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inkykeiji · 4 months

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But also the thought of big brother Touya noticing you usually steal his shoes to run outside, and he loves it. But this one time he catches you and you hadn’t even realised that you’ve snatched Natsuo’s— but Touya noticed…

JOOOOOO this ask sent me into a fucking fit and i wrote an embarrassing amount about it i am so sorry (but also thank you for such a brilliant idea it had me reeling for days ily ily ily)

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, stepcest, noncon, touya is Awful, unrealistic amounts of cum, one (1) mention of implied underage, minimal prep, slight dacryphilia, fem!reader, implied physical abuse, rough sex words: 2.4k

You don’t notice—and, truth be told, you wouldn’t have noticed, had Touya not made such a big fucking deal out of it.

But, as always, that just isn’t his style.

A heavy, dirty palm claps over your mouth the moment you re-enter the mudroom, smothering the scream of surprise punched from your chest as another strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a broad chest.

“Shut up,” your eldest brother growls in your ear, though amusement tinges the edges of his words, demand spit through a grin.

Using his bodyweight, he manhandles you toward the steadily humming washing machine, spinning you around to face him just before he traps you against it, vibrating edge digging into your back.

“Jesus, Touya!” you heave out, a palm held flat over your heart in an attempt to calm it. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Y’know, I really can’t believe you’d do this to me,” he laments, an exaggerated pout molding his scarred lips. “I thought I was your favourite brother.”

“What?” your lashes flutter in quick succession, forehead warping with confusion. “You are? You know you are, you always have been—”

“That so? Who’s shoes are on your feet right now?”

Looking down, your gaze lands on Natsuo’s tattered white sneakers—a stark contrast to Touya’s worn-in combat boots, or Touya’s fraying, battered Vans—and realization smooths your brow.

Oh no.

Head snapping up quickly, an explanation begins to bubble in your throat, stalled by the sudden ice in your veins, your heart plummeting through your ribcage.

“O-Oh! Uh, I-I’m sorry—I just grabbed them—I wasn’t paying attention—”

“So you’ll just slip your feet in anyone’s shoes?”

The innuendo infusing his snarky tone doesn’t go unnoticed and your eyes narrow, face puckered up with something sour.

“Of course not,” you spit, chin tilting up a little.

A hum of incredulity vibrates in his throat, head quirked. “Doesn’t seem that way.”

Your features flatten, fixing your big brother with an unimpressed look, though your heart is still in your stomach, pounding away irregularly.

You’re sure he can feel it, throbbing in your gut, his hips pressing further into your own, demanding an answer.

“Touya, they’re shoes. They mean nothing. It was an innocent mistake—”

“Prove it.”

“Prove what?” you frown, voice beginning to strain beneath desperation. “It was an accident, meaning that it was unintended, not deliberate, like—”

“Prove to me that I’m your favourite brother.”

A pang sears through your chest, features falling as if he had just physically struck you, appalled that he would even insinuate such a thing, as if he could ever not be your favourite, and your response comes out harsher than you intend, scathing your tongue.

“I prove that to you every fucking night.”

Sapphire flares, engulfing pinprick pupils, the hinges of his jaw flexing with a slow, controlled exhale. It wafts across your face, chills skittering after it as dread unfurls, thick and sticky, in the pit of your stomach, engulfing your heart in a tarry, suffocating embrace.

“Y’know, that mouth of yours is real filthy,” he begins, eyes lidded with a practiced indifference, not enough to hide the flames glimmering in his irises.

Of course your mouth is; it’s routinely glazed by your eldest brother’s tongue, your teeth lacquered in thick spit stained with spice and ash—irrevocably soiled, ruined, forever his.

A response blazes on your tarnished tongue—something you try to keep locked away behind two rows of ivory, something you try to snuff out, muscle pressed hard against the roof of you mouth—but it’s too hot, it’s too strong, melting past your teeth to ooze from your lips, venom and syrup.

“Oh, yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?”

You expect a backhand for such a rude response, face preemptively wincing as the phantom of sharp knuckles and metal rings caresses your cheek, but he just smirks, eyes lazily sweeping to the sink crammed between the machines, zeroing in on a thick bar of soap.

