#and to be open to the suffering it causes

[woollypoison]

Never odd or even

Male reader x Le Sserafim Kim Chaewon Word count: 10k

"It’s fifty-fifty. It either happens or it doesn’t."

You set your glass down on the table so hard it nearly cracks. "It is not fifty-fifty."

She shrugs—Chaewon’s quintessential uncaring attitude about anything you say—as she falls down into the couch. "But it is, though." She pops open another beer like she hasn’t had enough to drink already.

She always does this. Chooses some ridiculously wrong position to dig her heels in. Like if she just believes it to be true, the universe will bend to her will out of sheer exasperation. You should just ignore it, and just let her believe what she wants to believe. There really is no point to it with her. You drag a hand down your face, because you've been here before. You’re always here. There is a universe where you’ve been having this argument since the dawn of time. Monty Hall sits upon his cosmic throne and watches you suffer.

"You pick a door," she says, holding up one finger like she's making a serious mathematical point and not actively committing a crime against logic. "And then Monty—whoever the fuck he is—opens another door. And now there’s two left. So, you know. Fifty-fifty. You either win the prize or you don’t win shit."

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

And she still doesn’t care. If anything, she revels in your frustration, grinning and taking a lazy sip from her beer.

“I thought you liked your girls a little stupid,” she muses. You like Chaewon. Always have; since before her rejection and until now.

She might be onto something.

“That’s what I saw earlier at the club, anyway,” she mumbles, and it’s pointed, a sharp dagger concealed by a hushed voice.

You pay it no mind. It’s just Chaewon being Chaewon. Doing everything in her power to annoy the fuck out of you. You shake your head. “I like my girls with a basic understanding of probability.”

She hums, her gaze dragging over you, and it lingers. Long. Too long. So long it’s causing the alcohol induced haze to retreat from your brain. Then she just smiles again, takes another sip, and the buzz is back.

Chaewon stretches, arms flexed into a peak above her head, sliding against the backrest of the couch, her head landing against the armrest of the couch opposite of where you're sitting. Her legs stretch out off of the floor, her dress riding up, clinging to and stretching on her hips.

It’s a performance, designed to squeeze out resistance from any sap that would dare defy her. It’s impossible to tell if this is just Chaewon’s purest form, her instincts kicking in to naturally make any man submit, or if it’s a carefully crafted weapon, deliberately utilised and aimed with immaculate precision. Either way, it’s fucking lethal. Lace-trimmed thigh-high covered feet land in your lap, crossed. You glance down at them. Stifle a thought of fucking the exposed part of skin right below her dress and above her socks. Breathe out through your nose, annoyed.

She sees. She was waiting for you to see, to be more exact.

“What?” she asks, but she knows the answer. Feigning innocence, but the chances of it convincing you are slim. “Is the view not to your liking?”

You flick your eyes up to meet hers. Flat. Unamused. Stern. “Jesus, Chaewon.”

She cocks a half smile, hands up in the air like she’s being put under arrest but confident she can flirt her way out of it. “Relax. It’s just a joke.‘

Right. Just a joke. One she’s been playing at for far too long now. One you’re absolutely not in the mood for tonight. One that is quintessentially Chaewon. Mean. Sloppy. Reckless.

That’s what alcohol does to her. She gets all handsy and touchy and feely, disregarding any feelings or reservations you’d have about being touched meaninglessly by the girl that didn’t want you.

And the joke is not exclusive to you either. You’ve seen her like this before, with other guys. Hands on their shoulders and theirs on her hips, leaning in too close, laughing too loud. It’s just her usual mess. It doesn’t mean anything.

She’s warm, just warm enough that you can feel her through your clothes. But warm enough to make you fear the sparks could ignite something that shouldn’t be. Before you can have any more prohibited thoughts, you shift, trying to nudge her legs off of you.

She doesn’t budge. Deliberately. Straight up refuses to even acknowledge the attempt.

You sigh. “Get your legs off of me.”

Chaewon blinks at you, lashes fluttering faster than your heart can beat, her lips pouting— a poor substitute for saying she can’t believe you’d say that to someone this cute. She chuckles, transforms it into a smirk, and tilts her head.

“Make me.”

She presses the arch of her foot against your crotch. It’s right on target. Light. Testing. Provocating.

It’s impossible not to react. You could sit here, not do anything, let her rub your hardening cock through your pants a bit, enjoy the feeling of her getting you worked up. But that’s not what this is about. You know this pattern. As soon as you acknowledge it, it stops, and even if it didn’t, it would all be meaningless.

So you react. You grab her ankle, and shove her legs off of you.

She lets out a soft “oh,” before laughing, low and amused. She works herself back up right, shifting her legs underneath her, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit deterred. 

“Wow,” she mocks. “Sensitive.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your drink. It’s water. Unlike Chaewon, you know when to quit, much to her annoyance. “Stop being weird and focus.”

“I am focused!” she retorts, all tension and energy. “Are you focused?” she says finally, slow, saccharine, like honey that's taking its sweet time to drip from a spoon into your mouth. “Not too distracted by how fuckable I look in this dress?”

You don’t acknowledge it. Again, no point. You set your glass down with a deliberate clink— any noise to replace what she just asked—then reach for three random objects on the coffee table; her phone, a book, and a coaster.

“We’re settling this tonight.”

She puts her beer back on the table, folds her hands in her lap, and sits with her whole body pointed at you. She shakes her body loose with slight movements. Then, slowly, she smiles.

“Please,” she says, voice sultry and teasing. “Teach me a lesson, professor.”

You’ve probably explained the theory to Chaewon more times than there are episodes of the show that inspired the discussion. It’s time for a practical run-through. You grab the three nearest things you can find and leave standing upright to function as make-shift doors—your phone, your glass of water, and a book Chaewon has been quipping from for the past month, How to Date Men When You Hate Men—and you form a neat row of three. “Let’s drill it into your skull. Three doors. One has a prize. Pick one.”

And for all the effort you put in, she barely looks. Eyes on you, finger pointing in a different direction. “The book.”

“Right, and that was a random choice out of three, meaning—”

“That I was either right or I was wrong. Fifty-fifty.” She shrugs, and shuts the door on this method of having her understand.

She’s perfectly frustrating. “it’s not fifty-fifty—”

She shifts the opposite way from her previous slide, her head landing in your lap. Her cheek rests against your thigh, and her provocation pokes at your heart. She gazes up at you, lashes fluttering a hypnotic rhythm. “This is more comfortable. Keep going.”

How could you?

“Chaewon.”

She hums, but she doesn’t acknowledge your protest. “What? Does having a cute girl’s face this close to your dick make you nervous?”

Ignore it. If you acknowledge it, it only gets worse. You push it down, she’ll eventually grow bored, and as long as the boulder doesn’t slip from your hands, you’ll be done with this forever. “Okay, so now, Monty—”

“You’re looking a little serious,” she muses, herself looking anything but. “Would you look like that while getting head? All furrowed brows, all focused?” Her lips curve deviously like the curveballs she’s throwing you. “Or would you be more relaxed? I can go deep, you know. No need to worry about me.”

Every cell in your body is telling you to push back, take her up on what she’s offering, and let her ruin this night. But you know. You’d get your hopes up, but she’d just call it a silly joke. Keep ignoring it. She’ll get bored.

You take a slow breath. Slow down your rhythm. “Are you done? Monty opens a door that isn’t the prize. That leaves two doors with potential. Your first pick was only right one-third of the time, so if you switch—”

“Aaaah.” Her mouth opens, tongue peeking out like a landing strip, eyes fluttering shut like she’s waiting for you to shove your cock inside.

That’s it.

You shove her off, not rough, but firm, standing up from the couch you might have sunk in immediately. “Can you cut it the fuck out?”

She’s back upright, giggling, back landing against the couch, legs curled beneath her. “What’s wrong? Blood rushing away from your head?”

“Do you ever stop?”

Her arms stretch over her head again, and you’re starting to see a pattern with the way her dress is stretching against her hips. “Not when I’m having fun.”

It’s maddening. Talking with Chaewon is selecting a door, continuing to talk with her is being shown the wrong door and choosing to take it willingly. “You really don’t care how frustrating you make the Monty Hall problem, do you?”

She smirks. She must think she has it all figured out. “I already told you. Either something happens, or it doesn’t. Fifty-fifty, dude.”

“That’s really not how probability works.”

“That’s how life works.”

You shake your head, and accompany it with an equally disappointed sigh. “You just don’t want to admit when you’ve made the wrong choice.”

She stills, and it’s eerie. It shouldn’t have happened. Then, like a mask slipping back, she recovers with a sly grin. “Or maybe I just like my way better.”

Before you can argue, she makes her move, getting up, pressing against your arm, chest squishy, warm and deliberate against you. “But you can explain it to me as many times as you want.”

She’s impossible. “Chaewon—”

And she leaves no room for response. “Go on,” she purrs, pushing her tits smush against your bicep, molding around the way your muscles tense. “Teach me.”

Your patience and her dress have one thing in common. They’re both razor-thin. “I mean it.”

She hums, and she smiles, and she’s convinced you’re going to give in any second now. “Not a fan anymore of me touching you?” Her voice drops, all warmth and provocation. “Would you rather reverse the roles, have you touch me? Be careful. I’m sensitive.”

Your fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling it high with a firm and stern motion. “Cut it out.”

She clicks her tongue, and scowls in return. The joke is over, and you ruined her fun. “You liked it plenty when that slut at the club was all over you.”

“That’s different,” you say, your jaw tightening up. She knows it is, and it’s not fair. Does she think she can get away with it just because you’ve got a thing for her? Or, used to have, you try to convince yourself.

She’s so clearly unimpressed it’s almost hurtful. It wasn’t a lie though. It was different, that girl at the club never tore your heart out. But none of that matters when Chaewon wants to have her fun. She scoffs. “Must’ve been nice. You didn’t even flinch when she touched you. Just leaned into her, didn’t push her away like you do with me.”

You don’t answer. You let go of her wrist, sit back down, unsure what to make if anything yourself. You could have gone home with ‘that slut’. Had a great evening. Instead, you’re here, keeping your promise to Chaewon that you’d make sure she got home safe, wasting another night on a girl that should have long been in your past already.

That same girl plants both her knees next to yours on the couch, dress creeping above her hips, exposing the slightest hint of black and lace panties straddling your lap, settling against you.

You hate how right she feels here.

She rocks her hips down, just slightly, just testing the waters. And like an experienced professional, the joke’s back on. “You sure you don’t want to have a little fun?”

Your hands clamp around her waist—not pulling her closer. Pushing her off.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Just concedes as the distance grows.

“Come on,” she murmurs, trying to make sense of it all. “You used to love looking at me.”

Your arm extends fully, pushing her as far as your body allows. “That was a long time ago.”

She lets out a small scoff, more hurt than the lost one, finally relenting and shifting off your lap. The joke is no longer fun for anyone in this room.

You just have to bite the bullet. Separate her from yourself, let the alcohol fade from her system and figure out what to do after that. “Go to bed,” you exhale sharply, a forced sense of finality in your voice. “I’ll sleep here, and be gone before you wake up.”

Chaewon stares at you like you just suggested the unthinkable. Her eye twitches, a habit you’ve long learned to associate with her being so upset that something is going to break. Then, she exhales sharper than you did, standing up. “Fine. Whatever.”

She turns, stomping toward her bedroom, her pumps exploding with sound every step of the way. “It’s still fucking fifty-fifty, by the way!” she yells, right before she slams the door.

It’s suddenly silent. Silent enough to hear your heartbeat going crazy.

She’ll calm down soon enough. Hopefully.

