting behind him. 

Scott remembered the first time he had done this. It was their second day in these stupid games. He had discovered that, one, he was chained to Joel (obviously a cruel trick from the Watchers) and two, his hair was very long. Scott had experience with long hair, but Joel didn’t, and it showed. He had laughed and taken one of his ribbons, doing his best to take the leaves and sticks out of his hair before he braided it to match his. That was the first time he had seen Joel genuinely smile at him.

Now he took his hair again in his hands, humming as he brushed it out. Joel let him, keeping his head down. Slowly, he untangled the knots. It was hard work, considering how messy it was, but he finished soon enough. Softly putting the brush down, he split the mass into three strands and started braiding them together. Joel had lifted his head up at that point, not quite a pleased expression on his face, but it was close enough for Scott.

When he had finished, he used a stray ribbon he had (yellow, how ironic) to tie the end so it would stay. Scott silently slid around so he was facing Joel’s face now, and clasped his hands.

“I know there’s no real way I can apologize for what I’ve done, but I truly am sorry. I will do my best to be more careful. I-I woke up, and I was so afraid I had lost you, and-“ He took a shaky breath. “I am so, so sorry. I understand if you can’t forgive me. I’ll leave no-“ Scott stood to walk towards the door, but a hand caught his wrist and pulled him back down.

“I,” Joel took a breath. “I can forgive you. It’s fine, it would happen one day, we knew it was coming.” Joel offered him a toothy grin. “I still hate you though.”

Scott let out a wet laugh. “I love you too, Joel.” He dragged him into a hug, placing his face into his shoulder. “I love you too.”

The repetition meant something, something deeper that neither of them wanted to admit. When Scott pulled away, he offered a smile before he stood. “I’ll go tell Lizzie and Pearl what happened. I’ll be over tonight though.”

When he was less than fifteen feet from the house, an annoying voice spoke in his ear once again. 

Ooohhh, someone has a crush.

“I have standards. I don’t just fall for every guy I meet, you know.”

I don’t know, that seemed to be the case with Jimmy and Martyn and-

“Stop right there! Nope, nope, I will not have the gods metaling in my romantic life. That is something I would like to have control over, thank you very much.”

All in due time, Star.

The Speaker snickered as it flew away. Scott scoffed and kept walking, towards the house that Lizzie and Pearl inhabited. So what if he liked Joel a little more than normal? It wasn’t like anything would happen about it.

Still, as he walked, he couldn’t keep his mind off of how much yellow surprisingly fit Joel.

sorry it’s so long but I love them. Maybe expect more fanfic coming soon of Scar and Sausage???

-🌻

I’m…….im fucking speechless…..THIS IS SO GOOOODDDD RAMXKVKDKCMVMDMCN!!!!! Have you really read through my whole page???? Cuz all of this is too accurate.

Also also also!!!! HOW DID YOU KNOW I WAS GONNA HAVE THE SPEAKERS CALL SCOTT STAR!!!!!???!?!!?!! while I was reading I was “WHOT!!! THEY’RE SPYING ON ME THEY’RE SPYING ON ME!!!

You also captured the Speakers’s personality perfectly!!!

The whole time I was reading I was both smiling uncontrollably and on the verge of tears thank you so much!!! I’m so excited to read more(if you make more that is no pressure)!!!!

[ronearoundblindly]

Threadbare (Finale)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part Five: Reversal Point (see previous or series)

Summary: The big day (and date) has arrived. Tonight is the Hellfire Gala!

Warnings for floof, fuff, foofin', double-floofery, and death by fluff. WC 3872

(art by DonAguillo on Facebook)

You’re nervous, but it’s hard not to be.

Steve sent a text five minutes ago saying he’s almost to the shop, so instead of pacing around upstairs, you made your way down and are locking up.

Above you flutters the reflective blue tarp over the window Steve broke into nearly two weeks ago, but that only makes you smile.

The whirlwind of a successful show—one where not only did you kill it on stage, no one actually died—has brought a wave of press and a lovely flood of new clientele, men who would never have thought to bother with your designs when they’d only ever seen you cater to bulky physiques. It’s an honor (and a testament to the efficacy of Tony Stark’s stupid manipulation) to dress more and more unique souls, but you’ve been left no time to handle the ‘break-in’ damage.

The media buzz keeps you busy enough that all four of your employees have been at work at least six days a week, in addition to finishing the trimmings of Captain America’s suit for this Gala and creating an entirely new gown of your own. People can’t stop talking about the fashionable woman fielding bullets with no training. Lately, the press likes to think of you as the amateur engineer version of Black Widow. You’ve been dubbed the ‘Red Weaver’ by some shitty blog that got traction in the messy aftermath of your show.

You couldn’t really care less. You got to spend the night and day after Fisk’s attack isolated in your upstairs bubble of a studio with Steve Rogers.

The new nickname, however, gave you the idea for your dress. You knew you would want to compliment Steve’s patriotic palette, but since you’re not very well going to rewear the gown from your show, you’ve leaned into the Red Weaver/Black Widow persona and built an ombre gown. It has a cheeky casualness compared to your date’s formal three-piece, double-breasted, matching overcoat ensemble.

[Image offered as example, not reflective of Reader's race, size, shape, or skin tone.]

It’s all very fancy and promotable.

In truth, you prefer ‘Button,’ specifically being Steve’s Button, and tonight that is exactly and entirely what you get to be: a button on Cap’s handsome arm.

It’s Hellfire Night.

There’s a crackle of road gravel as the limousine pulls right up to your curb, but you don’t see Steve first. Sam Wilson pops his head and torso out of the sunroof with a beaming white smile.

“Ah yes, the woman of the hour,” he coos before glancing back down into the backseat. “Close your mouth, buddy. You’re gonna swallow a bug.”

You giggle and approach the shiny black car. The door latch opens from the inside.

“You look ama—“

Thud. Steve whacks his head on the door rim trying to step out.

“Oh gosh, are you okay?” You make it to him just as Steve stands up straight on the sidewalk.

It’s easy and instinctive, meant to be, the way his hands settle against your arms and sweep down to hold your delicately gloved hands.

“You’re stunning,” Steve whispers.

“That’s not a concussion talking?”

“He’ll survive,” Sam yells from inside the car. “Pretty sure he ran through several solid walls just to get to the showers after our run.”

“It was one glass door and I didn’t see it close after Davis,” Steve barks over his shoulder. 

You tick your head up toward your apartment. “You and the windows, handsome. Not friends, huh?”

He rolls his glittering blue eyes playfully, huffing, “Don’t you start.” Steve releases your hands and straightens his jacket. “How do I look? Do I have designer’s approval?”

You shimmy his tie a little tighter. “Yes,” you sigh, “always perfect.”

Steve’s grin matches Sam’s as he helps you into the limo. On the relatively short drive over to the venue, since Wilson is there, too, Steve holds your hand over his thigh and runs his bare thumb over your red glove. You can’t for the life of you pay attention to their conversation, so you gaze back and forth from the city lights to their glow and shadow flickering over Steve’s face.

The wonderful thing about this ‘first’ date is you and Steve are already baptized by fire; in every crisis, you’ve complimented each other. He hopes to protect you but doesn’t treat you like a fragile innocent. You admire him but don’t stand on the sidelines. Best of both your worlds, together, in harmony. (Also, you’ve already kissed so there’s definitely chemistry.)

You’re happy tonight is about him. Captain America has been a pillar of the superhero movement and a cornerstone of the Avengers team for over a decade (and famous for a fair few before that), so you squeeze his hand in encouragement when Sam lets himself out onto the red carpet first.

You can hear the roar of paparazzi in the seconds the door is open and shut.

Steve, in no hurry at all, shifts in his seat and studies your face with soft eyes.

“I don’t want to…” his gaze darts down to your lips and back “…mess up your makeup,” he finishes, tongue darting to wet his own.

You don’t let him get away with just a hope this time, cupping his face and planting a huge smooch square on his beautiful pout.

“Waterproof,” you tease. Your finger sweeps over his not-reddened—but not unaffected—lips, and you wait the extra few seconds for Steve to snap out of his distraction and clear his throat.

“Right,” he breathes. “Will you hand me my cloak and I’ll help you out?”

“Sure thing, Handsome.”

Captain America steps out into a flashing sea of people, a navy blue suit with red pinstripes sculpting his frame. His grey vest, skinny black tie, and neutral, muted shirt all harken back to his original army days, and you offer the statement of the whole getup when he turns back around.

He tosses the red satin-lined, bold blue trench coat loosely over his broad shoulders and holds out a hand for your to take.

Steve’s eyes never leave you.

There are questions shouted incoherently in the chaos, but step by step, you two make it to the entryway.

You jump when you hear a voice much closer and clearer than the press.

“Sheers!” Tony wastes no time holding out his hand, but not to shake. In between two fingers is a folded paper, and he peers at you over his trademark shades.

Knowing he won’t lay off until you answer, you pluck the offer from his grasp, read it, and shove the bit into his breast pocket.

“What is this, Tony?” Steve tries to ask.

“No,” you answer simply. You curl around Steve’s arm and nudge him to lead you both inside.

The billionaire playboy is not pleased to lose, his face falling in a flat line of disappointment, but he doesn’t follow. You doubt that’ll be the last you’ll see him tonight.

Imagine the most extravagant and enchanting display. Stark has put that to shame.

You’re practically blinded by the opulence, but of course, everyone in the building knows and loves Steve Rogers, so even the foyer is the start of a dozen conversations. You expect the shaking hands. You expect questions to focus on him. What you don’t expect is how he introduces you to every single agent, mutant, and superhero to cross your path.

This gorgeous lady…this stunner here…this beauty…

This is my genius date.

Then there’s the response.

“Oh, I know who Tovarich is.”

“Don’t worry! She’s already a legend.”

“I’ve watched every show a dozen times on YouTube.”

“I’d just die to be wearing something of yours!”

Whenever someone gushes about your dress or Steve’s suit, he preens and echos every flattery. Steve’s enthusiasm seems directly linked to his obvious habit of ‘bragging’ about you at work, and he easily folds you into conversation like you’ve always been by his side. It’s not fake. He’s animated, comfortable, and downright loving.

Your heart races with a contact high from so much praise.

At one point mid-mingle in the ballroom, a hand lands on your other shoulder.

“Stark,” you say, turning away from Steve and several agents’ small talk. “To what do I owe—oh!”

Another piece of paper. He’s insistent. He waits with impatient arms wrapped over his chest and stares at Steve whilst you mull over his proposal.

“My god, you’ve managed to keep him the second sexiest man in the building while completely covering his ass. That’s talent.”

You open the paper, shake your head, and return it. “I know. How else do I stake my claim?”

Tony, obviously believing himself the first among sexy men in the joint, checks his watch and grumbles.

“One day you’ll call me ‘Tony,’” he mutters. “Alright, Sheers. You drive a hard bargain. Give me twenty minutes,” and he’s off like a shot, phone to his ear.

Steve wraps an arm around your waist. The gesture is a cocoon of comfort with his long coat still on, his grip gentle and steady, fingers fiddling with the layering of black tulle as it puffs out from beneath your thick belt.

“Everything ok?” he whispers in your ear, kissing your temple.

“Oh yes,” you sigh, moving to lace your own hold around him, “man just can’t read a room.”

You’re not sure when or how it happens—given the blur of hundreds of people spread out through a dozen rooms—but as the event wears on, Steve finds you seats, brings over food to share, hangs his coat over the back of the chair, and folds his jacket as well. He specifically asks if it’s ok to take out his cufflinks in order to roll up his sleeves.

“Don’t want to ruin the look,” he jokes.

Carefully, you remove your gloves and offer to style him all over again.

Steve smiles, leans in, and flips his wrist over, letting you deftly remove the cufflink which he just now notices is an exact match to your earrings.

As you fold over one starched sleeve, he smirks.

“Thank you.”

You’re precise with your task, and at first, he doesn’t elaborate. The venue is bustling, people all around, even a trio who sat at the other side of the round table, but Steve’s blue eyes are only on you. Each exposed forearm flexes to aid your work, and during your finishing touches, he lets his fingers brush your lap.

You’re about to ask what he’s thanking you for when the look in his eyes stops you hot.

Steve reaches out, running his knuckles behind your mirroring earrings and letting his skin graze yours. He fluffs up the tulle around your wide collar. “Just…wanted to contribute,” he whispers in the din of the party, blushing, his fingers lingering across your collarbone.

“Capybara,” Stark bursts from behind you again, “I can see the bottom of the lady’s glass. I know I’ve taught you better than that.”

Steve shoves his sleeve up a smidge higher like a nervous tick and winks at you, squeezing your knee gently through your skirts.

“I was just going to refill them, Tony. Cool your jets.” He heads to the bar in the next room over.

Stark unceremoniously drops into the chair behind you, sliding a third, folded paper over the tablecloth.

“Final offer. I think you’ll find it…tempting,” he says darkly.

You open the note and try to keep your face neutral until Stark also points his phone screen at you. He lets you flick through a string of pictures.

“And this is a done deal?” you clarify. “Not a hypothetical?”

“Yes, why else would it have taken me—“ he checks his watch again “—what?—thirty-two minutes to secure? I’m losing my touch…”

You feel light-headed with the possibility. Tony Stark really has outdone himself this time, and yes, he has finally read the room—read you—correctly. It’s perfect. You’d be a fool not to accept.

Stark raps his knuckle triumphantly on the table once you nod.

“Talk contracts tomorrow?”

“No,” you laugh, biting your red lips, “not tomorrow, Tony. But soon.”

“These glasses—“ Stark taps the thick wire and acetate rim of his spectacles “—now have video confirmation of your verbal agreement. So that’s a handshake deal. No take-backsies.” He stands just as Steve returns.

You’re settled by a quick peck to your temple when Steve leans to place two icy drinks on the tablecloth.

Stark hasn’t wiped the smug look off his face.

“What do you want? A pinkie promise?” you bite sweetly.

“Unnecessary,” he scoffs, “but for reference, I want a coat like that—“ he points to Steve’s chair “—in red and gold, obviously, and now, I leave you with the knowledge that I win. You called me ‘Tony.’”

Stark winks and puffs out his chest, smoothing a ringed hand over his velvet lapels.

“Tah-tah. Oh, and don’t you two dare sneak off before my speech.” He holds you and Steve’s gazes for a long, forceful second. “Excellent.”

“What on Earth was that about?” Steve ponders, nudging his chair under the table but coincidentally closer to you. “Everything alright? What’s he been bothering you with?”

You’re too curious to go into it without some confirmation.

Casually, you pick up your drink and clink glasses with your date, thinking about whether you can call him your boyfriend yet, wondering if you’ve just overplayed your hand.

“You grew up in Brooklyn, right?” you start. “Do you miss it?”

Steve sighs and looks longingly into the distance. “All the time,” he says with a soft smile. “I suppose the neighborhood isn’t the same—maybe not even close—but it still feels like home every time I get over there.”

You try not to let the dewy tumbler slip through your clammy fingers. “How often is that?”

“It’s not even far.” Steve knits his eyebrows in shame. “Too long between visits, but…that separation—not being at that Tower and enjoying the feel of normal life—that is nice while I’m there. Why do you ask? You ever been?”

“Of course,” you shrug, “like passing through. Nothing… long-term.”

Oh boy, you’ve got to steel your nerves. You wiggle into the upholstered seat, taking a few fortifying gulps.

“Tony has just succeeded in recruiting me,” you admit.

“Ah, I see.” Except, Steve clearly doesn’t see the connection. He simply gathers his attention back to you instead of his far-off reverie. “How many zeros did you make him add since we walked in the door?”

Here we go, you think. “Words. I made him add words, but he finally got me.”

Steve snorts. “Did you make him change ‘million’ to ‘billion?’”

This could go very well or very poorly. It’s technically your first date, but you’ve defeated a villain together, spent weeks sharing everything from meals to colored pencils to sunset sit-downs, and might be working closely long-term. If you can’t admit what you want for your future now, when can you?

“No—“ you fiddle with one of your gloves on the table “—he changed ‘billion’ to ‘Brooklyn.’”

Steve stops moving entirely, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand.

“An address,” you clarify. “Tony’s secured me a house in Brooklyn. I’ll have my own place. I won’t live where I work anymore.”

Steve’s expression morphs constantly as if he’s trying to cover up a bad poker face. “That’s wonderful,” he says warily, with just shy of a grimace. “Better than I’ve managed to do in ten years…”

You take a sip and clear your throat. This is hard to fathom saying to Captain America in a building full of people who can do anything and have whatever they want.

“I hope it’s not too forward of me to say…I know it’s…early on…but—“ you scoot in your seat until your knees touch Steve’s thigh “—you’d be welcome to visit—to stay—if you want.”

He’s silent. The music ramps up in time with your heart rate.

“You know, just so you can have that separation whenever. I saw the pictures. It certainly has enough bedrooms that—“

Steve bursts out laughing, shocking himself if how quickly he claps a hand over his mouth is any indication. It’s a bad time for a fit of giggles, but that’s exactly what takes him over. When he moves his hand, it lands on your trembling one, pressing down into your lap. His huge frame continues to shake, racked by contagious jubilee, and after he’s tried to stop, to calm down, to form words—twice—and failed, you break, too.

What exactly you’re laughing at, you have no idea, but apparently, your proposal of sorts is wildly amusing to your date.

“You’re right,” you backtrack in between nervous peels. “It’s ridiculous. Just forget I—“

“No, no,” he finally manages, squeezing your hand again. “That’s not—I didn’t mean to laugh at that. It’s just…it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He tilts your chin up to force your eyes to meet his.

“I think Tony might be dangling you in front of me like a carrot.”

“I promise I don’t have an agenda,” you offer.

He shakes his head gently, one of the longer strands of his golden hair falling across his face. “No. Just a job. Button sewing buttons in Brooklyn for the betterment of a billionaire,” Steve jokes quietly, playing with your palm, his rough fingertips tracing every line, callus, and joint of yours.

“Your Button,” you add, “suiting up superheroes in exchange for a Handsome fee.”

“Your Handsome,” he corrects, brushing over the rapid pulse at your wrist.

“Well then…” you’re frozen in his endless sky eyes, thirty-thousand-feet high on possibilities “…my Handsome deserves a home, too, don’t you think?”

Steve’s only answer is to lunge, locking his fingers behind your neck to hold your lips steady when he is anything but.

A few younger mutants start cheering and shouting for Cap to ‘get it,’ but you simply smile into his kiss because Steve isn’t at all concerned about your lipstick anymore.

He pulls back less than an inch, thumbs petting the thin bit of bare skin behind your ears. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

Your breaths mingle, but you don’t open your eyes. “It was always real for me, Steve.”

The pressure of his hold increases as you are pulled back to his lips.

“Me—“ kiss “—too.” Another kiss. “Me too.”

Before you drown completely in the bottomless pit of his affection, however, you remember that you two are supposed to stay decent until after Stark’s speech. You don’t know how long that is scheduled from now, but you won’t last lip-locked with Captain America like this.

You push your forehead to knock you apart. “We should—“

Steve shoots backward, at immediate attention. “Go see the house?!” He bounces with impatience like a kid on Christmas morning.

“I—well, I was going to say dance,” you chuckle, licking the taste of him from your surely faded but  freshly swollen pout, “but I suppose—“

“No, you’re right. Of course.” Steve blushes furiously and scrambles out of his chair. “That was stupid. Forget I said that.”

“I won’t,” you promise, taking his hand to be led off to the open floor.

EPILOGUE

“And then Uncle Tony threw his hands up—“ Steve pulls his baby’s legs into the air playfully while happy shrieks ring out “—and welcomed our teammate, the Red Weaver herself—“ he wiggles the onesie back up a squishy little body “—Miss Tovarich.”

He fake-cheers very, very quietly. “The crowd went wild.”

Enormous blue eyes meet equally joyous cerulean.

“Yeah, well, I know what you’re thinking, but that was before Mommy was Misses Rogers.”

Steve dramatically heaves the freshly changed baby into his arms.

“Gosh, you’re so big.” There’s babbling in reply. “Another story? Okay. I think we’ve got time for one more…”

He returns to the living room where you work at the table, sketches spread out, a shared tin of colored pencils open in the center. “When’s Abby coming?” he asks.

“Any minute now,” you mutter with a wink. “Won’t take too long to get ready after that.”

“Alrighty!” Steve sits in the adjacent chair. “I’ll tell ya the first moment I knew she was the one.” 

Your child faces you, balanced on your husband’s lap as he eyes your work not-so-subtly.

Steve describes the night of your Spring Show, how he expected to be blown away, how he didn’t expect to have his whole life flash before his eyes.

“See, that’s when I knew Momma loved me for everything I am and ever was.” He matches your sweet smile across the cluttered surface. “She had no need to prove herself. She didn’t even know I would be there. She did it all anyway.

“That’s what makes your mom the best,” he says, kissing a soft, fuzzy head. “She makes the only best for your outsides because she sees who’s inside.” He taps the baby’s tummy. “Right there. She sees beauty in there—“ giggles “—and makes sure everyone else sees, too. The whole world. She knows there is no one mold for everyone and celebrates them all. She lets them shine.”

Steve lowers his voice fondly.

“She let me shine through.”

By now he’s told you many times over, but that show—to see how he was born appreciated and glorified—healed a fissure within Steve Rogers he had not known was only connected by a rotting bridge. What he was made into by Erskine’s formula…there’s nothing wrong with him this way, but so few people in his life have ever proved the original truth to Steve.

There was nothing wrong with him before.

“That’s right, little love,” you lean over to tease your husband. “And Mommy lets Daddy wear all the sweatpants he wants because he’s comfy. He deserves to be comfy…and he looks very good in them.”

Steve chuckles, bouncing his tiny charge with the movement. “And Daddy lets Mommy measure him whenever she wants.” 

You gasp in faux scandalization, placing the gray back in the single, shared case of colored pencils between you.

“Also, most importantly—“ you point a finger at a tiny, button nose and crossed eyes “—in this house, we never give Tony Stark credit for anything.”

“Uncle Tony hates not getting credit,” Steve agrees. “And Momma loves driving him nuts.”

The doorbell rings.

You pop up from the table. “It’s the little things in life…”

Abby takes the little Rogers into the family room to play while you and Steve get ready for one of those stuffy events, the ones that are a little less terrible when you suffer through them together, the ones suffered through in style.

With a final shift of his tie and flip of his collar, you pet your ringed fingers down his chest.

“Making this look good, Handsome.”

“Thanks to you, Button.”

“Anytime.” Steve leans his forehead against yours.

“Always.”

After a few calm breaths, you squeeze his shoulders to head out to the waiting car, shutting the front door of your Brooklyn home, leaving the hall light on over the family photo: the Man With A Plan in blue, the Red Weaver, and their beautiful baby in a pure white christening gown.

A/N: *incoherent weeping noises* I don't even know what to say yet, so I'll come back to it. Thank you so much for reading! 💚💜

Taglist: @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @trudy-shams @saranghaey @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @awkwardgiraffe726 @femefetalelevelingup

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[titaniasfairy]

slightly perv!anakin who can’t help but jerk off when you sleep :(((

cw: fem!reader , voyeurism

anakin’s surrounded by guys in the jedi academy nearly everyday, so of course he’s never had a pretty girl to fawn over!

sure, he’s seen the dancers and ladies in the bars that he has to frequent for missions with obi-wan, but he’s never had someone to fawn over. poor boy has never had a crush!! ever!!

but when you arrived, daughter of a foreign leader who’s currently dealing with border disputes, he was whipped.

you didn’t want to be in coruscant at all, the loud noises and bright lights were a big change from the quiet wildlife in your home planet. you’d spend most days in the council building’s library reading folklore from other planets,

immersed in another reality while sat on a weirdly shaped couch.

one particular day, you were reading about a forbidden romance between a princess and a junk smuggler. your nose was so deep in the book you could practically smell the tree the pages came from.

you walked the library aisles mindlessly while reading your book, hands shaking from the anticipation of the story. before you could turn the page you were interrupted by a large body running into you.

“hey watch where you’re-“ anakin pauses, who were you? you definitely weren’t some padawan or a librarian, no. you were gorgeous, all clad in royal fabrics with a complicated hairstyle and makeup. but your face was definitely not pleased when your book was knocked out of your hand.

“i’m sorry about that” he leans down to pick up your book, and when he stands back up he towers over you. blue eyes staring into yours, with a beautiful yet messy mop of curls on his head. you couldn’t help but stare for a moment or two.

“if you don’t mind me asking- who are you? you don’t look like you belong here- no offense.” anakin tilted his head, looking at you up and down like he was studying you.

you blushed and gave him a small smile. “i don’t belong here. i’m here because my father is dealing with an ‘important affair’. at least that’s what he tells me, he doesn’t think i’d understand.” anakin mouth’s an ‘oh’ of realization. he hands you your book.

“my name is anakin skywalker.” he gives you a toothy grin and you look down to his belt where a lightsaber hilt is placed. “you’re a jedi?” you ask, pointing to his lightsaber. “pretty much, yeah. my mentor doesn’t think i’m quite there yet.” he rolls his eyes at the mention of his mentor.

anakin’s beauty is slightly juvenile, with a boyish face but a deep voice. his lean but muscular body only adds to your attraction for him. if you squint, you can see his small freckles placed carefully on his face by the gods.

“well i’m sure you’re a great one.” you smile and hold the book closer to your chest. anakin chuckles a bit. “maybe you should tell him that.”

—-

the moment anakin got out of that library he asked obi-wan who you were and who your father was, but especially how long you’d be here. anakin would keep you here forever if he had anything to do with it.

obi-wan had told him that you were here because your father’s planet is having a border dispute with a neighboring planet and that you’d only be here for a few days unless the conflict escalated further or if the council can’t reach a decision.

anakin prayed to whoever and whatever that some magical circumstance would come about for you to stay.

that night all anakin can think about is you. how you talked and joked with him, your smile that was brighter than the two suns on tatooine combined, and not to mention how beautiful you were. he tossed and turned in his bed while you flooded his imagination.

stars, why is his cock getting hard?! anakin just ignores it, brushes it off as excitement from meeting someone new and that the blood has to go somewhere in his body.

—

the next day was warmer, the areas in the academy and council building opening their windows to let in the warm air. you sat in the library with a sheer dress on, a silk bra only covering your chest below the mesh.

that day you lied in a hanging swing in the gardens, reading a new book about two long lost siblings separated at birth. your legs hung off the swing and moved back and forth in the breeze that blew in your hair. a small layer of sweat covered your skin below the mesh of your dress and highlighted your cheeks.

while you sat in the gardens, anakin was scoured the grounds looking for you and trying to sense your presence anywhere nearby. obi-wan would scold him for abandoning his duties but right then you were the only thing he could focus on.

through a window he spotted you reading your book, sat in the hanging swing surrounded by foliage found all throughout the galaxy. in all honestly the gardens should only be used for studying plant life found on various planets, but he could never disrupt this scene.

anakin’s eyes widened in awe when he noticed your dress. it was revealing but modest, gorgeous but scandalous in all the right ways. he’d be lying if the sight didn’t make him sprout a slight erection.

after calming himself down, anakin carefully waltzed through the gardens and approached your relaxed form. he snuck up behind you while also admiring your beauty.

“what do you have there?” you almost jumped out of the swing, letting out a quick squeal. “anakin, my stars! how did you find me in here?” you turned around to face him, and good lord you forgot how admirable he is. maybe was the heat, but the jedi looked quite delectable.

“i had a feeling” he smiled down on you. “i don’t think that’s how the force works, anakin.” he noticed how warm it was in the gardens and took off his outer robe, giving you a better view of his body. “it’s hot out here, why aren’t you inside?” you giggled at him and closed your book.

“i think it feels quite nice, but i’m not the one wearing loads of jedi robes.”

“touché.”

you two spend awhile roaming the gardens, telling each other stories of your’s and his home planets. time went by so fast that nightfall crept up on you two before you knew it.

you told him of the arts on your planet and how you had gone to school for studying literature and other forms of art- paintings, music, theatrics. anakin glued himself to every word you said, engaged in whatever you had to say about anything. you weren’t used to someone listening to your stories or your plights, you’re just a dumb princess with no purpose other than royalty to most people.

eventually, anakin sat you down on a bench while telling a story of how he used to pod race on tatooine. you sat in a laughing fit from a joke he told when he sat next to you.

with nightfall on its way, the garden became colder and a shiver went up your spine. anakin was quick to notice your shivers, “are you cold, here take this.” he said and handed you his cloak.

“thank you, anakin. you know that you’re the only good part about being here, right?” you looked up into his eyes that glimmered in the nightlight, taking in his gaze. he let out a smile and grabbed your hand.

“you’ve taken up every thought i’ve had since i saw you yesterday. i’ve never talked to someone so beautiful but clever.” you blushed softly at his words.

“just because i’m a princess doesn’t mean i’m snotty and rude, even though that’s what most people think about me.”

“how could anyone say that about you?” he gripped both of your hands and looked into your eyes with boyish confusion. “they mistake honesty with disrespect. i refuse to be perceived as a dumb girl with daddy’s money.”

“you’re anything but. from what i know you’re a girl who’s got something a lot of people don’t, looks and smarts.” you let out a chuckle while he stared into your eyes.

for a moment you’re silent while you take in the feeling of finally being understood by another. the next moment anakin’s lips are on yours, engaging into a deep kiss. you settle into the kiss and close your eyes when he places a hand on your cheek.

when anakin tries to deepen the kiss, a booming voice is heard from the garden entrance.

“anakin! i’ve been looking for you everywhere. you have to come with me, the council has made a decision.”

anakin quickly gets up and follows his mentor down the hallway and you’re left in the garden. the council had decided on how they would deal with your planet’s affair, only meaning that you would be leaving coruscant soon. if a decision had been made you could only imagine that your father would want you present for the decision, so you left the garden to take a different route to the hearing.

anakin was furious when obi-wan interrupted him, he huffed and puffed down the hallway all the way to the deliberation room. obi-wan didn’t dare to ask questions about the affairs of his student and the princess.

when the pair arrived, anakin immediately took notice of you sat next to your father, with his own cloak wrapped around you for “modesty purposes”. you looked miserable sitting next to your father, you had told anakin how much you hate politics and politicians. you stared and your clasped hands that sat on your lap while chancellor palpatine spoke.

“it seems that the rival citizens have invaded your planet and are planning to take over. we advise that you and your daughter are left in our projection, your majesty.”

anakin almost jumped for joy when he heard of your fate. despite your home being invaded and under fire, you smiled at the fact that you’d be staying a little longer.

“i’m just fine with that idea, chancellor.” your father said with a stone-cold face. “jedi knights kenobi and skywalker will be watching over you.” palpatine said looking over to obi-wan.

“i’ll watch over you, your majesty. skywalker can look after the princess.” you looked up at anakin and smiled quickly, not letting anyone else see.

the meeting soon ended and you were sent off to your respective quarters for dinner and bed. obi-wan would stand guard outside your father’s room and anakin would have a droid outside your room while he stayed on a couch in your room.

that night you and anakin talked for hours before your tiredness got the best of you. you fell asleep on the opposite side of the couch, sound asleep from the exhaustion of the day. anakin eventually picked you up and placed you into your bed. he tucked you in and went back to the couch to sleep.

but now anakin is lying awake thinking about you, the princess he’s been assigned to protect. it’s a novel concept, yes, but anakin is finding it impossible to sleep. everything he uses to try to fall asleep just ends up becoming a fantasy of you.

oh my stars, why is his cock hard again?! he tosses and turns, trying to fall asleep and just ignore it but when he hears you whimper in your sleep he has no choice.

anakin has masturbated maybe once or twice as a young teen, using his imagination to think about club dancers he’d seen in the streets. he wasn’t experienced at all in the feeling of arousal and he definitely didn’t know how to make himself satisfied without waking you up.

his cock throbs at the though of you doing it for him, your soft hands running up and down his body while you pleasure him with your mouth or your pussy-

oh stars your pussy. what would it look like? what would it taste like? most importantly what would it feel like? anakin knew how sex worked and has heard from a few friends the stories of how to make it better but he’s never experienced it.

he tried to fight off the urge to pull down his sleep pants but he couldn’t find to he strength to fight back when he hears you mumble something in your sleep along the lines of “ani please” and then something incoherent.

anakin pulls down his pants just enough to let his cock free, his length jumping out and hitting his stomach. he’s already dripping pre-cum and can feel his balls aching.

he knows that touching the tip feels best, so he carefully wraps a few fingers around it. the sensation makes him jump and he has to cover his mouth to stifle his moans. he starts to stroke his length slowly when he realizes he needs something to smoothen the ride.

anakin messily spits in his hand and starts stroking his cock a bit faster, his head filling up with lewd imagines of your tits in that dress and your lips wrapped around his cock. the same lips he kissed earlier that night and the same tits he couldn’t help but stare at through your sheer dress.

he thinks about what you’d sound like when he touched your or what you’d say when he fucks you. maybe “oh fuck anakin right there, fill me up!” or “stars, ani you make me feel so good!”.

anakin’s grip on his cock tightens and he starts to stroke faster. all he can think about is how he’ll have you all to himself for god knows how long. an image of him fucking you in the bed you’re sleeping in makes a bead of pre-cum emit from his cock. he wants to grab your tits and leave marks where only he can see.

meanwhile you’re laid in your bed fast asleep, dreaming of whatever. anakin can’t really think about that when the ache in his balls is building and each stroke brings him closer to release.

he imagines holding your hips while he fucks you in missionary or while you ride him. anakin wants to see your pretty face when you fuck, wants to see the way your face contorts when you cum or when he sucks your hard nipples.

anakin thinks back to earlier that night when you were shivering and how your nipples poked through the dress you were wearing. the thought alone brings him closer to his orgasm. he hips start to buck into his hand and he’s too lost in pleasure to notice that you’re awake and sat up in your bed.

you watch anakin stroke his thick cock, his head thrown back in pleasure. you cover your mouth when he starts to moan your name, but you can’t deny how it immediately soaked your panties.

finally, ani thinks of the kiss you two shared and what would’ve happened if obi-wan never interrupted it. your plump lips on his made him hard instantly in the garden, and now the memory of it is causing anakin to shoot ropes of cum onto his belly, his soft moans being the only sound in the quiet room.

his orgasm knocks the wind out of anakin and he sits there out of breath for a minute or two.

after a few moments ani lays back down, completely exhausted from his orgasm. he drifts off to sleep for a few seconds before noticing your silhouette standing over him with a small towel in your hand.