“Oh, I’ve got some ideas.”

You’re too slow, too weak, too stupid to escape it—or, rather, he’s too fast, too tough, too smart to allow such a mistake, a fluid flash of ivory and crystal as he leans forward, palm already clasping around the bar when you try to wriggle from below his body, his free hand catching your jaw and yanking you to back toward him, hard enough to give you whiplash.

Pain sears down your spine, a yelp splintering in your throat, body gone pliant beneath your big brother’s touch.

“Open.”

Head shaking, your jaw clenches under callused fingertips in defiance, molars grinding together.

“I said, open,” he growls, expertly squeezing the hinges, mouth popping open easily without your permission.

You should’ve known he’d do that, a trick he learned when you were teenagers, a trick he’s been exploiting ever since.

The bar shoves past your teeth, scraping against the edges, thick curls of soap collecting in the divots of your cheeks.

A bitterness explodes on your tongue, flattened to the underside of the bar, and your features scrunch up in distaste, nose wrinkling, eyes shut tight.

“Keep it in there,” he says, thumb pressing it in a little further, huffing out a chuckle at your responding gag. “If you spit it out before I cum, I’ll tie it to your goddamn mouth and fuck you again, y’hear me?”

Azure eyes search your face, slow and calm as they wait for you to nod your understanding. Then he’s smirking, something smug and arrogant curdling the corners of his lips, and he’s spinning you around, grip rough and harsh as he pins you between the machine and his body, and he’s kicking at your inner ankles, toes forcing your legs further apart, knees slipping between your own, keeping them pried open.

“You know,” he’s saying conversationally, hands unhurried as they creep up your dress, the hem beginning to bunch around his wrists. “I’ve always found it so cute when you act as if you don’t want this.”

Fingers crawl between your spread thighs, muscles tensing around his as if they’d like to snap shut, his own strong legs urging yours wider.

Two digits find your hole, drenched and desperate, rubbing circles into it through the lace of your panties—massaging, tips just barely dipping inside, snorting out something sick and cruel as your empty cunt pulses and flutters, a poor attempt to suck them in further.

He plays with you for a breath, gathering the fabric between his forefinger and a thumb, peeling the sticky material from where it was clinging to your folds.

Holding it taut, he lets your shame build, flushing hot through your blood, pinpricks sprouting across your skin, Touya waiting for that telltale whimper before finally allowing it to slap back wetly, another little snicker dripping from his lips.

Callused pads find your clit, puffy and yearning and jumping beneath his touch. He brushes against it—a crude apology of sorts—then clamps down on the swollen nub, something high and pitchy cracking in your throat.

“It’s always so hot,” he speaks over your cry, grip strengthening, “when you act as if this doesn’t turn you own just as much as it turns me on.”

Jerking forward, his hips grind into your ass, hard cock pressed tightly to supple flesh. His jaw latches over your shoulder, chin digging into your collarbone and keeping you in place.

“So don’t stop, ‘kay?”

Your head nods; automatic, instinctual, unable to resist even if you wanted to.

Because yeah, sure, he’s fucking sick, but you’re just as bad, ailed with the same illness, contracted from the same diseased household, the both of you growing, festering, in the same putrified environment—nurtured there, poisoned there, by each other, for each other.

And so, you obey, you perform, body thrashing against his own, palms planted on the top of the washer pushing back hard, his cock twitching in response.

Yeah, yeah, keep fighting him.

The sound that rattles in his chest is dark, dangerous, lips spread into a wide grin. One of his hands curls around the back of your neck, grip hard enough to stutter the blood in your jugulars, before he slams your head down against the machine, skull bouncing a little with the impact.

The force nearly sends the soap skittering from your mouth, eyes widening as you manage to catch it with your teeth, drawing it back in. His palm skims down your spine, splayed flat on the small of your back, pinioning you in place.

His cock breaches you suddenly, one sharp, swift thrust to bury him to the hilt, head jammed tight against your cervix. It fucking stings, delicate skin splitting as your hole stretches, strains, struggles to swallow him whole, desperate to succeed, to submit.