The heat of her body still burns against you, scorching where she was pressed against you. But if you ran after her now, you’d get burned alive. You rub your hands down your face, sinking into the couch, staring into the ceiling as you mentally prepare for what’s bound to be a sleepless night. There’s no escaping those as long as Chaewon is a part of your life.

-

Sleep doesn’t come.

You want to blame it on the horrible way this couch is digging into your back. Or the sounds of the city being ever present. Or the dim glow of some street lights seeping into the living room through Chaewon’s curtains that never managed to fully close. But comfort isn’t the issue.

It’s your damn mind, that can’t shut the fuck up.

Too many thoughts, all tangled together like a string of memories that wrapped around itself far too many times. Her hands, her voice, her weight in your lap. Her unusually prickly temper, and her enhanced sloppiness.

It all feels too fucking familiar, and the moment you admit that, there’s no holding it back.

It started as a night much like this one. You and Chaewon, at her place, sitting too close for friends but too far apart for lovers. Laughing at everything and nothing. Drinking just enough to make the lines blur. You had thought—maybe. Hopefully.

And for a moment, you know, you had been right. It seemed like the kind of night you’d eventually be able to tell your kids about. An edited version, to cut out the once-in-a-lifetime pounding you intended to give her, but still, magical in its own way. 

The way she let you kiss her. The way she kissed you back. The way her eyelashes fluttered to pull you into the kiss. How her left thigh rode up yours. The way her fingers locked behind the nape of your neck. The way you told her you liked her.

Then the way she pulled back. The hesitation in her eyes. The way her voice broke when she said “I don’t think we should do this.”

The way a crack formed on your heart, barely being pushed together by the rest of your more logical organs as you forced yourself to nod and agree, to act like it was fine. Like you were fine. Like you hadn’t just managed to secure the right door, only to be forced to step into the wrong one.

And the way your heart formed a second crack when you saw her again. She was still the same. Still Chaewon. Like nothing had happened.

But something did happen to you.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not easy to ignore. Chaewon is an addiction to you, the next hit of this sweet obsession entering your veins as your screen lights up.

Chaewon: You awake??

You know you should just be failing at sleeping again. This can only lead to misery.

You: Yeah.

It’s quiet for a bit, but a new message makes its way to you all the same.

Chaewon: Cant sleep

If only she knew how she cursed you with the same fate. If not for her you’d be sound asleep in your own bed right now, or even better, in the bed of that chick you met at the club. What did she say her name was again? Kazuha? Instead, you’re here, repeating old patterns with exhausted probability.

You: That sucks.

Your answers are curt. Too perfect with punctuation for your usual back and forth. She doesn’t respond right away. She might be stubborn and annoying about things she’s convinced she’s right about, but she’s never been oblivious.

Then:

Chaewon: Are we okay?

You’re upset, but not heartless. It tugs.

You: We’re fine, Chaewon

Chaewon: Thats not a yes…

You might just scream out of frustration, your phone dropping on your chest, but obviously you can’t. She’d hear. She’s impossible. So fucking stupidly impossible. And yet, you find yourself typing anyway.

You: Do you want me to lie?

The pause is longer this time. Should you feel bad or just so tired that it doesn’t matter anymore?

Chaewon: No Chaewon: IdkChaewon: I just get nervous when ur like this

You: Like what??

Chaewon: DistantChaewon: CarefulChaewon: Upset with me

Your fingers hover over the keyboard without action. She’s not wrong. You are being careful. It’s her fault. She’d break your heart a second time in less time it took for it to beat. That’s dangerous.

You: Idk what you want me to say Chaewon

Chaewon: Idk either…Chaewon: But I miss how we used to talk

The memories flood in of the two of you just shooting the shit, countless evenings. Still…

You: We’re talking now.

Chaewon: U know thats not what i meant

And she’s right. You do know, but this is just easier. For you, for her. For the both of you.

Chaewon: Cant you just come over here and talk w me?

Chaewon: I miss you…

And before you can even overthink it—

You move.

-

There is a thought that creeps into your mind as the door creaks open and you step into her room. Something about a lion’s den, and then another one following it up about it actually being the lionesses that do the hunting. There’s no point to it. They all fade in an instant. She’s no huntress right now. She’s vulnerable, like prey, enticing you to be the hunter, looking so ready to be pounced on; curled up beneath her blankets, only the soft shape of her against the sheets to lure you in.

“Hey.” It’s a solid way to start a conversation, but you can’t help but expect more from her after calling you in.

You nod, eyes fleeing from hers, shifting awkwardly by the door. “Hey.”

It takes a while before you move. The same goes for her. She’s squinting, her eyes getting used to the darkness. She’s always been stubborn about letting you help her get a blue light filter on her phone.

She finally stops, and for a moment, your eyes meet hers. She carries a soft smile, the kind that made you fall for her in the first place. But there’s a difference in it; barely perceptible; most definitely flown under the radar by people not so obsessed with her face. There’s precaution sewn into it. The sides of her smile are constantly shifting and trembling, like she doesn’t know whether to keep it there or to switch to a more neutral expression. Then, she shifts, her left arm pulling out from under the cover and tapping the sheets next to her, an unspoken invitation.

You sit down with a sigh, back turned towards her. You’re not far, but you’re not close either. A safe distance, you think to yourself. The mood isn’t tense, but also not comfortable. Just… unsure.

You can hear her laps part, exhale, almost say something, and then close again a couple of times. It’s not until you finally turn to face her that she speaks.

“Do you remember that summer at the beach?”

Your eyebrows raise on instinct, disbelief unmistakably painted across your face, impossible not to notice, not even in this darkness. “How could I forget?”

The muscles on her face relax as her eyes drift away from your eyes, seemingly getting lost into her pillow, which she clutches tight. “You remember how you were so worried about me you gave me a piggyback ride back to the house?”

“No,” you scoff, “I remember you guilt tripping me into carrying your soaking wet ass across the sand.” Your face turns away from her again, hands clutching the side of the bed as your eyes veer off into the distance past the window; letting the glass serve as a canvas to project your memories onto.

You hear the sheets rustle behind you as she works herself upright, before reminding you exactly why you helped her back then in the first place. “You weren’t complaining back then! You were way too busy copping a feel of my ass.”

“Okay, now that’s not fair,” you snap back much too fast, much too flustered. “I wasn’t copping a feel, I was keeping you from falling. And besides, you weren’t helping either! Just hanging there all limp, mumbling you’d never be able to walk again.”

“I mean, it just hurt so bad. That jellyfish really fucked me up,” she chuckles back, and you can feel the pressure of her back leaning against yours.

There’s a soft silence, the one drenched in feelings you’d much rather stay in, instead of moving on to an uncomfortable reality. So you keep painting, hoping the window holds your memory-scape just a little longer.

“Do you remember what we kept talking about? To keep your mind off of the pain?”

You can tell she knows in the way she responds with an “Oh my god.”

Both of you say it at the same time.

“The fucking Monty Hall problem!”

There’s a beat of silence. First it’s a chuckle. It turns into laughter, and it quickly grows uncontrolled, unstoppable. The kind that makes the memories seem brighter, makes your body feel lighter, the kind that makes you throw your head back as she does hers. You both open your eyes staring at the roof, now sharing the same canvas to display footage of past days.

“God,” you breathe, your head locked in place but your eyes drifting over towards her face. “I miss those days.”

She giggles, nose scrunching. “I don’t miss what that jellyfish did to me.”

The laughter fades, and you think that maybe, just maybe you could forget about earlier and go to bed without feeling like shit. You shift, and she does too, turning towards her as she moves back to her original spot, leaning against the headrest, crawling underneath the blankets with her legs.

Your breath catches as you look at her. Your stomach turns. “Chaewon.”

She blinks, glancing up at you. “Hmm?”

“Did you—” You inhale sharply, but you can’t afford to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Did you seriously invite me in here just to talk un-dressed like that?”

Her brows furrow. Then she follows your gaze, shifting slightly, and—

Fuck.

Black lace, delicate, thin. Your favorite.

She freezes. "Oh."

Oh? Fucking oh?

“Why the fuck are you like this?” you explode.

Her eyes widen. "No! I—" She scrambles, tugging the blanket back up over herself. “I wasn’t—” “You said you wanted to talk, Chaewon.”

“I do!” Her voice pitches up. She’s pulling the sheets up hurriedly, using them as a shield from you, all you can see is her cheeks changing color ever so slightly. This time because of the embarrassment instead of the alcohol. “I promise… I do…”

It’s hard to believe that. It’s all so familiar, and all so fucking frustrating. “You know, this is just like you to do,” you ramble, and it’s hard to stop once you get going. “Always so fucking obsessed with getting a reaction out of me, never stopping to think for a second about how I feel!”

Her face softens, and the way she looks at you makes you sick. Like she thinks you’re right. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

“I swear!” She shouts, looking panicked and it’s enough to finally get you to shut up. “I was still out of it all, too mad and too drunk when I got back here. I just wanted to sleep. I didn’t—” and a big, shallow breath interrupts her, the kind that just appears and leaves you with less air than before. “I wasn’t thinking, okay?” You want to believe her. But tonight has been too much. Too many provocations, too many lines blurring that she would turn back from, and in turn, you would let form scars.

Then you sigh, sitting back down. “Okay.”

“Are you…” her voice trembles as she tries to figure out the specifics of your answer. “You’re shaking. Are you mad?”

Your mind is still trying to slow down, and answering gets forgotten. She takes that as an answer, obviously. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not so mad that I’d be shaking, you idiot.” Your voice is quiet. “It’s just way too fucking cold in here. And I was thinking.”

There’s no hesitation, because that’s just how Chaewon is as she shifts, making room. “Get under the covers.”

“Chaewon, please—” you start, but she’s not having it.

“I won’t try anything, okay? I promise,” she interrupts you, sounding calmer already. There’s a touch of pleading in it, but not the whiny kind she uses to get you worked up. It’s more desperate, more real. “Just give me a chance to prove I’m being serious.”

You don’t move at first. Stubbornness is inherent to both of you, after all. She tugs on the sheets impatiently. You sigh, but it’s obviously performative, a last jab at her to let her know you’re only doing this just because you’re cold. And she wasn’t lying. She properly keeps her distance, just sharing the warmth of the bed. It’s immediate and comforting, but you don’t allow yourself to sink into it.

“See?” she murmurs. “Not a trap.”

Not yet. You don’t dare say it, but you don’t have to. She sees the thoughts in your eyes. So she shuffles, turning away from you.

The silence stretches so long you start focusing on the noises it can’t beat into submission. Your breathing. Her breathing. The creaking and crumpling sound of the bed and the sheets as you move.

“I wanted to talk, and we talked so… that’s—that’s good. I guess,” she whispers. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind talking some more.” She lets a little space in between for you to insert yourself into. You never do. “But if you’d rather pretend like I’m not here, I get that too. I’ll shut up.”

It’s endearing, and your response is a little mean, letting her wait in silence for just a little longer before replying. “I’m not pretending. I need somebody to blame the lack of space I have in this bed.”

She smiles, soft. You can’t see it, obviously, but you feel it. Somehow. She shifts under the blanket, closer but not touching. She’s apprehensive. And she meant what she said.

“Is this the first time we’ve slept in the same bed?” she asks, but she masks her tone enough that she could play it off as talking to herself if you decided to not respond.

“Nope,” you correct her. “There was that one time in sophomore year. You showed up at my door at, like, three in the morning. Absolutely shitfaced, mind you.”

She lets out a small, embarrassed groan, and you know you’re on the right track.

“I remember that,” she mumbles. “Barely.”

“You couldn’t figure out how to get to your dorm. Said not even Monty Hall could help you find the right door.”

“How do you remember all that?” Chaewon questions, like you had no right to have that memory.