“i think you’re gonna need this, ani.”

[ab4eva]

‘Hesitate’

Summary: Austin Butler x Reader blurb / Austin wants you, why are you hesitating?

Warnings: slight angst (you know I live for it)

Author’s note: This literally just downloaded from my brain in minutes tonight and I don’t even know what I wrote, guys. Inspired by the song of the same name (linked at the end for your listening pleasure).

-

You don’t know why you hesitate. Maybe it’s the fact that Austin telling you he wants you scares you to death. Maybe it’s that the thought of being with him, actually being with him, is enough to fill you to the brim with a hope so reckless you’re not sure can survive it. Or maybe it’s because he’s the one who hesitated first. And you just don’t know if you can ever trust that he won’t do it again.

Coming up short is a sure thing. Makes you wanna run from him. Makes you just wanna run to him. Keep him at arms length. Hold him so close that your bodies transform into one. Memories flood your senses and you see him there, in the desert, the last time you almost collided and combusted. The moon is shining her pale light, illuminating everything - you and Austin and the hard, cracked earth beneath your bare feet. The sky is littered with stars so bright and so endless that you could swallow them all and be forever illuminated and they would shine out of your fingertips and the ends of your hair and your skin.

He wraps you in his scratchy wool blanket, enveloping you both, stepping ever closer. You shiver, and you can feel his heat and his heartbeat and his eyes on yours. And you can’t look into his eyes. You can’t. Because if you do you know you’ll drown and you’ll never ever breathe another breath. But you look into his eyes. And you fall and fall and fall. You twist your fingers through his messy waves, still mussed from sleep. You swear you can feel him holding your other hand in his - long, delicate fingers rubbing circles into your palm. You focus on his mouth. That perfect goddamn mouth with teeth so white and straight and lips so plump it’s almost a sin. And you need his mouth on yours. You need his mouth everywhere.

He’s leaning down and your breath hitches in your throat and your heart bangs in your chest. And just before his lips crash into yours, he hesitates. And pulls back. You’re confused but not bothered. Until you see his eyes. Those fucking ocean eyes. They’re sad and bewildered and…resigned. He looks away and won’t meet your gaze again. And you fall apart inside.

So now here you are again. Roles reversed. He’s all in, heart open wide. You can see it in the way he looks at you - like he’s a drowning man and you’re his only hope. Like he’s never seen anything more precious or rare in his entire life. Like his love is a sure thing. He’s a sight for sore eyes and you don’t know why you hesitate.

[bratshaws]

through the hourglass 79. brb x oc

a/n: apparently this hellsite can't handle the amount of chapters I have??? 8) so I uh, cut them in half but kept chapter one because it's the main masterlist for all the chapters. IM TIRED OF THIS WEBSITE I SWEAR

pairing: plus size!oc x rooster

warnings: no ne, JUST FLUFF

goodness gracious (pls read this one to know more what this fic is about!!)

chapter

1/

50/51/52/53/54/55/56/57/58/59/60/61/62/63/64/65/66/67/68/69/70/71/72/73/74/75/76/77

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-

Today was fun, after dealing with Evelyn and having to keep her pregnancy a secret that is. They went to the pumpkin patch, chose a few pumpkins - a big one that Rooster said he was going to make a gorgeous pumpkin pie with - and took several pictures of Nicole and the dogs enjoying the day out.

So she should be as exhausted as Rooster was, but she couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was her worry for Evelyn that kept Beatrice up, maybe it was the thought of the ‘risks’ of both of their partners’ professions or maybe it was Beatrice’s anxiety making a lovely return. She chewed her lower lip while wringing her hands together, looking up at the ceiling.

She should make herself some tea.

Wait, no, it’s too late and she had to wake up early tomorrow.

“Baby.” Rooster’s deep groggy voice snaps her out of her thoughts. She turns her head to see his eyes still closed, arms under the pillow but his eyebrows arching as he speaks, “What’s making you think so loud? You’ve been like that for a few minutes.”

“Nothing.”

Now his eyes opened, pupils enlarging and shrinking as he gets used to the dark surroundings, his sandy brown hair messy because of him moving around on the bed, “I’m serious,Roos. You can go to sleep.” her husband just stares at her, then wraps his arms around her waist so bring her closer to his body, “Roos.”

“I don’t like when you play it off as something I shouldn’t worry about.” he begins, “When you lie awake for minutes looking at the ceiling, wringing your hands.” Beatrice immediately lets her hands go, looking away almost ashamedly, “And as your husband,” he kisses her temple, “And as the man who’s crazy about you and worries about you,I can’t simply let it go.”

Bradley pulls his head back to meet her green eyes, only for them to look away from him. He lets go of her waist just so he can touch her chin with his thumb, “Talk to me,gorgeous.” he whispers, “What’s flooding that pretty brain of yours?”

Beatrice chuckled a bit, “Pretty brain?”

“The prettiest.” he smirks, only for his eyelids to lower a bit, still trying to keep himself awake, “Talk to me.”

How would she begin? She promised Evelyn she wouldn’t tell Rooster why she was there - and to be fair he did seem to accept her response of ‘Evelyn feeling under the weather’ - but there was also the itching in the back of her throat to say something to him, ‘...can I ask you something?”

“Mhm.” he smiles lazily, rubbing the side of her face, “Whatever you want.”

“Do you think that sometimes I worry too much?” he blinked, “Because of us?”

Rooster groaned as he adjusted himself on the bed, propping his head up with a hand as his arm remained under the pillow, still caressing her cheek, “Gorgeous,I think you worry a lot and sometimes I think it’s unfounded…but I don’t worry about you worrying about our family.” he chuckles at his own joke, “I know you care about us a lot.”

“I do.”

“And I also know that this didn’t come out of nowhere.” he says, making Beatrice sigh in defeat, “So out with it,baby.”

Beatrice chewed her lower lip, burying her face in his neck, “It’s just…well,Ev–” she almost spilled it, oh God, “E-Ev’s dad,” she quickly added, “She um, told me some things about him.”

“I don’t usually care for juicy gossip about my superiors.” he pauses, “Buuut I am very interested.”

Beatrice just chuckled, trying to figure out how to explain without exposing too much of the information, “She said that…he is really strict about some things, especially when it comes to family and stuff,” she peeks up at him to check her husband’s face, he still looked blank, “And that he…is still getting used to her and Jake.”

Rooster’s silence is deafening because if there is one thing that can be said about her husband was that he could be extremely observant…and he could read her like a book. Which was why Beatrice kept looking up at him to check if he was finally figuring this weird puzzle of words out.

But the longer he didn’t say anything, the worse she felt, “Bea,” he finally says, blinking at her, “Is Evelyn pregnant?”

And like a slap to the face,Beatrice felt her whole body go soft almost as if she was fainting, “I-I-no! No, she’s not-” her husband just arched his brow, “I mean…y-you shouldn’t have known about it…”

“So she is.”

“She–”another groan, “Yes, but you can’t tell anyone. You can’t, oh no,I can’t believe I let that slip! Ugh!” she buries her face into the pillow, “Fhis fri woer!” was her muffled complaint against the fabric, one that only makes her husband question what she said, “I said this is the worst! I knew I should’ve played it off better!”

“Baby,” he smiles, “Baby,I’m not telling anyone.” he pinches his index and thumb over his lips, then tugs them to the side as if he was closing a zipper, “My lips are sealed. I promise to you.”

And Rooster never broke his promises.

Beatrice makes a face while rubbing a random pattern on the pillow cover, tsking under her breath, “She is terrified Roos.” she says, since the cat is out of the bag now there was no point in hiding anything from him as much as she hated it, “She doesn’t want her parents to get mad at Jake or something.”

“Is she going to tell Jake?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“She planned to do it tonight but,” a shrug, “I don’t know if she will. She sounded and appeared completely out of herself, she just…looked so tired.” Beatrice frowns, looking to the side with her fingers still moving on top of the pillow, “I just…hope she can come to a consensus with her parents or something. She didn’t even eat so I heated some stuff for her so she could fill her stomach before I left too…”

Rooster just stares at Beatrice with his head still propped by his hand and his smile slowly widens because his heart is so full. Someone this sweet,this kind be absolutely real? He groans happily, rolling onto his stomach on top of her - which in turn makes Beatrice lie on her back and look up at him - their chests touching. He’s still grinning, “You are too fucking sweet.” he says quietly, “God, you are so sweet.”

Her response was just a shy glance and her cheeks going red, “She’s going to be fine,Bea.” he assures her, leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose, “But if you want you can call her tomorrow, check on her.” 

“I guess…”

“I know you don’t want to be a bother,” he smiles, “I know you,Bea. And I know that cute puppy look you have whenever you are thinking about something.” her lips pout without her noticing, her cheeks getting redder by the second, ‘And it’s cute as fuck…but you did what you could.” she met his eyes with her own gaze still shining with worry, “They have to deal with it now. Okay?”

Beatrice chews her lower lip but nods in silence, making her husband kiss her lips and fall back on his side of the bed, “Now c’mere.” he spreads his arms, making grabby hands at her, “I want my wife close to me tonight.”

“Oh, just tonight?”

“Call me clingy.” he smirks, kissing the top of her head when she snuggles up to his chest, “But something about holding you helps me sleep.” he feels her smile against his bare chest, her smaller hands touching his upper back with her fingers barely touching his nape.

“I feel the same way.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, nuzzling his skin, “It helps me remember you stayed.”

He knew she was muttering out of tiredness, she was probably exhausted from holding that worry the whole day plus spending the afternoon at the pumpkin patch with Nikki and the dogs. Whenever Beatrice was too tired - or too drunk - she’d blurt out things that would leave him speechless.

His eyes closed almost in pain, his arms wrapping around her waist in a hug as his lips pressed another kiss to her scalp. Remember he stayed, God, that was heavy and yet so important for him to hear. “Course I stayed.” he whispered on her head, earning a happy moan from Beatrice as she got comfortable, “You ain’t gettin’ rid of me,pretty girl.” 

He knew he had to sleep too but he wanted to spend some time looking at her, just a little bit, to admire her sleeping face and the way her lips curled into a smile as she dreamt. Rooster smiles back, not being able to contain his own joy as Beatrice dozed off, a gentle snore escaping her nose meaning she was more tired than she showed, “Ah,Bea…” he whispered, “Pretty girl you just don’t know what you do to me.”

She deserved the world, he thought as his smile widened when her hands tightened their hold against his body.She truly did.

-

Beatrice moaned in bed, burying her face into the pillow with a little smile, all tucked up and warm from the covers. She curled up into a little ball, using part of the futon to hide her head as she slept…wait, why was she still sleeping?

Her eyes snapped open as she turned around to check her phone, ‘...06:55- oh shit!” she kicks the covers the best she can, yelping when part of the sheets wrap around her ankle and make her fall face first on the soft rug under their bed. She groans, the pain and sleep making her brain feel muddy before she slowly pushes herself up - legs still on the bed.

Heavy footsteps - followed by the known clicking of claws - approach the bedroom. Rooster’s body appears on the doorway, eyes widening, “Bea!” he shouts already making his way inside so he could approach her fallen form, ‘Gorgeous!Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine!”

‘Baby what just-” he untangles the sheets from her foot then helps her up just as Jolene walks inside as well, her cold nose touching Beatrice’s hand, “Gorgeous, Jesus Christ, I heard you fall from downstairs - are you sure you are okay?”

“Y-Yeah,I’m fine.” she smiles, checking her ankle just to be sure she hadn’t twisted it again, ‘I just– well, it’s late.”

“Late?” he blinks, then his face relaxes “Oh, oh no I turned off your alarm.”

“You…you did? Why?!”

“Because I wanted you to sleep more today.” he says with a cute smile, picking Beatrice bridal style to set her on the bed, gently covering her back up, “Because I wanted to pamper you today.”

His wife blinked, “Oh…really?”

“Yes,ma’am.” he leans down to kiss her lips, “Now you stay here, looking beautiful and amazing and I’ll bring your breakfast over,yeah?” she could only nod with her lips parting in surprise, opening her mouth to speak when he was by the door, “Nikki already had her breakfast. You left some in the fridge,honey.” he winks as soon as he leaves.

Beatrice is still trying to understand what’s happening, Jolene hopping on the bed to keep her owner company - she usually hates doing that but it’s possible she thinks Beatrice is hurt so she wants to be close - as Bea adjusts herself against the headboard. She didn’t know what made him want to do that..but she wasn’t complaining, “It’s not even my birthday.” she whispered to Jolene, who just plopped her head on Beatrice’s thigh before closing her eyes.

With Rooster busy downstairs she decided to check her phone…especially because of Evelyn. She grabbed it from the nightstand, unlocking it only to see there were no messages from her friend yet, nothing at all. Well…it was really early in the morning, so maybe she should wait a bit.

Also if there was any chance that Hangman knew, he’d immediately start saying something in the group chat. And she knew that Rooster kept his phone off during the night because of it. “Yeah,I better wait.’ she says, placing the phone aside and then fluffing her pillows behind her back.

“Okay, come on Nikki.” she hears her husband’s voice from downstairs, ‘Time to give mama her breakfast, yes are you excited? Yes me too! Come on then.” she loved how his voice went higher whenever he spoke to Nicole, followed by the baby’s babbled response.

Beatrice was looking at the door when she sees Eleanor and Jack stepping in the room, the white dog looking back towards the hallway with her tail wagging, undoubtedly waiting for Rooster, “Alright,Ellie,sit.” she did immediately, looking up at Rooster as he came into view. He was holding Nicole against his side while his other hand was busy holding up a tray, “Ah, look who it is Nikki, it’s mommy.”

Nicole squealed happily, shaking her arms almost trying to reach for her mother, “Alright, easy there missy, we need to get closer first.” he chuckles, kissing her head, “And mama needs to have her breakfast,so.”

Beatrice giggled sweetly before pressing her back even more against the headboard, the movement making Jolene lift her head from her lap. Rooster gently placed the tray down on top of her thighs, turning his head to kiss her again, “There you go,gorgeous.”

“Thank you,Roos.”

“Hm, you are welcome.” he mutters against her lips, “Now let me back away before I spend too much time kissing those pretty lips of yours and prevent you from eating.”

Beatrice giggled again, “You can sit next to me.” she nods to his side of the bed, “I’d like the company,did you have breakfast yet?”

Rooster bounced Nicole in his arms for a little bit, her bedhead still wild and her fox onesie was still on, apparently everyone was going to have a lazy day today, “I did.” he smiles at Nicole, kissing her tiny fist, “Nikki was my buddy while it happened weren’t you,honey?”

Nicole was getting more and more talkative as the days went by, she had no concept of words yet - obviously, she was only four months old - but knowing she was trying to keep up with their conversation was adorable. Their daughter gurgled happily once her father sat down on the bed, still holding her against him as she peered over her father’s bicep to her mother.

“I can’t believe you made my favorites.” Beatrice smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Blueberry muffin? And toast with pumpkin hummus and egg?” she pokes the egg and gasps happily, “With runny yolk! Oh Roos,this is so wonderful, thank you.”

“You are more than welcome.” he couldn’t help but look at her, the light from the window hit her face just right and the night shirt she wore was flowy, with long sleeves that ended up with laces by the wrists and reached the middle of her thigh. It really made her look like a maiden in the middle of a fantastical forest. She took a bite of her toast, trying her best to not spill any yolk on her clothes, bringing the plate closer only to meet his eyes. 

Her cheek bulged with the food, but she offered him a small smile, “What?” she asks with her mouth full, covering it up with a hand, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You are out of this world,Bea. God look at you.” there was a halo of light that shone around her hair, the dark brown had hints of red and bronze when the light hit the strands, making her appear even more precious than she already was, “You are…the most angelical thing I’ve ever seen.”

Beatrice’s cheeks were red, not only because of the sunlight, and she smiles shyly at him, “Roos.” she whispers, playfully swatting his leg, “D-Don’t start with this…so early.”

“I can’t help it.” he smiles, bringing Nikki close to his chest when her little hand neared her mother’s plate out of curiosity, “You can’t have those yet, Nikki- also, really, you are. I can’t stop looking at you.” his eyes glinted, “You are fucking incredible, you know that?”

“Roos…”

“What?” he chuckles, “Am I lying?”

Beatrice huffs softly, sipping her latte with a pleased hum, “No,” she says after placing the mug down, “But you always make me blush with your smooth words. It’s not fair.” deep inside it was. It really was, she couldn’t get enough of it, “But thank you.”

“You are welcome.” he smiles, leaning back against the headboard with his hands holding Nikki upright, “How are you feeling? No worrying today?”

Beatrice chews her toast for a few seconds, then once she swallows she sends him a look, “I’m okay…I think the shock finally passed, you know?I still want to talk to Evelyn, but it’s still pretty early to call her. She needs to rest.” she sighs happily, “Plus, today we are going to decorate the rest of the house and then get ready for Penny’s party this weekend!” so yeah, she was feeling a lot better, “You know…I have a good feeling about this Saturday.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,I don’t know, it feels…” she waves her hand, trying to find words, ‘It feels like it’ll be an amazing night. Maybe it’ll end up with- oh! Ohhh!! I know!” she smiles, clapping her hands, “What if, after we finish everything, we go out?” Rooster arches his brow at her, “You remember when we started dating and we went to that club? I heard there’s going to be a Halloween party close by! We could go! Nikki is going to stay with my parents anyway.”

Oh how could he forget that club? He didn’t want to voice it, especially because he had Nikki in his grasp, but he gave his wife a very slow look that traveled from her head to her legs, “I wouldn’t mind it.” she smiles back at him, blushing brightly and taking a sip of her morning coffee instead of replying.

[blutopaz15]

For the Rayllum ficlet request in honor of your anniversary (congrats btw), how about Callum playing with Rayla's new hair?

sure thing, friend! it got sad i'm sorry still a part of my soft/fluffy/spicy rayllum reunion ficlet series! related ficlets: one two three four five six rated T hope you enjoy, arnie!

It’s so late, and Rayla doesn’t want to sleep…but it’s getting hard to fight it.

It hadn’t been hard at all until this last time they’d found themselves horizontal. They’d been so caught up in the rush of sheer delight at being together again—all awkward nerves and newfound intimacy and helpless giggling—that sleep hadn’t even been a possibility before now.

But the rush is softening and it’s getting more and more difficult to stay awake, especially with Callum’s fingers in her hair, buried in the strands of her braid, tracing along the base of her horns, running across her scalp…

It’s all she can do, really, to keep her eyes open despite how heavy with sleep she feels, but she can’t bear to not look at him after so long apart. He’s just so handsome, with those bright green eyes staring back at her, the tufts of messy brown smooshed against the pillow, the way that the angles of his face have matured to sharper edges…

She loves him so much, and…she knows he loves her too, but believing it is another matter.

It feels just too much like a dream, and falling asleep will mean it’s over. 

They’ll wake up, and then…who knows if they’ll have anything this perfect again? It won’t just be them anymore, and then they’ll have to leave, and who knows if he’ll even want this again?

He speaks and she watches how his lips shape the words, how his eyes flicker across her face, how his fingers flex when he reaches for her. “Your hair got messed up.” 

“I wonder why that could be,” Rayla breathes, managing a lazy, sleepy chuckle at all of the fooling around that’d managed to loosen the stray strands he was tucking away, his fingertip tickling against the tip of her ear.

“I can think of a few reasons,” Callum says, smirking and snickering, before threading his arms around her tired body. “Here, sit up.”

She yawns but humors him, sitting up slumped while he scoots close, settling with his shins on either side of her hips. “If you take it down, you have to put it back up too, you know,” she says as he digs in her bun for the end of her braid.

“Okay,” he agrees. Lips just under her ear, Callum unwraps the long plait holding her hair up and off her neck, and her hair falls. He buries his nose at her temple, his arm looped around her middle…and being held like that after so long alone is just so nice. 

He’s so nice.

Too nice. 

“I’ll fix it in the morning,” he says.

She tells herself that she’s just tired—he’s given her no reason to dread everything else that the morning will bring quite as much as she is—but she’s glad he can’t see how her eyes water.

“Will we still be like this in the morning?” she asks, swallowing hard at the prospect of losing this, their little pocket of perfect bliss.

Slowly, he starts pulling apart her braid, his hands cautious and thoughtful. “What do you mean?”

“Happy.” 

He knows she’s crying now, she’s sure, from how he pauses to touch her back.

“It’s just that you haven’t forgiven me yet—” Her voice cracks and shakes: somehow the words feel so much more vulnerable than anything else has. “—and I’m afraid you’re going to decide that you shouldn’t forgive me, and then you’re going to regret all of this, and—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Callum abandons her hair to squeeze tight around her waist again instead, his lips landing on her cheek. “I am not going to regret this.”

“You don’t forgive me, though,” she adds, vision flooding with tears, her chest heaving out a ragged, single sob that spirals to a second, and she feels so pathetic that she can’t catch her breath. “You shouldn’t forgive me,” 

“I…I will forgive you, Rayla.” The words come slowly, and his hands are just as unrushed as he weaves one big braid, juggling the three sections of hair with gentle tension. “I just…I need time, and we need to talk—actually talk,” he explains, and she feels her cheeks flame. 

She knows this—she does—that that’s what he needs. Time and talking had been what she’d always thought she’d come home to; she hadn’t even dared to imagine sex and silliness like they’d just had. Of course it feels too good to be true.

“But I can still love you even if I can’t forgive you yet.” Callum goes on, saying what he’s already shown, what she’s already seen...what she already knows, even if it’s hard to believe. “I do. I love you, and…you did this because you love me.” 

His hands still at the bottom of the braid he’s made and he draws his own shaky breath as he knots the end in place—

“I swear, Rayla, I know that your heart was in the right place.” 

—and she’s sure he’s crying now too.

“But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt me.”

She’s right, she finds, when she turns to him. He’s done with her hair and his face is wet with tears, and even if he does forgive her…how can she forgive herself?

He’s given her everything, and…all she’s ever done is hurt him.

“I’m sorry, Callum, so, so sorry.” He lets her knock him backward, and she’s not sure whose embrace is tighter, but he cradles her head to his chest, and even his hugs are better than hers, she thinks, crying again at how he’s the one comforting her. “I love you so, so much.”

“I loved you then, and I’ve loved you all along,” Callum whispers, gathering her up close, breathing the words against her hair. “I love you now, and I’ll love you tomorrow. There’s nothing you could do, Rayla, that would make me stop. I promise.”

She cries until she can’t anymore, and even when she’s done—even when she’s given in and drifted off to sleep—he’s still going on, his voice echoing the same refrain in her dreams.

He loves her.

She knows it, even if she can’t quite believe it.

[lowlylux]

I am a Sinner (You are a Saint)

Chapter Eight | Revelations

Ship: HeiKazuScara

Rating: E

Status: In Progress

Word Count: 2.2k

Description:

“You shall be cast out of the heavenly realm indefinitely.”

Kunikuzushi feels arms grab his own as he is forced to his feet. He struggles, keeping his eyes on his mother only. “Mother! Don’t let them do this!” The guards continue to drag him away, even if it is a struggle. “Mother!” He knows the gate to the human realm is growing closer to him. The more time passes, the less chance he has to escape. But the divine never back out of their decisions…never. He looks to his mother one last time, hoping that she at least looks at him. But her gaze refuses to meet his own.

When he is finally cast out, the air rushing past his entire body, he could only visualize his mother’s pained expression.

He has never felt so alone…

ao3 link

Heizou groans as he feels pain erupt from the back of his head.  His eyes have not yet adjusted to the lack of light, causing him to squint, but even that attempt is futile.  Heizou in this very moment is helpless when it comes to finding out his situation and specifically how to rectify it.

He tries to move his arms, only to realize that his hands are tied together.  And, considering the fact that it is rope and he has nothing to cut it with, he doesn’t even have a chance to free his restraints.  Suddenly, he regrets going into that damned factory.

Memories of the last time he was conscious flood his mind.  He can’t remember much, just Sanada knocking him out.  And sure, that is pretty shocking, but he really doesn’t think Sanada is the murderer.  He just isn’t the type.

So that leads to his long-running theory of the possibility of supernatural involvement, which seems much more likely now.  But he still can’t prove it, which definitely is a problem.

Lights are flicked on in an instant, leaving Heizou no chance to prepare whatsoever.  He hisses in surprise, scrunching up his face until he finally feels like it is safe to open his eyes once more.  Although, truth be told, he regrets opening his eyes once he does.

In front of him is Sanada, who is very much not alive in any capacity.  Blood pools from a wound on neck, the liquid inching closer to Heizou’s feet as time goes on.  He’s pale, but not enough to mean he’s been dead for long.  Sanada’s black hair is messy, the back of it being wet from what Heizou can only assume is his own blood.  But what bothers him the most is the never blinking eyes.  They stay staring at the ceiling, slightly cloudy, the last expression of pure horror forever etched onto his face.

Sanada was still young, and while Heizou didn’t know him, he knows that Sanada didn’t deserve this ending.

Heizou looks further, noticing the fact that someone is across the room.  He’s shrouded in a partial shadow, but what Heizou cannot even comprehend is why someone would just be sitting in a chair, calmly watching the scene unfold.  “Past the shock?” The person asks, standing up so that he is in full view.

Heizou gapes at the sight.  He has never really seen this person outside of a few interactions, but seeing them here so calmly is incredibly mind blowing.  “Pantalone?”

In front of him is the medical examiner, a usually flippant individual that Heizou rarely sought out.  He was always strange, obsessed with the dead in a way that seemed unnatural and frankly made Heizou uncomfortable.  But here he is, standing there proudly, his unnatural pale blue hair pinned away from his face.

“You couldn’t even go by a seperate name?” Someone asks, causing Heizou to snap his attention to the newcomer.  

He looks just like Pantalone…

“I like my given name,” the one Heizou assumes is Pantalone says, shrugging while he talks.

“Well I could’ve given you a name.”

“I’m not going to take advice from someone who’s named Dottore.”

Dottore gasps in a fake manner, feigning offense.  “I’ll have you know that my name is-“ his focus turns to Heizou in an instant, as if he forgot that he was even there.  “He’s awake.”

“Obviously,” Pantalone scoffs before glancing at his hands and groaning.  “You know, your skin is the fucking worst.  Would it kill you to actually take care of yourself?”  If Heizou wasn’t used to Scaramouche at this point, the sight in front of him would cause him to scream out.  But even if he’s used to the unknown, it doesn’t make it any less shocking.  Pantalone completely changes in a mere moment, his features meshing together until a new person emerges.  He has longer black hair, however the hair clips remain.  But what is most shocking is his eyes, the pupils resembling that of a snake.

Dottore walks toward Heizou, kneeling so that they can be eye to eye.  His smile is strained, as if he is annoyed with Heizou’s presence, but he keeps his intentions unknown for the time being.  “Shikanoin Heizou, we need to talk.”

●•·•●

It took hours before Kazuha fell asleep.  Scaramouche at first didn’t really know what to do.  Sure, he knows how to support someone, but Kazuha was damn near inconsolable.  Scaramouche couldn’t even understand half of what Kazuha said in those hours, but he could understand the fact that Kazuha feel guilty.  That morning, Heizou mentioned both of them calling out of work so that he could take Kazuha to the boardwalk, but Kazuha insisted that they needed to work.  So Scaramouche sat there, letting Kazuha cry his heart out in his lap until he inevitably couldn’t bear to be conscious anymore.

That was when Scaramouche took the chance to get out of the house.  When he found himself at the doorstep of a summer house that reeked of magic, he knew there was no turning back when it comes to the decision he is making.  He knocks, and isn’t at all surprised when the door opens.  

Zhongli stands there, face completely neutral. “Kunikuzushi…”

“It’s Scaramouche.”

Zhongli releases a sigh, shaking his head.  “Fine, Scaramouche, what are you doing here?”

Scaramouche stares at Zhongli for a moment, as if he would be able to decipher what the old archangel is thinking.  Obviously, he can’t, but it would be nice if he could.  “Is Childe here?”

The older angel clears his throat in an instant, as if doing so will clear any tension between the two.  “He’s inside.”

Scaramouche just nods as he steps into the house, pausing for a moment once inside.  “You know, I knew you took frequent trips to the human realm, but I never thought you would have an entire life here.” He just sends Zhongli a side glance as he continues to talk.  “Tell me Zhongli, do the divine know about all of this?  What would Celestia think of one of their own archangels, an archon of power, being a lover of a demon?”

“And who would tell Celestia of my transgressions?” 

Scaramouche turns around fully, sending Zhongli a glare.  “You’re an ass for that comment, you know that?”

“That was the point.” Zhongli says, leaning toward Scaramouche so that he can whisper, “I pity your situation, I truly do, but don’t threaten me and what I’ve built here again.  Am I clear, Kunikuzushi ?”

Scaramouche just glares at him, not enjoying this interaction at all.  “Crystal.”

“Great,” Zhongli says, straightening his back as he smiles at Scaramouche.  “Childe is in the kitchen, he’ll be so happy you stopped by.”

Scaramouche just nods in response, not particularly wanting to egg on Zhongli any further.  He turns, going toward what he can only assume is the kitchen and luckily he is correct.  And, to Zhongli’s credit, Childe is in the kitchen.

The ginger is humming to himself, a pile of folded laundry on the table and a pot of something on the stove.  Childe grabs another shirt, finally noticing Scaramouche when he’s in the middle of folding.  “Scara!  What a surprise!”

“Childe, Heizou’s missing.”

Childe finishes folding the shirt with a sigh.

And Scaramouche, for how smart he is, is absolutely dumbfounded.  The odd realization that Childe knew more than he let on creeps into his very soul, gripping his mind until he is unable to think of anything else.  “ You knew? ”

“I was aware of a potential threat, yes.” Childe says, grabbing another shirt in the process.

“What the fuck Childe?” Scaramouche says, grabbing the shirt from Childe’s hands.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it wasn’t my place.”

“If Heizou’s dead-“

“He’s not,” Childe says far too quickly for Scaramouche’s liking.  The demon glances at Scaramouche before shaking his head, as if pitying him.  “We would be meeting in much worse circumstances if he was.”

Childe reaches for the shirt but Scaramouche proceeds to keep it away from the ginger’s grasp.  “What haven’t you told me about?”

The demon stares at him for a moment before groaning, running a hand through his hair.  “The witch involved with all of this, Dottore?  Well he needs a certain amount of human blood spilt to and he intends for the head detective to be the final offering.  It’s supposed to be symbolic.”

“So Heizou can be dead any minute.”

“Correct.”

“How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel better?” Scaramouche yells out, throwing the crumpled shirt onto the counter.  He holds his head, tears threatening to pour down his face.  “He could be dying right now and I can’t do anything about it.  If he dies…Kazuha will never forgive me.  I’ll never forgive myself .  I really care about him and if he-“

“Diluc’s already investigating it,” Childe says, immediately rushing to Scaramouche.  “He left this morning to try and find Heizou.  He’s not going to die, Scara.”

Scaramouche just stares at him, his eyes unblinking as he processes the information.  “I want to find him…”

“I can’t help you with that,” Childe says, sending him a pitying stare.  “My specialty is being a glorified demon bodyguard.  If you wanted help from someone, you’d need to find a demon who specializes in assassinating humans.”

“Do you know of any demons like that?”

Childe pauses for too long, already giving Scaramouche the answer he so desperately craves.  “I know of one…”

“Then point me to them!”

“No,” Childe says immediately, shaking his head.  “Dottore is a fucking psycho and the demon he has tailing him is no better.  He thinks he has Pantalone on his leash but trust me when I say this, out of the two of them, I would be more concerned about Pantalone.”