You choke on a gasp, the soap wedged in your mouth making it difficult to inhale, and Touya laughs, cruelness curling on his tongue.

His other hand wraps around your waist, fingertips snapping tiny capillaries beneath their touch, using the leverage to pull you back as his hips hammer forward, each drive of his cock jostling your entire body, the edge of the machine jabbing your tummy.

It’s ruthless right from the start, just as it always is with Touya, cock pounding into you hard and fast and deep, the sharp slap of his pelvis against your ass rivalling the steady rumble of the machines.

The soap is already starting to slip again, melting in the heat of your mouth, eroded by the saliva drooling in thick strings from the corners, and you whine, teeth sinking further into the softening bar, a feeble attempt to hold it in place.

Even now, you’re still so eager to please him.

But it’s hard to hone your concentration on the slick bar between your lips when Touya’s consistently ramming against that swollen patch of flesh buried deep within you, cockhead rolling over that spot in quick little motions, in time with the piston of his hips.

Sparks of pleasure quiver down your legs, each thrust sending another bout flooding through your veins, a dense, hot heat beginning to furl in the pit of your stomach.

It feels so good, muffled moans seeping past the seam of your stretched lips, fingers curling around the corners of the washing machine, nails scraping metal as you try to anchor yourself, weakly pushing back against your big brother, begging for more.

It’s a shame your big brother knows your body so well.

“Don’t you dare,” he pants out, purposefully angling his hips so he stops brushing up against that spot, his next thrust missing it completely. “Bad little sisters don’t get to cum on their big brother’s cock, don’t you know?”

The denial burns your eyes, a stringy, contorted wail of his name wavering around the soap as a thick shield of tears blurs your vision, nose twitching with a sniffle.

“Yeah, yeah, cry about it, baby,” he mocks, the edges of his letters gone wispy, sounding more like a plead than a demand. “It’s your own fault; if you weren’t such a disrespectful little brat then maybe niichan would’ve let you cum.”

You hate being told no by anyone, but you hate being told no by Touya the most.

It hurts, chest aching with rebuff, but your body does as he asks anyway, incapable of disobeying a direct order from its owner, tears spilling past your lashes to pool in little puddles on the metal.

You try to say please, to beg so prettily, with glittering lashes beaded with tears and sweet little niichan’s hiccuping your ribs, but the wiggling of your tongue causes the soap to slip again, a sweet yelp of concern trembling in your throat as your teeth dig in deeper, jaw tensing, cheeks hollowing around the bar in an attempt to suck it further into your mouth.

The agony doesn’t last long, though, your combined obedience and weeping and the grumbling vibrations from the machine enough have Touya cumming quickly.

You should’ve known that would happen, too, Touya now a seasoned pro in the art of the quickie, a feat achieved through years of practice, in family game closets and your personal shower and the backseat of his car.

Two more pumps before his cock is throbbing almost violently, his hips stammering to a stop, flexors pressed flush to your ass as he fills you to the brim with hot, thick cum.

The moment he’s got nothing else to give, finished stuffing your cunt full of his rotten seed, he’s pulling out despite your whines of protest, knees hitting tile as his hands curl around your thighs, nails dimpling plush flesh, carving crescents of angry purple as he wrenches them further apart.

Dollops of cream cascade down your inner legs, his thumbs sure to move out of their way as they lazily roll past, unobstructed.

“Don’t move,” he breathes, voice infused with a sick sort of awe as his head tilts, spine curving uncomfortably while he follows them down your calves, watching as they trickle right into Natsuo’s shoes.

“Fuck,” he nearly whines, nose nuzzling into the back of your knee, lips dragging across your skin as he speaks again. “D’y’think you can squeeze some more out f’me?”

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

Empty hole contracting around nothing and muscles in your gut tensing, you manage to wring more of the sticky substance from your body, sending another torrent of cum flowing down your legs in silky streams to soak into, to stain, Natsuo’s soles.

A praise sticks in Touya’s throat, garbled and heavy, his tongue smoothing along the residual streaks gleaming on your skin, sopping up the remnants of his pleasure, painting over them with a thick salve of saliva.