“Are you kidding me? How could I forget? I told you to take my bed, and that I was gonna crash on the couch,” you continue explaining, your lips curling upwards.

“But I didn’t let you?”

“Nope. You didn’t trust my roommate worth shit. Which, fair.”

She doesn’t say anything. You keep going though, less for her alone or you alone, both for you both.

“You grabbed my wrist when I tried to walk away. Looked me dead in the eye and said, and I quote, ‘Don’t leave me alone with that guy here, he smells like crusty socks and assault.’”

Chaewon lets out a strangled sound that’s half mortified laugh, half groan. “Oh my God.”

“So I gave in. Got in bed next to you. Fully clothed. On top of the covers. Like a gentleman.”

“You didn’t sleep for a second that night, did you?”

“Of course not. You starfished. One arm across my chest, one leg thrown over me like a fucking seatbelt. You had me trapped, dead to rights. Didn’t help you made me paranoid that my roommate was actually going to do something.”

She laughs—really laughs. Warm, unguarded. Then she rolls onto her side, facing you again. Her eyes search yours. "It was easier, wasn’t it? Back then. In college. At the beach. You carrying me like an idiot, me acting like I couldn’t walk, and you trying to turn probability into a personality trait."

You laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. More like one of those nose breaths that accompanies an abbreviated text. “Because it was.”

Her smile fades. “You never needed me to ask. You always just… stayed.”

You shift slightly, your fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. Her eyes drop there, then rise again.

“I think I’m a leaver,” she says. No warning. No lead-in. Like she had to say it fast before she lost the nerve.

“What?” It leaves your mouth before you can even blink.

But Chaewon swallows, her eyes retreating downwards. “I think that’s just who I am. Some people stay, and some people leave. You’re the kind of person that stays, and I’m a person that leaves. Because if I go first, I don’t have to wait until you become a leaver just like me.”

She looks at you like she’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like she’s already bracing for the recoil.

“I know it’s selfish,” she adds quickly. “But that night… when you kissed me, and then said you really liked me—I panicked. I did what I always do. You were giving me a choice, and that scared the hell out of me. So I picked the choice I always make.”

She breathes in. Exhales slow. Really takes her time, her eyes drifting slightly upwards now.

“And for a while, I told myself it was just another fifty-fifty. You know? Just a game of chance I lost. You either leave or get left. You either lose something or end up lost. And I thought—" she breaks off, swallowing again, part of her voice getting swallowed with it, "—that it would go away like the rest. That I’d forget. That it’d stop mattering."

You stay quiet.

“But it didn’t. It stuck. You stuck.”

She shifts again, knee brushing against yours beneath the blanket. Her voice cracks a little.

“And I started noticing things,” she says. "Little things. Like the first time you didn’t wait for me to text goodnight. Or when you were with someone else and you had that smile that I thought was reserved for me. Or when you stopped arguing with me about dumb shit just to keep talking."

Her voice wavers.

“And then I realized I didn’t just pick wrong. I watched the right door shut. And then I heard it lock. And that’s why I know your stupid fucking Monty Hall problem is wrong. I should’ve had another shot. Another choice. But life didn’t open a wrong door—it just took the right one away. And that’s why I know it’s just fifty-fifty. And I lost my coin toss at happiness.”

There’s a second of silence where your brain short circuits.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter.

She blinks, but it helps her to finally look at you. “Ouch?”

You sit up, tossing the blanket off like it offended you. “No, I’m serious. You think my door shut? You fucking locked it.”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off, your pace quickening. “The fact that I stayed around all this time is proof enough that my door is still unlocked. It wasn’t up to me to reopen that door.” “I—” “But you had to try.” Chaewon’s eyes flicker—not away, but deeper. Her breath hitches, and you swear it’s the first real sound she’s made in a while that didn’t have a smirk behind it. She shifts forward just slightly, only enough that her leg brushes against yours again, like she’s testing if the signal’s still green.

“You’re saying… it’s still open?”

You drag a hand through your hair, eyes rolling ceilingward before locking onto her again. “It was never fucking closed.”

Her lips part. They’re trembling now. She’s not teasing this time. “Then why—why didn’t you ever—”

“Because I’m not gonna beg,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I’m not gonna crawl through the fucking keyhole when you slammed the door in my face.”

She flinches. Just barely. But enough.

“I didn’t need you to beg, just…” she says, softer, like she’s going over the math again in her head. “I don’t know… I—” Her voice dips, trails, then steadies. “I’m here now. I’m trying.”

You look at her. Clear as day in the middle of the night. She's curled up next to you, defensive and ashamed and stubborn all at once. Her eyes are too glossy, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the comforter like they’re looking for somewhere to hide.

And then she breathes, and her voice breaks.

“I just wanted you to want me still.”

And that? That fucking cracks something open.

You reach for her—no grand gestures, no cinematic swoop—just firm, necessary motion. You cradle her jaw, fingers sweeping her hair back, and when you speak, it’s low and final and absolutely everything you’ve been holding back.

“I never fucking stopped.”

There’s no pause this time.

No “but what if—”

No “are you sure—”

No more fucking Monty Hall.

Just her lips crashing into yours, messily, hungrily, like the apology she couldn’t say and the forgiveness you weren’t ready to offer have decided to cancel each other out with tongue.

It’s not careful. It’s not gentle.

It’s honest.

She’s on your lap again, only this time it’s not a joke. Her knees bracket your thighs and she grinds down with purpose, gasping when she feels you through your boxers. Her hands slide beneath your shirt, nails catching skin, and you curse under your breath as heat swells in your gut, undeniable and urgent.

You break the kiss, forehead against hers. “Still cold?”

Her laugh is shallow, much too distracted with making sure she can properly share in your body heat. “Yeah. Make me warm.”

“And here I was thinking you were hot enough as is.”

She smirks, and it’s real this time. Like the one you saw when you barely knew her, but knew enough already. Not a mask. Not a trap. Just her.

And she whispers, “Don’t stop this time.”

Like you could. Besides, you’re not even sure it’s only meant for you. With the way she’s tugging and removing your clothes, kissing your shoulders and pulling you tighter, it’s like she’s making up for lost time. For every second spent being careful. Your hands trace her body, taking your time to really make sure every curve and beauty mark is stuck in your mind forever.

“God,” you mumble under your breath, pressing your lips to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, working your way down until you’re kissing the edge of a black lace bra that was almost the reason you stormed off earlier. “I can’t believe how beautiful you really are.”

Her breath hitches. “I know.”

And you’ve missed that, too. Her confidence. The way she can say things like that without irony, because she knows exactly what she’s worth—she just never thought she’d be worth it to you once more.

You kiss her through the black lace, and she shivers when you nip at the edge of her bra, as close to her nipple as you can get. She doesn’t waste any time herself flicking open the button of your jeans. You’ve always thought she needed a helping hand, both of yours pushing your pants further down. They’re not even off properly when she pauses, eyes blown wide, honing in on the tent in your boxers leaving little to imagination.

“Wow,” she says, and it’s almost weird to hear her say it without sarcasm.

“Wow?” your voice is rough, coming out in a single breath.

She nods, and her lips part as she yanks your boxers down, eyes almost dazed as she takes you in. “Wow.”

It’s a reverent look. It’s a look that suits her as long as it’s directed towards you, you think. Her fingers reach out like she’s about to wrap them around you, but she stops right before she makes contact, and the look in her eyes changes. Smug now. Knowing.

“I need a moment,” she says, and you know she’s up to no good. “You can’t just swing that in a girl's face and expect me to make it easy for you.”

A throb shoots through your cock, hips twitching without your consent. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

But she just smirks.

“Chaewon.”

“Shhh,” she says as she shuts down any and all protest, and her voice is the perfect combination of exasperating and enticing. “I’ve got my own Monty Hall problem lined up for you.”

You groan, but it’s more of a plea for mercy than a protest. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” she purrs, fingers grazing the base of your cock before pulling back again, making you hiss.

“Three doors,” she says, and the way she looks at you is obscene. “My front door, my back door, and my... ehm... mouth door?”

You’re gone. You’re fucking gone. “You are so lucky you're fucking hot.”

She keeps going, relentless. Her grin is pure mischief. “Which one have I imagined you fucking me with the most?” She rolls her hips, testing you. “Pick right, and you get to fuck it.”

“And if I guess wrong?” Your voice is rough, needy, everything you never let her hear before tonight.

Her eyes burn. “Then you eat me out first.”

It’s a rigged game and you both know it, but you play along anyway, letting her set the rules and stack the deck and deal each card. You lean forward, drag your lips up the line of her jaw. “That’s an impossible choice. You want all of them.”

She moans, a hiccup of laughter and want, and the weight of her shifts in your lap, urgent. “You wish. You only get one.”

But her hips are grinding now, a rolling, deliberate pressure that tells you exactly what her body needs. The answer is and always has been: every option, at once, and all of them leading back to you.

You palm her ass, fingers splaying underneath the lace edge, and the way she shivers tells you she wasn’t expecting you to touch her with that kind of certainty. For all her bravado and gamesmanship, this is how you win: you move first, and you don’t hesitate.

“Let’s see,” you murmur, mouth against the shell of her ear, making her gasp. “Back door—” a squeeze, a knead that pulls a little yelp from her, “—doesn’t seem like your style. At least not as a first move.”

“Don’t count me out,” she breathes, and you hear the competitive edge in her voice, the same edge that made her stay up all night just to prove you wrong about some irrelevant, beautiful, dumb thing.

You laugh, slow and low, and she shakes against you. “Mouth door,” you say, and you can’t help but grin at the way she’s already licking her lips, hungry, needing to prove something. “Obvious contender. But I think you want it right here.” Your hand finds the heat between her legs, cups her through those ridiculous panties, and her eyes go wide, her breath gone.

You wait a beat. She’s never been great at waiting, but she’s trembling now, lips parted, waiting for your verdict.

“And if I told you it’s definitely not the back door? Does your answer change?” she pants.

You consider your odds. “I think—” you start, but she interrupts.

“Actually,” she says, and the way her voice drips with satisfaction is almost enough to make you lose. “I don’t give a fuck. I want your cock. Right here.”

She grinds against you, and you can’t help but think you’re never spending another day without that feeling.

“Fuck,” you groan, because she won this round, and she knows it. “You don’t play fair.”

She bites her lip, smiling, then reaches between you, fingers wrapping around you with a perfect, firm pressure. “And that’s why you love me.”

She’s right. She’s wrong about so many fucking things, but she’s right about this.

You thrust up into her hand, and she moans, her body arching, her hair falling down her back. You reach for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the lace, and she lifts herself up, letting you pull it down, off, away. She doesn’t care where it lands; she’s already lowering herself back onto you, and you’re closing the distance, guiding your cock to her needy cunt.

“Fuck you,” you breathe, so close to her you can taste it, the subtext of admission against her skin. “I’m not saying it first. I’ll force you to.”

She rocks her hips, taking you deeper, her breath catching with a shudder. “Yeah? You think you can make me?”

You grit your teeth, the friction of her tight around you making it almost impossible to think. “I know I can.”

“Big words,” she gasps, riding you faster, harder. “Think you can back them up?”

You reach between you, your thumb finding her clit, and she cries out, her whole body shaking, her walls clenching around you. “You first,” you growl, and you can tell she’s sensitive. “Say it.”

Her eyes roll back, her lower lip caught between her teeth. You know it, you have her dead to rights, this is your win, and then—”Nuh-uh.”

You thrust up into her, relentless, and the pressure builds, mounting, and she’s so fucking tight around you, and you want her to say it, need her to say it.

She grinds down harder, her nails dragging your shoulder blades, and it’s too much. Too good. Too fucking hot. “You’re gonna say it,” you gasp, your thumb circling her clit faster. “I know you.”