Scaramouche finds himself staring at nothing in particular, trying to gather his thoughts but ultimately being unable to.  “I’m going to bring Heizou back to Kazuha.”

Childe doesn’t say anything, instead standing so that he can continue folding the laundry.  “Do you want to stay for lunch?  I’m making spaghetti.”

Scaramouche can’t help but stare at Childe.  Here is a demon, supposedly a sworn enemy of Scaramouche, offering him lunch while simultaneously folding laundry.  It’s oddly domestic and definitely doesn’t fit any social norms that were drilled into Scaramouche’s mind since the beginning of his existence?  And Childe, while rather eccentric, is just oddly nice for a demon.  “How did you become a demon anyway?”  Scaramouche didn’t even mean to say it aloud…it just happened.

And Childe pauses, his soft smile dropping at that topic.  He sets a pair of jeans down, supporting himself with the counter.  “How much do you know about the process?”

“Not much, just that you have to make a deal with another one.”

“That’s actually pretty much it…just more painful,” Childe jokes, taking a seat next to Scaramouche on the floor.  “I’m Russian, did you know that?”

“No, I actually didn’t.”

Childe starts to mess with a ring in his finger, twisting it slightly just so that he has something to do.  “My parents died when I was a teenager.  My dad worked as a guard for some noble, got killed in the line of duty.  My mother…she studied witchcraft at the time and was found out after his death.  My village executed her not too long after.”  Every word he speaks sounds as if he is physically pushing the words out, completely unwilling to tell this story but at the same time giving this information freely.

“My older siblings had already started their lives and I had three younger siblings to take care of.” Childe smiles, seemingly remembering his siblings before his expression sours.  “It was the eighteenth century, and the Black Plague made it to my village.  I begged the kids to stay inside but Teucer met someone…”

Scaramouche really doesn’t know how to even act, but he does try to listen as Childe talks.  “Her name was Klee, her mom was a traveling physician.  She urged Teucer to come outside and he snuck out.  A few days later he started showing symptoms.  I begged every doctor I could to help him but I was told it was too late.  During that time, I was so proud of myself for keeping my mom’s book of spells.”

Childe laughs at himself, as if he had said the funniest joke known to man.  “I exchanged my soul to protect Teucer.  When I was turned…the demon I had a contract with didn’t trust I would keep out of touch, so I was banned from returning to the human realm for two hundred years, just so I would have less of a chance of finding a descendant...I couldn’t even say goodbye.”

Scaramouche puts a hand on Childe’s shoulder, causing the demon to snap out of his own thoughts.  Childe stares at him for a moment, as if searching his very soul to see if he can unearth anything.  But, when he can’t, Childe just lets out a breath as he continues to stare at Scaramouche.  “I’ll take you to see Albedo.”

And, while Scaramouche isn’t too sure who Albedo is, he can assume this is something good.

07<< >>09

masterlist

[girasollake]

always her | s.h.

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

a/n: hi this is the first blurb thing i made and i hope you guys like it, im sorry for the mistakes (if there are any) because english is not my first language<3

summary: steve goes to the reader’s house and she can’t do this anymore, jealousy consumes her

warnings: some curse words, sad ending? idk

type: angst

requests are open<3

navigation

———————————————————————-

She sighed opening the door for him.

“You’re late.” she stated letting him into her house. Small droplets of water were falling down from his messy hair.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that Nance needed my help wi..”

“Nance? Is she more important than your girlfriend now, huh?”

“No. (Y/n) just listen to me for once.”

“No Steve. I’m done listening to your bullshit. You are always late for our dates, meetings, shakes, everything. You are always late because of her! You two broke up months ago and since we started dating I’ve been feeling like you are still with her and not me! She’s always more important! But she wasn’t the one helping you this semester! I was! I was the one who was there for you when you needed me! The last few months I was always by your side supporting you! And you can’t do the same for me. “ she sighed, her lips trembling. “I thought that this behavior of yours, of being obsessed with Nancy fucking Wheeler would change over time.”.

(Y/n) laughed helplessly looking straight into her boyfriend’s eyes. He just stood there, his mouth slightly open, eyes filled with confusion.

“But I was wrong Steve, and stupid. This will never go away, because you don’t love me. You love her. And I feel like I was just a replacement. A stupid fucking toy you think you can use just because she is not interested in you anymore! She always needs your help but she’s never there for you! Haven’t you noticed that? Haven’t you noticed that she’s just using you and your good heart?!”

Tears were falling from her eyes, her lips swollen and her nose getting more red with each minute that passed.

“You’re overreacting. Did something happen? You know that I don’t like fighting with you (Y/n)”

Still confused he stepped closer to her. He wanted to hug her, to let her cry out all the emotions bubbling up inside her. She moved away from him.

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“What truth?”

“You know what I mean Steve, don’t play dumb.”

He shook his head from side to side.

“Do you love her?” she asked him a simple question and yet, he hesitated.

An uncomfortable silence covered the whole room. The only sound being the rain, the creaks in her old home and their breaths. Mostly hers.

She chuckled and unclasping the necklace he had given to her two months before she threw it at him.

“Leave.” the anger could be felt in her voice.

Steve shivered and looked at the door. He wanted to say something but he couldn’t think of anything. He wanted to disagree with her, to tell her that he didn’t love Nancy, but it was too late. Before he left he threw one last glance at her and walked through the door. When he was outside she walked into the kitchen and grabbed her mother’s cigarettes. (Y/n) had quit smoking long ago but it felt as if this was the only thing that would keep her calm at that moment. She went out to the backyard and after she finished her cigarette she broke down crying, memories of Steve flooding her mind.

[mackenzielovee]

sixth sense: part five

synopsis: “Please. Give me a shot. I’ll even let you scowl at me the whole time like you used to when we first met.”

warnings: kissing, swearing, anxiety, intoxication/alcohol consumption, brief mentions of bruises + domestic violence

wc: 5.6k

a/n: hi <3 excited and happy, i hope you enjoy !

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     You wake up sprawled across Rafe’s bed, positioned on your stomach with your left hand and leg drooped over the remainder of the bed. You push up on your elbows and turn to your right, finding Rafe facing you, squished practically to the edge of his bed because of your position. He’s still fast asleep, and for a moment, you just sit there and take him in. His hair is even more messy than it had been last night, a few strands in his eyes. His lips are parted slightly and his breaths are even with the rising and falling of his chest. 

The events of the night before come flooding back to you when you look around his room, remembering how you practically begged him to fuck you and he didn’t. He saw the markings on your skin and deemed you damaged, shattering your heart in your chest. Then, piece by piece, he put it back together with his soft kisses and his pleads for you to stay with him. 

Your skin burns in every spot he kissed you, begging for his mouth to return. For a split second, you consider waking him up to do just that. You shake your head and slide across his mattress, careful to get up slowly so he doesn’t wake. 

You’re still in his clothes, the ones he so graciously offered to you without having to think twice, and you decide not to change. You’ll give the clothes back to him next time you see him. Plus, the thought of sleeping in them for a few more nights is too enticing to pass up. 

You grab your clothes from the desk, then find your phone and slip on your shoes. When you turn back, Rafe is still in the exact same position, taking up one foot of space so you could have the other four. With a deep breath, you slip out of his room before you can think twice, thanking the universe when you don’t run into anyone in the house. There are a few people asleep on the couches, but you don’t stick around to observe. You slip out before anyone can notice you and make it to your car, where you sit and let it all out. 

     Rafe calls you as you’re getting out of the shower at your apartment. You’re wrapped in a towel, your hair soaking wet and sticking to your skin, as you stare blankly at the ringing phone. You have no idea how he’ll react to you just leaving without a word, a note, a text, but you really don’t care to find out. 

Although spending the night with him had you sleeping better than you have in a long time, you can’t let it become a regular thing. You know letting Rafe all the way in is dangerous, no matter how he makes you feel when he’s around. Especially after you’d humiliated yourself last night by telling him the truth and crying in front of him. Being vulnerable gets you hurt, and you don’t think you can do that again.

You brush your hair out and then move to your bedroom to dress, sighing when you hear your phone vibrate against the counter in the bathroom. You see Rafe’s name pop up above a text, leading you to open it. 

Are you okay? When did you leave? 

You clench your jaw, unable to believe he cares so much. Why?, you wonder. What could he possibly see in you that’s worth all of this?

      After you dress, you busy yourself around your apartment. You do the dishes, start laundry, vacuum, and reorganize your entire room just to keep your mind off of the past few days. You can’t help but feel as if you’ve made a complete mess of everything – especially with Rafe. You wonder if he’d tell his frat buddies about it; how you cried and wanted sex and he had to tell you no. You shake that thought immediately, knowing he wouldn’t do that. He’s not like Campbell, who gave way too much detail to anyone who would listen. Rafe is better, more mature, more private. 

Your phone buzzes again around dinner time, and you already know it’s him without having to look. You do anyway, indulging yourself. 

My mind has officially gone crazy about you. I know you’re probably fine. Ignoring me is okay. I can deal with that. 

But I need you to do something for me, okay?

If you really are good and just want space, just send me back the stupidest fucking emoji ever. If you don’t answer, I’ll be forced to contact the authorities. 

You laugh at that, trying to imagine Rafe contacting the police to report a girl not texting him back. You bite down on your lip and do your best to ignore the swirling in your stomach, then search through all of the emoji categories to find a ridiculous one. 

Eventually, you settle on the mermaid and click send before you can overthink it, laughing once again at the ridiculousness of this. And the way it’s making you so happy in the process. His reply is instantaneous.

Understood. I’m here if you want to talk. I’ll be at the library on Wednesday, you should come by. Don’t make me wait until Friday. Please. 

Your heart pounds in your chest at his words, and before you’re tempted to type a reply that promises your attendance, you swipe out of the text altogether. The remainder of the evening becomes about distracting yourself, trying not to repeat his words over and over again in your head. 

You fail, and a part of you isn’t even sure you can wait until Wednesday. 

     Bryn talks you down at work on Monday. You don’t tell her about Campbell or the marks he left behind that Rafe eventually found, instead, citing alcohol as the reason he stopped. You’d both been drinking, and he stopped it. She believes you, and you watch her eyes melt at the thought of him doing such a thing. 

She practically demands you give Rafe a chance. A real one. A part of you fears that more than anything else, but the other part of you wants to take the dive. You feel desperate to trust someone, but at the same time, unwilling to do so. Every instinct screams that you have to protect your heart, but your heart says Rafe Cameron isn’t bad. He’s not like Campbell. Or Jamie. He’s different; he’s better. 

     Which is how you find yourself standing in front of the library for the second week in a row. It’s earlier than the last time you’d shown up because you know Rafe starts studying early. You have no idea where he is in the building, so the first place you go is the second floor, where he’d been last time. Your breaths are unsteady, his clothes in your backpack heavy, as you round the corner. 

His focus remains on his laptop as you take the first two steps forward. His hair is messy and he has glasses on today, which make him look equal parts tired and handsome. He moves his glance to his textbook then, and you’re almost halfway to him. You watch him skim the page, then turn back to his laptop. His eyes snag on something – on you, you realize — and you watch in slow motion as that grin breaks out on his face. 

He stands as you make it over to him, offering him a smile. You watch as he reaches for you, desperate to feel you after days apart, and then pulls back when you don’t reciprocate. You swallow and take half a step back, watching his face fall. 

“Hey,” he finally says, trying to even out his expression. 

“Hi,” you reply, anxiously tucking strands of hair behind your ear, “I, um, brought you your clothes.”

His brows furrow, “My clothes?”

Your jaw shifts as you draw in a breath, not wanting to discuss that night with him. Instead of answering verbally, you set your bag down on the table and remove his folded tee and sweatpants, sliding them over to him. 

“My clothes,” he repeats, nodding his head, “Did you wear them again?”

You draw back, “Excuse me?”

He smirks and licks his lips, letting the clothes sit out in the open between the two of you. 

“To bed,” he clarifies, “Did you wear them to bed again after you left me?”

Every night, your brain reminds you, And I really didn’t want to return them. But I can’t owe you anything. 

“No,” you say, noting how the word comes out weaker than you intended. 

Rafe grins then and places his hand on top of the folded clothes, then slides them back over to you. 

“Keep them,” he tells you quietly, then adds, “The shirt’s too small for me and I was going to get rid of the pants anyway. You keep them.”

Every emotion you’ve felt since that night seems to bubble up inside your chest at his – obviously false – admission. Your expression hardens and your jaw clenches as you push the clothes back across the table, watching as his smirk fades. 

“Stop treating me like a charity case,” you snap, “I don’t need your study guide, or your Rum and Coke, or your toothbrush, or your clothes. I can handle myself.”

He steps back and holds up his hands in defense, shaking his head slightly at the accusation. 

“Y/N, hey–”

“I’m leaving,” you sigh, attempting to turn. 

Your heart swells when he lurches forward, setting a gentle hand on your back. 

“Hey, wait a second,” he stops you, “What’s going on? What did I do?” 

You spin to face him, and he removes his hand at once. His expression shows his concern, and for a split second, you revel in the fact that he’s not shy about it. That he has no ego. He just wants to know. 

You’re getting too close, you say in your head, I can’t rely on you. I can’t hurt you with my baggage. 

“I just came to return your clothes,” you lie, “And now I’m leaving.”

“Y/N,” he hurries around you, stopping himself right in front of you and letting those blue eyes beg you silently to hear him out. You feel that same body heat you felt last night as he stands too close, letting it warm you and draw you in, “I don’t understand. I mean, you were in my bed. I held you while we slept. Why are you pushing me away now?”

“I just think it’s best if we go our separate ways,” you mumble. 

His chest deflates at the words, and his pause to comprehend what you’ve said gives you a chance to hurry around his figure and make your way toward the stairs. You feel him before you see him, rushing around you again and blocking your exit. 

“No,” he blurts, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his messy hair. 

“No?” you question, taking a step back from him. 

“No,” he repeats, “I say that respectfully, of course, but no. I’m not willing to do that. Not after what happened between us.”

“Rafe–” you sigh, but he stops you with another shake of his head. 

“Please, Y/N, you don’t have to guard yourself with me. I’m not going to hurt you. Please don’t walk away from me.”

He reaches his hand out slowly and gently, then tangles his fingers through yours from where your hand rests at your side. You sigh, swearing you can feel him wearing you down. Part of you begs to jump. To take the chance and just hope like hell it won’t hurt if he doesn’t catch you. 

“Rafe,” you say again, “I just…”

You trail off when you realize you have no idea how to articulate the thoughts in your head. Being with him like that, vulnerable and exposed, had alarm bells and sirens blaring in your head. You’re sure it will take a long time before you’re able to quiet those completely. 

“You’re scared,” he says breathlessly, like he understands, like he can work with that, “That’s okay. Let’s just start with sitting down at our table. Because I know you came here to study with me.”

You bite your bottom lip before it can smile and give you away, but you’re sure he sees right through you. He grins and squeezes your hand, then nods for you to turn back around. Sucking in a deep breath and keeping your hand in his, you let him lead you back around the corner to the table where he’d been sitting. 

Watching him carefully, you see how he pulls out the chair across from him and smiles, bringing your knotted hands up to his mouth to kiss before he releases you and gestures for you to sit. You do, swallowing roughly as he sits across from you and shifts his things so you have room to put your laptop and textbook, too.

“Better?” he asks, watching you nod, “Good. Get your stuff out so we can work, yeah?”

You nod again and take out your laptop from your bag, the bag that now smells like Rafe Cameron’s clothes. He keeps his eyes on you as you get situated, then leans back in his chair and focuses on his computer screen. 

You open that same Google Doc the two of you worked on last week, finding him already working in it. The silence that falls over the two of you is comfortable, and for about half an hour, neither of you even speak. You settle into working and let your anxiety melt away, focusing only on your work. 

Your eyes flash up at him before you can help it, and you practically gasp when you see him already eyeing you. He smirks and looks back down, leaving you to follow his lead. A few minutes later, you feel those eyes on you again.

“What?” you ask, looking up at him. 

He smiles wide, “Just thinking.”

You raise a brow and pull your laptop closer to you, leaning forward with the hope of catching that familiar cologne. 

“About France’s health care system?” you question. 

“No,” he says, leaning closer to you and lowering his voice, “About the way your skin tastes.”

He watches as you freeze, your lips closing to swallow, then opening and taking a deep breath in after the shock. 

“Rafe,” you speak faintly, “Stop.”

“Y/N,” he mocks with a teasing smile, “No.”

You laugh before you can help it, and when he breaks into that cheesy grin, you wonder if that was his goal all along. Glancing back down at the document open in front of you, you try to focus. Every time you read a line, however, you notice how all the letters seem to scramble together, and soon, all of your focus becomes about Rafe. 

You give in and look up, finding him already watching you. That smile still sits across his lips and lights up those blue eyes. 

“I know we’re taking things very slow right now,” he breathes, “But I’m gonna take a risk. Can you prepare yourself?”

You know you should feel unsettled by the fact that Rafe is about to take a risk, but you don’t. Not even in the slightest. He is comfort and safety all wrapped into one, and you know he’d never do anything to hurt you. Regardless of what you’ve tried to convince yourself. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, then nods his head and sits up straighter. 

“Will you go on a date with me?”

Your throat dries up at that, and when you move to swallow, you can’t. He’s staring at you, and you watch as his tongue wets his bottom lip. He’s anxious, you figure, and you can’t figure out why. Why a guy like Rafe Cameron would be nervous to ask a girl out, when you’re sure any girl on this campus would die for his attention 

“Rafe…” you trail off, unsure of what to say. 

A date with him? How would that even go?

The voice in your head tells you that if the date is anything like today, Rafe will be there to reassure you and comfort you every time you want to draw back. It sounds appealing, really, even though you’ve somehow conditioned your body to reject every man ever. 

“Please,” he adds when you don’t speak, “Will you go on a date with me, please?”

“I–” you start, then shake your head, “That’s not–”

“Y/N,” he stops you, his voice soothing as he reaches across the table to move your laptop, taking your hands in his to calm you, “Baby steps. It will just be me and you going to a restaurant and ordering food. You don’t even have to talk to me. I’ll do all the talking. You can just sit there and think about how much you wish you were at home.”

You smile and so does he; the feeling of his hands intertwined with yours overwhelming and comforting at the same time. 

“That’s not what I’ll be thinking,” you admit. 

He grins, “No?”

“No,” you shake your head, “I’ll probably be distracted.”

“By?”

You roll your eyes playfully, “By Rafe Cameron on a date.”

His laugh makes you laugh, and when he instinctively tugs your hands closer to him, every fiber in your body wishes there wasn’t a table between the two of you.

“I can be quite charming,” he tells you, “Please. Give me a shot. I’ll even let you scowl at me the whole time like you used to when we first met.”

You smile before you can help it, “Okay.”

His eyes go wide at the agreement, and with another tug of your hands, he brings one up to his mouth to press a kiss to. 

“Okay?” he confirms. 

“Yes, okay,” you nod, “But I will scowl.”

“Scowl all you want. I love it,” he says with a smile, “How does Saturday night work for you?”

“It works.”

He kisses your hand one more time before releasing you, licking his lips and doing his best to keep his happiness at bay. You watch as he suddenly starts packing up his laptop and textbook, shoving them into his bag. You stand when he does, giving him your most confused expression. 

“I have to go,” he says breathlessly, “I have to work tomorrow, and Friday we have class and then I’m coming to the bar, so I have to prepare now.”

“What?” you practically laugh, “It’s Wednesday.”

“Yeah, but, you know. I have to figure out logistics and everything,” he smiles shyly, then takes a step toward you, “I really want to kiss you goodbye, but we haven’t even been on a date yet.”

You swallow down your inquiry about him coming to the bar on Friday, hoping that if you don’t question it, he will. Instead, you suck in a deep breath and just barely nod your head, watching his eyes soften. 

“You can,” you whisper, “I won’t tell.”

With a wide smile, his hand makes its way up to your neck, cupping your jaw and letting his thumb graze over your cheek as he pulls you into him.You rise on your tip-toes and let your lips meet, hearing a faint groan from Rafe the second he tastes you. The kiss lasts all of three seconds, and when he pulls back, you only want more. 

“Public library,” he explains, “Best behavior.”

You laugh and nod as he steps back from you. His hand wraps around the strap of his backpack and he nods, giving you another one of your favorite smiles as he starts to leave. 

“Friday,” he promises. 

“See you then,” you reply. 

He grins and nods again, then turns and makes his way out of the library before he can change his mind. You collapse back down in your chair and try your best not to smile like a lovesick college student, but you can’t help yourself. Another twenty minutes of no progress and you shake your head, slamming your laptop shut and leaving the library with a smile you never thought you’d have. 

     By the time Friday rolls around, Bryn is far too antsy to hear about how things have progressed with Rafe. You walk into class texting her that you’ll fill her in at work tonight, then look up and instantly lock into those blue eyes. 

He smiles and watches as you cross the room to join him. He doesn’t even blink until you sit down beside him, resting your hand on the armrest in between the two of you. He places his hand on top of yours and squeezes, giving you a smile. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

“Hi,” you reply, returning his smile. 

“How have you been?” 

You laugh, “Since I last saw you thirty-six hours ago?”

He sits back in his seat and laughs to himself, but you swear you can see the blood rushing up, turning his ears pink.

“I guess,” he shrugs, “Feels like longer.”

“I know,” you reply before you can help it, turning just in time to see the victorious smirk grow across his lips. 

You watch your professor enter the classroom and start his set up while the room steadily fills up with people. You recognize Lindsay, the girl who displaced you when she sat with Rafe several weeks ago, enter. She smirks when you catch her eye and flaunts over, moving her glance over to Rafe, who could not be bothered.

Your hand remains on the arm rest between the two of you while Rafe had pulled his away to set up his computer. Your grip tightens around it as she nears the two of you; the hair on the back of your neck standing at whatever she has up her sleeve. 

“Hi, Rafe,” she grins, equal parts flirty and bitchy, “Is the seat on the other side of you taken?”

Rafe glances up, and almost as if on instinct, he sets his hand back on top of yours. Lindsay, who registers this, practically exhales fire as she glares at you. 

“Hi, Lindsay,” he greets, then shakes his head, “I’m pretty sure it’s available. You’re welcome to sit there.”

“Thank you,” she smiles, passing in front of the two of you to seat herself. 

Rafe’s hand squeezes yours again, earning your eyes. He gives you a smile, one that says he has no clue what’s going on. You watch his eyes search your face to try and gauge your feelings, but he’s unsuccessful. All at once, he shifts in his seat and turns his head, all while pulling your hand from the arm rest and knotting your fingers through his. 

“Lindsay, do you know Y/N?” he asks her, remaining silent for one beat before he continues, “She’s the girl I was saving that seat for when you and I ended up next to each other a few weeks ago.”

Lindsay expertly eyes your entwined hands, but plasters a fake Barbie doll smile over her expression. 

“Right,” she says tightly, “She never actually came over to sit. Which worked out for me, because we had a lot of fun in that class. Right, Rafe?”

Rafe’s brows furrow, “Uh, I mean, yeah. I guess. I was too busy worrying about you.”

His gaze moves back to you and his features melt, which makes you smile. You let go of whatever desire you have to tell Lindsay off, to make her regret the day she ever came over here. You’re not sure exactly what it is – but then again, you are. Rafe is rubbing off on you in ways you never thought possible. 

With a squeeze of his hand, you lean forward and give her a polite smile. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Lindsay,” you say, watching her face fall in shock, “I work at Black Boar downtown. If you ever want a drink, it’s on me.”

“Um, thanks,” she replies, shocked, and sits back in her seat. 

Rafe’s grin is incomparable to anything else in that moment. Your professor stands up to begin class just as Rafe leans over and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. 

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, then pulls back and releases your hand all at once. 

Your stomach twists with a new feeling, one you’re sure you’ve never felt before. Throughout class, Rafe takes all the notes while you sit there, still as can be, replaying those three words over and over again. 

     You walk into work in a daze; Rafe’s words still running through your head. You’d never, ever felt like this with anyone else, which is why the feeling has you looking like you’re on the best high of your life. 

Bryn grabs your arm the second you clock in and turns you around, watching your eyes go wide with fear at the sudden movement. 

“Sorry,” she says instantly, “I wasn’t trying to scare you. Just excited to hear about the frat boy.”

You laugh and nod, swallowing down the anxiety she’d spiked up. 

“He’s great,” you reply, meaning it. 

She squeals, but calms herself down to avoid attracting attention. You shake your head at her, but you can’t help a laugh that escapes you. 

“You look happy,” she remarks, “And I want details.”

You sigh, setting your bag into your locker and closing it up. Your back is to her now, and without having to look her in the eye, you feel more confident in saying your feelings out loud. 

“Bryn,” you mumble, “I’m falling for him.”

You hear her gasp and turn around just in time to meet her genuine, beautiful smile. 

“Y/N, I’m–”

“Ladies,” Jamie calls from his office, “Your shift started two minutes ago. Let’s pull down those tops and get out there, all right?”

Bryn’s face falls, but you just shake your head and give her a smile, then tug on her arm and take her out to the bar. It’s only five, meaning it’s not slammed yet. You take time in between serving drinks to tell Bryn about Rafe in full detail, down to the date the two of you have tomorrow night. 

Around ten, things start to pick up. People stream through the doors at a steady rate, taking drinks and leaving good tips. Your mood looks up when you think about how much you’ve made tonight – and not broken a thing, so Jamie can’t take anything from your earnings – and you match Bryn’s smile across the bar. 

It’s ten-thirty when a slightly inebriated but insanely handsome Rafe Cameron enters the bar with Topper and a few other guys. You clock him instantly; those piercing blue eyes lighting your skin on fire the second he sees you. Quickly, you finish your drink and pass it off, then move over to serve the boys. You can’t even help the smile that grows on your lips, sure you look like a teenager all over again. 

“Hi,” Rafe greets you, his smile matching yours. 

“Hi,” you reply, “What’ll it be?”

“Vodka soda,” he replies, as if it’s obvious, “And a kiss, if you’re handing them out.”

You bite your lip to hide your smile from growing, but it doesn’t help the giggle that escapes past your lips. Rafe laughs and leans closer, using the bar to his advantage. 

“I’m not. I kinda have this guy in my life, and I think he’d be mad if I went around handing out kisses to drunk frat guys.”

He grins, “Yes, he would be very mad.”

“I’d love to see that,” you tease, “Let me get your drink–”

“‘Scuse me, love birds,” Topper slurs, nudging Rafe’s shoulder as he makes himself comfortable beside him, “I need a drink.”

You raise a brow at his state, “You sure about that?”

Rafe snickers as Topper glares at both of you, raising his hand up to point at you accusingly. 

“Rude,” he slurs, “I’ll have a Blue Hawaiian. No teasing.”

“ID?” you ask, trying your best to compress your laugh. 

Topper’s eyes narrow, “Are you serious?”

Rafe’s hand moves over his mouth, hiding his smile. 

“Absolutely,” you nod. 

Topper groans and stumbles a bit as he moves to pull out his wallet, then shoves it toward you. You giggle and nod, moving off to make their drinks. Rafe’s eyes never leave you, but you feel too shy under his inebriated glance to look up at him.

Once the drinks are made, you bring them back over to the boys and give them both a smile. Topper hands you his credit card and waves Rafe’s drink onto it too, ignoring Rafe’s protest at the offer. Topper tips you well, then raises his drink up in the air at you. 

“Cheers, bartender,” he says with a drunken smile, “Entertain him for a while, yeah? So he’ll shut the fuck up about you.”

Before you can reply, Topper falls into the crowd and disappears, leaving a blushing Rafe behind. You grin and reach across the bar, silently asking for his hand. He gives it to you without hesitance, tugging you closer so he can kiss your palm. 

“That will have to do for now,” he mumbles, “Get back to work.”

You frown, “Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

He laughs and squeezes your hand before he releases it, shaking his head at you. 

“I’m staying right here until your shift is over. I’m gonna be the only guy touching you tonight, all right?”

You draw back instinctually at his words, but with a deep breath and a moment to digest, you nod weakly. His expression falls slightly, and he steps forward as if to try and comfort you. The bar stops him, and he sighs. 

“Thank you, Rafe,” you breathe, “Thank you.”

He nods then, giving you a small smile. You take one step back to get to work, but Bryn steps over and places a gentle hand on your arm. 

“She likes tulips,” Bryn tells Rafe, “Hates any activity where she has to change clothes. Doesn’t like to go to the movies, she says it’s a waste of money–”

“Bryn,” you stop her, “Drinks.”

Bryn looks to Rafe one more time and nods, as if to affirm what she’s just said, then turns and gets back to taking orders. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, then follow suit. 

     Rafe stays true to his word and sticks around until your shift ends. You can feel his eyes on you for the remainder of the night. After you clock out, you’re not at all surprised when he’s waiting for you by the door. Topper has become dangerously drunk, being held up by a few of their frat brothers. 

“Ready?” he asks, holding out his hand for you. 

You nod and take it, walking through the door he holds open for you. 

It’s grown colder outside since you came in to work, but you welcome it. After running around all night, it feels refreshing. 

“So,” he starts, swinging your entwined hands back and forth, “Anything else I should know besides tulips, no changing clothes, and no movies?”

You laugh shyly, “No. I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. I want to know you.”

You smile, trying to hide it by looking down at the ground. You squeeze his hand as a silent thank you, letting the comfortable silence take over once again. 

He stops in front of your car and guides you up against it, caging you in when he sets his hands on either side of you. 

“Text me once you get into your apartment safe, all right?” he says. 

You nod, “I will. Thanks for staying.”

“Like I’ve told you,” he whispers, leaning closer, “I’d do anything for you.”

Surprising yourself as much as him, it’s you who leans in this time and kisses him. He adjusts after only a second and moves one hand to cup your jaw, pulling you closer. That fire you’ve felt burns your lips and every inch of skin his hand touches, melting you quickly. 

Rafe requests to deepen the kiss and you allow it, tugging him closer by his shirt. Soon, he has you completely pressed against your car while his free hand tugs your right leg up and around him, allowing him to be only closer. 

He pulls back abruptly, groaning at the weak whine you let out when his lips leave yours. 

"Y/N,” he pants, “We haven’t even – I have to take you on a date.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, “You are. Tomorrow.”

“I know,” he retorts, “No more kissing until I take you on a date.”

“Are you serious?” you question, letting out a laugh. 

“Yes,” he replies, but leans down and presses his lips to yours anyway. When he pulls back, he sighs, “Starting now.”

You giggle before you can help it and nod, running one hand through his hair and scratching the back of his neck. His eyes close under your movement, and you watch as his throat constricts with his swallow. 

“Goodnight, Rafe,” you murmur. 

His eyes open, revealing his dilated pupils and a deeper blue than you’ve ever seen on him before. 

“Goodnight, baby.”

You ignore the tightening in your chest and release him slowly, smiling when he opens your door for you and watches you climb into the car. With a wave, he closes the door and remains in the parking lot long after he disappears from your rear view mirror.

Tags:

@witchwyfe @lurkymurker @ghostselena @goldenjo @storytellingwitht @scenesofobx @itsalexwin @onmykneesforrafe @valeriiecameron @lovedetlost @mardema @girlsneedloovee @wishing-i-was-rafes-princess @malums-trash-can @emotionalbruv @onenightnorth @rafecameronswhore @wanniiieeee @sarahwasfound @jordynsharum @abrunettefangirlnerd @lilgoddesshines @absolute-fcking-chaos @premixed-margarita @anonymousobxfan @samcaniglia @thisisthewayrose @iammirrorball @r0und3bitch @thesimpletype @notdisneychannel @gillybear17 @solllaris @i-is-for-inspiring @sksliz @luversgirl @maybankxw @mattyskies @booktalks @gardening-tool-for-sebby-stan @totallynotkaibiased @mannstarkey

[silverdelirium]

Can I request a very filthy smutty blaise with ass kink and size kink? 🥺

MESSY OFFICE | B.Z

SUMMARY ➠ coworker!blaise teaches you a lesson and fulfills his dreams of fucking you silly.

WARNINGS ➠ oral (male receiving), tad bit of shoe fucking, dumbification, degradation, praising, rough sex, ass kink, size kink, lots of dirty talk, rushed ending. this if filthy lololol

———

blaise took a deep breath before slamming his fist down on the wooden desk of his office. the papers that were placed on top of it went flying around at the sudden movement.

his hands were shaking with irritation. if that fucking landlord could just shut the fuck up about his rent for one second-

the male’s thoughts were cut off by small, rapid knocks against the door. his brows knitted in confusion at the unanticipated invasion.

“come in!”

the door creaked as you entered the room, peeking your head through the doorway at first before going in, shutting the door behind you.

your presence emitted a groan from him. he knew that the moment you both spent time together it would somehow end in a screaming match, and blaise was not in the mood to be dealing with anything right now.

you gave him a sharp glare in response before opening your mouth to speak. yet you were cut off by your own silence as you studied the state of his office.

everything seemed so rustled and chaotic— there were papers thrown in the floor, some were even crumbled and a few candy wrappers were tossed around. “what is this mess?” you spoke, tone lacing with disgust as you picked up an old folder from the worktable; his hand was quick to swat you away, scowling you before leaning back on the desk.