“There,” he’s murmuring when he gets to his feet again, nose trailing along the curve of your neck with a single deep inhale, lips planting a chaste kiss to your earlobe. “That should be enough to remind you to never make such a careless mistake ever again, right?”

Your head turns, nose bumping against his own, wet eyes blinking twice. Waiting.

Something sinister smears across your big brother’s lips, crystal eyes shimmering as they watch his fingers dislodge the bar from your mouth, clumps of soap clinging to the edges of your teeth.

“Yes, niichan,” you say immediately, voice wrecked and raw, the confirmation grating on your throat.

A thumb rubs along your front teeth, smudging the soap in a crude caress, his gaze mollifying slightly.

“That’s my good little sister.”

#dabi smut #dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #todoroki touya smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya x you #todoroki touya x y/n #tw:stepcest #tw:noncon #literally wrote you a whole oneshot jo i am so sorry #it just #kinda grew out of control LMAO #anyway ily lots and i hope you are doing wonderful #please have a fantastic week n drink ur water!!!#inky.jo #clari gets mail #inky.dabi #inky.touya

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comfortless · 5 months

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If it's not too much trouble or boring to write, may I ask for more König taking care of sick reader? Thanks :)

(The anon that asked for the other sickfic and that is sick again 🥲)

König brings you breakfast. Tries, at least. There was an attempt made to ensure that the plate of hastily thrown together food and the big mug of lemon tea look nice together. Warm bread and your favorite jam, butchered on the plate with the butter running off to the other side of it entirely. He’s not a chef, and breakfast isn’t quite his forte; König much prefers you cooking in the mornings and the lazy way he can drape himself over you as you do so.

But… you’re ill and look so somber and adorable tucked into bed, wearing one of his shirts and hardly able to keep your eyes open when you’re presented with food. To think this poor little angel would have to suffer so… He momentarily sets everything aside, tells you in a quiet tone of voice that everything around the house has already been handled, so all you need to do is focus on taking care of yourself. No. Actually, he can help you with that too.

Despite any protests, you find yourself seated in his lap, one large hand gently caressing your cheek as a digit prods at your lips. There’s an expectation of compliance. He knows what’s best, or, has himself convinced that he does.

“You have to eat,” he chides, bringing the bread right up to your mouth. Apple butter for the first bite, some other sticky confection on the next. And as frustrating as it might be when all you would like to do is curl back into bed and nurse your aching head with the comfort of a cool pillow, König does not let up until every crumb on the plate has been cleared.

There’s a dollop of jam smattered across your bottom lip from being hand-fed like a disobedient pet. Then, a warm tongue grazing over it and a mouth leaving a trail of kisses up to the peak of your warm cheek. “Messy little thing,” he huffs against your temple. “And your tea..?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t try to scald your mouth feeding you that, too. His hands find your hair instead, then massage at the nape of your neck as you sip away at the bitter drink. There’s a rumble in his chest as he tries to soothe you, humming a song his Oma used to sing to him as a boy until your eyes shut and you relax against his chest in sleep.

If or… when you do try to leave the bedroom, you’re met with a horribly doting brute. He isn’t entirely sure what else he can do to console you. He isn’t one to sit about on his phone for hours on end, but his search history is assuredly a mess by now. You’re not given the chance to walk even a foot past the threshold of your shared room before you’re picked up and toted about like a bride on her wedding day with no warning.

Medicine is pressed into your mouth by his hand while you’re sat on the countertop, trying to assure your weary, giant nurse that you’re fine. He could stand to relax a bit. König is nothing short of a tense, anxious nightmare when he’s worried about something, especially something as important as you. It’s no surprise when you find yourself lying back on the couch with his face buried into your chest as you stroke at the top of his head, the overgrown buzzcut prickling the tips of your fingers. He smiles in his sleep, babbles something like a wish as his hands twitch to squeeze at your sides.

“Just… stay right here.”

#never a bore! i love writing silly soft fluffy Kö #anything to try and cheer up the lil wisp in my phone screen heheh #i hope that you are okay! i will send you all of the love and light in the world hand feed it to you too if i must!#until then i hope you’re resting up and drinking lots of water!

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