“And I know you,” she pants, her head falling back as she rides you with abandon, her whole body trembling, her breath hitching with every thrust. “I know—oh fuck—you.”

You watch her face as she rocks against you, her lips parting, her eyes wide and desperate and defiant. She’s so close. So close you can feel it, the way she’s fighting it, wanting to hold out, wanting to win.

“Say it,” you growl, thrusting up into her again, harder, not easing up on her clit.

She gasps, and this has to be it. She’s trembling, tightening, drowning in ecstasy and she’s— “I’m—Fuck, I’m cumming, you fucker,” she manages to choke out, and she cums hard. Her head drops forward, no further admission, still no winner as her whole body shudders, her walls clenching around you like she’s weaponizing her orgasm against you, trying to pull the words from you.

You swear, a rough sound that’s almost a surrender, and she laughs, breathless, smug, still shaking in your lap. “You first.”

Your grip tightens on her hips, and you’re so fucking close, but you hold on, hold out, your breath ragged. “I’m not going to give up,” you groan, thrusting up into her in a wild frenzy, loud clapping of flesh colliding now strangling the room. She lets out a strangled sound, and her eyes go wide letting you know she didn’t expect this.

Didn’t expect you to only go harder, to keep fucking her through her orgasm, keep pushing her over the edge again and again and again until she might pass out.You thrust harder, deeper, and her voice breaks, her body wild against yours.

You hold on, and she holds on longer. She’s so tight, so wet, and the heat is building, and you feel her clench around you, feel her mold to your shape. Her mouth opens, and you can’t tell if she’s about to say it or if she’s too far gone, and then—

She pulls off of you. You watch, stunned, as she drops to her knees and wraps her mouth around your cock, and the sight alone is enough to make you lose it. You groan, a deep, ragged sound, and she moans around you, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your hands tangle in her hair as you come, hot and hard, spilling ropes of cum into her mouth.

“Fuck, Chaewon,” you choke out, the last of your breath leaving your body as every drop of cum you had does the same, her lips still tight around you.

Then she pulls back, and her eyes are on you, wide and bright and triumphant. She cups a hand beneath her chin, opens her mouth, and—

“I love you,” she says, letting your cum spill out over her lips, and there’s a laugh behind it, a tremor of amusement, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Like she knows she just won all over again. She wipes her mouth, cum streaking her chin, her neck, her chest, and she looks so absurdly beautiful you can’t even be mad.

“Chaewon,” you breathe. It’s exasperation and wonder, the way you’ve said her name so many times before. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“Really?” She bats her lashes with a coy look, licking her lips like she’s savoring every last drop of the chaos she’s caused. “Aren’t you supposed to say it back?”

You grab her by the waist, pulling her back up to straddle you past your softened cock, and she giggles, squirming in your lap. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

“And you can’t get enough of it,” she teases, her smile widening,

You stare at her, chest heaving, the words settling into the spaces that were empty for so long. Then you let out a breathless, helpless laugh, pulling her face up to yours, kissing her despite all the filth she let drip out to cover her sweetness.

“Fuck you,” you say between kisses, but there’s no heat behind it, just the weight of relief and joy and everything else you’ve been holding back. “How do you win even when you lose?”

She smiles against your mouth, and you feel it in every part of you. “I guess I’m just smarter than you.”

You do. You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you’ve spent the last year waiting for your chance.

“I love you, you idiot.”

She makes a soft sound, and for a second you think she might cry, but it’s just a laugh, bright and giddy and so fucking happy. “I’m glad you do.”

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” you say as you shake your head, trying to hide the cartoonishly large smile she forced upon your face. “And you’re stuck with me,” she says, kissing you again, her body melting into yours, all softness and satisfaction. Her voice dips, teasing, warm. “Or did you forget?”

“Never,” you murmur, and you mean it. Hell, you’d bet on it.

Her body shifts in response, her being melting into you, her skin sticky but hot against yours. “So,” she says, and it’s light and breezy like that summer day still stuck in your memory, like you’re somehow back in a familiar rhythm, but new nonetheless. “You really think you can handle me?”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around her. “I’ve been handling you for years without the benefit of getting to fuck you.”

She pinches your side, but it’s playful, and you can tell she’s trying not to smile. “Asshole.”

“Yeah,” you say, kissing her forehead. “But I’m your asshole, now.”

She nods, and that alone was worth all the suffering. Because it’s honest.

“Shit,” Chaewon breathes, your skin stuck together with dried cum, pulling loose from you. “We’re a fucking mess.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your fault for trying to be funny,” you say like you’re not covered in it too.

She shakes her head, and it’s like she’s saying it’s your fault for not being the first to say you love her. “We can’t go to bed like this,” she proclaims, trying her best not to get too much filth on her sheets. “C’mon. Shower.”

“Together?” you ask, and she just rolls her eyes like that was the stupidest fucking question you’ve ever asked.

You follow her to the bathroom, the air chilly and the tile cool underfoot. She turns on the water of her shower, letting it heat up as she looks back over at you, one eyebrow lifting like she’s pondering if she should just keep it to showering or not.

“Get in,” she says, pushing you towards the shower. “I’m not letting you sleep until you’re clean.”

She’s already stepping toward the shower when she realizes you’re still standing there. Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve. “What? You’re dawdling now?”

You shrug, and she laughs. It’s not the sound she makes when she’s trying to get under your skin, but the one you’d almost forgotten she could make. Uncomplicated. Real.

She starts taking off the only thing she still has on—her thigh high socks that were the main culprit in why you failed to pick up a girl earlier tonight. You were way too busy admiring how good Chaewon looked, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to do it for—”

You catch her hand, stop her from peeling them off. She freezes, looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“Let’s pretend I lost your three doors challenge,” you murmur, and you hear her breath catch. “It’d be a shame not to eat you out with how good you look in those.”

“So you were staring! I fucking knew it,” she shouts gleefully.

You don’t give it a response. You just hoist her up, and she wraps her legs around you like it’s instinct, gasping, more eager than surprised, as you let her ass meet the bathroom counter. You spread her thighs open to admire, sink to your knees in between them, and look up, getting lost in the way she looks down.

“Oh my god,” she sighs out. “Are you really—”

 You don’t let her finish. You drag your tongue up her slit, and her head falls back, the sound of the shower almost drowning out her moan. Almost, but not quite.

“Fuck,” she gasps, the first of many. “Right there. Oh, right—”

You swirl your tongue around her clit, and her hips buck, her whole body trembling. She’s close already, too close, and you know you could end this in seconds, but you don’t. Not yet.

Your hand slides up her thigh, and she shudders as you press a finger against her asshole, teasing, gentle. Her breath catches, and you feel her body tense, then relax, opening for you.

“Shit,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. You work her with your tongue and your fingers and your everything, and she’s shaking.

“Holy fuck,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “You’re—shit—you’re better at this than explaining math problems.”

You groan, a low, rough sound, and the vibration makes her shudder. “Careful, I might bite.”

She laughs, knowing you’re all bark, and her fingers tangle in your hair, not quite pulling you closer, but not allowing escape either. “Don’t stop,” she begs, and she wears it so well that ideas flood your mind. “I’m so fucking close.”

feel her body tense, tight and perfect around you. “Right there. Oh—” You curl your finger, the final bit of tension she needed to release, clenching hard, her hands in your hair, her body on fire. “Oh God, oh—”

She cums hard, her body arching, her legs closing around your head as she cries out, the sound raw and desperate and so fucking good. Your finger slips out but keep your mouth on her, not letting up until she’s shuddering, breathless, her hands tensed up tugging at you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasps, and you feel the last tremors of her orgasm as they ripple through her. “How did you—I can’t—” She’s lost for words, and it’s ammunition for next time you fight over something stupid.

You don’t move until she tugs at you weakly, pulling you up, and the look in her eyes is almost enough to make you drop to your knees again.

You grab her hand, pulling her toward the shower, but she doesn’t budge. Instead, she drops to her knees, fingers splayed on your thighs. “I’ll admit, you’re pretty fucking good,” she says, her eyes gleaming with challenge. Everything’s a competition with this girl. “But I’m better.”

You don’t have time to respond. Her mouth is on you, hot and wet and perfect, and you groan, your head falling back. She works you with a skill you didn’t think she had, her tongue swirling, her lips tight, and all you can do is hold on. She pulls back, and the sudden loss makes you gasp. “Feel free to cum wherever you want,” she muses, and your mind floods with options. All too enticing.

Her pace is relentless, precise, and you feel her smile around you, a smug curve against your skin. She’s rapidly proving her point.

“Chaewon,” you groan, and you’re not sure if you’re leading into begging or commanding. “Fuck, that feels—”

She hums, a low, teasing sound, and the vibration makes you curse. Her fingers slide down, cupping your balls, and you feel yourself throb against her tongue.

You’re close, too close, and she knows it. You can tell by the way she pulls back again, her lips glistening, her eyes wild. “I’m not done with you,” she says, and you swear you might die.

“Fuck my face,” she says, and you tremble, your whole body going tight.

“Chaewon,” you gasp, but she’s already got you begging for more, her hands on your thighs, guiding you inside.

You thrust, and she takes it, takes you, her mouth so fucking good you can’t believe this is real. She moans and gags around you, and it’s a sound you’ll hear in your dreams for the rest of your life.

She looks up, her mouth full, and the sight is obscene, incredible. She’s not stopping, not giving you a second to catch your breath, just letting you use her, and it’s all too fucking much.

You’re so close, the heat building, your control slipping. You fuck her face, your hands tight in her hair, and she’s caught between you and the counter, letting you use her, letting you lose yourself.

“Oh God, Chaewon,” you groan, your thrusts erratic, desperate. “I’m gonna—”

She pulls back, and you gasp, her lips getting pressed against the tip of your dick. She strokes you, her lips swollen and wet, and— “Do it,” she commands, tilting her head back, presenting her face and her tits and her abs and every target you could choose, her eyes pleading to cover not one but all. “Come all over me.”

That’s it. That’s fucking it. You cum hard, your whole body tensing, and she moans as your release hits her face, her lips, her cheek, her chest.

“Fuck,” you groan, and she smiles, licking her lips, and you’re so spent you almost collapse right there.

Then she’s pulling you down, kissing you, and you taste yourself on her tongue.

“At least I was worth the wait, right?” she murmurs, and you pull back just far enough to see the way she’s grinning, the way she’s looking at you like she thinks she won. If only she saw herself right now, you’re clearly the winner.

“Think I’m ready for that shower now,” you say, and you can’t help but smile back, because you’re a mess, and she’s a mess, and you came into this room specifically to be less of a mess; and you love it. You love her.

The shower is still running, heating up the room, and you both stand up. She pulls you with her, and the water makes quick work of the art you just made. What a waste, but a waste you love to spend with her.

She notices your face change as the cum disappears from her visage, and chuckles lightly. “You’ll get plenty of other chances.”

You wash her and she washes you back, and it’s slow and easy and comfortable. Like you never thought it could be again. But better. No rush, no desperation. She works the shampoo into your hair, but you can’t stand to not annoy her for another second, pulling her under the spray and rinsing her off.

“Hey,” she protests, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright.

“Hey yourself,” you say, dragging your thumb across her cheek, her lips, her collarbone. “Think I like you like this.”

“Wet?” she asks, and she’s teasing, but there’s a softness behind it.

“That too. But no. Mine,” you say, and her expression shifts, her eyes going soft, her hands coming to rest on your chest.

“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, thoughtful, “That makes you equally mine.”

You tilt her chin up, kissing her, and she melts into it, into you. “I guess that means we both won today.”

She laughs, and it’s the best sound, the best feeling, the best everything. “Guess I can get used to it if it’s with you.”