“what do you want?” he squinted at you, roaming his eyes down your body suspiciously— mentally slapping himself for staring at your breasts longer than planned.

“what the fuck is up your arse today?” you scoffed, crossing your arms and walking closer to him until he had to crane his neck down to look at you.

blaise’s chest heaved up and down as he quickly undid the top button of his shirt, turning away from you and taking long strides around the room. he closed his eyes and really hated himself for wanting nothing more than to shut that smart mouth of yours with his hardening cock. it was too much for him— and if there was one-way blaise loved to take his stress out on, was sex. and god— that stupid little skirt of yours that was begging to be lifted and reveal that sweet cunt that plagued his mind at the worst moments was the last push he needed to man up and fuck you as he had always wanted to.

you observed him in silence, watching how he mumbled something to himself about ‘i can’t think of her like this.’

quietness ran across the walls for a few moments before blaise was back in front of you, muttering a “fuck it” and connecting his lips to yours.

the fleeting kiss had you bewildered for a few seconds, eyes wide and mouth unmoving as the tall man held the back of your head in his palm. you didn’t kiss him back at first, but you didn’t protest either. and you’d be dammed if you didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to get fucked brain dead by blaise zabini.

but who could blame you when you kissed him back with the same— maybe even more— force; it was messy and heated all at once, the frustration that you sensed from earlier was being poured in that kiss. teeth were clashing together as his tongue pressed down on yours, drawing out a breathy moan from you.

blaise cupped your rear with both hands, lifting you in an unforeseen manner, causing you to squeal lightly until you felt your bum being pressed against the cool surface of his messy desk.

he was the first to break apart from the kiss, breathing steadily as he stared down at you— even from your perched up position he was still a few inches taller.

“i’m not gonna hold back” he warned, searching your eyes for any sign of regret or hesitation that you might feel. but he was far from finding any, you wanted blaise to fuck you until he was poking out of your tummy and you wanted it now.

“i don’t care” you breathed out, reconnecting your mouth to his and almost missing out on that keen groan that came out of his mouth.

his large digits scurried under your skirt, unzipping it in a quick motion and pulling it down your legs until it pooled on the floor.

he teasingly ran his index finger up and down the soaked cotton that covered your pulsating pussy. “blaise— please” you shamelessly plead, throwing all your morals out the window and not caring about anything else but being rutted over and over again.

“look at you. begging like a well paid whore when you were being a smart ass with me not even ten minutes ago.” he chuckled, taking pride in the way you whimpered in response, bucking your hips up onto his fingers. “what is it, baby? you want me to fuck you until that dumb baby brain can only think about my cock, yeah?”

his words struck a bit of sense into you and you huffed in response— “are you actually gonna give me what i want and fuck me properly or are you all talk?”

you messed up and you messed up big; you could tell by the way hir pupils dilated and the slow touches against your clothed pussy stopped. his tongue darted out to poke on his left cheek as he laughed lightly, stepping back and harshly bringing you down the desk.

“i’m gonna fuck your throat until you learn how to keep useless stuff to yourself, princess” he warned, signalling down to the floor as he unbuckled his belt.

you tentatively got down on your knees, lightly scraping them against the wooden floor as you rubbed your thighs together, pawing at your lap as blaise’s erection appeared in your view of line.

was that supposed to fit in you?

blaise seemed to notice your unsureness— “you alright there, pretty girl?” his tone was softer, less stern yet with the same accent of authority he always carried.

“i— it’s… big.” you let out, feeling the tip of your ears grow hot as he chuckled before picking up a more alluring timbre “oh i’m gonna make it fit” he winked.

you swallowed thickly, already picturing the delicious stretch this man was gonna provide you. he stroked his large cock sensually before making a beeline with it to your lips, which were already parted in expectancy; he went to tease you for it but was cut off by his low moan that got provoked as the warmth of your mouth enveloped his pulsating tip.

his digits tangled themselves in your hair, good girl’s and just like that’s slipped from his mouth every time your tongue swirled around his head. and the slickness that was pouring out of you was suddenly too much to ignore— hence why you reached down to attempt and soothe the burning sensation. blaise was still enthralled with the way your worked those lips that he had dreamed of having against his around his cock— his hands tightened around your scalp as he thrusted rapidly against your mouth, desperately probing for an orgasm.

a muffled whine came from you as he fucked your throat repeatedly, causing him to look down at your teary eyes, eventually settling his irises on your hand rubbing your greedy cunt.

blaise tutted with a hint of disappointment, making your movements halt as you batted your eyelashes up at him innocently as if your mouth wasn’t stuffed with his cock that was ready to shoot its cum down your fucked out throat.

you went to furrow your brows when he kicked your hand away gently, replacing your fingers with the point of his leather shoe, your wetness already leaking down on his footwear as you whined around his cock, making his hips buck involuntarily at the vibrations— “i was gonna reward you for sucking me so well, but since you’re such a desperate slut you’re gonna have to fuck yourself on my shoe while i throat fuck you, yeah?” he asked demanded.

a weak nod was all he got in response before he was back to gripping your hair in his fist, spit drooling down your chin at the abrupt pace he set without even a warning— not that you minded.

your hips rolled slowly into his shoe, swollen clit fizzing at the stimulation; his shoe hit every right nerve ending, the sounds you made around his cock were filthy and lewd, only making his balls grow tighter as he stilled his hips, rope after rope of cum flooding your mouth.

you moaned lowly against his cock at the feeling of his warm cum spraying down your throat.

he gave tattered breaths and moans as he pulled out of your mouth, barely even taking notice of the whining mess you became, his foot now long gone from your oozing cunt.

“get the fuck up” he breathed out, staring down at your already fucked out-state— saliva all over your chin, along with a few tears decorating your frowning face as you stood up. his large hands came to cup your face, delivering a small kiss on the corner of your mouth before placing his mouth next to your ear and whispering “i’ve been trying to translate your frowns and find out what your fucking problem with me was before bending you over my desk and fucking you stupid.”

you could’ve easily moaned at his words alone if it weren’t for his lips linking with yours in a crazed kiss as he guided you towards his messy desk— which was about to be a whole lot messier.

his hands reassuringly squeezed your waist as he turned you around, his once again hard cock rubbed against your ass as he planted kisses against your neck, sucking on certain spots that had your eyes rolling onto the back of your head— his fingers making quick work of getting your shirt off, throwing it somewhere around the room as he separated himself from your now marked neck, leaving you in your undergarments that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“i’ve been waiting to fuck you senseless for so long, baby. you don’t know how many times i spent with my hand around my cock dreaming about your tight pussy around it.” he groaned out, pushing you forward until your breasts squished against the desk, shuddering at the cold of it.

his palms massaged your left ass cheek before a harsh slap was delivered to it— and his mouth wasn’t there to cover the pornographic moan that came out of you this time, pushing your bum against his hardened dick in anticipation.

blaise grabbed a hold of his cock and steadied himself with a hand on your bum, squeezing. before he moved your panties to the side and teased your pulsating entrance with his tip, groaning slightly at the way your pussy almost swallowed him in as he pushed the tiniest bit in, coaxing a loud cry from you.

“so so tight, princess” he praised, pushing himself all the way in with a single thrust, arousal already gushing down your thighs.

the male wasted no time and in a few moments he had you with your mouth gaped open, eyes going crisscross with every un pitying snap against your hips of his.

“can you feel me all the way up in your pretty guts, baby girl? you like having this slutty cunt being taught a lesson, huh?” he growled out, eyes trained on each bounce of your ass as he sped up— the clapping sounds were enough to give away what was happening to any passerbyers outside his office; not that any of you minded at this point.

“oh! fuck blaise— right there! right there!” you babbled out, shutting your eyes tight as he brought you up with his bicep against your throat, making you loll your head back on his shoulder as his dick continuously hit that spot inside you.

blaise’s other hand snaked around your midriff, pressing down on the evident outline of his cock going in and out of your tummy. “look at me destroying your pretty little insides, sweetheart, bet you won’t be able to sit on this pretty little pussy for the next week” he cooed at you before slamming you forwards until your cheek pressed against his rattling desk.

“don’t stop! don’t stop please!” you sobbed out, squeaking lightly when his palms crashed down roughly on your ass, groans and moans echoing around the room like a chant— the pit in your stomach growing tighter and tighter by the second.

“i’m cumming blaise, i’m fucking cumming” you gasped out, lifting your head back up and pointing your nose to the ceiling as you came all-around blaise’s cock with a loud ecstatic moan.

a whimper passed by your lips as blaise continued to fuck you through your high; and it took him one look to look at the mess you left running down yours and his thighs for him to be pumping you full of his cum, steady thrusts that had him hissing as you clenched around him for a final time.

he pulled out of you to watch his cum blow out of your overstimulated pussy, the aftershocks of the intense orgasm still causing your muscles to spasm every once in a while.

“you made my office a whole lot messier” he grunted out, pointing down to the puddle that fell in between your legs, causing you to flush instantly as he chuckled and pressed light kisses to your temple.

———

🏷: @methblinds @marrymetheonott @adrianscumslut @wh0re4blaise @youreso-golden @saggyb1lls @selenesheart @dracomalfoys-wh0re @dlmmdl @lolooo22 @darlingmalfoy @littlemissnoname13 @i-love-scott-mccall @underappreciated-spoon-321 @daddybutmakeitagirl @fredshufflepuff @dracosafety @riddleswh0rekrux @lostaurorax @alexavolturisblog @s1ater @marauderswh0re1 @andineverwould @starless-starkov @black-rose-29 @tattooedkermit @purpleskymalfoy @emma67 @mypainistemporary @mauvea @teenwolfbitches28 @lissa-duh @paniicing @rav3nclawwhore @fizzleberries @malfoy-girl @alohastitch0626 @caosfanblr @memorycharm @whoreforgeorgeandfred @elizabethrosedarling

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[inkykeiji]

help me now, i’m running on empty

characters: shigaraki tomura, dabi, a hint of keigo

genre: smut and angst

notes: waaaaaah finally!!! this is the fourth part of break my bones but act as my spine. please, please heed the warnings on this and stay safe! | title cred: memory by kane brown ft. blackbear

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, depictions of severe metal illness including psychosis (delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech), one psychiatric assessment, family members that mean well but just Do Not Understand in the slightest, toxic relationships, cheating, extreme guilt, slight power play, minimal prep, size difference/belly bulge, slight coercion, dacryphilia, slight degradation/dumbificaition, marking, cum eating/feeding, multiple orgasms, overstimulation if you squint, rough sex, reader is quite flexible, verbal fights, blood, daddy kink, drugs, 2 references to tarantino’s reservoir dogs that are relevant to the plot, keigo goes as both hawks and keigo

part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four ⋆ part five ⋆ epilogue ⋆ series masterlist

words: 23.5k

synopsis:

And, for one terrifying moment, Dabi thinks Tomura’s about to spill his guts—to tear himself open and spew himself at Dabi’s feet, to bear his bones and blood and broken soul in a way Dabi knows he didn’t for those doctors. And, for one terrifying moment, Dabi hopes he will, the way he used to—the way they both used to—on those rare nights where they were feeling especially sick and saccharine, juvenile and jaded, free and fucked up.

But he doesn’t.

Standing in the elevator threshold, he’s tall—so tall the crown of his smooth, bald head nearly brushes the chrome frame—and dressed sharply, just as he always is, in a pristinely pressed black suit, tailored to his abnormally large, hulking frame, stitches stretching just a little as he extends his arms out; an invitation.

Your feet know what to do before your mind can even send the signal—a pure, innate instinct, almost—as you gravitate towards him, so fast you stumble into his chest with an audible thud, fingers curling in the thick material of his jacket as a wailed, warped Daddy! lacerates your throat.

He catches you with ease, just as he always does, with a fond chuckle that seems out of place given the situation; that inspires an intense warmth to burst throughout your chest and flood your veins regardless.

Cocooned in large arms, you burrow your salt stained face into the soft cashmere of his white shirt, revelling in the comfort familiarity inevitably brings as his body vibrates with the baritone of his voice, reverberations sending sparks throughout your limbs to chase the warmth.

You can't tell who he's talking to—Dabi or Kurogiri, maybe both at once—words mostly drowned out by a harmonious concert of bellowing blood in your ears and cloistered cries in your chest; something about doctors and professionals, duties and procedures.

When he does finally address you—in a voice that’s so soft, so gentle, so incredibly patronizing it would seem offensive coming from the lips of anyone other than him—it’s to placate the shudders wracking your frame and pacify the jagged fragments of concerned sentiment that keep slashing at your tongue.

“Hush now,” he’s saying, words cascading over you like melted chocolate being drizzled over a warm cookie. “It’s okay, I'm here, it’s okay,” a heavy palm cups the crown of your head, thumb caressing the strands. “We’re going to figure it out, sweetheart,”

Finally, you pull back, just enough to gaze up at him through the filmy shield residual tears have lacquered across your eyes. “You promise?”

“I promise, darling,”

The elevator dings, and Dabi emerges, carrying a box overflowing with messy papers—documents and dossiers, notes scrawled on scraps, files with cracked spines and fraying edges filled with censored forms—chest heaving just a touch.

“Ah, wonderful. Thank you, Touya,”

Touya?

Your gaze flies to Dabi’s, features crinkled in confusion; eyes squinted, brows knitted, mouth twisted.

But Dabi steadily and expertly avoids your stare, doesn’t even flinch at the use of the now foreign name, and nods, features a stern mask of professionalism, voice infused with utmost respect—more respect than you’ve ever heard in his tone before. “Of course, Sir. Trade you?” He holds out the box to his Boss as an offering, head nodding in your direction.

Tomura’s father chuckles, easily exchanging flesh for cardboard, a precious little squeak catching in your throat as the goods are swapped.

Dabi isn’t as warm as the Boss, lacking the padding strong muscles provide, but you cling to him anyway, fingers tangling in the cotton of his hoodie and lungs filling with the soothing scent of smoked hickory and tangy cinnamon.

 Another ding! attracts four pairs of eyes, chrome doors sliding open to reveal a large man with tousled ivory hair and irises that shimmer like gunmetal.

 “Sorry I’m late,” he’s saying with an amicable smile as he enters the penthouse.

 “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Dabi’s practically breathing out, dragging you towards the man as he falls into an awkward half-hug, one arm wound tightly around the man's neck, nearly trapping you between their chests.

 “Anytime, Nii-san,” the man is murmuring, too low for anyone outside your intimate little circle to hear. Dabi says something in response, muffled by the man’s broad shoulder, though you can feel the gentle vibrations radiating through his torso, quivers that turn into subtle tremors as they travel through his limbs. “I know, I know,” The man continues in a whisper, an arm hooked almost protectively around Dabi’s waist, large palm rubbing lopsided circles into his back. “He’s gonna be alright,”

 A tattooed fist tangles itself in the material of your dress, gripping you to his side as Dabi nods, giving the man one final squeeze before finally releasing.

 “I hope you’re right,”

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 Tomura knows it’s coming. Kurogiri had already told him, twice, what would be transpiring soon after landing on Japanese soil, and a voicemail from his father had confirmed it.

 And even though it’s expected, that doesn’t make it any less annoying, or infuriating, or terrifying.

 They decide to conduct in in his fucking bedroom of all places, all four of them shuffling through the heavy mahogany doors, all familiar faces—people he knows, people he should trust.

 Should.

 It’s easier this way, his father had reassured him, after he had suggested they move to somewhere more professional, like his office.

 And so Tomura sits, like a fucking child, with his legs crossed in the middle of his massive bed, and he waits.

 Doctor Atsuhiro Sako, their resident psychiatrist, speaks first. He introduces himself, mentioning his title and education, politely and patiently responding to Tomura’s snarky huffed out remarks about patient confidentiality and invasions of privacy when he explains that they're only present because they're gravely concerned about you, Tomura.

 “Remind me why I have to do this again?” Ruby eyes narrow sharply as they focus on his father’s face, nose scrunching up in distaste.

 “It’s just a simple assessment,” the Boss says conversationally, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather.

 “For what?”

 “To determine whether or not you would benefit from psychiatric treatment, or some sort of, you know, inpatient program,”

 “You...You want to send me to an institution?” he seethes. “You think I’m fucking crazy?”

 “We all just want the best for you, like the Doctor said,”

 “This is the best for me! St-Staying right here! I’m fine!” Panic sinks razored claws into his heart and squeezes, his breathing beginning to accelerate. No, he has to stay here, here with you, or else—

 “Son,” his father begins with a soft chuckle. “You totalled one of the most prestigious suites in New York, and slashed yourself to bits in the process, and not one of us has a clue as to why. That doesn't seem fine to me,”

 “Well, I wasn’t, then,” Tomura rolls his eyes, as if this is obvious. “But I am, now,”

 “And what, exactly, has changed in the past...” His father checks the glittering Rolex adorning his wrist. “Forty-eight hours?”

 Everything. Everything has changed. Now that he’s here, back home, now that he’s safe, it’s all suddenly crystal clear; it’s as if he can see the whole situation from afar, from above, in its totality.  

 “We care about you, Tomura,” Kurogiri chimes in, tone firmer than the Boss’s. “That’s it,”

 “Let’s not be hasty and jump to conclusions, now,” Doctor Sako says, quieting the room. “Nothing is final until I’ve fully assessed you, Tomura,”

 He perches gingerly on the ottoman in front of the bed, crossing his legs and humming, eyes scanning an impressive list of questions, safely secured to a plastic clipboard. The tip of his plastic pen taps once, twice, three times against the metal clasp.

 And then, he begins.

 Can you tell me today’s date? How’s your mood been? Are you sure? You’re not sad, frightened, upset, angry...? Alright, and how are your sleep habits? Are you sleeping at all? What about food? Are you adequately fuelling yourself? Grooming habits? How’s your concentration? Is there something on your mind that just won’t leave you alone? What about thoughts that enter suddenly and refuse to leave? Are you feeling confident in your sense of self? Any goals for the immediate future? I understand you were having difficulty meeting deadlines and completing work, such as the meetings you held in New York; why do you think that is? Are you feeling especially stressed? Do you think it’s impacting your performance? How do you deal with stress? Would you say drugs are a coping mechanism?

 Unsurprisingly, Tomura is overwhelmingly uncooperative, responding to all of the doctor’s questions exclusively with shrugs and single word answers.

 But Doctor Sako fires them off so rapidly, so tirelessly that Tomura’s head reels with it all, as if his brain’s some sort of malfunctioning projector, what was once playing a seamless sequence of smooth images now beginning to freeze, to flicker, to chop and distort and rewind as the slides judder and catch in a faulty machine.

 It’s beginning to feel like too much, overloading his senses and short-circuiting his thoughts as strains of words clash and collide, uncontrollably interrupting each other, ears ringing with each question spit from chivalrous lips, the doctor’s voice ricocheting off the walls of Tomura’s skull, mixing with all of the mundane, inconsequential sounds of everyday life that prick his ears, that he can’t seem to tune out no matter how hard he tries, hyper-focused and sensitive: the breathing of every man in the room, his own unstable heartbeat echoing in his ears, the gentle hum of the desk lamplight, the chirping of the birds outside, the cars zooming by below the penthouse, the scraping of the Doctor's teeth against plastic as he chews thoughtfully on the edge of his pen, the irritating skritch-skritch-skritch of the ballpoint tip against thick paper...

 And finally, he slips up, he shows weakness, he gives something of apparent importance to the insatiably vying Doctor, when he confirms his recreational drug use. Doctor Sako perks up at his response, shoulders rolling back, chest leaning forward, elbows digging into his thighs.

 “What have you been taking?”

 Tomura’s face puckers as his eyelids scrunch shut tightly, nails moving to automatically scrape at the scabs collaring his neck, the familiar burn bringing peace and silence with it, features relaxing.  

 “D-Dunno,” a shoulder shrugs in painful indifference, face morphed back into that mask of passive apathy, though a soft whimper catches in his throat, snuffed out and swallowed down before it can reach his tongue. “Coke and Oxys,”

 “And how much have you been taking?”

 “Dunno,”

 “Did you take anything the night of the incident?”

 “Probably,”

 “You don’t remember?”

 Tomura’s head shakes, lips pressed in a thin line. “No,”

 Sako sighs, scribbling something, and Tomura’s nostrils twitch.

 “What about voices? Have you been hearing things that aren’t there? Seeing things that aren’t there, or that others can’t see?”

 “While high?”

 “Are you ever completely sober?”

 Tomura cracks a smile at that, eyes narrowing a touch. “No,”

 “To?”

 “Both,”

 The Doctor nods to himself, humming and glancing down at the clipboard for a second. “Your father tells me you’re worried someone very close to you is in severe danger—”

 “She is,” Tomura scowls, glower floating to his father’s face. “You heard the calls! You both did!"

 “We did, son, we did,” the Boss agrees, calm and courteous.

 “But we haven’t received any contact in nearly a month—”

 “I have!”

 “The records—”

 “I don’t give a fuck about the records! I have been getting them!”

 "Tomura," Kurogiri begins slowly, cautiously, concern carved into his crumpled features. “We can’t find any traces of those calls, or texts, or emails, anywhere. Are you—Are you sure?”

 “Of course I’m fucking sure,” Tomura spits, though his voice breaks, words trembling under the burden of fear—of not being believed, of it being true. A dense film of tears glazes scarlet. “I can’t get them out of my goddamn mind, Kurogiri,” The confession tapers off into a cracked murmur, Tomura’s shoulders hunching in on himself, features wobbling under the combined weight of panic and agitation.

 “And what do these messages say?” Sako jumps in hastily, redirecting Tomura’s attention to him, chest beginning to heave slightly as a pen scribbles against paper, the Doctor’s eyes not leaving Tomura’s face.

 “Gruesome,” Tomura whispers, wincing as the word leaves his lips, as if the letters are made from razor blades, as if they slice his flesh on their way out. “The ways they plan to chop her up, what they plan to do with the pieces,” he swallows thickly, bloodied fingers threading through silvery tufts and pulling, a feeble attempt to quiet the reverberations of the threats, echoes that crawl through his brain like greedy little parasites, feeding off of his sanity, eyes clamped shut tightly.

 “Tomura?” Someone begins hesitantly, carefully, as if they’re speaking to a feral animal on the verge of losing control.

 “They’ve got to be deleting them, somehow,” he says after a moment, abrupt and unprompted, voice rough, lids finally lifting to reveal glassy crimson eyes, protected by a shield of rapidly collecting tears. “Th-That's the only explanation. We should—” he stops, eyebrows pushing together as if he’s confused, as if he’s suddenly lost the remainder of the sentence, a singular tear finally escaping his lashline, rolling down his cheek in solitude. “W-We should...refrain from using phones; they might have the lines tapped,”

 “We don’t even know who ‘they’ are,” Kurogiri sighs heavily. “We haven’t gotten a single lead, not one clue,”

 Tomura’s gaze snaps up, tears incinerated in an instant, fiery fury burning them to vapour. “But you—you heard them! They happened,”

 “They did, over three weeks ago,”

 “No, no,” he growls. “They didn't! I got them, just this past week! I got them during that horrendous trip you forced me to go on! I got them!”

 “Christ, we’re just going in circles again,”

 “The phone companies,” Kurogiri begins, voice rising, and Tomura flinches violently. Kurogiri inhales a breath, deep enough to fill his entire chest cavity, held for three seconds, then exhaled, slow and controlled. He tries again, softer this time. “The phone companies haven’t been able to find any traces of these alleged messages, Tomura,” A frown tugs at the corners of the older man’s mouth, staring at his charge with overwhelming pity in his bright eyes. “Nothing,”

 “Well, then, they—they must own the phone companies,” The words tumble from his lips hastily, the full thought spit out before it can be interrupted by the noises bouncing around in his skull, eyes blinking rapidly as Tomura tries in vain to quiet the indiscernible racket—the breathing and the heartbeats and the tapping—to calm the chaos in his mind.

 “Don’t be absurd, Tomura,” his father chuckles, the harmonious titter swiftly cutting through the disorganized turmoil in his head. And Tomura can’t believe he’s laughing, can’t believe he’s amused, can’t believe he’s so fucking nonchalant about the entire thing. “If there was an organization powerful enough to own the phone companies, down to having the ability of manipulating records, surely we’d know of them,”

 “We’d be them, most likely, Sir,” Kurogiri adds politely, head bowed as he speaks to the Boss.

 “Exactly,” the Boss continues. “If there were someone with monopoly over the phone companies—if there were someone tapping our phones at all, as a matter of fact—Tomoyasu would know in an instant; you know that, son,” Another deep chuckle vibrates in his chest, and he stares at his son with a peculiar little smile, head tilted, crimson eyes softening in patronization. “Really, Tomura, this is getting a little ridiculous. How much have you been taking lately?”

 “Is this—” he chokes out, breathing beginning to accelerate, wild ruby eyes flying from one face to another, between the two people he’s known his entire life, between the two people he’s ever known as family, head whipping back and forth with the motion before his dropped jaw snaps shut. “Is this some kind of fucking joke to you? Huh!?”

 Standing suddenly, Tomura’s fist slams down on the surface closest to him—a mirrored bar cart, mostly empty, reflective glass smashing upon impact—his chest stammering under ragged inhales, uneven breaths that blister as they barrel into his chest.

 “It's not funny!” he tries to shout, but his voice cracks, words fragmenting in his throat, jagged edges slicing the gummy walls and forcing a vicious cough. “The one person more important than—than anyone, than everyone combined—is in serious danger, and you’re—you’re laughing?”

 “No, Tomura,” Kurogiri jumps in quickly, attempting to pacify the swiftly escalating situation. “There’s nothing funny about anyone being in grave danger, especially her,”

 “Then...Then...Why are you laughing?” His chest hiccups with a hitched sob, half-swallowed, and he stumbles backwards, blinking rapidly as his blurry gaze flies between the two men who have raised him, more tears spilling over his lashes. “You don’t...You don’t believe me?”

 And it’s like a sharp slap to the face, this startling realization, their dismissal of the severity of the situation, fury reigniting in his chest, flames blazing higher and higher until they lick the back of his tongue, scorching his throat.  

 “I wouldn’t lie about something like that!” he roars.

 “No, we know you wouldn’t—”

 “Bullshit! I’ve been working my ass off, alright? Tirelessly searching for these motherfuckers, and I—I bet you haven’t even been trying, have you! Thought this whole thing was some big joke right from the start, huh!”

 “Tomura,” his father begins, booming voice forcing a jolt up the spine of everyone in the room, except his son. “You know that isn’t true,”

 “Prove it! Show me your research!”

 “I think that's enough for today,” Kurogiri murmurs to Doctor Sako, placing a hand on his shoulder and rousing the Doctor from his stupor.

 “What?” the Doctor looks up, frenzied scrawling halted, surprise evident in his cinnamon eyes. “But we’re finally starting to make progress!”

 The Boss shakes his head, signifying that the decision is final. “No, no, that’s enough for today. He’s clearly quite agitated,” three pairs of eyes sweep towards Tomura, who’s begun clawing at his neck again, fractured shards of the smashed mirror wedged in his flesh, viscous crimson flowing down his wrist to stain the cuffs of his shirt, trickling down his neck to begin pooling in the dips of his collarbones. “And I’d rather not exacerbate the situation any further,”

 “I’d like to treat his wounds and inspect his healing now,” Natsuo speaks up for the first time, drawing all of the gazes in the room towards him. “If that’s alright?”

 “Of course,” the Boss says amicable, features molding into a friendly mask. “We’ll leave you to it,”

 ✰         ✰         ✰

 On the other side of those doors, you sit huddled against Dabi, helplessly listening as Tomura’s fury builds from smoldering cinders to raging flames, consuming all in its path.

 Something shatters, and your entire body flinches, Dabi readjusting his grasp. His heart rattles the bones that cage it, and his head dips down, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

 “Uh,” he starts unsurely, fingers playing with the material of your dress. “Maybe we should—”

 “No,” you cut him off, voice brittle and frail and not nearly as assertive as you wish it was. “I don’t want to—I won’t leave him,”

 “But I just think—”

 “No,”

 It’s supposed to be firm this time, strong and fearless and non-negotiable, but it comes out as more of a whine, as a plead, quivering and broken.

 And for once, Dabi doesn’t push, doesn’t argue or huff under his breath, simply responding with a single jerk of his head and holding you close.

 Another smash, another shout, and Dabi embraces you tighter, cradling you to his chest as his body curls in on your own, as if he’s trying to protect you, to shield you from all of the pain and the hurt and the fear.

 Gentle tremors crawl under your skin, wracking your entire form as you attempt to suppress the malicious sob mauling your chest, little fingers gripping his forearms, keeping his whole being wrapped up in yours as nails bite into his skin.

 “I’m here,” he whispers, so softly you nearly miss it, discerning it mostly from the light reverberations against your back. “I’m here,” he repeats, firmer. “I’ve got you, okay? I-I’ve got you, baby,”

 You nod, lips pressed together as that sob finally breaks free, barreling up your throat and crashing against the barrier of clenched teeth and sealed lips.

 And Dabi wants to tell you that it’s okay, wants to tell you not to restrain it, to let it escape, the way he gave you permission to shatter to pieces in his arms back in New York, but he can’t seem to form the words, tongue burning to ash as the letters sear themselves into the tissue, voice disintegrating to shreds in his throat, residual vapours of broken breath causing him to choke.

 Instead he just holds you firmly, safe and secure in his tattooed arms, offering you a comforting space to break down in while inked lips press chaste kisses to the crown of your head, chest quivering with the hum of a familiar tune you can’t quite place, lulling you into complacency as he rocks your bodies in a trancelike, soothing manner.

 Finally, finally, they exit, you and Dabi on your feet before the bedroom door’s even swung shut behind them.

 “Natsuo’s treating him now,” the Boss informs Dabi, who responds with a curt, wooden nod. “So, Doctor, what’s your verdict?”

 “Well, it’s hard to say,” Doctor Sako says, hints of irritation sewn into his tone. “Some sort of psychosis for sure, but whether it’s from the drugs or a deeper root, I can’t tell,”

 “If you had to take an educated guess,” the Boss encourages in an easygoing lilt. “Which would you say it is?”

 The Doctor blows a robust gust of breath from his lips, eyeing the Boss warily. “If I had to guess,” he begins, rubbing at an eye as he stares down at his clipboard. “I’d say it’s likely that there’s a more deeply rooted cause here, amplified or aggravated by the drugs,"

 “He’s sick,” you pipe up, face half buried in Dabi’s chest meekly.

 “It’s a plausible possibility,” the Doctor confirms. “But with what, exactly, I can’t be sure. I wasn’t afforded enough time with him to preform an accurate and thorough assessment, and Tomura was exceptionally uncooperative,”

 “S-So, what can we do?”

 “Ideally, stop the drugs and start him on anti-psychotics, and probably a mood stabilizer, too.” A frown tugs at the corners of Doctor Sako's mouth. “But he has made it very clear that he will not do so willingly,”

 “And that in-patient program you had mentioned...” the Boss trails off, head tilted curiously.

 The Doctor shakes his head. “Aside from the isolated crystal incident, he currently does not check many boxes for at risk of harm to himself or to others—meaning we cannot forcibly place him in a program without his explicit consent, because, technically, he doesn’t qualify. Not yet, anyway,”

 “What are our other options, then?” Dabi speaks for the first time, voice gravelly. You cling to him tighter, and he acknowledges your presence, his own fingers readjusting their grip around your waist, digging into the soft flesh.

 “Even though there’s no guarantee that he’ll actually take them, I can prescribe him some meds,” the Doctor says, through his expression is grim.

 “Anything else?”

 “I’m, of course, open to holding sessions with him,” he looks over to the Boss, gauging his reaction. “Either here, at the penthouse, or in my office; his choice,” he pauses, gaze flitting back to Dabi. “Other than that, all you can do is keep an eye on him. If his symptoms escalate, or he becomes exceedingly dangerous, call an ambulance,”

 “I’ll talk to him about the therapy,” the Boss nods. “Thank you, Doctor,”

 “What about work?” Kurogiri questions.

 Tomura’s father sighs, expertly polished mask of authority finally beginning to tarnish. “Regardless of what exactly this is, Tomura is evidently not fit to be managing a full workload,” Scarlet eyes assess Kurogiri slowly, who is already nodding. “We shall reduce his duties significantly, and allow him to work from home, where he feels much more comfortable—and where you can efficiently keep watch over him.”

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 They leave shortly after—all of the physicians and psychiatrists and family members—and Tomura counts; one, two, three dings—and then, Tomura waits, waits for the chaos in his head to diminish from blaring white noise to sizzling static, for the blood to clot and begin adding to the embellished choker collaring his neck, for the pain from his fresh wounds, new bandages overlapping older ones, to fade from sharp stabs to dull throbs.