Eventually you turn off the tap, and she shivers as you wrap her in a towel, pulling her close. “Bed?” you ask, and she nods, simple and easy.

She helps you dry off, and you help her, and you just can’t let each other be right now. She tugs at you, at your hand, constantly leading you, hair still wild and just damp enough to be okay going to bed with. She slips beneath the covers fully naked, but it’s too cold to worry about any of that, so you follow.

You pull her against you, or she pushes herself into you. It’s hard to tell who’s more desperate. Point is, her back is against your chest, and it fits perfectly. Like she was made for it.

“So,” she says, her voice a sleepy mumble, “are you gonna lose your shit if I say it’s fifty-fifty again?”

You groan, exasperated and affectionate, and she giggles, burying her face in your neck.

“Chaewon,” you say, and she turns just enough to look at you.

“Hmm?”

You wrap your arms around her, holding her, holding everything. “You’re fucking annoying. Never change.”

She smiles, soft and genuine, and you know this is the real win. Not the game, not the challenge, not the give and take of a thousand heated mathematical arguments—but this. Her. You. Together.

“Promise,” she whispers, and you feel her breath slow, feel her body relax, feel the unlikeliest odds settle in your favor.

You hold her tighter, and the silence this time is comfortable, a weightless, blissful quiet that lulls you both toward sleep. You barely hear her next words, but they seep into you, the last sweet, stubborn thing you need to know.

“I still think it's fifty-fifty.”

[cherryribbcns]

♪ ༘⋆ kiss me once 'cause you know i had a long night! ──── spencer reid x reader

(🐈) ─── thinking about spencer reid, the ever gentleman, who waits for your permission before kissing you.

talk talk ✶ i rlly wanted to write ts, so kind of rushed & purely indulgent. probably ooc. not proofread.

spencer shed his peacoat, and then shucked off his shoes. padding across the wooden floor, his mismatched socks a stark contrast to the smooth dark wood, he made his way over to where you were lounging on the couch.

your arm was draped over your eyes, open book on your chest. you did notice him making his way over to you, and scooted over. spencer flopped down and prodded a thumb at your arm. his own arm snaked around your midriff and a sound like a content cat escaped his mouth.

you peeked through your shield, your bright irises twinkling with mirth, crinkled at the edges. "hi. how was your day?"

"tiring, you know how it is," he replies, voice scratchy, nudging the book on your chest out of the way. he drops his cheek there, nuzzling into the warmth. gosh, this man.

"you'd better stay awake. i haven't made dinner yet." an ever-suffering look over to the kitchen, where a myriad of unwashed dishes and papers were strewn across the breakfast bar.

"i'll make it," he pipes up immediately, lifting his head.

you give a shit-eating grin. "well, i can't deny your generous offer," you respond with an exaggerated sigh, though the both of you knew you'd rather stuff a sock in your mouth than cook. it was mostly the dishes that needed to be washed later that you dreaded.

broccoli sizzled in a pan, and in the oven potatoes roasted merrily. spencer alternated between the vegetable and talking to you about his day at the BAU.

once the broccoli was roasted and plopped onto a plate to cool, he turned to you. arms found purchase around your waist and he pulled you into a hug, chin resting your shoulder.

your arms wrapped around spencer, basking in the warmth from his body. this was nice. this was good. this was what you needed.

spencer's hands smoothed down the back of your cotton t-shirt, resting his fingers against the curve of your spine. "you don't know the things you do to me," he whispered.

"no, i do think i know." you smiled gently. the things you'd witnessed through your relationship with this man were questionable but all the same very wholesome.

spencer pulled back just enough to look at you head-on. "it's not exactly a secret is it?" he mumbled abashedly.

you shook your head.

his lips twitched. those big brown eyes behind his glasses flicked over your features, mapping them out. first the space between your brows, then the curve of your nose, then falling on your lips.

"can i kiss you?" he asked; the words would've gone unheard if you hadn't been listening so hard.

"you think i would say no to that?" you responded with a laugh bursting with mirth.

spencer's head tilted one way and then the other, as if debating the best angle to move in. your poor, impatient heart. the bridge of his glasses bumped against your skin, the hand on your back slid to loop around your hips.

then his lips ever so softly draped over yours, eyebrows furrowing together. you kissed him back with equal fervor, grasping both sides of his face until the gentle kiss was not so... gentle.

the broccoli was stone-cold, and the potatoes slightly charred by the time you sat down for dinner.

© cherryribbcns 2025

[incognitopolls]

Consider the following excerpt from Lu Xun's Preface to "Call to Arms":

'Imagine an iron house without windows, absolutely indestructible, with many people fast asleep inside who will soon die of suffocation. But you know since they will die in their sleep, they will not feel the pain of death. Now if you cry aloud to wake a few of the lighter sleepers, making those unfortunate few suffer the agony of irrevocable death, do you think you are doing them a good turn?' 'But if a few awake, you can't say there is no hope of destroying the iron house.'

In other words, many people are asleep and trapped inside an indestructible box, about to die. If they stay asleep, all of them will die without suffering. If you wake some of them up, there may be a very small chance of saving everyone, but if they can't do it then the people who wake up will suffer greatly.

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[sqgeism]

based on your most recent anaxa post... would he be sad if he found reader's journal entries, full of their misery but unwilling love for him, and in the last one they just write: "he is the knife i turn inside myself." and stop there

(anaxa mental breakdown?)

love mail — 🍒 ⨾ IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY WHEN PEOPLE READ THAT HC POST AND ASK ME TO ELABORATE FURTHER ON IT! not exactly the request but i still feel like it's gut wrenching,, this was acc v personal to me cause that diary entry came from my own poetry lol

after another late night, anaxagoras is finally walking out of the jail cell that is his lab. he wasn't doing anything interesting either, just grading a couple of papers, which brings more dread as he comes to a conclusion that some of his students will definitely be seeing him over the summer break.

but nevermind that, he just wants to be in bed, and by your side. because if he stands for any longer or has to think about another grammatical error, he's going to start pulling his hair out. and at this rate he really doesn't want to die young, and also bald.

as he opens the door, he calls out to you. "dove?" he also just wants to see if you're awake, and considering the fact it's 3am, he's glad to not get a response. quietly walking into the room and towards the closet, he passes by your desk that still has the lamp on and an open notebook. noting that it's probably research or something personal, he makes sure to close it after changing.

when he had already slipped into much comfier clothing, anaxa walks back to flip off the light, when a page from the notebook caught his attention.

the handwriting is messier, seemingly written during an unfocused state of mind. but then he notices his name, and how it seems to be a diary entry written about him.

the date of entry catches his eye and makes him shiver, this was written three years ago. and to sugarcoat it with a bucket of sucrose, anaxa was not a good man. hell, he could barely consider himself one for how he treated you. he was immature, cruel, and worst of all—undeserving. he didn't deserve your kindness or patience with him, for all the nights he knew you cried as you slept alone in a cold, empty bed.

the curiosity is eating away at him, you had forgiven him for his horrible attitude and he had learned to forgive himself, but he just.. he can't explain it. to understand just how much he hurt you will feel like the punishment he deserves, and so he brings the diary close and begins to read.

"ask me about anaxagoras and i'll tell you that the very same lips that kiss my head goodnight would argue with me for hours, that his hatred for the world ran deeper than the love he had for me—that the person he chose, he wouldn't dare to lay in the same bed with.

ask me about anaxagoras and i'll tell you that I know he can be good, that I can see the love he tries to bury so deep inside. but then he'll blow up, his anger gets the better of him, and suddenly we are strangers again. that our time together, our progress, becomes nothing. and his need to be right consumes the caring, loving part of him. even if he doesn't think it's there, i see it. but i'm starting to think that our conversations don't work because he's just a nicer person in my head.

but if you asked me to truly be honest about him, i would say he is the knife that i turn inside myself. i deeply crave his love, but the closer i try to get, the further the blade pierces through my heart.

i admit that i'm soft, but i don't want to have to bleed in order to love you. i need you to admit that you're too rough."

the room is quiet, and anaxa turns to your sleeping form with tears in his eyes. you were always so much stronger than him, and would say you are more deserving of the flamechaser title but he would never want you to suffer the fate he will.

to think that he could have died making you feel so unloved, it makes him sick. though he knows that you, in all your kindness, had forgiven him completely.

but how many nights have you cried for arms that never held you? how many conversations became simple exchanges of hello because you could never speak to him?

how much guilt must he carry for it to purify him?

and so he walks to the bed, quietly. he can't wake you now, not after he's done enough wrongdoings.

"my sweet dove." he mumbles, barely above a whisper. "please do not wake, don't stir. just sleep and let me carry the weight of the world for you for once."

he cups your face into his hands and press gentle kisses to your temple, your nose, your cheeks, the corners of your lips—muttering promises and apologies that you deserve to hear, but have also heard a thousand times.

he must reassure himself quietly, that his hatred will not last forever. that he is above the high that comes in indulging in these bad habits.

and that you will still be there when he comes back down.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[grandline-fics]

Not My Job Description

DESCRIPTION: You’re Marine!Doffy’s long-suffering second in command

WARNINGS: none

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 1,362

A/N: Saw some Marine! Doffy fan art and the brainworms took over. I regret nothing, I had to write something to get it out of my system in someway. Now I'm also thinking of other scenarios for Marine!Doffy and Second In Command! Reader. Title might change? Hope you all enjoy this rambling

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI

———————

You’d heard countless stories of the famous Donquixote siblings for as long as you’d joined the Marine Academy. The younger brother was rumoured to be highly skilled in infiltration missions, gentle and on the shy side. It just confused you to hear the higher ups praise the man for his exceptional work but also complain about the amount of expenses being filed on Rosinante’s behalf. Uniform repairs, entire ships that needed more maintenance than normal because of accidental explosions, fires, general accidents and breakages seemed to follow this brother wherever he went. 

The elder brother, Doflamingo? He was a liability to both the public and his fellow Marines as well as the pirates he was pursuing. Any destruction caused on his hand was entirely intentional. Had either of them been reprimanded you new knew, you doubted it given how as you climbed the ranks they too were already way ahead. Besides when they got results? Could the higher ups really argue with it. Part of you doubted either of them- Doflamingo especially- would take any criticism to heart. Truthfully the brothers had always left you curious, hoping to one day see them for yourselves. Careful what you wish for right?

The day you’d been given your promotion and told you were transferring to an entirely new base had been a strange one. You and your friends celebrated but those issuing the papers? They seemed hesitant, almost nervous. At first you’d assumed they weren’t happy you were moving to an entirely new location and didn’t want to lose you but then when one of them muttered a hollow ‘good luck’ it made you uneasy. Had it been said with ice or resentment in their voice you would have understood but now it only furthered your confusion. Because of the whirlwind of emotions, packing, saying your goodbyes and celebrating you hadn’t given your new transfer papers a proper read until you were on the ship. All you’d known before had was that you were given the rank of Captain and would be serving directly under a Vice-Admiral. Out on the open water you went to your quarters and grabbed the papers, pulling them out to finally see who it was. The shock had been so sharp that you had to blink rapidly a few times to ensure you weren’t misreading the name Vice-Admiral Doflamingo. Just like that your life was thrown sideways and you soon realised what those looks had meant but through it all you dealt with it even though most of the time you were only there to babysit the man who by all accounts was your superior.

At first you suspected he did it on purpose. Now you just truly believed he was hopeless at doing anything that wasn’t hunting down criminals and causing chaos. So on top of your own work, making sure Doflamingo was in some way in line and looking after himself fell to you. Even on your days off you found yourself having to tend to him in some capacity. It’d been some time since your transfer that you’d managed to get back home and according to Doflamingo you’d earned the time off so you took it, heading back to your hometown to visit friends and family.

You were roused rudely and suddenly from your sleep to the sound of your personal den-den mushi ringing. Disoriented you jolted awake and tried to force your heavy eyes open only to feel them sting in protest. With more effort than you’d wanted to exert so late at night you managed to crack your eyes open enough and fumble your hand and search clumsily in the dark. Your fingers knocked against the receiver and you let out a sleep-thick curse to hear it hit the floor. Rolling onto your side you managed to grip the cable connecting the lost receiver to the snail on your nightstand and pull it off the floor. With a long yawn you tucked the receiver securely beside your face and pillow. “‘Lo?”

“Don’t tell me you’re still in bed Captain…” the deep voice drifted to you with the signature chuckle you’d gone a few days without hearing. Only now did you realise how strange it was to have gone so long without it echoing from somewhere. 

“Vice-Admiral?” You mumbled in confusion. “It’s nighttime…Timezones remember?”

“Ah yes, yes. My mistake.” Doflamigo chuckled from his end. In the background you could hear the usual morning activity drifting from his open office window. 

“What do you need Vice-Admiral?” You question was sighed into the receiver and Doflamingo chuckled to hear how much effort it was taking for you to sound coherent enough for him to understand your sleepy words. 

“Who says I need anything?” Doflamingo asked kicking his feet up onto his desk surface, his polished shoes crumpling untouched files and reports. His question and the crisp sound irked you enough to waken slightly.

“You always need something.” You grumbled, pressing the back of your hand against your mouth to stifle a heavy yawn. “You also need to do your reports. ‘M not coming back to see your desk hidden by papers again.”

“So harsh to threaten me with not coming back.” Doflamingo tutted you. “Remember I know where you are, I’ll come get you myself.”

“Mhm.” You hummed softly, too tired to fully commit to acknowledging his threat. “Still have to do your paperwork. You still haven’t told me what you need.”

“My gloves.” Your eyebrow twitched slightly. “Not my usual ones, the spare ones.”

“What happened your usual ones?”

“Took them off for five minutes and Rosi managed to get them too when he set himself on fire.” Doflamingo explained, his grin growing when your sleepy laugh drifted through the air. 

“They were fraying anyway…” You told him gently, probably trying to ensure he wasn’t too mad at his clumsy little brother. “Spares are in your desk. Left hand side, second drawer. You were using them to hide that bottle of whisky you thought I didn’t know about.”

You listened to the muffled sound of the drawer sliding open and laugh, your own lips curving into a smug smile. Even half-asleep you were more aware of anything to do with Doflamingo.

“What would I do without you, Captain?”

“You’d manage.” You said with another yawn. “Everyone else would be devastated if I wasn’t there.”

“Good thing that’s purely hypothetical. You’re not going anywhere Captain.”

“Says the man who said I’d only last a week as your Captain…” You teased as yet another heavy yawn filled your chest. It was getting harder to stay awake, Doflamingo’s deep voice being a comfort to listen to. “How time’s changed…”

“I know, it’s been what two years now? We forgot to celebrate our anniversary!”

“We’ll share that whisky when I get back.”

“Deal.”

“But only if you have your reports done…” You warned with a small smile when you could hear Doflamingo scowl. “Need anything else, sir?”

“No, you can go back to sleep now.” Doflamingo grinned before suddenly realising there was something else. “Wait, what else am I forgetting?”

“Breakfast. You need to eat.” You mumbled, heavily lifting the receiver towards the snail. “Oh and Admiral Akainu’s visiting the base tomorrow. Night, night.” 

“Wait what?!” Doflamingo called after you only to see the call had ended. Quickly he pushed the papers out of the way on the desk to find the calendar you’d left for him. Sure enough tomorrow’s date was circled twice and your reminder of the visit written in your handwriting. Three days after that you’d noted would be your return. Quickly Doflamingo got to his feet and with strong purposeful strides he made his way outside. There was no way he was going to endure a boring visit on his own. There was also no way he was lasting the long wait until you got back. Unleashing his strings he pulled himself into the sky and disappeared from sight, ignoring his subordinates uselessly shouting after him. He was only going out for a quick fly was what he told himself but if he happened to stop by and see you then that was purely coincidence. 

——————————————-

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[husbandjoel]

first burn | tlou jesse pt. 4

pt. 1 pt. 2 and pt. 3

summary: seattle is at boiling point and the revenge you sought after strikes you at your core

pairing: tlou!jesse x fem!reader

word count: 5.9k

content: angry jesse, arguing, tension between jesse and reader. kissing, tlou gore, blood and self loathing to its finest. dialogue taken directly from the game cause FUCK what jesse said in the finale. reader dgaf about abby during THAT moment iykyk. character death 🙂‍↕️ guns and pure heartbreak sprinkled with survivors guilt

a/n: here we go fellas!! the last instalment of first burn. thank u for reading and supporting, ur feedback on each chap is so appreciated!! love u forever jesse lemme do a fix it fic for u <3 also, just to add, reader is not incapable or stupid by any means but seattle is WILD and the team just don’t have time for that

taglist: @beelee-cotton @lostbee20 @pupupwa @ilovetoomanymen @derangeddementor3 @keseqna @blackravena @cxcilla @hsangel64 @tillywasneverhere @peachyxlynch @toesucker59 @antlcrqueen - tysm for reading 🫶

“I don’t think killing them will bring the peace Ellie thinks it will.”

Jesse’s words played on thick, a scratched recorded in your mind as boots pummelled into the muddy sludge, your ankle pulsating with pain with every determined stride you took. You followed close behind Jesse and Dina, the female cradled into his chest and she went in and out of consciousness.

The events that had occurred were not the restoration of peace you had glorified on the back of Zombie on your way to Seattle. Severely humbled, you were taught that sheer confidence on a daydreamed scenario, did not equate to the capability you needed to even survive a day in the city. Nose broken, you knew it would leave a scar, to remind you that your decision was wholeheartedly based on naivety and this was your sudden karma.

Joel Miller was still dead. And, he would remain in the ground, swallowed by nature even after you left Seattle. The Miller brother, rough around the edges but a warmth to those that grew close to him, wouldn’t resurrect you to shower you in gratitude for your selflessness. No. As you thought about it, you would presume it would be the opposite; because you had been selfish.

Head pounded from exhaustion, you hated the way your stomach churned at the thought. The end goal was to do right by Joel Miller, but, you hadn’t. In fact, not a single Wolf suffered at your hands for his death.

Jesse glanced over his shoulder at you to ensure you had remained close in the marathon back to the theatre. Your eyes met for a brief moment, a raw emotion flickered across your face: you were scared. Eyes tracked back in front of him, you huffed out a breath, throat scorched from the excessive running and lack of water amidst the chaos. You were close, you knew by the buildings even in the darkened night, heavy clouds weighed above to signal a change in severe weather.

You rounded the corner and there it was, your base. Jesse slowed down and ordered you to open the door so he could slip Dina in with ease. Adhering to his instruction, you grunted at the weight of the theatre door, Jesse and Dina concealed; you followed a close second.

“Here.” You went to drag a chaise lounge, your muscles weak, and Jesse pushed past you to place Dina down gently. You stared at her, paled and soaked in her own sweat, blood and vomit smeared across her face. She looked as if she could die and that panicked you, “Jesse—”

“—Sit the fuck down and stay quiet.” Jesse bit and you flinched. He gently tapped at Dina’s face which reawakened her into the reality of the searing pain in her knee. Jesse was quick to press his forearm against her chest as she sat up, “Alright, this is going to hurt.” He rummaged in his backpack and Dina panted with a whine.

“No. It already fucking hurts.” Her hand reached out for yours and you hesitantly stepped from behind Jesse who ushered you with annoyance. Dina stared down at her leg as Jesse fumbled with supplies, “Jesse, I can’t die. You can’t let me die—”

“—Yeah, I know.”

“No. You don’t.” She began to cry.

You felt helpless. Her head swayed as Jesse continued to explain that he couldn’t pull the arrow out without tearing an artery. He’d have to push it. They bickered and you stood, silent as told, throat clenched with nausea at the sight of Dina’s open wound.

“Dina, shut up.” Jesse snapped and Dina fell silent in her protests, her clammy hand squeezed yours. Jesse took a breath, “I’ve got you, Dina. Alright? I’ve got you.” He began to pour at the arrow in her knee with alcohol and Dina threw her head back in hot pain. “Here. Have some of this. It’s going to help. Have some.”

You stared at Dina when she gritted her teeth. You wondered if it was an appropriate time for her to tell him she was growing his child in her womb. It would be a little unorthodox, but high levels of stress made your mind askew.

“I said no.” She spat.

OK. So, she wouldn’t tell him.

Your hand braced against hers as if you were entered into an arm wrestle, your body bent at the waist to offer some support as Jesse forced the arrow through her leg. She let out a wail that sent goosebumps up your arm, her body slumped as she fell unconscious, her breathing laboured. You felt her pulse for a moment. Still alive.

Kneeling down next to Jesse, you watched his hands make quick work to unravel the gauze. There had been many times he had returned home, wounds a plenty from his patrol and you would tend to them with warm kisses and tender touch. It was something you had become good at, because you always wanted to be there for Jesse in the rarity of his weakened moments.

Your fingertips went to grab the gauze from Jesse, allow him to take a break. In turn, he pulled away sharply, haphazardly wrapping it around Dina’s bleeding leg.

“Barricade the entries.” Jesse muttered to you. His words hit a wall in front of your face and his patience grew thin, your name liked venom on the tip of his tongue. “I said, go barricade the doors.”

It took almost two hours as you limped around all possible entries into the theatre, once Dina was dabbed with a damp cloth to take her temperature down, Jesse joined efforts with you, taking the larger furniture that you struggled to push and doing the job himself.

You were walking — limping — on eggshells around him. Jesse hadn’t been a male that expressed a need to make you nervous in his presence, but, the way he stormed around the room made you wince; worried that one flicker of a match and he would blow up in your face. Your hands wrung as you watched him pace back and forth with heavy items, a grunt escaped his lips as the sofa dropped against the cabinets to create a barricade. Hands brushed against each other, he turned to look at you.

You felt small. Pinned under his bitter gaze.

His finger pointed to your ankle, “Let me take a look.” You looked down at the mess of your ankle and shook your head which made Jesse sigh. You were always so fucking stubborn. “Please.”

It wasn’t hard to give into Jesse. You loved him. Backside against the tabletop, Jesse knelt at your feet, his hand delicately taking your busted ankle into his grasp to inspect it. Perhaps, you thought, he was looking for a bite mark so he had a reason to shoot you in the head.

He was angry after all.

“Why did you lie to me?” There it was. The burning question you were waiting for. His tone was monotonous as he prodded at your wound.

You flinched, “I would call it an evasion of truth. I didn’t specifically relay to you that I wasn’t going to Seattle.” You paused as he met your eyes, “So, if we are going by technicalities—”

“—Do you have to do that?”

“What?”

Jesse pulled more gauze out.

“A sarcastic retort.” He mumbled, “You’re being dismissive of the situation.”

He was right. You blew hot air through your lips, “I—Sure. I thought you knew how I felt about the outcome of the Council vote. Part of me expected you to put the pieces of the puzzle together. I was always going to go.”

“Oh, I knew.” Jesse paused and let out a soft chuckle — a slip up on his act.

“You knew?” You tried to calculate how many times you had been blatantly obvious about your intentions with Seattle before you left. “Then. . . Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because. I believed that you loved me enough to not lie about entering a war-torn city on horseback with three weeks worth of one-to-one combat.” He felt himself become angered in bringing up what hurt him the most, “You should’ve waited. I would’ve come. You knew that.”

Actually, you didn’t. That part shocked you.