 Finally, Tomura emerges, hair a haystacked mess, neck and wrists still trickling scarlet, the nail beds of his bony fingers stained with rust and stuffed with dead flesh as they absentmindedly pick at a bandage, fresh blood beginning to seep through.

 A precious gasp claws its way up your throat, and you’re on your feet in an instant—out of Dabi’s arms, into Daddy’s, little whimpers spilling past your lips as you fret over him, pillowy palms that smooth down fluffy tufts, tender fingers that catch crimson on their tips.

 Sunken ruby eyes meet glittering sapphire, and Tomura sighs, leaning heavily on you.

 This is it—Dabi knows this is it; this is the end. Tomura’s going to dismiss him of his glorified babysitting duties and permit him to return to the work he’s good at, to return to the work on the streets, to the grime and grit and ghouls, dwelling in the underground tunnels where he belongs.

 Tomura murmurs something in your ear, and Dabi watches as shock bleeds through your features—raised brows, an agape mouth, widening eyes—but you don’t defy him, nodding along to whatever he’s just demanded and taking your immediate leave. His gaze follows your movements, waiting until his heavy bedroom door has fully shut behind you, then turns back to Dabi and wordlessly holds out a hand in the vague direction of his office.

 “She would’ve been listening, had we spoken in the living room,” Tomura explains as they enter. “Little brat,”

 Wordlessly, Dabi nods, tongue lethargic and lifeless in his mouth, tiny spikes of adrenaline tingling through his veins, surging with his blood as his heart attempts to climb through the ribs that cage it.

 “Anyway,” Tomura continues, raking brittle fingers through his nest of silver, the loose corner of a bandage catching on the strands. “It’s not like it’s all that important,” he collapses heavily on the mauve leather couch with a sigh, head tipping back.

 Dabi follows.

 And Dabi waits.

 Head lolling to the side lazily, Tomura opens an eye to stare at his inferior. “Your duties are being reduced,”

 “What?”

 “You’ll still be bringing her to and from school, and wherever the fuck else she wants to go, but now that I’ll be working from home...” Tomura trails off, singular lid sliding shut again, words exhaled on a heavy breath. “I won’t be needing you here, in the penthouse,”

 “So, I’ve been demoted to chauffeur, basically,”

 “Yeah,” Tomura chuckles, though it’s nothing more than an exhausted huff, eye opening again, weak amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. “A chauffeur.”

 Heavy despondency seeps into the floor of his stomach, taking root at the core of his soul and beginning to fester, to spread, to devour; weightless delight fizzes behind his sternum, tiny bubbles of sunshine—of your laugh, your eyes, your touch, voice, scent—that burst delicately, their warmth soaking into his flesh. They mix into something toxic, into something intoxicating, a bitter acid crawls its way up his throat, eroding his esophagus before dwelling on the back of his tongue.

 “That’s all, Dabi,” Tomura says softly, after a few moments of prolonged silence.

 Clearing his throat roughly, Dabi nods, palms pressed to his knees as if he’s about to rise from his seat on the cushion, a sudden tug on his ribs tethering him. “Hey, uh,” nimble fingers flex, nails digging into denim. “Are you—I mean, how are you?”

 Tomura’s head flops to the side, and he stares at Dabi through dense, fanned lashes. Crimson sears itself into his skin—scorching his cheeks and charring his neck—and Dabi shifts under the invasive gaze.

 “Fine,” Tomura says with a nonchalant shrug, but his fingers are toying with the fraying edges of a bandage wrapped around his wrist.

 Dabi doesn’t buy it, not even for a second, but he swallows his fragmented words.  

 There’s more he wants to say, more he has to say, but he isn’t sure how to say it, lost all ability to stitch letters into words, to knit words into sentences, to vocalize the thoughts tangling in his head with the wobbly voice lodged at the back of his throat.

 So he says nothing, delivering one curt nod before grunting and standing. Each step away feels worse than the last, feels wrong, like there are threads connecting him to the only person close enough to ever be considered a best friend, pulled taut and tight with every footfall towards the door, begging him not to go, not to snap those strands, so weak and worn.

 It’s only when Dabi’s hand is on the doorknob that they yank and force him to turn.

 “Tomura,” running his tongue along his bottom lip, he pauses, waits for his boss to look up, then swallows, voice thick and weighted. “Let me know if, uh, well,” A sharp exhale, a clenched jaw, a twitching nose. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help, alright? You don’t—You don’t have to do this alone,”

 And, for one terrifying moment, Dabi thinks Tomura’s about to spill his guts—to tear himself open and spew himself at Dabi’s feet, to bear his bones and blood and broken soul in a way Dabi knows he didn’t for those doctors. And, for one terrifying moment, Dabi hopes he will, the way he used to—the way they both used to—on those rare nights where they were feeling especially sick and saccharine, juvenile and jaded, free and fucked up.

 But he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask Dabi to stop, to wait, to stay, and he doesn’t tell Dabi about the horrifying thoughts twisting the tissues of his brain into tight, tangling knots.

 He merely nods once; a slow, sleepy movement of his head, eyes slipping shut again, breathing shallow, affirmation slipping through licked-raw lips in a mutter, floating on the tail of a sigh.

 “Will do,”

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 Ambivalence chases, races, the blood in Dabi’s veins for the rest of the day; faster, higher, brighter with each second that ticks by, thrumming through his cells until his entire body’s ablaze, engulfed by the inferno sizzling under his skin by the end of the night, such scalding heat keeping him awake, alert.

 This day would come eventually, inevitably; he knew it would, carrying with it the bittersweet tang of relief and remorse, anticipation and anxiety.

 If he’s being truthful, now’s the best time for it to happen—he needs to get away from you. Really, he does—he should. You’ve barely been back in Japan for forty-eight hours, yet his best friend’s mind is decaying to rotting flesh, and Dabi—well, all Dabi can think about is you; the taste of your moans, the scent of your arousal, the sound of his name on your lips—and so, yeah, he should.

 Or should he?

 Because spears of terror pierce his heart any time he thinks about leaving you alone with Tomura—poor, unstable Tomura, who’s preoccupied trying to stitch together the remaining shreds his mind has decomposed into, who loves you so much he’s completely stopped granting you his attention, in a desperate and urgent attempt to protect you.

 Because that monster you birthed in his chest, all those months ago when all of this was just beginning, gnaws on his ribs and claws at his stomach, its eyes glowing bright jade at the thought of Tomura getting to kiss you, touch you, fuck you, whenever he wants to.

 Because icy tears sting his eyes and freeze into a sharp block in his throat when he realizes that he will no longer see you every single day, will no longer spend every waking moment with you—morning to night, dusk to dawn—will no longer get to eat all of his meals with you, or laze around taking naps with your head in his lap, or listen to you complain every time he throws on those sci-fi serials from the 30s that he loves so much.

 And that’s terrifying.

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 It isn’t like you had expected things to go back to normal, to go back to the way they were before, just because Daddy’s at home now. No, of course not; you knew he was a very busy man, even with his workload reduced to something more manageable.

 But you hadn’t exactly expected things to get worse, either.

 It was a silly hope—a dream, maybe—that Tomura might begin paying more attention to you now that you’re sharing the same space again; that Tomura might take notice of your presence and find some scraps of time for you: to eat a meal with you, or watch an episode of some stupid show with you; that, if you’re really well behaved, Tomura might even allow you to sit in his office with him as he works, cute and quiet and perfect as always.

 It was a silly hope that Tomura might want to do any of these things at all, that Tomura might care about anything other than ironing out the kinks and knots his mind has twisted itself into.

 And it isn’t like you haven’t tried, haven’t been trying, in conjunction with Kurogiri to get him to emerge from that godforsaken office, with its heavy mahogany doors and thick brass locks; to get him to eat, to take a break from whatever the hell it is he’s doing locked away in there all day.

But Tomura’s nothing if not brutally, infuriatingly stubborn.

 You still see Dabi, a few times a week for your classes and the like, but the rest of his time is occupied elsewhere, doing whatever it is he did before being assigned to protect you.

 But Dabi’s sudden absence from the penthouse itself affects you more than you anticipate.

 It feels as though everything has lost its purpose, as though everything has lost its appeal. No, you don’t want to watch those stupid wedding dress shows if Dabi isn’t there to harshly critique them with you. No, you don’t want to have dessert if Daddy isn’t there to lovingly scold you about your sugar consumption, or keep a watchful eye on how many cookies you’re nibbling on. And no, you don’t want to take a nap because you’re cranky; not if it isn’t safe and secured in a pair of their arms, not if it isn’t cuddled and clasped against one of their chests.

 And you feel it, his absence, both of their absences; a deep, dull ache that has drilled itself into the core of your very soul, that keeps tunnelling and tunnelling and tunnelling until it cracks the center and splits it wide open, filling the gash with ice, shards of it prickling through your veins every time your gaze catches on something that reminds you of them.

 And you know that’s exactly what it is that’s causing this constant throbbing pain, too; you know it is, because on those occasions when you’re privileged enough to catch in their light—Dabi’s weak flickers, or Daddy’s simmering embers—it thaws, and you feel alive again, right again.

 And, for a little while, that’s enough. For a little while, you can live with that, be alive with that, heart vigorously pumping boiling blood through your cold veins, blazing through the thick ice and alighting your entire body with that special warmth whenever Daddy has a few minutes to spare, whenever Dabi drives you to your classes.

 But eventually, flickers and embers aren’t strong enough to keep that frigid pain rooting itself within your chest from freezing your entire body.

 Eventually, you need more.

 It takes just under two weeks—eleven and a half days—until your resolve finally crumbles and your pride burns to nothing but cinders, until that loneliness threatens to engulf you from the inside out, snapping your body clean in half as it envelops you in its icy embrace.

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 You must stand outside that fucking office for hours, spending too much time debating whether or not this is the right choice; whether or not you’re just being selfish and needy, before spikes of ice shoot through your chest again, and you finally raise a trembling fist to knock knuckles against the wood.

 The first three times, he doesn’t answer.

 It’s expected, but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

 A tentative hand wraps around the doorknob, beginning to twist, to tug.

“D-Daddy?”

 And for a moment, it’s silent. Then:

 A harsh chuckle splinters the mahogany wood, Tomura’s voice slithering through the cracks it created. “I know you didn’t just try to break one of Daddy’s most important rules, princess,” he calls, voice cold and condescending, garnished with just a hint of amusement.

 You know better than to lie to him.

 “I’m sorry,” you apologize quickly, yanking your hand back from the brass knob as if it suddenly sprouted teeth. “I just—I miss—I haven’t seen you in over a day, and—Well, I’m...Worried?” your breath catches in your chest, stagnant and stiff, only releasing when he fails to respond. “I—I mean, have you eaten at all in the past twenty-four hours?”

 Another pause, another beat of tinny silence. Tears swell in your throat, thick and tingling, your words fighting to climb to your lips.

 “I made you some lunch,” everything sounds garbled, nothing more than a tangled mess of letters on your tongue as you glance at the silver cart, food protected under the intricate cloche no doubt gone cold by now. “I-It isn’t much, jus’a little something, but—“ you swallow. “It’s better than nothing. Try to eat, please? I-I’ll be with—I’m going out,”

 And then you’re off, barely able to get the whole sentence spit from your lips before you’re practically sprinting towards his bedroom, a vicious cry clawing at your chest. The door swings shut behind you in your haste, hard enough to rattle the art hung on the walls as you slide down the wood.

 If Daddy were in his right mind—if Daddy cared at all—such an action would’ve earned you a hefty punishment, full of tears and apologies, raw flesh and glowing rubies.

 But he isn’t, and he doesn’t, and you can’t stay here anymore, surrounded by him, by his waning scent and his perishing soul, swallowed up whole by his essence, rotting away in the belly of the beast.

 Trembling hands urgently scroll through your phone, quivering so terribly the device nearly slips from their grasp twice, frenzied and desperate to find his name, to end this erosion, to get out.

 Bringing the phone to your ear, you work hard to quell your sobs and quiet your sniffles, swallowing hard to suppress them, to keep them in your stuttering chest, to be strong and stoic.

 And for a second, you’re sure you’ve got it under control, emotions locked away in a cage of ivory, the only remnants of them present in the way your chest stammers unevenly as they thrash to escape.

 But it all implodes the moment you hear his voice, infused with panic, with passion; it all bubbles right back up again, thick tears blurring your vision and whole body shuddering under the weep you tried to tame, resolve burnt entirely to ash as a cracked wail of D-Dabi! tumbles past your lips.

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 It seems the city is caught under a perpetual drizzle lately, a soft rain whose droplets turn the world into nothing more than a landscape of hazy lights and monochrome.

 The sun, which has kept itself buried behind thick charcoal clouds for the entirety of the day, has nearly sunk beneath the skyline now, stowing away beyond skyscrapers and high-rises, gobbled up whole by the jagged teeth of the city.

 They’ve just finished their biggest job for the day, finding recruits—more accurately, test subjects—men and women desperate for something: money, a fix, an escape; men and women willing to do anything to get their hands on whatever it is they want, including agreeing to becoming AFOs personal lab rats.

 Most of ‘em don’t make it, a man by the name of Rikiya Yotsubashi had told Keigo his first official day on the job, which was coincidently the day Dabi & Co left for New York. Most of ‘em are junkies, criminals, people on the run, people who need something, he shrugged, shooting Keigo an appraising gaze from the corner of his eye, molars grinding pink bubblegum to goo. Y’know, people who won’t be missed.

 That was the most important qualification, Keigo had found out. He hadn’t exactly been shocked; it took the department years to catch onto what the medical conglomerate had been doing with its carefully selected candidates; individuals who disappeared frequently with no logical cause, who had no family or friends that would come calling for them or sniffing around, who society disdained, cast to the margins and forced to scuttle along the outskirts of civilization.

 The government was happy with it. It keeps the streets clean, Riyika had recited to him, quoting the prime minister. He donates generous sums of cash to keep our operations going, solely for that reason.

 It was revolting. The gluttonous greed of man is utterly disgusting, his boss had chuckled, clapping a large hand on his shoulder hard enough to make Keigo sway. Welcome to the real world, Detective.

 Keigo had thought he was in the real world, that he had already experienced the real world; a world full of contradictions and conspiracies, sure, but a world where Good and Bad were clearly defined, neatly sorted into easily digestible categories. A world where he knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. A world where he could nonchalantly dismiss his own unsavoury actions in favour of the Greater Good.

 He isn’t so sure anymore.  

 He isn’t so sure, because this world, the underworld, the universe of corrupt riches, has managed to turn all of Keigo’s neat little notions on their heads.

 Because he’s witnessed why these people join such organizations; he’s seen it: the single mom with several mouths to feed, offering Keigo cake and tea regardless of her predicament the moment he step foot in her shabby home; the drug addicted father with the prodigy daughter who deserves the best education money can by, working three jobs to ensure her tuition is paid in full, and she can get those pretty red shoes she wants so badly; the barely legal teens who’ve been raised by these streets, who’ve raised their siblings on these streets, desperately searching for a place to belong, for a family.

 People who are the salt of the earth, the gold in the sun, simply doing what they can to survive, doing the jobs society has forced them to do then shunned them for it, doing their best to provide better lives for their loved ones, even if it means risking their lives and bloodying their hands to achieve it.

 Because he’s seen the innocent victims, too; friends and family that get caught up in it all as collateral damage; innocent little girls like you, that fall into the clutches of monsters, that happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; or maybe it’s the right place. Keigo can’t tell anymore.

 Keigo can’t tell anymore, because down here, in this world, the underworld, bustling beneath the feet of society, Keigo’s come to learn that Good and Bad aren’t so clearly defined. In fact, he isn’t quite sure they even exist as separate entities anymore, notions bleeding into one another until they’re neither, until they’re both, all at the same time, oozing into one another like messy watercolour on a chaotic canvas, creating a new colour entirely, something Keigo’s never seen before.

 And despite the fact that Keigo’s made next to no progress these past two weeks—his first two weeks officially ‘on the job’—it’s these thoughts that infect his mind for those fifteen days Dabi’s absent in New York. It’s these thoughts that burrow through the recesses of his brain, latching onto the tissues with sharp little teeth and burying themselves within the folds, never to be extracted.

 Dabi’s been back in Japan for just under two weeks now, and Keigo’s been instructed to ‘shadow’ him every day thus far.

 On this particular day, Dabi’s got his hands cupped protectively around the flickering flame of a silver Zippo, cigarette secured between two rows of ivory, when the call comes.

 “Fuck’s sake,” he huffs out under his breath, flipping the lighter closed with a sharp twinge and sucking hard.

 Keigo laughs a little as Dabi fumbles through his deep pockets, muttering a hasty Shut up, when Keigo remarks that this is an peculiar turn of events, that no one ever calls Dabi.

 But his features, pinched in irritation, relax the moment his gaze skims his phone, thumb practically slamming down on the answer button, fingers swiftly removing the cigarette from his mouth as he breathes your name into the receiver, followed by a near desperate What is it? What’s wrong?

 Keigo straightens up, too; he can’t help it, action almost automatic, attention perking up at Dabi’s disquieted tone.

 He’s unable to hear what you’re saying, voice so meek it has Dabi gripping his phone to the side of his head, pressed tightly against his ear as his eyes narrow in concentration.

 “You...What?” Dabi’s lids loosen, eyes widening—in surprise, or shock, Keigo isn’t entirely certain. “I mean,” Dabi coughs, clears his throat, tugs a little at the collar of his hoodie, ash from his steadily burning cigarette dusting his chest. “Did you ask your Daddy? ... What do you mean He doesn’t care? You know he does, princess ... He’s what? Busy? Too busy for you?”

 Lips wrap around the cigarette, and Dabi inhales deeply, like he’s unsure, burnt fingers threading through ink. “I dunno, baby,” he mutters, words hidden in heavy clouds of smoke. “I don’t think—No, listen—Hey, listen. I don’t think Daddy should be—He does, for Christ’s sake, will you stop that?” A pause, a thumb rubbing at an eye in exasperation, your voice beginning to rise in pitch, loud enough for Keigo to hear it—just a muddled shrill sound echoing from the phone—but not loud enough for him to discern any words.

 “I don’t think Daddy should be left alone,” Dabi says slowly over your speech, almost like you’re stupid, almost like he has to force the stubborn words from his tongue. “I know, I know, I miss you too, princess. It’s been—”

 And it’s then that Dabi becomes aware of Keigo’s prying, vying eyes, turning away from his inquisitive, invasive gaze and hunching in on himself a little. “It’s been hard on me too, you know,” he continues, a soft, self-conscious confession. “It’s been...” he stops, words strangling themselves in his throat. “Different, yeah,” he agrees in a huff of breath. “Different,”

 Guilt, thick and sticky, unfurls itself in the pit of his stomach; a rapidly spreading slime that engulfs his organs and twists, and Keigo averts his eyes, tries his best to stop listening.

 Because he shouldn’t be, truly, and the longer he does, the more he feels like he’s encroaching on something deeply personal, on something that’s none of his business and should be none of his concern, something he was never supposed to be privy to, or tangle his conscience up in.

 Because Keigo can tell that whatever you’re saying on the other line, with your escalating little please?’s and whiny little Da-bi!’s, is absolutely killing his colleague, struggling more and more with each breath you take, each exhale of smoke from his nostrils, to deny you.

 In the end, he loses, just as he always does. In the end, he finds himself lounging in the luscious lobby of Tomura’s condominium—of his own home, and yours—nimble fingers picking at a stray thread of the armchair he’s leaning against.

 One ding of the elevator, one gentle breath of his name, and he’s straightening up instantly, catching you snuggly against his chest, limbs wrapped almost protectively around your slightly trembling form.

 And it’s interesting, the way the two of you nearly melt into each other in a way that’s so intimate, so familiar, that Keigo can hardly believe you haven’t known each other your entire lives.

 It’s interesting, the way your bodies seem to knot together in a manner that’s almost graceful despite how tightly you’re clinging to one another, arms looped and legs locked, everything stitched together in one perfect present, one unbreakable entity, immaculate in the way it moves, ebbs and flows, breathes in singularity, in unity.

 Keigo takes this as his cue to leave, to allow the two of you some space and privacy, Dabi nodding his understanding over the crown of your head, face still nuzzled into him.

 “Hey,” Dabi says softly, once Keigo’s departed, palms cushioning your head in an attempt to draw your face up from his chest. “Hey, hey, look at me,” he commands gently, removing your face from its sanctuary, discerning sapphire sweeping across your face. “What’s going on?”

 “Nothing,”

 Dabi’s face hardens, lips pressed in a firm line. “Don’t bullshit me,” he warns. “What did he do?”

 “N-Nothing, he didn’t do anything,”

 And it hurts, because it’s true—he really didn’t do anything. A scolding, silence as a response—not exactly anything out of the ordinary, not anymore.

 Rough palms find their designated place on your cheeks, cupping your jaw, delicate and tender as if you’ll crumble to dust if he isn’t cautious and careful. Calloused thumbs caress the flesh stretched over your cheekbones, and you find yourself nuzzling into his touch, a pathetic little hiccup breaking in your throat.

 Crystal eyes rapidly search your face, a cute crease between his eyebrows carved from concern. His head shakes a little, just minuscule movements, really, indicating that he doesn’t exactly understand, large hands keeping your gaze from straying from his.

 “He didn’t do anything,” you repeat through a thick swallow, words distorted with spit. “Th-That's the problem,”

 “Baby,” his voice breaks, as if it pains him to speak, as if it pains him to tell you that he doesn’t understand, that he can’t offer the comfort he so desperately yearns to. “I-I’m—I don’t—”

 “No provocation, no protests, no possession...No nothing. He just...He just let me go,”

 Understanding cracks through the confusion coating his face, pinched features melting as anxiety bleeds through them, replaced with the unsteady wobble of worry.

 But Dabi stays silent, because there’s nothing to say anymore, because you’ve heard it all before, opting to draw you into his arms and tug you to his chest once again, exhaling a weighted sigh against the crown of your head.

 And, truly, he wants so desperately to tell you that it’s okay, that it’s all going to be alright, that Tomura’s just in some pissy mood and it’ll pass soon, he promises, he swears, just like it always does; he wants to.

 Yet no words come, because he can’t, because he won’t, because he can’t find it in him to lie to you, even if only to provide a few moments of fleeting solitude.  

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 Over the next month or so, your presence becomes more and more of a frequent occurrence until it’s practically a permanent fixture.

 It starts with a mere call or two a week, asking if you can tag along with them, always promising you’ll be on your very best behaviour, always begging Dabi with those precious little pleads about how bored you are and how much you miss him. But it grows rapidly, in conjunction with Dabi’s steadily decreasing ability to refuse you, and before long, Keigo’s seeing you an average of five times a week.

 And, oh, you’re so cute, Keigo just can’t help but melt a little, warm a little, whole facade dropping the first time you meet when you ask, after hastily wiping those pesky crystal teardrops adorning lashes spiked with water and introducing yourself, if Hawks is his real name.

 “What do you think, songbird?” he had questioned, voiced laced with a hint of teasing as he flipped those windswept golden curls from his eyes. “Be pretty dangerous to work on this side of the industry without a code name, don’t you think?”

 But your increasing presence becomes a disruption.

 Because your time together shifts, evolves, blurring the lines between labour and leisure, morphing from you attending those standard jobs—mostly consisting of drug delivery to the higher-ups, quick and inconspicuous meet-ups with the white collar criminals, and the never-ending recruitment process—to visiting those greasy American style diners Dabi practically lives on after the work is done, time becoming languid and loose as you lounge on their glittering plastic seats, leaking into the wee hours of the morning. Or, sometimes you swing by those old movie houses, now nothing more than crumbling skeletons of the grand palaces they once were with their fraying velvet and peeling paint, to watch their midnight double features, often 1930s gangster films or those buddy-cop flicks from the 70s and 80s that Keigo just can’t seem to get enough of.

 Soon enough, Keigo’s accompanying the both of you home, the three of you huddling up in the theatre room Keigo’s so unabashedly fascinated with, with laps full of buttersalt popcorn and fingers encrusted with the sour-sweet sugar from those stupid gummies you love so much, barely paying attention to whatever show’s on the screen as you chat.

 Or you’re loitering in the kitchen, perched on the edge of granite countertops while greedy hands scour the innards of the fridge in search of something tasty and expensive; or lounging around the main living room, surrounded by scattered styrofoam and too much take-out, dainty giggles prying past your lips as the men debate philosophy and chuck dumplings and rice balls at each other.

 And it’s...It’s nice, Keigo’s horrified to discover. He knows Dabi’s mostly toying with him, intentionally wasting his time, knows Dabi still hasn’t conducted any serious business in his presence; just those tiny jobs that leave Keigo empty handed and frustrated, that lead to nothing of real use or significance.

 But when Keigo raises these concerns to his superior, worried he’s squandering precious and valuable time, Chief Yagi tells him not to worry.

 Infiltrating the penthouse is also an important part of your mission, he had said. You’re doing well, Detective, keep it up. Getting them to relax in your presence is crucial to this operation coming to fruition, he had promised.

 Sure, that makes sense; the more they lower their guard, the easier it’ll be for Keigo to wheedle information out of them, to go snooping and sniffing for clues.

 But what happens when Keigo feels like his guard is lowering as well, entirely against his will?

 Because throughout it all, Keigo observes, Keigo witnesses: just how much you and Dabi lean on each other, rely on each other; just how much you and Dabi hurt every time another slice of Tomura’s mind disintegrates—and Tomura himself.

 ✰         ✰         ✰

 It’s nearly a month—twenty-seven and a half days, to be exact—before Keigo finally sees him in the flesh for the very first time.

 And the portrait Keigo’s met with will be seared into his mind forever, carved into the walls of his skull, doomed to ceaselessly relive the scalding and the scratching when his sins haunt him in the middle of the night.

 The man walking across the room bears little resemblance to the Tomura Shigaraki he’s seen in photos and files. Knotted tufts of dull silver stand on end, mussed from bony fingers tugging, raking, yanking.

 Most of his muscle mass has disintegrated, leaving behind the shell of a man; hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks accentuating his sharp jaw and defined cheekbones, his silhouette nothing more than a collection of rigid lines and razored edges, a protruding collarbone peeking out from an ill-fitted cashmere button-up, bony wrists adorned with perpetually healing wounds, thin gaunt skin stretched too tight over slim hands.

 Blood seeps into the crisp white collar and cuffed sleeves of his tailored shirt, readily leaking from his gashed neck and gorged wrists and creating a grotesque painting in the fabric, artful blotches of crimson as bright as his eyes soaking through unblemished ivory in asymmetrical smudged patches, like bloody clouds in a bleak sky.

 And still, you’re scrambling the moment you lay eyes on him, struggling to pull yourself from Dabi’s iron grip with sweet little whimpers, feet clambering and fingers clawing your way free.

 “Daddy!” you breathe as you stumble towards him, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste. “Oh my God, Daddy!”

 He barely even registers you until you’re barreling into his chest, hastily taking a wounded wrist between your tiny palms and cradling it like it’s special, like it’s precious.

 He seems as shocked as you are, belated surprise morphing his features, gazing down at his own gushing wrists as if his body isn’t quite his own, as if he doesn’t fully recognize it.

 But it is his, and these scrapes and scratches and hollows and hacks are from him, unkempt fingernails encrusted with rust and flesh.

 He doesn’t even feel it, he tells you, voice painfully monotone, dead and limp and dismal, stare never lifting. He hadn’t even noticed.

 “Wh-What? What do you mean—oh, gosh—Dabi,” you throw a quick glance over your shoulder, Tomura’s head finally lifting, confusion contorting his features. “Some bandages, please?”

 “Dabi,” he says, soft and slow, as if he’s tasting the name, rolling it around between his teeth, tongue curling around it protectively, before finally swallowing it down. “I thought I dismissed you?”

 “Oh,” Dabi breathes, avoiding scarlet eyes as he hastily searches for those bandages. “Well, you did, kind of. I, uh—”

 “I invited him over,” you say simply, little thumbs running across Tomura’s gouged wrists with the gentlest, barely there caresses. “And that’s Hawks, one of Dabi’s friends,” and your voice is so sweet, so soft, Keigo can’t help but deflate a little, just the way your Daddy does into your calming touch. “And don’t worry, Dabi screened him; he’s safe. We hang out sometimes, when you’re too busy ‘n all—they keep me company,”

 Tomura’s gaze doesn’t lift at all, refusing Keigo any sort of acknowledgement, head nodding lethargically as you and Dabi hold delicate wrists between your palms, wrapping each in cloth and gauze, ministrations doused in compassionate vigilance.

 Yes, that’s how it happens, the very first time.

 But fleeting interactions such as these are becoming more and more difficult for Keigo to stomach.

 Because the pain is fucking excruciating.

 It’s painful to witness this memory of a man—now nothing more than a wisp, a shell, a ghost—painful to watch the way your eyes fill with tears the moment he steps in the room, and the way Dabi’s avert, the way Dabi can’t even bear to look at him anymore without a twitching nose or a trembling chin.

 It hurts too much.

 Because although Dabi doesn’t say much, can’t say much, Keigo can tell that he yearns to, that he’s affected by this in unimaginable ways as well, that this whole situation is eroding him from the inside out, each sighting of Tomura dishevelled and deranged birthing another parasite to chew it’s way through his organs, to feast on his heart.

 It’s evident in the way he’s bit his bottom lip raw and picked his cuticles until they’re bloody, in the way he rubs aggressively at his eyes once Tomura’s gone, in the way his chest stammers with hiccuped words and half-buried whimpers on the rare occasion that he does speak to his boss.

 And it’s painful to witness you or Kurogiri gently asking Tomura when the last time he showered was, or if he’s eaten, if he’s changed his clothes in the past few days, a once pristinely tailored suit now all rumpled and stained as he looks down with a shrug.

 It’s painful to witness Kurogiri working tirelessly to pick up Tomura’s slack, reorganizing appointments, holding meetings in his place, and making executive decisions.

 From the fragments of hissed conversations Keigo catches, he’s come to find out that Tomura has completely dropped his executive duties.

 “He’s missing every single meeting we’ve set up for him,” Keigo had discovered Kurogiri whispering into a phone one dreary evening, the receiver cupped to his mouth as if his palms could stop the words from escaping, from reaching prying ears. “He is not adequately fulfilling his obligations as CEO; the promises he made to the company, the duties and demands he used to delegate so professionally. He’s failing to complete the tasks assigned, he isn’t showing up for appointments, he’s refusing to return calls…Such behaviour is beyond unsatisfactory—Sir, I—”

 That’s all he had managed to hear, before Kurogiri’s voice had faded into incomprehensible static, as he moved to another room.

 And it’s these memories that haunt Keigo—sharp shards and slivers of broken expressions; glassy sapphire eyes and violently quivering lips, hidden in the comforting necks and arms and chests of one another—that torment him the moment he’s finally alone in his bed, when his ears are ringing with phantom laughs and sobs, vacant whispers and whimpers, all etched into the tissues of his brain, all typical residue he brings home from the day.

 It’s these memories that swirl around in his mind, turbulent and disruptive, harassing him the instant he finds a shred of peace.

 Because it’s his fault.  

 It’s his fault you go to sleep with tears staining your pillow. It’s his fault Dabi can barely spare a glance at his best friend, much less talk to him. It’s his fault that Tomura Shigaraki has lost his fucking mind, tangled up in paranoid thoughts saturated with terror.

 And no matter what he does, no matter who he speaks to or where he is, Keigo cannot rid his mouth of this pungent sourness permanently woven into his saliva; Keigo cannot quell the bitter acid that continually creeps up his throat to sting the back of his tongue, corrosive and toxic as it seeps into the pit of his stomach and rots away his soul.

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 “I like Hawks,” you hum out in a breath one night, nearly asleep after Dabi’s finger fucked your brains out and you’ve swallowed his cum for the second time that week.

 Your head rises and falls in time with his slow, shallow breathing, his eyes half-lidded and body languid as the drugs course through his system. Your the same, more or less, though you don’t need any drugs to get this way, such a state achieved by Dabi pulling near-violent orgasms from you with those rough fingers, greedily chasing the dull, dim after-sparks as you halfheartedly grind against his thigh.

 “Yeah?” he murmurs, palm petting your head rhythmically.

 “Mhmm,” you sigh, readjusting yourself, gripping him closer, tighter. “Where’d you find him?”

 He chuckles a bit at your naiveness. “He found me,”

 “How?”

 Dabi shrugs the best he can, the motion causing you to jiggle. “Y’know, when you know someone, who knows someone, who knows someone…” he trails off. “S’how it is in this line of work,”

 “How’d you find Daddy?”

 The question, mumbled out past loose, sleepy lips, has him jolting with a frightening start, whole body going rigid, but you’re too fucked out to notice.

 “I didn’t,” he says after a while, not even sure if you’re still awake, voice sounding weird to his ears, off, infused with something he can’t quite place. “He found me,”

 “How?”