You blinked, “Jesse. You were adamant on your stance that the Council voted to stay put in Jackson.” Ankle smeared in agony as Jesse continued to wrap it up, “How the fuck would I have known you would go against your own word?”

Immediately, you regretted what you had threw back at him. His fingers stopped tending to your ankle, his posture straightened as his lips pulled into a thin line. Even when crouched before you, it felt as if Jesse towered over you with his face thunderous.

Your heart stammered. The formidable fear that you were losing him struck you down the middle. The conversation was sprung upon you, and after escaping death by a fraction, your brain hadn’t been in the function to comprehend the emotional maturity it required to mend the fractures of your relationship.

You were losing Jesse before your very eyes.

“I had to say that, so you wouldn’t go do something rash. I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt, or worse in Seattle.” Jesse felt himself become emotional at the forefront, “And yet, you still fucking did it. You’re still hurt, because you chose to leave, and that responsibility weighs heavy on my shoulders. You know why? Because, it’s evident that my love was not enough for you to stay. This is now my problem.”

“Jesse. I do love you.”

“Then why did you leave?” He raised his voice, “A fucking note to say goodbye. What kind of boyfriend am I, if I can’t even protect you?”

“Did it ever cross your mind that I don’t need you to protect me, Jesse? I’m capable of looking after myself.” You crossed your arms defensively before Jesse took a moment to stand, a patronising laugh escaped his lips and you frowned, “What is suddenly funny?”

He pointed to your grazed chin and broken nose, “Look at your capability.” He then dropped his finger to your busted ankle, “It’s gotten you far in your little escapade to Seattle.”

An insult forming on your tongue, Jesse was saved by the pounding of a fist against the door closest to your bodies. Immediately, Jesse put himself between you and the door, his gun dropped from his shoulder and aimed in front of him with ease.

“Jesse, Dina—!” And your name followed.

“What’s the name of your horse?” Jesse kept the gun aimed even in the obvious state that Ellie Williams was on the other side.

Ellie called, “Shimmer. I’m alone.” There was a pause, “Open the fucking door!”

Jesse dropped his aim and took a couple of strides to the door, shoving the sofa propped up against cabinets to allow himself to open the door for Ellie. She stumbled in, eyes wild, slick with mud — and by the looks of it, not her own blood. She was frantic in her movements, scanning the area to locate the one person that was above the rest.

“Where is she?”

“Dina?” You asked stupidly and Ellie threw you a look, “She’s OK. She’s in the Dressing Room—”

Jesse interjected, “—Where were you?” Ellie ignored his query and shoved past you toward the location of Dina, “Ellie!”

After Ellie had disappeared to tend to Dina, you had slumped against your own rucksack on the floor. Uncomfortable, but it would suffice. Your nose had it’s own pulse, alongside your ankle as you attempted to slip into an unconscious state. Irritated, you turned onto your side, shoulder cracking in the process as your eyes narrowed to Jesse, who had fallen asleep sitting up — gun propped up against his shoulder.

He would be enraged, but there wasn’t an appropriate requirement to shake him from his slumber. Instead, you pushed off of the floor, your backpack dragged alongside you as you dropped next to his sleeping frame. Your own gun laid next to your thigh, you took it upon yourself to override Jesse’s night watch for his own sanity. You were aware of the motive behind the whole group’s presence in Seattle, and as a qualified leader, you knew Jesse would be first pick when it came down to Ellie’s choice of person.

You would help where you could.

The sun began to rise, a red sky warned before it darkened to grey, the swell of the clouds burst and rainfall came heavy. Your own eyes began to drop from your own lack of sleep, just as Jesse began to stir next to you.

He groaned, neck rolled from falling asleep with his chin tucked into his chest. Eyes bleary, he blinked the sleep away, head shifting in a panic before his stare settled on you.

You offered him a shy smile, testing the waters. His frown grew where his patience lacked, and he stood with an immediate cause. His chest puffed, “Don’t ever do that again for me. If I fall asleep, wake me up for my watch.”

“Yes, sir.” You saluted him mockingly and he stalked off to find Ellie in the Dressing Room.

Without a turn to sleep, you threw yourself into distractions. Busied with drying off Ellie’s weapons for her next rendezvous with Joel’s killers, you sat hunched on the floor where Jesse had left you, scrubbing at bullets whilst you muttered under your breath about the tedious task. You were silently demoted and it began to frustrate you. Ellie and Jesse spoke amongst themselves just far enough out of reach of your hearing abilities, hushed tones as they mapped out logical moves; something you wouldn’t be apart of.

You were capable to a degree. However, the past twenty-four hours had shred the confidence that Ellie — let alone Jesse — had in you. There were no second chances, but you were determined to prove yourself in little actions such as becoming Ellie’s drying rack for her weapons.

As you placed another bullet down, alarmed at the sheer volume that Ellie had on her person, Jesse slumped down next to you. His shoulder bumped yours as you dropped the damp rag in your hand. You were busy — or, acting as if you were — so your eyes didn’t trail up to look at his face. You had no right to be mad at him, you were the one who left everything behind on a lie whilst the sun met the horizon.

Busying himself by mirroring you, Jesse stood his gun between his legs and began to polish the sides. From your peripheral, you could see he wasn’t really cleaning his gun from the minor flaws such as splattered mud. If your conversation hours prior hadn’t escalated, you might’ve thrown a sarcastic remark his way, a laugh shared to follow. You had been in this situation before, after an argument, Jesse would find closeness with you and perform a mundane task to grab your attention.

If Jesse didn’t have the words to cut the chord on the tension, he’d act out until resolved enough to talk.

He feigned a spit against the rag, and you let yourself stare with petulance. Jesse paused his motions to look back at you with an innocence, his head turned to look behind him before returning his eyes back to you.

“Stop it.” You warned.

“Stop what, exactly?” He queried, “I’m just cleaning my gun.”

You scoffed, “You’re pretending.” Palms against the floor, you leant your weight into your arms, “If you want to talk to me, Jesse, you can just say that instead of pretending to spit in a rag to clean the mud off of your gun. Which — by the way — hasn’t budged since you started.”

“Hm.” Jesse tucked the cloth into his pocket, “Ellie and I will be heading out soon to find Tommy.”

“OK. I’ll get ready—”

“—That wasn’t an invitation. You’re staying here with Dina.” He gestured with his head to the resting girl, “You’d be one hell of a liability. With or without a ruined ankle.”

His remark scathed you, “You don’t have to be so mean.”

“OK.” Jesse agreed, a small smirk noticeable on his face, “I love you. And I want you safe. So, please stay within the confines of the theatre with Dina.”

“You still love me?” It had your chest aching. His casualness caught you off guard, nonplussed by such nonchalance over a confession you had assumed was buried six feet beneath dirt; decayed and soon forgotten.

Jesse stood as Ellie threw a nod to signal their departure. He slung his gun back round his shoulder, “Unfortunately, for me. Yes. You’re not off the hook, but I’d be a liar — just like you — to say I didn’t love you anymore.” A lopsided smile exchanged the smirk, “You made a mistake. Everyone makes them.”

“Here.” Unsure of how to follow his confessional up, you slipped one of the only remaining food packs into Jesse’s hand which he took willingly. “Break a leg food. Or—Or be safe food. Whatever one works in the moment.”

Jesse flipped the pack in his hand, “Did you steal this from Patrol?”

“OK. Now you’re beginning to split hairs for the sake of splitting—”

Jesse cut you off. Large palm to the back of your head, he pulled you in and pressed a firm kiss to your lips. You let your hands clasp his forearms before you slipped them around his neck, bending backwards slightly so he could chase your lips.

His warmth consumed you whole. Your chest pressed against his, hearts threaded back together after being so carelessly torn apart, suddenly the dying world around you seized to exist. It was only Jesse and you. Privileged to survive together, and that is the only thing that mattered to you. Because, once your hands were washed clean from the death of the W.L.F. members who took Joel Miller’s life, your life had to continue; and you decided you needed Jesse to be apart of that.

Once pulled back, Jesse pressed his forehead against yours. His eyes shut for a moment to digest that he may be saying goodbye. Seattle had slowly unfolded to be a bigger situation than any of you could have anticipated, and leaving the walls of your base meant that you may never return.

You were a little shocked by Jesse to say the least. One eye peeled open, you had to make sure that he wasn’t kissing you out of spite.

Fingertips traced every feature on his face, as if you were memorising it all for the final time.

“I love you too, Jesse.” You whispered and with that, Jesse pulled away, the jaws of emptiness snapped around your ankles and dragged you away from him. Arms wrapped around your own torso, you watched Jesse and Ellie slip out of the theatre into the war in Seattle.

The silence was overwhelming, your head turned to see Dina return to the couch to prop her wounded leg up. An unspoken wedge had formed between the pair of you, even when you clutched at her hand as the arrow was pushed through the flesh of her leg. The looming shadow of the conversation you needed to have with her, peering at you from every corner of your dreams. She was pregnant with Jesse’s baby. It should have been the least of your worries considering the circumstances that had unfolded; but it still clawed at your mind all the same.

You sat at the edge of the couch. Hands neatly placed into your lap as you stared out into the emptiness of the room. Dina watched you for a moment, amusement crossed her features until you met her gaze — suddenly your odd behaviour wasn’t particularly funny anymore.

She spoke your name, “What’s wrong?”

Part of her knew. Where you lacked in intelligence to survival, you made up for in piecing things together. You had been attentive to Dina since your arrival in the theatre, but she could notice the distance, the barricaded wall put before your words. Eyes empty, a frown on your face when you handed the ginger biscuit before framing yourself with a faux smile.

It was only a matter of time before the question cropped up. You were straight to the point throughout your blossoming friendship, Dina knew you wouldn’t beat around the bush to salvage her feelings.

You sighed to her question. A stomachache from nerves from trying to approach the subject with the right tone.

“Dina—” You started, a look thrown her way that made her chest constrict, “You’re pregnant with Jesse’s baby. Aren’t you?”

She nodded. She couldn’t lie.

“Can you give specifics of how far along you are?” Oh. Dina thought. You were prodding at a dead carcass. You squeezed one eye shut, “I’ll try stay calm, you know.”

Dina smoothed the hairs at her forehead, “We weren’t together, when you two became a thing. If that’s what you’re getting at. I—I don’t know how far long I am, but, it’ll be further than when you and Jesse started seeing each other.”

“Right.” You nodded, not wholly convinced.

Dina repeated your name, her hand reached for yours for sincerity, “Jesse was—is crazy about you. The moment you entered Jackson, we all knew our situation was over because he looked at you as if you hung the stars before ever fucking speaking to you.” She laughed at the memory, “I remember he practiced what he was going to say to you on Ellie, of all fucking people.”

“That would’ve been a sight.” You laughed with Dina momentarily, it quick to die on your tongue, “I’m sorry. For accusing you.”

“Hey. I would too.” Dina said, “You were pretty nice about it.”

“I should learn not to be.” You joked a little. The fleeting moment of normalcy struck your core and your face dropped the act. Satisfied with the outcome, you chose not to linger, “I’m just going to check on Zombie. I’m surprised he hasn’t eaten one of us whilst we slept.”

You didn’t wait for Dina’s answer. Leaving her to rest, you got up from the couch and strolled to the room where Zombie had been kept. He had grown irritated, hooves stomping at the carpeted floor, head shaking in disdain as you neared him with one of the last apples from your rationed pack from Jackson.

Palm flat out with the apple shown as a prize for Zombie, the Appaloosa huffed before taking the fruit from your hand; turning his back on you to eat it alone.

“You know, just because you can’t see me, doesn’t mean I can’t see you, Zombie.” You patted his stomach and he turned away again, earning a chuckle from your lips, “Zombie. It is not my fault you’re cooped up in here like a caged animal. . . In fact, it is my fault, but we’ll be out of here soon.”