 “I, uh...Don’t get along with—My father and I—We just—He just—” he stops, eyes closing so tightly it crinkles his face, as if it’s painful to speak these words, to recall these memories, releasing a long, sharp, heavy sigh.

 A while passes, the drowsy post-orgasm haze beginning to dissipate with each second he stays silent and stiff. Thick guilt begins to unfurl in your stomach with the growing terror that you’ve crossed some unmarked line, that you’re intruding, trespassing on memories that are not yours to know, not yours to relive, or to keep. You pull back slightly, blinking twice at him as your mouth falls open to apologize, to tell him he doesn’t have to talk about this if it makes him uncomfortable, if it’s too upsetting to utter, but his lids lift, and then he’s speaking again.

 “My father’s a real piece of shit, alright?” he exhales the sentence in one breath, words soaked in causticity, features screwed up in an expression you’ve never witnessed before, an expression that sends a scorching shock through you limbs straight to your heart, an expression saturated in pure hate. “And I just—I couldn’t fucking take it anymore,” A pause, a tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth in contemplation before releasing it with a soft pop!. “So I left,” he pauses, sucking the lip between his teeth again and biting hard, a feeble attempt to stop his chin from quivering. “At thirteen,”

 “That must’ve been really tough,” you whisper, eyes full of so much concern, so much compassion it scalds his skin, douses him in your endearing affection and eats through his flesh and bone like some sort of corrosive, bearing his imperilled heart to you.

 Sapphire darts away, whole head turning to take shelter from your gaze, an attempt to rebuild those walls you can seemingly knock down with a gentle breath and a pretty smile, barriers you can crumble with a tender hand on his forearm and a soft Dabi?.

 “Yeah, well,” he clears his throat roughly, a vain effort to rid his voice from that stupid tremble. “I managed, didn’t I?” he chuckles wryly, but it comes out dry, withering, strangled. “We aren’t all lucky enough to be born, or even adopted, into welcoming homes with—with tenderness and warmth and people who—” the word catches, shatters into sharp shards in his throat, but he barrels on. “People who care,”

 “No,” you agree quietly, thumb rubbing absentminded circles into his skin, squeezing gently. “We aren’t. But he found you,”

 “He did,” Dabi nods, swallowing harshly, resolve resuming. “He did.”

 “How?” you ask for the third time that night.

 Silence smothers the room, dense and suffocating as it encases the two of you in it’s haughty embrace. Sapphire stays focused on the flickering screen, the gears in Dabi’s head turning, shifting, clicking as he figures out how to proceed. And you don’t push, you don’t rush, opting to simply continue trancing nonsensical patterns into his scarred flesh—motions he can barely feel in some parts, but greatly appreciates nonetheless.

 “I was on the streets for three years; you know, they kept trying to put me in children’s homes and all that bullshit, I kept evading, or escaping,” The phantom of a laugh catches in his chest. “I was really sick by the time Tomura found me—it was winter, and I was curled up on the steps of a shelter, or something, half-alive and wrapped up in every article of clothing I owed. I had passed out, apparently, and when Tomura bent down to wake me, I was burning to the touch and unresponsive,”

 “Oh my God, Dabi,”

 A shoulder shrugs halfheartedly, as if it wasn’t any big deal, the motion jostling you slightly. “I really don’t remember it much; just waking up in this plush bed, with clean clothes, and thinking that—for a moment, that I had really died and gone to Heaven,” he pauses, huffing out a soft sardonic chuckle, lips curling up cruelly. “But then I remembered that people like me don’t get to go to Heaven,”

 Your lips tug down into a frown, protests getting lodged in your throat.

 “I hadn’t, of course. But what Tomura gave me was close,” he pauses, carding through the thoughts in his head. “He showed me more kindness in those first few months than—” and he has to stop, to pause and swallow the emotion thickening his voice. “Than anyone had ever shown me in my entire life,” He looks down at you then, finally, and you think you can see it—a thin film of water coating sapphire, catching in the frail silver light illuminating from the screen. “He gave me a place to stay, a car, a phone, a—a new name, new identity—and filled my bank account with 10 million yen to start, and—and—”

 And this is how I repay him.

 “He did a lot for you,” you acknowledge gently, tugging on his arm a little and garnering his full attention. “Because he saw potential in you,”

 Dabi nods, nostrils flaring with a shuddery exhale.

 “But you did a lot for him, too,” you continue in a whisper. “I don’t—He doesn’t tell me much about—about those days, but I know it wasn’t just him helping you,”

 Dabi supposes you’re right; knows you’re right, hazy fragments of memories slashing through his mind—men with ruby and sapphire for eyes and sharp ivory for teeth, talking, laughing, fucking, killing; dusty desert roads and luxurious hotels and crystal blue water; the creaking of king mattresses and echoes of gunshots; flashing sirens and viscous crimson, stained by soft powders and pretty pills.

 “He’s entrusted you to take care of me. And you have—you do,”

 He has; he does, the job morphing from some glorified babysitter to so much more.

 But at what cost?

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 It’s late, the night Keigo finally finds the courage to bring it up, to make it known, the far wall of the Chief’s office lined with glistening glass illustrating a vibrant cityscape against a pitch black sky—starless, moonless, cloudless; and yet somehow, someway, the small droplets continue to smatter against the windows, hurled by robust gusts of wind that rearrange them into a constantly morphing mosaic of bokeh—blurs of teal and fuchsia akin to tiny gems stuck to the glass.

 “Alright,” Chief Yagi is saying as he re-enters, an absurdly large mug of black coffee gripped in one massive hand. “What’s all this about?”

 Inhaling, Keigo takes a moment to find the right words, letting his lungs expand with them, holding them in his chest for a moment before finally releasing them, confession carried on a defeated exhale of breath.

 “I think we should stop with those nasty text messages,” he admits, and his superior frowns, brows furrowing as he takes a large sip, imploring Keigo to continue. “Look, this guy—Tomura, I mean—he’s really not doing well,”

  The Chief cocks his head, eyes squinted as if he doesn’t quite understand, words slow and smooth. “I would, if it weren’t for the fact that we’ve already ceased the messages,”

 “What?”

 “Mm,” Chief Yagi nods, humming around another mouthful and setting his heavy mug down with a thump. “Haven’t sent a text or a call since before he was in New York,”

 Adrenaline surges through his veins, blood thrumming with the hormone, and Keigo nearly chokes on his words. “You’re serious?”

 He hums out another affirmative, blue eyes careful and calculating as they observe his inferior. “The last one was sent—” a pause, the clicking of a mouse, the clacking of keys. “Two days before he boarded the flight,”

 Shock saturates Keigo’s features, eyebrows raising and eyes widening as he shakes his head a little, in disbelief, in disagreement. Breath infused with potent guilt twines itself around his ribs, tangling in thin strands and tightening, crushing his lungs, his heart, his soul until he can no longer inhale, attempts sputtering in his sticky throat.

 It’s so much more severe than he could’ve ever imagined, and a sickening culpability, stuffed full of acid and spite and fault, roots in the pit of his stomach. Something is seriously wrong.

 “Then, maybe we should stop—no, no, suspend; maybe we should suspend this operation,” at the Chief’s questioning smirk of incredulity Keigo continues, pressing and urgent. “Just until he’s a little more stable,”

 “A little more stable?”

 “Chief, listen,” Keigo pleads, leaning forward in his chair, fingers curling around the edge of the desk. “That man is sick—” His boss snorts, but Keigo barrels on. “I mean it; he’s really sick; mentally sick. He barely leaves his office anymore, his personal relationships are deteriorating to ash, and all he can ever talk about on the rare occasion that he does emerge is ‘the enemy’—us, you; whoever’s been sending those texts—”

 “I told you, no one’s sent a text, or a call, or a letter in weeks,”

 “Not to Tomura! Not in Tomura’s mind!” The words exit as a shout, startling the large man sitting across from him, Keigo’s fingernails digging into oak wood. “As far as he’s concerned, he’s still receiving them. I don’t know if he’s hallucinating or what but Chief—” Keigo’s voice breaks, whole face crumbling under the weight of accountability.

 “Detective,” Chief Yagi begins, hands folding on his desk. “I know that whatever’s going on with Shigaraki must be difficult to watch, but this is precisely the time we should continue with this operation—because the head of the company is so unstable. If anything, such a turn of events should make it that much easier for you to infiltrate; to gain important information and intel. You’re in their inner circle now; you should be able to find a way into that office at some point,”

 “But Sir—”

 “Can I ask, Keigo, why exactly this matters so much to you?” Chief Yagi’s chest rumbles as he clears his throat, fixing the younger man with a levelled gaze. “What happened to my Detective; the one who solved project HIGH-END? The one that was ruthless and frigid, the one with an iron grip on his personal emotions, the one willing to do almost anything—certainly more than most—to restore peace, even if it meant soiling his own palms in the process? The one who understood what fighting for the Greater Good meant?”

 Shoulders deflating with a heaved sigh, Keigo shrugs, almost indifferent as he leans back in his chair, mouth settled into a wobbly line. He doesn’t know; he isn’t sure; he can’t quite explain it, the sudden phenomenon stirring to life in his chest, the concerning squeezes his heart gives every time he watches the light fade from that young woman’s eyes—from Dabi’s eyes—that accompanies each and every passing interaction with Tomura.

 Maybe it’s because he feels irrevocably responsible, this time. Maybe it’s because he knows Tomura’s on the verge of a full psychotic break, and this is all he can do about it. Maybe it’s because he’s positive they’re the cause; that they’ll be the trigger that forces him to finally snap.

 “Have you gone soft on me?” the Chief asks with a slight chuckle, redirecting Keigo’s gaze from his knees back to his superior’s face. “Have you developed some sort of soft spot for them? A particular fondness, perhaps?”

 And while it’s all teasing—the smirk that playfully tugs at the corners of his boss’ lips indicating so—Keigo is powerless to stop the rush of guilt, of shame, of terror the words inspire, bitter acid settling on the back of his tongue—because what if he’s right? What if it’s all true? What if he’s beginning to lose his touch?

 That grin is no longer dancing around the corners of his mouth, and Chief Yagi sighs, carding both hands through unruly golden hair. “Maybe you need a reminder of just how heinous these people are, hmm? Some concrete proof of just how crooked that conglomerate is,”

 Yanking open a deep drawer, the Chief shuffles through files and documents until he finds an overstuffed file, throwing it on the desk. It lands with a distinct thud against the wood, some of the contents falling loose, bits and pieces of information peeking out from the frayed edges—murders and human experimentation—hinting at what the folder holds.

 No, he doesn’t need to hear it again, to see what they did to those girls, barely legal and bloated on the side of the river, bodies twisted and mangled and pumped full of a cocktail of illegal substances. He doesn’t need to relive, to remember all of the children they’ve left orphaned and homeless for their own personal gain. He doesn’t need to be reminded of the so-called ‘lucky’ ones, the test subjects that were able to escape with scraps of their sanity in their clutches, sentenced to live out their days in institutions and homes, because AFO robbed them of their lives, of their livelihood.

 “I assume you don’t also require reminding that this is an internal investigation?” His boss continues after several beats of silence, Keigo’s unblinking eyes finally flashing to his face, sluggishly shaking his head.

 No, he knows that, too—knows that this is to be kept private and under wraps from the majority of the force, most of which AFO happens to own; knows that their small operative—only a handful of trustworthy people, really—have been working tirelessly to keep this whole thing quiet and discreet. Keigo knows that, essentially, they’re on their own with this.

 Not that any of this really matters anymore, since Keigo’s nearly positive Dabi knows exactly who he is—a fact that his superior had claimed held no significance.

 “It’s for the greater good, Keigo—remember that,” the Chief’s voice cuts through his thoughts, scalding and steaming. “Shigaraki will survive. Focus on the task at hand—the sooner we have that concrete evidence the sooner this will all be over.”

 Keigo hopes he’s right.

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 It’s a bad habit, the things you engage in at night.

it’s a bad habit—full of noxious ink and sharp fangs and poignant guilt, so heavy that it seeps through the floor of your stomach and slithers thickly through your veins, spreading to your blood and your heart and your brain until everything’s been engulfed, infected.

 It’s a very bad habit—one that scuttles up your throat with choked whimpers of his name and skitters across your skin with tattooed palms and blunt nails and calloused fingertips, stained from the flames of Zippos and the ash of cigarettes and the blood of dead men.

 It’s a bad, bad habit—one that laid its eggs in New York and hatched in Japan, nurtured and nourished by absence, hostility and preoccupancy—and the both of you are fucking hopeless in halting it.

 And it evolves. It morphs from grinding hipbones and fingers toying along waistbands to hands finding warm sanctuary between thighs and underneath clothing, choking on each other’s tongues and precious, pathetic little sounds throughout it all.

 It evolves until finally, finally, it reaches its terminal stages; the evolutionary form you had both been trying to desperately to keep it from growing into, the evolutionary form that was inevitable from the start.

 It’s been building all day, the buzzing of that bad habit, the insatiable creature it’s spawned, the sickness it’s poisoned your brains and bodies with; it’s been growing, all day, rattling against cages of ivory as it forces your chests to expand until you just can't take it anymore.  

 You aren’t sure why today is the day it decides to finally erupt, to escape from those confines; the pretty bone and soft tissue that had contained it, that had housed it. You aren’t sure why those gentle, platonic, typical touches that have become practically habitual at this point—an arm, twined around your waist under your spring coat; tiny fingers, tangled in the curls at the back of his neck; your cheek on his shoulder, his chin on your head—now send sizzling sparks zipping up your spine and through your veins to collect in your chest, in your skull, accumulating until you can’t breathe, can’t think about anything other than him, him, him.

 And each touch is worse than the last; each touch conjures a sharper spark, blazing brighter than the one before it, bolting through your body and leaving your blood boiling in its wake.

 No, you aren’t sure why it’s happening now, on this day out of all of the other mundane days it could’ve chose to burst, to break, but it is.

 Maybe it’s because Tomura snapped on you this morning, cruel and ruthless, harsher than he has been in a long time. Maybe it’s because Dabi witnessed the tail end of it. Maybe it’s because you’ve become so starved for attention, for love, that you’re seeking it out where you’re positive you’ll find it, latching onto it like some famished parasite.

 And maybe, maybe it’s because Dabi feels responsible in some inexplicable way, feels some sort of innate desire to protect, to care for and comfort.

 Dabi had been able to hear it, the screaming and the smashing, all the way from his floor, overlapping voices becoming more pronounced and in tune as he ascended the fire escape—his preferred route of reaching the penthouse, since it’s only one flight of stairs.

 “Nothing’s ever good enough for you anymore!” Tomura was seething, just as Dabi reached the top, eyes narrowed into slits, chest heaving forcefully with the flaring of his nostrils.

 “Nothing—” you began, the word nothing more than a garbled huff of breath, dripping with disbelief. “Nothing’s ever good enough for me? I can’t even get you to fucking glance at me anymore!”

 “I’ve given you everything. Everything!” A clenched fist comes down on the table, hard enough to wobble the legs, Tomura looking up with glowing ruby eyes, molars grinding together with such fierceness his jaw flexes. “What more do you fucking want from me?”

 “You, Tomura! I want you!”

 And that, that got him to stop, features puckering as he cast you a pitiful look. “Me? Me?” he chuckled a little, and it’s a callous sound, void of any mirth as it slashes through the air. “Sweetheart, you already have me,”

 “Do I?” Glistening tears cascaded down your face, collecting to drip off your jaw, voice cracking. “When’s the last time we went out? When’s the last time you shared a meal with me? When’s the last time we went to bed together? Watched a film together? Hugged? Kissed? Fucked? When?”

 “Oh, Christ,” Rubies rolled back in his skull, a sardonic little smirk carving itself into his face, paired with a sarcastic snort. “God forbid Daddy’s too busy working, working to keep you safe, to play with his needy little girl,”

 “P-Play? No, I—” your voice cut off, severed by the vicious sob hiccuped in your throat, Tomura’s frantic eyes finally catching Dabi hovering in the corner.

 “Great, you’re here,” he remarked dryly, regarding Dabi with disinterested apathy.

 Crimson eyes slipped shut, concealing Tomura’s scathing gaze as slim fingers moved to rub at his temples in a vigorous manner, as if he were attempting to piece back together the thoughts your argument had shattered.

 “Please, get rid of her for a few hours, so I can fucking think again,” lids lift slowly, penetrating gaze boring into your face. “And don’t bring her back until she’s ready to stop being such an ungrateful little brat,”

 And, oh, how you had wailed, how you had cried and clung to Dabi for the rest of the day, keeping your face half-buried in his chest as you whimpered and weeped, only emerging when you heard the familiar symphony of clacking against plastic, glassy eyes suddenly vivacious as you watched Dabi tap two pretty blue pills into his palm.

 No, he had told you sternly, staring down at you with an unyielding gaze. Not this time.

 Eventually, you calm, ferocious sobs dying down to feeble sniffles, but he doesn’t let go of you.

 Not even once.

 It drizzles for the entire day, a sprinkling of mist across the city that has gotten progressively thicker as the day advanced, morphing from gentle taps to aggressive pounding.

 Tonight, Keigo doesn’t even bother coming up to the penthouse as is usual protocol, opting instead to hurry home so he can peel drenched cotton and denim from his skin and steep in the steam of his shower, promising to send a text reassuring his safe arrival at his place.

 You can’t exactly say you blame him, shifting uncomfortably as the chrome elevator climbs from floor to floor, small space filled with a soft symphony of residual droplets rolling off your coats and incessantly chattering teeth.

 Dabi looks over at you, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he sucks it between ivory teeth, chewing. “We gotta get you outta those clothes,”

 “Speak for yourself,” you snort, gaze cataloging the inky wisps of hair plastered to his forehead and cheekbones, half-framing his face.

 Still, he has a point, your arms winding themselves tighter around your torso in a vain attempt to prevent more precious heat from escaping, inevitably hugging your doused clothing to your flesh.

 The torrent had been so rough, so robust that the downpour had managed to soak straight through the rubber of your cute rain jacket as well as the leather of Dabi’s, leaving the articles underneath to sop up the water until they were thoroughly wet, too, exposed skin beginning to pucker.

 It feels as though the chill of the rain has sunken into your very soul, rotting away the marrow of your bones, a violent shiver forcing the hollow structures to rattle against one another.

 The elevator dings daintily, and both of you call out cautiously for Tomura, alerting him of your arrival home with the intention to ask if Dabi can borrow some clothes (in spite of the fact that Dabi’s closet is only a floor beneath you), but you’re greeted with smothering silence, taking his non-response as a yes.

 “Here,” you’re saying as you emerge from the ensuite merely a few moments later, hair damp and messy from a hasty towel-dry, legs bare and body clad in a ratty Universal Monsters t-shirt—Dabi’s t-shirt, though he isn’t quite sure if you’re aware of this fact—hardened nipples peaking the worn fabric; before tossing a pair of Tomura’s grey sweatpants at Dabi, who’s perched gingerly on the edge of your Daddy’s bed.

 It’s shameless, and borderline perverted, but you don’t even bother averting your eyes as he shucks his waterlogged clothing. Dabi calls you out on it, too, shooting you a sly glance from the corner of his eye as he unsticks the cotton of his briefs from his skin, cute fragments of giggles bubbling in your throat.

 You find yourself in the theatre room, as it has become accustom in the past month or two, the both of you curled up on a singular mammoth seat, bodies stitched together as the roars of thunder compete with Dabi’s low, smooth voice.

 Before New York, you and Dabi had never used the theatre; the living room TV had been more than big enough, and you had been content to flop your head in a begrudging Dabi’s lap while the sparkling city skyline streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glittering light contending with the moon’s delicate beams.

 But Keigo had been so enamoured with it, so impressed by the fact that the penthouse had a fucking theatre room—it’s only got eight seats, Dabi had informed him, lest he expect a full-sized cinema—that you had begun spending more time there.

 It’s dark in the theatre, quiet in the theatre, intimate in the theatre. It’s almost as if everything changes in the theater—slows, stops, splits—reality bending and curving and twisting until it becomes some sort of warped, contorted version of itself, until it makes things like this night, and all of the nights that have come before it, okay, acceptable, normal.

 Well, that, and the fact that Daddy doesn’t have cameras in the theatre.

 It’s here, in your very own special, distorted version of reality, this personal liminality, that it finally transpires.

 Casablanca plays softly on the screen, a pretty mirage of silver and smoke, grey and graphite images that waver almost gracefully on the canvas, but you aren’t paying much attention; not when Dabi’s calloused fingers are tracing nonsensical patterns on the exposed skin of your upper thigh, not when your own are busy swimming in the waves of soft ink at the base of his skull.

 “Surprised you didn’t go home,” you mumble into his neck, voice thick with the threat of sleep.

 “Yeah?” he murmurs, and the word’s nothing more than a gentle rumble deep in his chest.

 “Mhmm, though you’d wanna change n’ stuff,” the words are slurred, and you hug yourself closer to him, leg hooked around his waist tightening protectively, possessively. “Why’d you stay?”

 “You know why,”

“Why?”

And he gets like this, late in the middle of the night, early in the wee hours of the morning. He gets like this, when it’s just the two of you in your haphazardly constructed, fallacious world—in the false safety of your mangled mirage of reality, conjured up in the betwixt hours of the night, that starts to disperse, fade, the moment sunbeams begin to creep and crawl over the city.

He gets like this.

Honest. Raw. Vulnerable.

“Because I want to be with you, stupid,”

And although the sentence is sighed out in a single breath, fading and fraying as it reaches the end, it is still stuffed full of sentiment, so much so that the words are practically bursting at the seams, fondness threatening to fracture the entire thing.

There are no words to accurately explain just how much you cherish these transient moments, stashing them away deep within the tissues of your brain, protected by layers of pulsating blood.

And he knows why you do it, too, why you poke and prod and provoke him like that, why you force him to spill the secrets that have been taking shelter in his chest for so many months now, like the selfish little brat you are.

He knows you need to hear them now, that you thrive when you hear them now. He sees it in the way your eyes glisten and smile softens; feels it in the way your limbs curl tighter around him, pulling yourself impossibly closer; hears it in the sweet little giggles that interrupt your responding words.

And he fucking loves it.

It’s silent for a while after his gentle profession, and for a moment he’s sure you’ve dozed off, practically straddling his lap now, and he adjusts you a little, getting read to carry you to bed, when you speak again, voice meek and frail.

“He...He was real mean today,”

“I know, princess. He’s just...” the words decay on his tongue, and you know, you know, he’s just stressed; but there’s only so many times Dabi can repeat them before they begin to lose their impact, their worth, their truth.

“How do we fix this, Dabi?”

It’s so soft he nearly misses it, quivering question fading into his skin as lips brush against his collarbone.

A chuckle pries its way past his lips, just an exhausted huff of disbelief more than anything else, head shaking a little. “I’m not sure how many times I have to tell you for it to finally settle in that pretty little head of yours,” he taps your forehead, accentuating his words. “But this is not for us to fix, baby,”

“But—”

Dabi’s chest heaves with an exasperated sigh, annoyance sewn into his words as he tells you, yet again, that all you can do is offer help, that it’s up to Tomura to take it; no one can force him.

And you nod and hum and agree, because he’s right, you know he’s right, but it still hurts to feel useless, to feel helpless.

“I really don’t—” the words hitch in your chest, snaring on a trapped sob. A shaky exhale, an attempt to swallow past them, and you try again. “I really don’t know how I’d survive this without you,”

The confession is quiet and cracked with cognizance. It’s a perturbing realization, a petrifying realization, just how much you’ve come to rely on him, just how close you’ve grown.

Because—because it’s true; what would’ve happened to you, had Dabi not been here to weather this with you? What would you have withered away too, had you been forced to withstand this on your own?

Would there be any of you left at all? Or would you have decayed into nothingness, into a mere carcass of yourself, congruently with your Daddy, remnants fusing together as you both fell apart? Would anything new have risen from the remains? From the decomposing flesh and rotting bone and splintering minds?

You don’t know, you’ll never be able to tell, but one thing’s for sure: you truly don’t know how you would’ve survived this without him.

You won’t ever have to.

Sapphire blazes down at you, his chest rising and falling with short little breaths as his gaze studies your face. Lips part, but the words catch in his throat, burning up into nothing more than a disappointing huff of disconcertment.

You won’t ever have to.

He tries again, but the letters hook and burrow into the walls of his throat, leaving the flesh ripped raw and burning. Frustration seethes in his chest, rough as it rages against his ribs, and for a moment you look terrified, gazing up at him with wide eyes as panic tugs at the corners of your lips, mouth opening quickly to presumingly apologize.

But then he’s surging forward, crushing chapped lips to yours so fiercely, so ferociously it forces a soft whine to crack in your throat, lithe fingers splayed across your cheeks as his palms cup your face, curled around the hinges of your jaw and hauling you impossibly closer.

You won’t ever have to.

He prays you can decipher it, the promise he’s pouring into this kiss. He prays one day he can say it to you himself, in his own words and with his own voice, instead of forcing you to decode it though clashing teeth and dragging tongues and interspersed saliva.

Calloused fingertips and blunt nails nip at your skin, signing his name into your body in insignificant, impermanent little ways, and your responding kisses are filled with just as much fervour, messy and desperate as little hands paw at him, sinking into soft ink and knotting at the roots.

Fiery cinnamon and sharp nicotine sting your tongue, and you’re dimly reminded of how much spicier Dabi tastes, a stark contrast to your Daddy’s fresh mint and sour-sweet lemon. It’s tainted tonight, tinged with traces of bitter salt, tears rolling down soft cheeks to find refuge in the comfort of warm, wet mouths.

Boisterous hands push under your t-shirt, eager digits dipping into the waistband of your lacy panties, nimble fingers beginning to press and pull, to tear and tug, tips materializing through the dainty fabric as he grinds his cock against your inner thigh.

And you can feel it, hot and hard and throbbing through the thin material of the sweats, staining the grey fabric with sticky pre-cum as it strains and struggles against it, almost as if it’s yearning for you.

“Please,” he whispers, thumbs rubbing little circles into the flesh of your hips, the word so small, so fragile it’s scarcely a gentle wisp of breath exhaled into your mouth. It’s a question you’ve heard several times before, during three and four and five in the morning in compromising positions such as these, but tonight it sounds off, altered.

Because tonight, it’s different.

Because it isn’t a plead, desperate and urgent and heavy with beseeching, nor is it an order, wrapped up in the pretty and perfect guise of entreatment.

It’s an offer.

You don’t say anything, can’t say anything, the threat of tears thick in your throat, prohibiting your approval passage to your lips.

So you nod, just once, just a solitary quirk of your head—but, really, that’s all he needs.

Rough hands find the fraying hem of your—his—t-shirt, and he mumbles against your lips, voice raspy and low as nimble fingers begin to twist in the fabric.

“I want this off,”

Another nod, and your arms are raising above your head, aiding him in removing the garment.

Delicate fingers dance along the waistband of his—Tomura’s—sweats, and he chuckles, a gentle, fond little noise throttled out of his throat.

“Do you want these off?”

And you’re powerless to stop the shy little hiccup of a giggle that barrels past your lips as you nod, lifting your hips and helping him in kicking the pants off, cock bobbing a little as it’s freed from its confines.

Oh, it’s so pretty, you just can’t resist glancing down at it, marvelling at the way the cherry tip shimmers in the dim silver light, perfectly accented by a pearly dewdrop of pre-cum; at the way those veins, twined around the velvety shaft, dance harmoniously to the suspenseful thump of his heart.

“You want it?”

“Yes,” you choke out, the word grating your throat, glazed eyes finally finding his face.

“S'yours,”

The declaration is slurred from one mouth into another, and you swallow it greedily, a fierce flame of possessiveness sparking to life in your chest.

“Mine,” you nearly growl, small hand encircling his cock, squeezing a broken moan from his throat, a certain type of viciousness, voraciousness, veraciousness surging through your veins and alighting your entire body, because fuck yes it’s yours and you want it now.

There’s no bothering with prep; neither of you have the patience, Dabi’s adept fingers sneaking their way between your bodies to spread your cute little hole, guiding you to his cock, pretty pussy glittering in the chromatic silver spilling from the screen.

And the noise he makes as you finally sink down on him is nothing short of fucking breathtaking—a snuffed out whine that fractures in his throat, Adams apple bobbing with the effort as his head falls back with a heavy thud against the leather.

While he isn’t as thick as Daddy, the stretch is still incredible, a precious little hiss spit between the gaps of clenched teeth as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snugly against your cervix. His hips shift immediately, impatient and desperate, the motion sending stinging pricks of pain searing through your abdomen, a wince twisting your features.

You can feel the delicate skin ripping, creating little fissures in the sensitive flesh, pussy pulsing around his cock. It feels like it’s splitting you open, feels like it’s stitching you shut, feels like it’s stuffing you full.

And you want more.

A half-swallowed moan catches in his chest as your hips wiggle, and you laugh, blinking bleariness from your gaze. A pair of tears escape your lashline, cascading down your cheeks in unison, and Dabi smiles; a wobbling, unsteady quirk up of his lips as he takes your face between calloused palms, thumbs catching the tears midstream.

After a few halfhearted bounces and a greedy whimper about how it just isn’t deep enough, Dabi halts you.

“Here,” he murmurs softly, palms slipping from your hips and skimming along your thighs, hooking under your folded knees and guiding them up gently, one by one, so your feet are planted on the plush leather, legs caging either side of his torso. “Better?”

“Y-Yeah,” you gasp, a palm involuntarily pressed flat to your gut, right between your hipbones, whining loudly as you grind down, swear you can feel him, can feel his cockhead as it pokes and prods with each rut against him as your hips grind down tentatively, a broken little whine spilling from your throat. “C-Can feel you in my tummy, Da-Dabi, I swear I can,”

“Good,” he breathes, forehead knocking against yours and lips parted slightly, sweltering little huffs ghosting over your own as ravenous pupils glitter in the flickering light, that thin ring of sapphire catching in the dim illumination. “Now,” he whispers, grasping fistfuls of your flesh, calloused fingertips gripping your outer thighs. “I think I’ve waited long enough. Show me how gorgeous you look creaming all over my cock,”

The demand is barely more than a tendril of breath, punctuated by the rocking forward of his hips, blunt nails pressing pretty indents of crimson and violet into your skin as he holds you in place.

The sudden action strikes an affirmative yelp from your chest, head nodding almost lethargically and body snapping into motion, eager in its haste to comply.

And, for a moment, it’s nice; it’s slow and easy and distracting, languid rolls of your hips meeting his as teeth clack and tongues lick and lips suck.

But the thoughts are beginning to creep in again, glowing ruby and soft silvery tufts slashing the thin veil of counterfeit comfort to shreds; and the tears are beginning to sting as they overwhelm your vision, casting the prettiest gleam across your eyes; and the choked hiccups are beginning to scrabble up your throat, claws tearing into your flesh as they struggle to reach your mouth, half-dead as they pry past your lips.

Salt water stains your tongue—yours, his, both, combining with variegated spit to create the most bittersweet viscosity; a heavy, heady substance that saturates the muscle—and he exhales a juddering breath into your mouth, blinking past the thick film of water shielding his eyes.

“Don’t think,”

It’s a plead, it’s an order, it’s an instruction, whispered out so softly, so brokenly against your lips.

And you follow, you submit, you obey, because you don’t want to think, don’t want to know, don’t want to exist in this reality at all, longing for the false ignorance and distorted escape you’ve sought out, you’ve created, so many nights prior, together.

You nod, urgent and frantic in your motions, almost as if you’re begging him to make it all stop, to put your morality on pause and your guilt on rewind, to erase it all, but another sob tears its way through your throat and into his, and Dabi sighs, pulling back slightly.

Gleaming sapphire studies your face, shining impossibly bright in the dim light, gaze sweeping across your features in one slow, fluid motion.

“Come on,” he whispers, fingers kneading the flesh of your ass as his nose nudges against yours, incentive rasped against your lips, though it shakes as it leaves his throat. “Be good for me, yeah? Be good for me,”

And you want to—you so desperately want to, so desperately need to, craving that sickly sweet equivocal praise that is so distinctly him; craving anything to make this less abhorrent, anything to scorch the shame rapidly engulfing your ribs in a tarry embrace, thick and voracious and intoxicating as it mingles with sticky desire and coats the bones, the weight of it nearly splintering them clean in half.

“You can do that for me, can’t you, baby?”

And, Christ, it’s so patronizing, your head lolling stupidly in a poor imitation of a nod. Knuckles collide with your skin, sending sizzling spikes rippling through your backside, and you squeak.

“Use your words, princess,” he chides. “I know I haven’t fucked you that stupid yet,”

“I-I can do it,”

“Yeah?” he prods in a murmur, lips busy tracing the curve of your jaw, the word soaking into your skin. “Prove it to me,”

It’s the ghost of the challenge, and the promised praise that comes packaged with it, that has your resolve strengthening, teeth gritted against stubborn tears as you begin bouncing in his lap, using your planted feet for leverage.

“That’s it,” he breathes out, head tipping back to gaze lazily at you through lidded eyes, chin tilted up slightly. “What a good girl,”

And it’s pathetic, really, the high-pitched moan such sardonic praise, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with icing sugar, evokes; a pathetic little sound that catches in your chest and cracks upon impact, tapering off into a soft whimper, a nonverbal plea for more.

It doesn’t stop the tears—not fully, anyway—but it does make them bearable, does make them easier to ignore, gathering your respective strength and bunching it together to create a flimsy barrier, one that won’t last for long, but can withstand the rest of the night.

Because try as he may, Dabi cannot hide the glittering dewdrops adorning his lashes, clumped together and saturated in sticky salt, or the continual, involuntary twitching of his nose, or the subtle trembling of his chin, juxtaposed by the love in his eyes, pupils blown to hell and insatiable for everything they scarf down—all of your sweet little noises and precious little expressions, hastily etching them into the tissues of his brain—and the genuine smile stretched across his face, widening a little more with each precarious laugh you tug from his throat.

It feels intimate, feels adolescent, feels new, and you’re powerless to quell the little bursts of giggles bubbling past your lips, peppering your hiccuped sobs, weaving together with Dabi’s gentle chuckles and short sniffles to create a harrowing harmony.

He lets you have your fun, though, lets you roll and hump and grind, his hips pressing up to meet yours, to drag his cock against that one spot buried deep inside of you, to pull those cherished, cracked sounds from deep in your throat, sucking them from your mouth and into his and storing them deep in his chest, protected by cages of bone and walls of pulsating flesh, keeping a piece of you inside of him forever.

And, really, you should feel sick, should feel disgusted for the involuntary little flutters your hole gives as those tears finally break past his lashes, streaming down his face and clashing against the elation shimmering in his watery eyes, contrasting the ecstasy glimmering in his pearly smile. Leaning forward, your tongue darts out from between swollen lips to lick and lap at the salty substance, soaking his sadness into your tongue and swallowing it down.

But it heightens the whole experience, every pound up and plunge into and pump out of you more hypersensitive than the next, intermittent flares of pleasure fraying your veins as they race your blood.

Fingertips brand his name into your skin, prints painting asymmetrical galaxies of swirling navy and periwinkle, fleeting and much too temporary as he encourages you to speed up, thighs beginning to burn.

You can feel them, those flares sparking to life in the pit of your belly, each rock forward conjured by strong hands sending sizzling cinders shooting up your spine, each piston of his hips to meet yours fanning the flames, raging higher and higher and higher until they lick at your ribs, needy moans and pathetic whimpers floating up your throat, carried on their embers.

“C’mon baby,” he nearly whines, large hands inhibiting your hips from slowing, forcing you to ride him faster and faster. “C’mon, show me how good you are, how much of a little whore you are, show me—ah, f-fuck—show me how beautiful you are cumming on my cock, show me, baby, I-I’ve been waiting so long to see,”

And it’s that confession, groaned out in near delirium, that has you gushing all over his cock, body convulsing almost violently as your cunt clenches around him, tears obstructing your vision as you cum with a strained cry of his name, making everything blurry, hazy, dreamy.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s it, that’s my good, good girl,”

He praises you throughout it all, tells you how good you are, how perfect you look, hands still clutching your hips, forcing you to continue moving until tremors jolt through your body with each brush of your oversensitive clit against his pubic bone, small hands scrabbling at his shoulder as you whimper about how it’s too much, too much, and it hurts, Dabi!

Leaning back as far as he can, he looks down as if he’s in awe, breathing ragged and chest heaving.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, gaze glued to his half-hidden cock, shaft and base glistening prettily with your juices. “Fucking beautiful,”

Finally, his stare lifts, cobalt eyes dark and ravenous as he lips at his chapped lips, breathing still laboured.

“My turn, baby,”

And you’re too fucked out to truly register his words, body boneless and pliant as he seamlessly rearranges you, unbending your legs—first one, then the other, cooing at your resulting wince—hooking a palm under one of your calves and pushing up, up, up until your ankle rest on his shoulders, thigh secured snugly between your bare chests, hard cock still buried deep inside of you.

A whine slips past your lips at the stretch, face screwing up cutely, and Dabi’s resounding laugh is cut off with simultaneous gasps as he readjusts your hips, because God, it’s so deep, you’re positive you can feel him in your throat this time, senseless babbling falling past spit-slicked lips.

Leaning back, your hands find purchase on his thighs, shaky fingers gripping his flesh as your hips roll, slow and sluggish towards his.

But he’s too impatient for that, now.

Because it just isn’t fast enough, hard enough, rough enough for him, one hand gripping your waist, the other latched onto your thigh, clutch tightening as he yanks you forward, hips snapping with a thrust so sudden it has you choking on a yelp, half-lidded eyes flying open.

It’s downright ruthless, brutal and merciless and entirely unforgiving as he slams up into you with such intense strength you practically bounce in his lap, his grasp on you so hard, so vicious that his nails break the skin, staining the pads of his fingers and the beds of his nails with bright crimson. Each powerful thrust is more relentless than the last, hips bucking up with insane precision as they increase in speed, every rut into you shoving another gorgeous grunt or glorious growl from his chest.

Arms lock around his neck to steady yourself, fingers threading themselves in a sea of ink and tugging harshly, knocking a high whine of his own from his throat.

Sobs shatter as they pry past your lips, whole body beginning to tingle from the pleasure, from the position, muscles aching as Dabi forces you to stay folded.

Everything’s beginning to feel faded, tears casting a misty daze across your vision and softening the edges, leaking into your skull and enveloping your brain in the familiar haze of unconsciousness.

“Gonna cum again?” he pants, words a faded growl more akin to a demand than a question, voice slicing straight through the cloud in your head, eradicating it in an instant. “Huh?”

“Uh—Uh-huh,” you nod your head, lashes fluttering as your eyes struggle to stay open, to be good, to obey.

“You better,”

And it’s the threat that has you pulsing around him again, whole body shuddering into his, muscles seizing and shivering.

“Please, please, please, Dabi,” you’re babbling, words flowing from your mouth in a steady stream, so slurred they’re nearly incomprehensible. “Please, want your cum, Da-Dabi; please, gimme your cum, you promised, you promised you would, you promised you’d fill my whole body with it, please, please, Dabi,”

“Oh, f-fuck,” he cries, the curse fracturing in his throat.

“Please, Dabi, I need it, I need to be full, please,”

Sharp ivory buries itself in supple skin with a predatory snarl, bones lodged in the flesh of your shoulder as he pumps you full of scalding cum; a silent stake of ownership, a subtle signifier that you are his now, too.

His jaw flexes in time with the throbbing of his cock, driving his teeth deeper, deeper, deeper with each infinitesimal increase in pressure, until they snap through the smooth barrier, flooding his mouth with metallic crimson.

A tongue pries its way past blood-stained lips to sop up the substance, greedy and insatiable as thick, sticky saliva varnishes his minuscule masterpiece.

He pulls back to admire his creation, a beautiful piece of art etched into your very being, full of the prettiest periwinkles and deepest navies and outlined by swirling charcoals, scarlet pooling in the indents left by his teeth the perfect accentuation. The tiniest whimper breaks in his throat as his rough thumb skims over the bite, glittering eyes flashing to your face as you exhale a hiss, a breathless little smile saturated with pride gracing his lips.

You can feel it, hot and sticky and oozing out of you, whining at the thought of even wasting a single drop. Little fingers sneak between your heaving bodies, varnished with sweet sweat, to dip into your raw, abused little hole, gathering as much of the viscous substance as possible and bringing it to your lips.

It appears Dabi’s in some sort of trance as he observes your motions, tongue unfurling to lick along his swollen bottom lip, laving the inky, scarred skin with glittering saliva, unblinking eyes glued to your actions, gaze shifting marginally from the way your mouth eagerly sucks your fingers in, to the way your lids flutter shut as you moan around the taste, to the way you pull your fingers free, mouth puckering greedily around them, sure to suck clean every last drop from your skin.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, voice totally wrecked, and you can’t help the shy giggle that barrels past your lips, fingers moving to gather more cum when he catches your wrist in a large hand, halting it.

“No,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper, hoarse and strained, cock giving another weak twitch. “Let me,”

His fingers are better, you tell him with a cute, lethargic nod, because they’re bigger, longer, can gather much more than your own as they delve into your cunt again, deep enough to brush your cervix, curling as he tugs them free, heaping glops of thick, gleaming cream glistening on his fingers.

Your mouth drops open immediately, obediently, tongue curling around his fingers in a way that’s nearly possessive as it welcomes them into the warm, wet cavern, lips wrapping around them as you suck hard, tongue licking and lapping and laving over his skin, between the cracks and crevices of his fingers, the digits spreading compliantly to allow your tongue to work, to ensure that you suckle every little bit from his flesh.

And you repeat it, you repeat these actions over and over again until his fingers are shrivelled and pruned from so much saliva; until your chin shimmers with strands of drool and watered down cum, the pads of Dabi’s fingers generously gathering the residue and pushing it back into your greedy, waiting mouth; until your cunt is empty and clean, and his cock is hard and leaking again.

But you’re practically falling asleep now, exhausted from the sex and the emotional turmoil. You tell him he’s welcome to use you as you sleep, to fuck you to sleep—and he thinks he just might take you up on that offer, cock jumping eagerly at the prospect; but later, another day. Right now, you need rest.

Tender hands untangle you from his body, your own limbs limp and lifeless, gathering you in strong arms.

“No,” you murmur, shaking your head torpidly and smushing your face into his neck.

“No?”

“No,” you repeat. “Not Daddy’s bed tonight,”

“If not Daddy’s—”

“Here,” you whisper, pressing a messy kiss to his neck. “With you,”

And, fuck, he’ll never be able to deny you a Goddamn thing.

✰          ✰          ✰

It’s unusually sunny, the next Thursday afternoon, deep azure sky void of any cotton fluffs or ivory strokes, the golden rays streaming through the penthouse’s mammoth windows diffused by the partially drawn chiffon curtains, haloing the living room in a hazy, gentle glow, catching on sapphire and topaz as they glitter and flash with smug smirks and menacing scowls.

“It’s so gorgeous out today,” you whine a little, throwing your head back against Dabi’s collarbone and gazing up at him with a rapidly forming pout. “Why do we have to spend it inside?”

“Because,” Dabi begins simply, slow and supercilious like you’re stupid. “I gotta kick this motherfucker’s ass, princess,”

“You wish!” Keigo scoffs, gesturing the game board perched perilously in front of him with a halfhearted sweep. “Dunno if you’ve noticed, but I already own more than half the world,”

“Game’s not over yet, bird boy,”

“Hawks,” you sulk, petulant, brows drawn and nose scrunched with the full force of your pout.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he reassures you without looking up, brilliant eyes scanning the board as if he’s calculating, cataloguing. “I’ll finish this quick, and then we can go outside, okay?”

“But—But the sun will have set by the time you guys are done!”

“Don’t whine,” Dabi warns, word fading into a growl, finally glancing down at you. “Don’t start being a brat now, not when you’ve been such a good girl all day,”

“But—”

“Listen,” he begins, no room for negotiation, straightening up a little so he can glare at you properly, his shoulders hunching in, entire form engulfing your own and voice dropping an octave lower as he murmurs to you. “You have an awful lot of homework to do. Don’t think for one second that I won’t send you to Daddy’s bedroom to do it all, alone.” He pauses, cobalt eyes searching yours, allowing his words time to sink in. “And you know Daddy will let me,”

“Yeah, of course Daddy will let you,” you grumble, stubborn tears resurfacing, nose twitching as you exhale sharply, molars grinding in an effort to keep them from escaping. “Daddy doesn’t care about anything anymore—”

“Enough,” Dabi snaps, and you flinch. “You know that isn’t true. We aren’t getting into this now, alright? Just—” he sighs, eyes finally softening. “Be good for us while we finish, yeah?”

Be good. Be good.

“Meanie,” you huff, falling back against him with a thump and crossing your arms.

But his hands are on your hips, squeezing gently as thumbs grind lopsided circles into your flesh, a silent apology; and your fingers are curling around his, lacing them together in a messy embrace and wrapping his arms around your form, holding yourself tightly to his chest, a silent acceptance; and you’re snuggling into his neck as he rests his chin on the crown of your head, comfy and cozy in your consolidation.

You doze off after that, lulled to sleep by the vibrating baritones of Dabi’s voice and the victorious harmonies of Keigo’s laughs, only to be woken when things begin to get heated again.

The rumbling of Dabi’s chest rouses you, bleary eyes blinking as you catch the tail end of his threat, something about the game still not being over, about how things can flip even in the final seconds.

“Yeah, uh-huh, sure,” Keigo’s saying, waving a self-assured hand in dismissal. “You gonna bark all day, little doggy, or are you gonna bite? Cause I’ve been hearing a whole ton of commination with very little accompanying action,”

Dabi laughs loudly, shaking his head with disbelief, a sharp smile on his face. “Nah, nah, nah, buddy, if anyone here’s Mr. Blonde, it’s me,” He pauses, something dangerous glinting in his eye as his smile stretches to uncanny proportions, and Keigo blanches, amusement melting into apprehension, as if he’s anticipating something. “You’re more of a Mr. Orange, wouldn't you agree?”

Keigo swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion, and you rub at an eye cutely, straightening up a little in Dabi’s lap, features crinkled in confusion at the sudden change in atmosphere.

“Well, I—” 

Tomura’s sudden appearance saves him from answering.

“Wait,” he calls, voice hoarse from disuse, dry and cracked as it mingles with Keigo’s stuttering. Clearing his throat, he tries again, voice finally booming the way it normally does, commanding the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity. “Wait, where’s that from?”

“What?”

“That—That line; the—the doggy one,” scarlet eyes blink several times in quick succession, frantically scrutinizing their faces, sweeping between the two fluidly, akin to a pendulum. “Where’s it from? What’s it a reference to?”

“Oh, it’s uh, it’s a line from Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs,”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, muttering to himself as his eyes squeeze shut, outgrown nails beginning to rake viciously against crusty wrists, raw skin stained with strokes of rust and embellished with shimmering scabs, collecting under his nails as fresh blood starts to flow. “That’s not right,”

“No, Tomu, it is,” Dabi says, slowly, gently, expression sobering, distress incinerating his delight in an instant. “You know, the one with the guy who cuts the cop’s ear off? You love that movie; we’ve reenacted that—”

“No,” he growls, crimson flashing dangerously as his eyes snap open, and you feel Dabi jolt under you, reaction automatic and involuntary. Tomura whispers something to himself, gory hands tangling in silvery tufts and twisting, yanking on the strands hard enough that his face crumples. Blood runs down his forearm and soaks into the soiled cuff of his shirt, fresh blotches of scarlet blooming amidst those that have blossomed from a bright carmine and died a dull burgundy.

Shaking his head again, Tomura continues to mutter to himself, voice harsh and hostile as if he’s conversing with someone, pivoting on his heel and stalking towards his office.

“Daddy! W-Wait!” you squirm in Dabi’s grasp, his arms tightening around you, a pitiful little sound of frustration spilling from your throat.

Your tiny cries cut through the haze in his mind, sharp and swift and clear, and Tomura halts, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, voice grave as he dictates. “Stay with Dabi, baby, you hear me?” His eyes flit from your face to Dabi’s, holding a silent, three-second-long conversation, before his gaze finally darts to Keigo again. “Do not leave Dabi’s sight tonight, princess,” he says slowly, unblinking stare still glued to Keigo, finally breaking away after a beat of silence, finding Dabi’s face again. “Keep an eye on her; do not let her out of your sight tonight,”

And you can feel it, can feel the way Dabi's chest stutters under the force of his thick swallow, can feel the way his voice strains under confusion, under fear.

“Y-Yeah, ‘course boss, always,” he nods, head tilted in puzzlement. 

“Always,” Tomura repeats like it’s a gentle promise, features beginning to soften, trepidation and treachery beginning to decay. “Always,”

✰          ✰          ✰

It doesn’t dawn on him until much later that night, locked away in the sanctuary of his office, collapsed in his massive plush chair as tired eyes once again obsessively comb through the records he possesses—tape recordings of messages left, transcripts of phone calls, original copies of handwritten letters—which has now become a nightly routine, by all accounts.

Are you gonna bark all day, little doggy, or are you gonna bite?

The words loop through his mind, lazy and languid as they wane and waver in and out of focus, vaporizing to a hazy fog the moment he tries to grasp them, blanketing his brain in a cloud of confused distraction the moment he tries to dispel them, receding to the back of his mind to tug at his conscious with giggles and taunts.

It’s infuriating, the sentiment ripping through his thoughts in undetermined intervals, varying in their volume as tired crimson eyes sift through the material, the evidence, hunting, searching, investigating...

But eventually, eventually it clears, this misty smog infecting his mind, eradicated by two tiny words, scrawled in black ink, carved into the thick manilla paper, an absurd laugh prying its way past his lips.

There they are, glaring up at him and engraved into the crumpled paper held between trembling fingers—the second letter he had ever received, the night after he had disposed of Giran.

Lil puppy.

And, truthfully, he can’t believe it didn’t click immediately, the moment the words had bubbled past that stupid kid’s lips; he’s got these messages and transcripts practically memorized at this point, is sure he could recite them backwards it asked, and yet...

And yet, it doesn't finally snap into place, doesn't fully show itself, this perfectly sculpted jigsaw piece, until the dawn of morning, just as gold is beginning to spill over the horizon, several hours after the phrase was uttered.

Lil puppy.

Frantic hands shuffle through the tapes littering his desk, endless copies of repeatedly annotated documents and letters crinkling as he sifts through them, several cascading off the edges of his desk like some waterfall of ink and ivory, until he finds the tape he’s searching for.

OCTOBER 17, written across a fraying piece of cloth tape in big block letters.

This is it. This is the one, he’s absolutely sure of it, can feel it in the core of his fucking soul, positive he’s on the verge of some massive discovery, something that’ll finally make it all make sense, head nodding to himself as he hastily pushes it into the outdated player.

The thudding of his heart rattles his ribs, the cage expanding and contracting rapidly with each ragged pant torn from his throat, the echoes of his own breath creating berserk symphonies with the jumbled words crawling through his brain, too fast for him to catch, too fast for him to halt.

He finishes slotting the tape into the machine, a quivering finger pressing play, his breath cutting off the moment the reels begin to spin.

The words crack and sizzle, imbued with static as they come to life, and Tomura swears he can see them scratching themselves into his wood-panelled walls, blood beginning to drip from the crude slashes as the walls heave.

Ya gonna bark all day, lil pup, or are ya gonna bite? Huh? Lil puppy? Or does Daddy do your biting for ya, too? Chew up all your food ‘n spit it in your mouth? A caustic laugh spills through the speaker, so corrosive it’s a marvel that it doesn’t erode the plastic. Well, Daddy can’t protect ya forever, lil puppy. And you, hah! You can’t protect her at all.

A slender finger slams down on the stop button, halting the recording before it can begin spewing all of those heinous threats he’s heard too many times now, overly descriptive in what they plan to do to you, painting grotesque pieces on the walls of his skull, renditions that haunt him the moment the chaos in his mind stops, quiets, a whole new type of torture.

Silence drapes itself across his office, the chattering in his mind dimmed to gentle titters and pushed into a dark corner of his head, brows knitting as he contemplates.

This is invaluable information, sure, and he feels fucking elated, feels like all of his tireless work has finally surmounted to something, like he’s standing on the edge of a sharp cliff, and he can nearly see the ground below, mist almost fully eradicated—but there’s still something missing, though; one last piece to complete this puzzle, to crack this case...

Frenetic hands shove at the mess on his desk, pushing, digging, pulling, wildly hysterical in their search for his phone, transcripts tearing, messages crumpling, plastic of the tapes cracking as their corners collide with his wooden floors.

“Dabi!” he practically shouts, hoarse and heaving, when Dabi answers halfway through the second ring.

“Uh, Tomura?” Dabi grovels, disoriented and stuffed full of sleep. “What are you—”

“Hey, listen, listen. Who’s that kid you’ve been bringing around lately?”

“Oh, now you wanna know? Tomura, it’s 5:55 in the fucking morning,” he groans. “Can’t this wait until the sun is up?”

“No time, Dabi, no time,” and he sounds nearly distraught as the words urgently tumble from his lips, voice strained and brittle and thick with excited tears. “Need’ta know now, Dabi, or they’ll overthrow us; gotta know now, or the dogs’ll attack! Gotta collar ‘n cuff ‘em before they can,”

“Who’ll—Wait, what?”

“Who the fuck is he, Dabi?” And normally, normally a question like that would be harsh, scalding and impatient. But today, today it jiggles and jumps with glee, twitching with hopeful anticipation.

“Oh, he, uh, he’s some tweety bird I’m playing with," Dabi explains, voice warped by a yawn. “Nothing serious, no one important,” he sighs out, as though he’s falling back asleep again. “Just kinda stringing the cop along, y’know? I’ll probably dispose of him soon, or something,”

“A cop,” Tomura whispers to himself as his eyes widen, feet skidding to a stop, entire body going stiff.

“Hmm?”

“A cop! He’s a fucking cop!”

“Yeah, didn’t I tell you? Could’a swore I told you,”

“The Chief! I knew I recognized that handwriting from somewhere. Yes—yes, it must be, it has to be; it all makes sense now, he’s had it out for us from the very beginning—he’s the big man, the alpha dog, it’s gotta be him,”

“Wait, Tomura, what—” Dabi begins, only to be interrupted by incessant muttering, too low to discern. “What? I-I can’t hear you, you’re mumbling,”

“The time...Going to work...Likes his donuts...cream-filled...Gun, where did I put it...Maybe a blade this time—Oh, but I hate blades...Although, maybe...”

“Tomura? Tomura, stop, listen,” And it almost sounds like he’s begging, suddenly alert, alarmed, high notes of distressed concern fracturing his hasty tone. “Tomura, listen to me, what’s going—”

“I've got to go, Dabi,” his boss cuts him off abruptly, voice suddenly calm, serene, like he’s made a decision, a startling difference from the overlapping mumbles jumbling through the speaker merely a few moments ago. “I’ve got a rooster to slaughter,”

“Hold on a second,” Dabi gasps, shrill and frantic. “Where are you going!”

But the line goes dead.

✰          ✰          ✰

In the dark of his own bedroom, in his own flat wedged under Tomura’s penthouse, Dabi sits frozen in bed, phone still clutched to his head, fingers gripping the device so tightly it’s astonishing the glass doesn’t crack, doesn’t shatter to sharp pieces in his palm.

Time seems to slow, seems to stop for a moment as Tomura’s words coil through Dabi’s mind, letters mangling themselves with each lap around his brain, spiralling into a noose around the organ and tightening until it hurts.

Flashes of teal and jade splinter through the cracks in his curtains, mixing with the night and drenching his room in a dense yet faded blue, shapes of the night moving, morphing, as Dabi stares out into the indigo abyss, his heart oozing through the ribs that cage it.

Something is gravely wrong.

His own heartbeat blends with his quickening breaths, congesting his hearing as he calls Tomura’s phone twice more, receiving his voicemail both times. 

He tries Jin next, who tells Dabi that he’s on the island for the next week or so, but that Dabi’s most definitely overreacting.

“Pop a couple roxys and go back to sleep,” he tells him, voice gentle and warm. “I’m sure Tomura’s perfectly fine; your paranoia’s playing tricks on you, makin’ you think you heard stuff and all that—footsteps and elevator dings. Truthfully, Tomura probably just fell asleep in his office, or something; you know how he gets after a night of sniffing and crushing,”

Dabi does, probably better than anyone else, but Tomura didn’t seem high; didn’t seem like he was suffering a drug induced episode. This felt like something entirely different.

He tries Chisaki next, who promptly tells Dabi to fuck off and to never call him at six in the morning for any reason ever again—he doesn’t give a fuck who’s missing, and then Tomura’s father, getting his inept personal secretary, who claims she has no idea where the Boss went, but that she’s sure he’ll return soon, and she promises to pass along Dabi’s urgent message.

Kurogiri lives a floor under Dabi, though Dabi knows his nights spent at the penthouse have been increasing with alarming frequency. After three calls and no answer, Dabi’s beginning to get agitated; Dabi’s beginning to get desperate.

There’s only one person left to call.

“Dabi? What’s—”

“I don’t have time to explain, bird,” Dabi nearly pants out, words snaring on a hiccup in his throat. “I think—There’s something going on—Something’s wrong—I think—” Another hiccup lodges in his throat, and Dabi’s lids squeeze shut, fighting back against the acidic water stinging his eyes. “I think Tomura’s gone missing,” he manages in a harsh rush of breath. “I need you to break down the office door with me, I can’t—You’re the only able-bodied man I could find,”

“Dabi, listen—”

“I don’t have the fucking time to listen!” he roars, finally erupting, ears ringing as his blood surges. “Get your ass to the fucking penthouse, or I swear to God, I’ll burn you alive Mr. Blonde style...Keigo,”

The other man’s breath stutters, echoing through the receiver, and then the line falls silent.

“Yeah, that’s what we do to cops who are uncooperative,”

Several moments pass, and then, soft and defeated:

“I’ll see you soon,”

✰          ✰          ✰

Large hands rip you from your slumber roughly, lithe fingers burrowing into your flesh as they grip your biceps.

Lids flutter to life, lifting slow and sticky to reveal bleary eyes, glazed with thick sleep that keeps knocking your vision out of focus. Bright azure and sharp ink begin to burn through the mist, a gravelly voice bleeding into your consciousness, realization forcing icy dread to freeze the blood in your veins.

“D-Dabi?” you whimper, fingers twisting in his hoodie, pulling yourself up a little. “What’re you—What time is it?”

“Do you know where Tomura went?” He practically heaves out, breathing erratic as sapphire frantically searches your face, fingers searing blotches of navy into your skin as they flex.

“I—What?” you blink, squinting against the light, Dabi’s expression fully eradicating the drowsy haze sleep had cast over you, notes of panic sown into your tone. “N-No? Tomura’s—”

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, eyes squeezing shut as nimble fingers rake through onyx strands. “He didn’t—He didn’t like, wake you up for a moment to inform you of his leaving? Or leave a note?” Calloused palms begin patting the plush comforter, scrutinizing gaze searching for a scrap of paper embellished with Tomura’s neat scrawl.

“No, he didn’t. Uh, w-why?”

But Dabi doesn’t answer, too preoccupied with searching the bed for shreds of clues. Little palms encircle his wrists, tender in their touch, and bring both hands to your lap, drawing his attention back to you.

“Why? What’s going on?

“He’s missing,”

“What?” the word escapes your throat in a gasp, choked and full of spit, motions stilling. “Wh-What do you mean, he’s missing?”

“What do you think I mean,” he seethes, and you flinch. A sigh leaves his lips in a heavy exhale, body slumping into your touch, perching on the edge of the mattress. He inhales, holding the breath in his chest until his ribs feel like they’re splintering, swollen lungs pressing into the cage, and exhales the words. “I just—He called me, like, twenty minutes ago, going on about dogs and threats and how he has to—has to go kill a rooster, or something? I don’t know,” Dabi shakes his head. “It barely made any sense at all—I could hardly hear him—but now he’s fucking missing and I—I’m—”

His voice cuts off, words mutilating themselves into nothing more than a pathetic little squeak. And try as he may, he just can’t force those words from his mouth, can’t admit his concern, sentiments burning themselves to ash on the back of his tongue and clogging his throat.

But he doesn’t need to.

He doesn’t need to, because you can see it, can see it in his eyes, in the way they keep glazing over, terrified tears stubbornly resurfacing regardless of how ruthlessly he tries to blink them back; because you can hear it, can hear it in the infinitesimal tremors lacing his voice, in the way they keep causing him to stumble over his words; because you can feel it, can feel the thick distress patched up with unease practically saturating the atmosphere around him, cloaking him in it’s devastatingly hollow embrace.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, taking his face between pillowy palms, forcing his turbulent gaze to halt, holding his eyes with your own. “We’re gonna find him,” tiny thumbs swipe over inked cheekbones, Dabi’s eyes closing with the motion, leaning further into your touch, seeking comfort, reassurance, hope. “Alright? We’re gonna find him,”

And although there’s a quiver in your voice, he thinks he can believe you, thinks you’re right—you will be right.

And, for once, he affords himself a singular moment to become immersed in your touch, to surrender control just for a second and be weak, to open his arms and allow you to crawl into his lap and snuggle into his neck and sink small fingers into his hair; to cleanse his mind, his body, his soul, with your soft motions and gentle kisses and whispered affirmations, each one sinking into his flesh, each one a tiny spark, each one collecting at his core, satiating that creature—the one birthed from love and hate and jealousy and desire—with a warm fire.

But then the elevator dings, and Kurogiri speaks rapidly to someone in hushed tones, and large hands wrap around your wrists, bringing them down and pressing them to your chest, giving one final squeeze before he lets go.

Forty-five minutes and one fractured shoulder later, that thick mahogany wood finally gives way, cracking deep enough that Hawks can kick it open, splitting it clean in two.

Both you and Kurogiri have spent the past half hour pacing and calling and shaking, growing more fraught every minute the door stays standing, both having fired off several increasingly distraught texts to Tomura, neither getting any semblance of a response, from anyone.

It’s been getting harder and harder to keep those sobs locked away in a cage of shuddering ivory, vicious cries finally breaking free as the door falls open, revealing an image that will forever haunt the recesses of your brain, etched into your soul for eternity.

Paper litters the entire room—heaping piles of the scattered across the desk, the couch, the floor, so much so it’s impossible to enter the room without stepping on something, and you can see phantom footprints of Tomura’s loafers imprinted on the sheets—the documents covered margin to margin in Tomura’s neat scrawl, ink as brilliant as his eyes vibrant against the crisp white paper.

Dabi plucks a sheet from near his feet, bringing it close to his face. It’s a transcript of some sort—no doubt connected to the alleged mystery calls Tomura’s been receiving—though it’s nearly impossible to read the original wording, Tomura’s bright scarlet writing crisscrossing over it in overlapping annotations, accented with arrows and asterisks.

“How can he even read this shit?” Dabi squints, holding the paper further from his face in an attempt to view it in its entirety. “It’s just—It’s just nonsense,”

A tattooed hand snatches another sheet, eyes scanning it briefly, then grabs another, then another, then another.

“They’re all...” Dabi begins, and his voice sounds faint. “They’re all copies of each other—it’s all the same few conversations,”

You bend down, leaning into Dabi to examine the documents between his trembling fingers, then grabbing a handful of papers for yourself, shuffling through them slowly.

He’s right; the documents are merely replicas of themselves, rendered endless iterations, covered edge to edge in red pen.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, but the words are garbled, half eroded by the time they leave your lips, tongue melting to acid in your mouth, bitter and burning and bubbling as it eats away at your teeth.

Your vision wavers, fades, then clouds with blurry water, the whole scene beginning to swirl around your head, around your body—but strong arms latch around your waist to catch you before you hit the floor, their owner’s back vibrating against you as they murmur.

“Woah, woah, hey!” Hawks is saying as he tries to get your feet under you, hoisting you up to lean half of your weight on him. “You okay?”

No. You’re not okay.

You’re not okay, because the most concerning piece of the devastatingly deranged scene laid out in front of you is Daddy’s massive cork board, which has been stripped of all its confidential company research, its several calendars and meticulously organized sticky notes, and replaced with clippings from the documents dispersed among the room, pasted together to create illogical sentences and bizarre conclusions and sprinkled with notepaper and photos, comming together to create a harrowing mosaic.

With a photograph of the Chief of Police pinned right to the center.

[plush-rabbit]

Aphrodisiac Induced Villains

Request: im obsessed with your aphro induced brothers !!! can i request the same scenario with the leave of villains + overhaul and chrono?

Word Count: 1K each

A/N: Sorry for it being so late!! I love aphrodisiac plots and I think I’ll never stop thinking about them. (esp moth shig and spinner during a heat)

-

Every breath is like water that fills his lungs, suffocating and one step closer to some hellish end. They aren’t usually so clumsy, so blindsided by rage. They’re tactical, able to evade heroes for as long as they live and yet- here they are, slumped over some alleyway, dirt sticking to their clothes and the noise of the outside so deafening that they can’t even hear their own blood rush in their ears. It’s horrific, even more so than anything they’ve ever endured in their life; this need to feel so cold and hot at once, their body so off putting that you’d think he’d shed his skin and become a new man simply because they are unable to think of anything coherent at that very moment.

Their hand cups over their face, bumping and squishing their nose and the scent of the damn quirk is still strong, still heavy against their body. It’s sweet like vanilla, and strong like peppermint, sticking to their skin and invading their body. His eyes flutter to a close, thinking of the scent that is consuming them, burning them from the inside. The sweet aroma that filtered out of the hero’s body like perfume. The way that their defenses dropped, how their mouth salivated, and the only thing on their mind was primal, something so animalistic that has now taken over. What type of fucking hero even has an aphrodisiac quirk? What good is it unless you want a bunch of salivating and aroused villains in your custody? The other hand clutches over where their heart should be, where they hold on so tightly to their shirt that they stretch the fabric and ruin it. His heart beats erratically, pounding and bruising their ribs, and this quirk truly is ruining them from the inside and out.

Slowly, their hand falls from their face, bumping into their other hand that falls from their chest and they rest heavy on the ground, weighing him down like anchors. He can’t think straight, not with this burning desire inside of him that makes it so impossible to think. With a groan, he stands from the floor, uncaring of the dirt and mess that has stuck on him, uncaring of how sweat falls and drips from their nose and chin. The only thing on his mind right now is to rid himself of this quirk, to ease the ache between his legs and stomach, to finally think straight. At this very moment, the only thing on his mind is to go to you, to stagger and kiss your lips and have his own desires just flood out of him.

Bubaigawara Jin:

There hasn’t been a time in his life where he hasn’t had to fought for survival. He’s been in desperate situations before. Clawed and fought his way through and for survival, for the sake of not only him, but for his sanity. He’s been through the worst of it all. He’s felt betrayal, felt blood rush and blind him as he stayed strapped to a chair, unable to even realize if he was real or not, and yet, it’s the aphrodisiac that makes Jin fall to his knees just before your door. He’s knocking rapidly against it, banging the end of his fists against your wooden door and your name is a godforsaken cry that tears through his throat. He can’t think of anything else but you at this very moment, to collapse onto you and rest his weary head on your shoulders. The only fear that courses through his body is the fear that you won’t answer the door. Jin is at your door, his erection bulging against his suit and every movement is sweet friction that his heart racing and blood rushing. You open the door to him and he does just as he pictured- he falls into your arms and holds you tight while he kicks the door close and pushes you further into your home.

When you bring him, your hands wrapped tightly around him, it doesn’t take much for the man to confess what happened. All the details told to you without question- the scent of the aphrodisiac, the strong sensation, the way that he feels so pulled apart and grounded all at once. He is a weak man at the very end of it, wanting nothing more than to bring you and him down to your knees, as he;s held in your arms. You pull him to your room, telling him to not worry as you’ll be here for him and he knows that you don’t know the severity of the aphrodisiac. The way that it pains him, how nothing is on his mind but the way that your lips look so cute when in a pout, the way the soft pink muscle flashes out to wet at your lips and he can only nod. The back of his knees hit the bed and your hands are coming up to his neck, peeling off the mask and he’s so drunk on lust, that he doesn’t even realize that the simple graze of your knuckles against his neck is enough for him to fall to his back on the bed.

Depravity is not the thing that ails him. It’s the burning desire to be by your side, to continue to feel your hand knits through his and the gentle way that you call his name. He can’t remember when his name was said with such adoration, and now, it just makes his cock throb and he’s thankful for wearing black or there'd be such an obvious stain on him. The bed creaks under his weight and the scent of you on the sheets is enough to replace the scent of vanilla and peppermint. It’s much sweeter, stronger and much more intoxicating. You reach over and your hand is curved over his forehead, the scar pressing against your palm and when you pull away, he grabs your wrist. He can’t be alone. Not right now. Not when his erection is aching and causing the worst pain that he’s ever felt. Everything is too much at this moment. Coming to you was a mistake, but it was the best mistake that he ever made. You’re the only thing keeping his grounded at this very moment.,

With your wrist in his hand, he pulls himself up, and pulls you closer to him, your knees bumping against the edge of the mattress and he pulls you down. His lips are on yours and it’s messy, spit slipping between the corners of the lips, his hands clawing and tugging off your clothes and he doesn’t have the patience to take off his. His bulge is pressed against your thigh, rocking back and forth. It’s a steady motion at first, something so sweet and slow that it leaves him groaning out your name filled by a lovely curse. Soon, everything becomes filthy. Heavy rocking motions that leaves him panting and drooling over your shoulder as his hands palm over your breasts and tease at your nipples and his face i flushed, a deep red that paints him in a heavenly glow and he’s begging for you to remove his suit, to touch him and kiss him. You cry underneath him, try to latch onto him for another kiss but his eyes are half lidded, his hips thrusting until he’s he’s crying your name and holding you close, his breathy moans echoed into your ear and it’s the sweetest thing when he looks at you, and his first thought is kiss you once more as he shudders above you.

Jin wonders how he must look to you. So desperate enough that you’d listen to him without another command. You’re quick to pull his clothes off, the black suit leaving nothing to the imagination already exposes his muscular body, but without it, he stands proud with a dark blush over him. He’s beside you, and his cock springs free, pre-arousal drooling onto your stomach as he rises above you. Sweat is already on his body, faded scars that curve around him and he’s toned, sharp and rugged while you are soft and everything nice. It makes his heightened arousal feel all that much filthier. He’s a gentleman no matter the situation, his lips on yours as he shares a passionate kiss with you, sucking on your pink tongue as he fingers at your hole and he’s so close to spilling when he hears you squeal and open your legs, stretching your hole to fit more of his thick fingers and he spills over your stomach in hot seed, painting you white. His fingers leave you and he can feel your hole flutter against the tip of his cock and it takes just a single push to bury himself inside of you, your back arching and hands clamping down on his biceps as you call his name. His smile is wide, charismatic and holds all the charm of the world as he ruts against you.

Dabi:

Dabi is burning, his body is hot and it’s absolute torture. His erection is pressed against the inside of his jeans and His body is hot and it’s not in the way that it is, so consuming so heavy, full of dread and he goes to you because in the end, he has you all to himself. The man who tries to hide all his emotions is breaking, ripping apart- figuratively- and he’s racing towards you, running and pleading to make it you and he’s knocking on your door, trying to fight the urge to seem so desperate and pathetic when you don’t answer. He can’t seem desperate, not when you’re so close, not now. He’s lasted for this long, he can last for just a few more seconds. The moon is high above him, and his clothes smell like vanilla and peppermint mixed with cheap alcohol and smoke and it makes his stomach churn and acid laced on his tongue. He knocks once more, his nails scratching at the door and he doesn’t beg, but the plea is so thick in your name, that he might as well be on his knees and ask for forgiveness if it meant you’d welcome him into your arms.

The door opens and half his face is shrouded in shadows and the other is illuminated by the dodgy street lamps in your neighborhood. You welcome him inside and he brushes your touch away and he’s never been so thankful before to wear a jacket. He isn’t sure how he would react to having you touch his bare skin, not when it's painful enough for him to touch himself. Concern is laced thick in your words and he shakes his head, trying to fend off your worry as goes to your bedroom. His straps are staggered, his hand on the wall as he walks to your room, and in the room, the scent of the aphrodisiac shifts into else- something more than the basic churning in his stomach and into him having to sit down and remove his jacket, the heat finally catching up to him. Your shadow stretches into the room and when he looks up, you’re already walking towards him, kneeling before him and grabbing his hands in yours. He isn’t sure how to tell you that he got hit by a quirk that’s making him lose his mind, that’s making him picture you dressed in nothing, and when your hand slips from his to cup gingerly at his jaw, he leans into your touch. It takes nothing more than for you to call his name, a soft whisper that he can barely hear through his beating heart that echoes and pounds in his ears, to confess what it is that's making him act in such a way. It’s embarrassing for him. He doesn’t want your worry, he doesn’t want your gentle touches and the way that you coo his name. He can’t stand how you sit beside him and refuse to leave him. It's making him feverish and you gently nudge his face so he’s looking at you.

Even looking at you proves to be too much. It’s too hard for him- his erection pulsing in his pants, the lack of air in his lungs, and his mind so foggy that the only thing he can do is stare at your lips that move in soundless words. He can’t focus. Not one bit, not with the quirk and you being so prevalent in him when he’s this close to you. There is nothing he can do but to kiss you. His lips meld against yours, his hands twisting into the shirt and staining the fabric with his hands, and he keeps you close, not wanting to pull air for air even if his lungs really are starting to burn. You’re so close to him, so soft and delicate under his touch and he’s lowering himself, bowing before you just to kiss your lips. You’re beside him, the bed dipping under his weight and you’re just here with him, so real and touchable, he can’t help but rush to touch you.

Clothes are removed, limbs entangled and knees bumping into each other. It’s sloppy and rushed, and it’s enough for him to climax and leave his thighs in white and dark purple and peach. His hands hold onto your body, never once leaving your body without his touch. His body burns and there’s a stinging pain in his abdomen, and he isn’t sure if it’s the aphrodisiac or his quirk that’s making him so feverish. Your hand wraps around his cock, massaging at his balls and slipping upwards to the base. Your thumb slides the arousal down, slicking it around his cock until he’s pleading in your ear to touch him. Everything is just too much- there’s too much emotion that is bubbling inside for him to even fathom, the sensations making his head spin, and the taste of you fading from his tongue. He wants you, he wants you in a way that is dependent and obsessive. Ever so needy, he’s kissing you harshly, sucking on your bottom lip and orgasming from a simple handjob. He pulls away from the kiss, his eyes half lidded as he nudges you with his shoulder, falling into his back, his cock still erect and bubbling with semen that drips off of him in shining pearls. He’s naked on your bed, his climax strong and enough for the lights to blind him and he can’t think of anything else when you climb above him.

You run your hands against a trail of staples, and it’s enough to make goosebumps appear over his body as you lower yourself onto him. His entire body is sensitive and sex fills the room and he can taste just how sweet you are, and he’s deep inside of you. He smiles sweetly, and you feel so good on him, so nice and soft, and he’s swiveling his own hips, aching to feel you deeper and deeper. His climax is flush, his body burning and hands reaching for your thighs, holding you close to him. When you lean down, he captures your lips in a kiss, smiling against you. Dabi’s own climax is burning against his skin, his scars tingling under your touch and your lips pressed against his jaw and his eyes are wide, his hands clawing around you and he pushes himself deeper, and even with you on top, he’s doing the work. Deprived of everything sweet and overflowing with bitterness, he can’t help but keep you close to him. Scarred and muscular, his arms wrapped around you and keeping you close to his chest, as he just soaks his cock in you. There is nothing but pain that feels, and yet, he feels all of you, so warm and soft compared to him.

Iguchi Shuichi:

With the aphrodisiac settling inside of him, he rushes towards you, eager and fearful of all the arousal that is bubbling and consuming him. Shuichi is running through the night, his legs sore and muscles begging for rest, but he can’t stop, not until he’s by your side, not until he’s safely nestled in your arms. The burning desire inside of him is making his lungs burn, more so than all the running he did. It’s a chill that enters him and makes every breath sharp, a chill that runs through his body. He stands in front of your door, and he’s catching his breath, hands on his knees as he breathes in and out, his claws digging into his knees and when he stands, he’s already knocking at your door. He’s shakily grabbing and jiggling at the handle as he calls your name in a hushed whisper. There isn’t much that he can say other than he needs you to open the door, quickly, before someone other than you sees him in such a shameful state.

There’s many advantages to having a mutation quirk- especially one that’s a variant of an animal, and that is that most, if not all, your senses are heightened. He can hear your careful steps before he can see your shadow between the door and the floor. He can faintly smell your dinner, the sound of the television in the background and he can smell you, something mixing with the aphrodisiac until it’s just you at the very end of it. You’re the one filling his lung with the shape and painful scent, replacing the vanilla and peppermint, something so thick and wonderful gone in just a simple breath, only to be replaced by you. The effects of the aphrodisiac are still in effect when you open the door and they're heightened even more. You stand in front of him, the light illuminating you in a heavenly glow and with worry creasing your features and he’s the one to take the first step and lean into you.

It’s the gentle look that you give him, his name on the tip of your tongue, and already so weak, he falls into you, letting you hold him as you struggle to close the door and he’s little more than dead weight against you. His hand already having snuck to cup his sex in an attempt to avoid having you feel it, but the pressure is more than enough for him to hiss. You ask what’s wrong and he doesn’t know how to tell you what happened to him, but when you run your hands through his hair, the words are already rushing past his lips. He speaks faster than he can think, the story mixed with events as he rushes through it, while he palms himself through his jeans. He can’t look at you while he does something so humiliating, but he can't pry himself away from you either, his snout pressing against the soft curve of your neck as he presses the heel of his hand further into himself. He’s gasping, and whimpering, acting so painfully shy that he even whispers your name is something perverse. You continue to stroke his hair, and it’s panting, whining and humping against your leg that he can’t take it, that the sensations are just too much at the moment. He needs for you to touch him, to just do something more than pet him.

The points of his teeth nips at your shoulder and he’s struggling to keep his moan muted as his body shakes against yours. He’s apologizing and he’s ashamed of his actions to palm himself in front of you, that he can’t look at you. When you cup his face and have him look at you, he’s apologizing, and telling you that it just felt too good and that he can’t think with you so close to him. You pull him onto the couch, the television shutting down and for a brief second, silence fills the room. You sit on the couch, the cushion soft underneath you and your hands grab at his as you pull him close to you. The aphrodisiac is making his mind muddy and slow, and he can only watch as your hands carefully and tantalizingly slow undoing his zipper and he’s flustered. With tears in his eyes as his own shaky hands grabbing at your wrists but it does nothing to stop you. You undo him, and you're so soft against his cock, freeing it from the confines of his pants. Your warm hand is wrapped around the base, giving it a few slope strokes where the friction makes his leg jerk. His head is thrown back, hands covering his mouth as you wrap your lips around his cockhead. Soon into the rhythm, his hands are on the back of your head, pushing you down to the base of his cock, your spit soaking him and something salty and thick squirting down your throat. The soft feel of the inside of your cheeks press against his side, hollowed cheeks as your hand grip onto his thighs and your little whines and whimpers make him thrust haphazardly into your open mouth. He keeps you there until you pat against his thighs and when you look up at him with tears in your eyes and drool running down your chin, his eyes go dark.

Shuichi goes for you, pinning your back down on the couch as he captures you in a kiss, his tongue thick and slimy inside of you, and he’s pulling your shorts down, rubbing his coarse fingers against your slit, spreading your arousal around the entrance of your hole. He’s animalistic, holding the traits inside of him, dominant and needing to breed, the want to push himself deep inside you overtakes him and he muffles your moan with a kiss as he unsheathes himself in you. Your sex pulses and throbs under him as he frantically ruts himself against you. He’s nipping at every exposed inch of skin, ripping your clothes off and suckling on your sweet breasts, his head buried in your chest and when he rises, your chest is covered in a thin layer of drool. Your hole is soft, gummy walls that wrap around him, twitching when he hits a certain spot and he can’t think, can’t even make out a sentence, and only your name is the most coherent thing that is said as he fills your hole with his seed.

Sako Atsuhiro:

There is nothing worse for Atsuhiro than what is happening now. He holds an image to the public, to his comrades, to you- and that is that he is composed, he’s a showman and when in the public eye, he maintains his appearance. Yet, the quirk, something like a perfume that wrapped around him, has stuck. The aroma was- or rather is- sweet and no matter how far he runs, it just won’t leave him. It’s humiliating. This is one of the worst things that has ever happened to him and he’s seen and participated in his own share of hell. His pants have become too tight, his cock straining and begging for release and even just the idea of pleasuring himself leaves him with a hot face. Without a second thought he rushes to you, his steps quick until he’s running and sweat beads and makes his clothes stick to him. He doesn’t want you to see him in such a disheveled state, but then again, you’re the only one that can see him like this, that can see him as anything less than him. He’s running and breathing roughly and his heart is pounding against him and there is nothing more that he can think of than to go to you, ignoring the stares and fighting his way through his own personal inferno just to be near you.

The lights are on and it gives him all the motivation to rush to your door and knock frantically; he’s begging to be let inside like it’s death that is chasing him. The lock clicks and when you open the door, he’s quick to rush past you, removing his mask and giving a kick to close your door as he captures your lips in his. Everything is so easy with you, and yet, standing just in front of you and kissing your lips proves to take his breath away, it drains him, and he’s drowning all over again. Peppermint leaves his lungs burning, and with your lips on him, it’s replaced by sweet hibiscus, flooding and sprouting from his lungs and he never wants to let you go. He holds you close, his hands on your waist and when he parts from you, you look at him stunned and he can’t help but laugh. It’s soft, a simple chuckle that grows as he buries himself in the curve of your neck as his laughter grows. Your hand rests at the nap of his neck and your fingertips tease at the edge of his balaclava. The simple graze of your skin against his has him press his weight against you. His hands haven’t left your sides and with a tired voice, he tells you what happened- the quirk, the scent, the way that his only thought was to be with you. It’s all so draining to just be in front of you, and with his erection tucked in his pants, he isn’t sure how much longer he can wait until he’s creaming and staining the inside of his clothing, to be so humiliated in front of you as he pleasures himself, but he can’t hold back, not when you’re in front of him and the feel of your tongue is making his length throb in his palm.

Your nails scratch along his neck, trailing over the bumps of his spines and a shock runs down his body, his breath catching in his throat and his hands squeezing down on your sides. Slowly, he lifts his head as his balaclava is lifted and removed, his hair is left ruffled and curls left messy. He leans towards you, trying to capture you in a kiss once more, but when you pull away, he lets out a groan, bowing his head and resting it on your shoulder. He’s begging for you to touch him, to just let him kiss you one more time. It's too much heartache to go without you for a second longer. You coo his name and lift his head, brushing back his hair that is stuck to his face. It’s too much to feel your gentle and cool touch against his burning body and he’s shaking his head, grabbing your hand and pressing it to his chest where his heart beats against your palm. It’s too forward of him. He knows that this isn't him whatsoever. He’s a gentle lover, your needs are put first because even just seeing your blissful expression is enough for him to feel the familiar knot in his stomach. This, however, is just too much, to have you touch him so softly, a ghost over his skin and your lips brushed against his, he’s dying and gasping for breath, reaching towards you as a hand unbuttons his pants and he’s massaging his cock over his briefs.

It doesn’t take much for him to spill in his briefs, to his hand moist and sticky and his body shaking and moans filling your mouth as he continues the motions. He needs the sweet friction that is making everything much too sharp and too powerful for him to just lay there. He’s dying and pulling you close and the way to your bedroom is messy. You’re already on his lips and he won’t lose that feeling again, not until the bed is underneath you and his hands are on either side of your head. The covers are wrinkled and his clothes are discarded as he eagerly touches you, having them disappear into nothing but glass in his palm. You’ll pout and reprimand him for ruining your clothes, but for now, he’ll muffle your annoyance with a kiss as his lust clouds his mind.

Nimble hands tease against your slit, spreading your nectar around and massaging at your entrance, the tips of his fingers slowly spreading you and familiarizing the stretch of your hole.. The feel of your plush walls has him tight, his muscles tense and body feeling as if it were about to curl in on itself. His cock is erect, standing at attention, his tip tinted with red, blushing and bashful as milky white pours from him and drips against your entrance. He enters you with a euphoric moan, so sinful and depraved, that he stills for a moment, his muscles rigid as he tries to not to ejaculate so soon. Atsuhiro has just entered you, he can’t waste this opportunity when your hole is cushioned around his cock. The moans that leave your lips are rich in lust, his own muddled with sobs as if entering you is pure ecstasy. Ever the gentleman, he's always made sure to give you the first orgasm, but he can’t now. He’s already taken away that first pleasure, and as greedy as it is, he can’t stop. His hips move faster than he can think, skin slapping against skin as he moans your name, filling you with his seed and continuing even when you squeeze around him and claim that you’ve already reached your own climax.

Shigaraki Tomura:

It’s terrifying to know how much control one can have on another. Tomura is upset, a frown on his lips and the anger in him is quickly snuffed out, replaced as soon as it came with lust. It wraps around him in a thick smoke, encasing him and filling his lungs until he’s unable to breathe. An aphrodisiac is such a cheap trick, and he hates it. Embarrassment courses throughout him and he’s left doubling over, his hand so close to his erection until something metallic is on his tongue. He’s a man of many depravities, but he’ll be damned if he touches himself in an alleyway simply because of a quirk. He already has you and he’s chasing you, running through the street with you on his mind and his hand outstretched as if he could actually touch you. The friction of the seam of his pants has his breathing more rugged than if he were just running. He knocks, and he tries to avoid raising his voice, but the pressure is building, and he’s already undoing his jeans and reaching past his briefs to release his erect cock.

The door opens and you stand there with a smile to greet him only to recoil in surprise when you see what he’s in the middle of. You make a joke and if it were any other day, maybe he would laugh and reply with something of his own, but he can’t. He pushes past you, kicking off his shoes and removing his clothes, sweat so heavy on his body and his body so hot that the cool air of your air conditioner is leaving him in goosebumps. It’s cruel how you touch him, your hand over his bicep and when he looks at you, his cheeks are pooled red. Every touch is electric, his mind numb and body moving on its own before he can register what he’s doing, he leaves your touch behind him. He goes to your bed, collapsing and removing his clothes on the way, leaving a trail for you to find in your home. You follow him, his name on your lips and hearing you call for him just leaves him laying on your bed, removing his briefs and fisting his hand around his cock. Your hand curves over his forehead and you tell him how he is burning as if doesn't know that. You date a killer, and you’re still so naïve and it’s adorable in a way that makes him want to ruin you. He doesn’t waste time- he tells you what happened and grabs your hand, moving it beside to touch the side of his face and he watches how your lips part ever so slightly, commenting on how red his ears are. He laughs and moves your hand closer to his mouth. You’re real, touching him and there is worry laced into your features and words, and it’s so genuine that he feels a heavy hand wrap around his heart.

Time is ever passing, continuing on and never returning and he’s hot, and begging, his cock erect and balls full with unspent semen. Pain is etched around him in scars and bullet holes, and he’s telling you in a broken whisper how it hurts, how he’s in pain and with how reddened his cock is, you have to believe him. Your fingertips touch against his chapped lips, his tongue peeking out to lick at the tips before he slides your hand down. Your hand curves around his neck and you linger for a moment where his heart is beating eagerly, rapidly as if threatening to pound out and leave him bleeding before you. Lust is clear in his eyes, his mouth parted and you kiss him, and he eagerly returns the gesture, releasing your hand to grab your face and deepen the kiss. Your hand moves on its own- sliding down his chest, brushing against his pebbled nipples and lower against his stomach and falling to his crotch to wrap around his pulsing cock and tug on it, spreading the pearling bud over him until he’s panting with his head resting on your chest and mouth open.

Thick ropes of white coat your hand and your name is sung out in a groan, depraved and everything bad. It isn't enough to just have your hand wrapped around his cock, to be given a handjob, he wants more. He craves it like a sinner to their vice. He’s erect, and his breath fans against your lips. Begging has never been so immoral as it is right now when he pleads to you, begging for you to touch him more, to let him do more than kiss you. It’s you that he cares for you, and even with your kiss and his climax, he wants something more, he needs to feel you underneath him. He pulls you close to him, your body clad in just your underwear and he's grinding above you, his spent cock over your underwear, his mouth latching on a breast and toying the nipple with his tongue. He grinds and it’s harsh, your underwear slick with your and his arousal, a string of semen connecting him to you as he pulls away and hastily removes your remaining clothes.

Your face scrunches in pain and you let out a whimper when he grabs your legs and pushes them to your chest, his cock aligned with your fluttering entrance. He watches as your expression changes from pain to pleasure, your sex tightening around him. Clicking fills the room, your entrance allowing him to slip in his body twitches in response, every nerve and hair on it’s end as he feels your insides wrap around him. It’s animalistic, his hips moving on their own, the rhythm barely there and he’s only interested in his own climax. His mouth is slick with saliva and he’s above you, with your legs bent on your chest and his hips rocking back and forth. The inside of you is gummy, molding around the shape of his cock. It’s as if he’s going to leave your sex in the mold of his cock, never to have you forget who it is that is making your heart beat and sex tighten. Your hands entangle in his hair, threading his hair together as he buries his cock inside of you. He’s chasing his high, mouth open in a moan as a thick trail of drool drips from his mouth and coats over your collarbone. It’s filthy and degrading, but to him, seeing even a small portion of you covered in his spit has him spilling his seed inside of you. Tomura kisses you and it’s wet and messy, but it’s perfect as his lungs are deprived of oxygen and he gets to feel your hands claw at his back.

Chisaki Kai:

Filth clings to him so easily, that painstaking amount of time that he wastes to keep himself pristine is all for naught at the end. All ruined because of a simple quirk. His mask is lost, a casualty of the fight and all that he can breathe in is the air of the sick and depraved, the air of something sweet and intoxicating. Kai hates it all. When the drug is perfected and in the masses, he’s sure of who will get one of the few. The damn reminder of what and who it was that brought him to the floor of some alleyway so rotting that it makes his anger boil, his face hot and whether it’s from frustration or anger, he isn’t quite sure. He covers his mouth and nose, and the poor attempt at a mask is just that- a poor attempt. He can still breathe in everything, still taste the air that is filled with smoke and the dewy weather of the night. It’s horrific. He forces himself to go to you, because at this point, it’s either touch and ruin people and risk getting himself covered in more filth, and go to you and do what the quirk is making him do.

The cheap paint touches his knuckles as he knocks at your door. He doesn’t want you to be late in answering the door, you have to hurry up. Hurry up and get him out of this sickness outside. Hurry up and bring him inside where he can shower and rid himself of these clothes that have been sullied by everything but you. You open the door the second he raises his palm, a frantic and desperate attempt to let himself inside, to fix some cheap wood just as quick. Why he hasn’t moved you in with him yet is unbeknownst to him, but after today, he’ll start to push for it. When you open the door, he walks inside, kicking his shoes and ridding himself of his clothes before you can lock the door behind you. You call his name and his eyes snap towards you, bright golden irises that hold the fury of the sun behind them and he’s breathing heavily. He’s not in the proper state of mind, but damn it all. He tells you, and with every passing second, he becomes angrier. Stalking and following you throughout your home, until you’re backed up against a wall. At this very moment, he has lost his control.

You’re scared and that should be his top priority but he can’t think. He can’t focus on you when his erection is strained between his pants and your breath that smells like mint is against his own. Your eyes flutter to his crotch and when you catch a glimpse of his erection, his name a soft murmur of your lips, he pushes himself into you. His erection presses into your thigh and he can feel the shift of your muscles, the tightening and the jump, the feel of your breath changes into a shaky gasp and exhale and he’s in front of you, silent and face spoiled red. You reach out to touch him, your hand slowly going upward but just as you're there, just as he can feel the warmth of your hand hover against the side of his face, you retreat. He reaches for you immediately and places your hand against his face and he’s out of his mind, too consumed with lust to ever focus on the filth that once touched him, and too focused on you and the way your fingertips flutter against his cheekbones.

It’s an intense moment where you touch him without the feel of the mask or gloves, and he’s so soft. And when you blink, his mouth is on yours. Everything about him is all about control and precision, and yet, with this simple act of kissing, he’s sloppy, too forward and bumping his teeth against yours, trying to nip at your bottom lip only to give up and focus on your neck. Your hands have moved, cupping his face to curving against the back of his head and knotting your fingers into his hair, your own body grinding into him and pressing against his erection. His own hands wander through your body, touching underneath your shirt and cupping just the underside of your breasts to leave and trying to undo his own zipper, aching to release his dripping cock. Exploring your body in such a drunken state is new to him, every movement slowed down and leaving his knees weak and body filled with needles and pins- he can’t get enough. Your hands bump against his and the friction is enough for him to spill onto your shorts, staining it with a pearly white that is thick like cream and drips onto the floor.

His cock is in your hands, slick with his cum and just the right amount of friction to leave him moaning into your mouth. Clothing pools around you and him and his bare skin is touching yours. It’s rushed, knuckles bumping into each other, his cock teasing against your sex, and the sensation is elevated with the aphrodisiac of the quirk and it’s making his mind blurry and jaw wet with saliva. Your body and his are sticky with sweat, sweat pooling in joints and crevices and he’s disgusted but when he pinches around your pert nipple and you let out a sweet moan that has your nails digging into his biceps, he ignores all of it and focuses on you. Kai is high with lust, elevated and drunk and his lips are on yours as he enters your hole. It takes nothing more than a few pumps to get him to spill, to fill your sex with his cream and let it drip onto the floor as he pounds into you, too focused on his release and your quivering sex to focus on how you call his name. His face is flushed, sweat that curves down past his cheeks and drips onto your body as presses you deep against the wall and lets the aphrodisiac take control.

Kurono Hari:

There is no time to waste as he rushes to your home. The heel of his shoes click against the concrete and he must look like a madman as he runs through the night. The night is humid, sweat causing his clothes to stick to his body and the mask is held in his hands, the confinement of it all making him unable to breathe. Hari needs to go to you now. He needs to see you before his legs give out and he collapses onto the ground before him. It’s the damn quirk that is making him act so unlike himself, ruining his image and tainting his composure with such filth that perhaps there is truth behind eradicating quirks just for being wicked. He’s lost, his mind hazy with lust, corrupting the very essence of him, and it’s perverse. He doesn’t know how to take it. He reaches your door and he stands, catching his breath, his heart beating against the confines of his body, and he’s standing there, willing for the door to open, and unable to move his hands. It’s just then, that he notices his cock that throbs in excitement. He takes a deep breath and reaches for the key to your home in his pocket and quietly, he opens the door.

The inside of your home is cool, and it feels as if he’s been transported somewhere else, everything moving in slow motion as he walks through it, wading against the pool that is your home, his hand touching and never leaving the wall as he follows your singing. It’s loud and at certain points you mumble, but it's you. He’s growing closer, and closer until he finds you with your back turned, undoing a blanket and laying it down on the bed. You don't hear him as he walks behind you, and when he wraps his arms around your torso, you yelp and laugh when you realize that it’s just him. He isn’t sure what the aphrodisiac did to his mind to make it feel so out-of-body, but he enjoys how you press against his erection, how the sensation is doubled and when you give him a cheeky smile, he captures your lips in a kiss.

His hands are clawing at your body leaving lines in its wake, removing your shirt and grabbing a hand that cups his face to his erect cock. His lungs are burning, the kiss hasn’t broken since you’ve removed your shirt and he’s currently kneading at your bum, his hands removing your shorts and when you step out of them, he only pulls you closer to you. His fingertips tease at your rim, and you’re already dripping with arousal, staining the tips of his fingers with your sweet essence. You’re the one to pull away first, gasping for air and falling to rest on the bed, and you look up at him, your eyes wide and body naked as you glance down to his erection giving him a kitten-like grin. His hand reaches upwards and wipes at his lips, thick with saliva and full of the taste of you. Slowly, he removes his clothes, not wanting to waste time on such little things and he lets them fall onto your floor. His lungs crave for air, taking in as much oxygen as they can fill, and he’s leaning towards you, his hands on either side of you as you rest on your forearms, your grin now a mixture of nervous and excited as you ask what’s gotten into him. It's true, he's not so obvious in his advancement, not so needy to touch your body, much rather having you beg for him and grind yourself on his thigh, but with the aphrodisiac coursing through his veins, his composure is lost and damned to hell. His smile is sadistic, eyes piercing into yours and his answer is simple, as he whispers it to you, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear- “the cause of an aphrodisiac quirk.” He’s above you, jerking himself off in front of you and within just a few tugs, he’s spilling his seed over your stomach, watching it spurt out of his cock and slowly end in a drool that falls onto your pelvis.

It’s so damning to see him as anything less than who he is and how he presents himself and yet before you is a degenerate who gathers his semen in two fingers and pushes it inside your mouth, letting the taste fall onto your tongue. His grin is wide and he’s above you, pushing you down on your back and he captures you in another kiss. He wants you. He needs you at this very moment, more than he needs air, more than he needs anything. It’s just you that he wants. He ended you to kiss him and to run your hands down his body. He’s a degenerate, but he’s desperate, whining for you and grabbing your hand and letting it curve over his breast. He says nothing, but it’s a big enough clue to let you know to inch his nipple between your index and thumb and pull on the sensitive bud. His whine is echoed in your mouth and his erection is drooling on you once more. A blush creeps from his chest and onto his face, coloring him pink as his lower half is tipped with red and pearls that adorn his shaft. He aligns himself until his erection is pressed against your thigh, warm cream dripping and sliding off of you.

Your pillowy thighs pinch around his cock, and he hides his face in your shoulder, his hands gripping at your biceps as he pleasures himself using your thighs. Soft clicking sounds sound from him using you, his orgasm shaking through his body as he leaves open-mouthed kisses on your neck, grabbing you and pulling you close to him. To lose himself in pleasure is something he’s never allowed himself the pleasure to do. Hari would much rather prefer you with a drunken look of ecstasy on your face, your face in a heavenly blush and your hole leaking with his semen, but now he realizes the pure joy of it all. To mindlessly hump at your body and kiss your mouth and touch your warm body that squirms for him. Your hand curves over his cock and he moans your name, arching his back and hiding his face as you press it to your entrance. He slips inside, and the feel of your gummy insides makes his mind go blank, only the need to release is clear in his mind. He rocks himself inside of you, and the degenerate is gone, only a desperate man who wants to orgasm remains with a blissful flush and your name on his lips.