Zombie whinnied and you nodded, “Trust me. I want to be out of Seattle, just as much as you.”

Spending a couple of hours in Zombie’s presence — surprisingly — finding him calming as you managed to scoop up the horseshit and throw it out the door, unnoticed. The hay was becoming limited, but there was enough to see him through another night. And, it felt as though things were coming to a head in Seattle, so you had confidence you would all be returning to Jackson by the next morning.

Water collected from the rainfall, you poured it into a spare bucket you had found for Zombie, disbelieving that you were retracing your days work from Jackson in a theatre in Seattle whilst the patrol members went on their trails.

“This is such fucking bullshit.” You had grown angry as you slammed the pale of water down for the horse. Your hands thrown out in frustration, “I should be out there, don’t you think? I might’ve been a major help finding Tommy.”

Zombie snorted.

“Traitor.” Just as you crossed your arms, the thunder cracked and muffled banging came from the doors where you had left Dina. You sprung into action, swearing when you rolled over your bad ankle as you ran to meet Dina who had begun limping toward to the door, “Woah—Do you know who it is?”

“It’s them.” You felt goosebumps rise and Dina continued, “Our group.”

Quicker together, you managed to lean against the sofa long enough so Dina could let the group in. Hit with the sideways rainfall, you turned your face to the side to prevent being hit directly in the face. Jesse and Tommy Miller filtered through, soaked to the bone and faces stoic, Jesse quick to press his forearm to the sofa you wobbled to keep upright. The question on your tongue, where the fuck is Ellie? died when the very person trudged in, her soul miles away as she stared blankly upon entry.

Jesse met your curiosity over Ellie’s behaviour with a shake of his head. Wet tendrils dangled in front of his face, but you knew his eyes were telling you not to poke the bear.

Dina followed Ellie into the Dressing Room and you were left with Jesse and Tommy who peeled their wet clothes from their bodies, immediately jumping into speaking of tactics against the stage, whilst you organised their weapons for drying.

Once handling a couple of rounds, you took a break, head titled from the seats as you watched the backs of Tommy Miller and Jesse pointing at the map they had sprawled out. Boots kicked off of the chair in front, you made it down to them where they were quick to quieten down in your presence.

That irked you.

“Don’t stop just because I’m here.” You insisted, face warmed under Tommy Miller’s watchful eye.

He looked like he was trying to recognise you.

His fingers snapped together, “You’re that girl banned from Patrol.” Fucking perfect. Tommy nodded to his revelation as Jesse’s shoulders began to shake with humour, “Yeah. The late one. How’d you end up gettin’ here?”

“She came by herself.” Jesse spoke for you, a hand massaged your shoulder, “A valiant knight with little experience.”

You swatted at his hand, “I have experience. I just got unlucky.”

“You tell yourself that.” Jesse tugged your earlobe in subtle affection, Tommy crossed his arms watching in amusement. Jesse added, “We’re going home.”

As the reply of excitement left your mouth, Ellie opened the doors from the stage, her face paled but her emotions collected. She looked to the three of you before catching the map at Tommy and Jesse’s elbows. She knelt down, before swinging her legs over the edge of the stage, a decent bruise noticeable across her cheek.

Without further questioning, Tommy and Jesse launched into talking shop with Ellie.

“Hey—” Tommy halted their plans, “They got what they deserved.” You were none the wiser but able to piece things together as Ellie responded, Tommy quick to reply about her quip on — presumably — Abby Anderson’s survival, “Yeah. . . Is that OK?”

All eyes went to Ellie.

She sighed, “It’s going to have to be.”

That was the confirmation Tommy Miller was heeding. Ellie Williams, albeit plagued by the obsession of Abby Anderson’s desired death, would settle for retiring to Jackson, Wyoming. This granted the passage for the four of you to retrieve your belongings and escape the jaws of Seattle unscathed further by the war that settled in it’s belly.

Without Ellie’s reinforcement of the plan. You had feared you may have been stuck in time until the deed was done.

“What you should be worried about is what Maria’s gonna do to you when we get home.” Jesse rubbed at your back, insinuating that Tommy Miller was in for a rough welcoming from his wife.

Tommy straightened, “We’ve been through worse. However, I was passing through some ritzy section of town. Came across this necklace.” He elaborated, “Sparkles a lot. I think it’s real gold.”

“You think it’s real gold?” You asked.

Tommy nodded, “It’s real gold.” Jesse was quick to ask to see it and Tommy pushed himself off of the stage, hand to his lower back, “I know what real gold looks like.”

“If it’s legit, can we say it’s from all of us?”

“Ha!” Tommy teased, “You find your own damn bribes.”

He stalked off up to the back of the theatre, leaving you alone with Jesse and Ellie.

Jesse took a moment before he turned his attention to Ellie, “How are you doing?” He asked and Ellie was quick to retaliate with a falsified answer. Jesse side-eyed you, “Ellie.”

She looked to her feet, a tick of silence, “Thanks for coming back for me.”

“My friends problems are my problem.” Jesse shrugged at Ellie, his hand smoothed against your hip to tug you into his side. His lips pressed to your temple before he nudged your side to look up at him. Ellie grunted in disgust when he pulled you in for a tender kiss. Unspoken promises of love that would continue on your return to Jackson. Things would be OK.

“You’re such a sap.” Ellie mocked.

“Alright. How about, my friends can’t get out of their own damn way.” Jesse teased and pinched your hip, “That includes you.” Followed up with your name for a direct call out.

Ellie let herself laugh softly, “That’s better.”

The moment was peaceful. Your return home was on the precipice, too engulfed in the agony to leave Seattle behind to add to the two friend’s conversation.

As tactile as he could be, Jesse rubbed at your neck, the moment of bliss soon disrupted by a cluttered noise toward the direction that Tommy had exited in. Hand dropped from your neck, all three bodies turned to the noise before a muffled grunt — no mistaking it to be Tommy’s — sent alarm bells through you. Ellie jumped down from the stage, muttering a ‘Shit’ in passing as she yanked her gun from her holster.

Unable to sit by and allow them to see the commotion through, you copied Ellie and Jesse’s movements. Your gun tucked into the waistband, haphazardly pulled, safety clicked off as you followed them closely up the aisle and to the doors that concealed Tommy.

Both Jesse and Ellie swung the wooden doors open with ease, you were just a hair away from Jesse as he held out his gun to shoot the threat. A gunshot rang through the air, and your feet tripped over the sudden slump of his body. You hissed as your cheek burnt across the carpet, eyes scrunched as you looked back to check on Jesse — he was never one to trip with such precision in his every move.

Blood poured from the exposed bullet wound, Jesse laid dead and within seconds you scrambled to him, your hands shaking at his broad shoulders. Ellie called out his name in the softest tone you had managed to hear through the ringing of your ears.

"Stand up!" A female voice ordered when the tears began to blind your vision, hands to Jesse's face, nail beds painted in his blood. "Hands in the air, or I shoot this one too!"

Tommy Miller laid flat against the floor, his dignity clutching on by a thread in his weakened position against Abby Anderson. You remained knelt with Jesse's body, your fingers pressed to his neck pleading for a pick up on a pulse.

        In response to your disobedience, Abby shot at you and a perfect hit embedded into your shoulder, your vision white from the hot searing pain. Ellie yelled for your protection when you let out a wail from the unprecedented agony Abby had inflicted on you.

        On a high from adrenaline, the bullet in your shoulder proved to be a pain lessened by the sight of Jesse drained of colour. His hair began to saturate with his thick blood, your fingertips stroked through the strands, spit dropped from your mouth onto his flannel, as your body shuddered out a sob.

        The outside noise drowned out.

        Abby seemingly decided to spare you.

        Now, it was just you and Jesse. The last of the strength you could muster, you had half pulled him onto your lap, his head lolled and you wretched. The wound on his cheek gaped and exposed flesh beneath the skin surface, your fingers avoided tracing across it.

        Every decision made by you had a Butterfly Effect that gifted people with death. From what you had presumed, your three strikes had earned Joel Miller a death sentence. And now, as Jesse stilled, eyes glazed over, the fourth — and unexpected — strike scraped across you.

Jesse came on horseback to Seattle with the intention of bring his friends back, bringing you back to Jackson wrapped up in his safety. Now, as he laid deceased upon your lap, eyes wide to the atrocities, Jesse would never return to his position in Jackson and his last moments consumed by fear that his promise wasn’t followed through.

Stomach churned with devastation and guilt, you leant your forehead against Jesse’s and immediately recoiled. You couldn’t feel him anymore. Slowly, as his own blood pooled beneath him, Jesse was becoming a shell of who he once was and the one person amidst the blistering chaos that was brought by the Virus, that could make you feel something again.

Your head rolled back, unable to catch a breath, hands slick with the blood of your boyfriend, you let your eyelids close — unable to process the commotion happening within the room. For, nothing else mattered, your brain rewired from the fixation of avenging a man named Joel Miller, to assuring that Jesse’s body was retrieved and taken back to his home, Jackson, Wyoming, to receive the upmost respect of a burial and a headstone that read of his leadership qualities, and the type of person that made falling in love easier than falling asleep.

Finding the energy to peel your eyelids open, you took one deep breath before the butt of a gun was brutally smacked against your temple; body slumped next to Jesse’s, your clothes saturated in his blood, your hand still laid onto his body.

You would find the capability to somehow survive this attack. For Jesse; you would return home to Jackson.

[threegoldfish]

Loss is loss, no matter what it is you’re losing.

Still feeling incredibly awkward because of having talked so much, Marc keeps his arms crossed and swallows - gaze averted, lingering on some part of that stupid, white floor as Harrow speaks to him. Well, perhaps the other is correct with that - loss is loss, no mater what it was that went away, in the end.

Still, it feels weird to him, and... confusing, everything. Makes Marc want to ignore it all, to just... pretend it isn't there in the first place. Why did he even say anything to begin with? Part of him wants to just disappear as he sighs to himself, vulnerable, sheepish...

---But he listens instead, even allows those dark eyes to trail up briefly when that woman begins to talk, mentions how she is still hoping to get a message from a cousin who'd apparently...done something real bad, Marc assumes. Caused her pain and suffering in one way or another; Perhaps he doesn't wanna know the details, actually. An inhale, followed by an exhale, a gaze drifting to the side...

He can still hear his voice, sometimes - young, happy, cheerful, invested in those games they always played - re-enacting their favorite movie...

What are we going to explore today, Dr. Grant? Will it be dangerous?

His brother will never text him, however. Has never had the chance to text him, to grow up, to own a damn phone. Has never gotten into high school, has never turned into an adult, experienced what it feels like to age, to develop new interests...

It is all your fault!

---Lips press together, brows knitting as eyes are squeezed shut; That voice he hears so much more often, to this day - screaming at him, emotional and heartbroken, true hate within every syllable that appears and echoes through the air like thunder, like a knife slicing itself through his soft insides. Nostrils flare as he inhales, fingers curling against his own sides, gripping his shirt just below his armpits. It's just a memory, it's just a memory, it's just a memory---

---Marc is being pulled out of his thoughts there, by another voice that speaks up; He misses half of the context, but hears the rest of what that veteran says when he blinks his eyes back open, teeth biting down onto the inside of his cheek to try and keep himself calm, fingers relaxing again, a breath leaving him he's been holding onto for too long; Physical pain helps to blend out the mental pain, has him focus on that sting instead rather than on memories, on pictures...

That guy over there talks about sleeping on the floor. Marc doesn't do that, but he gets where the other is coming from. Yeah, certainly feels different to rest on some fucking rock somewhere out there rather than a mattress...

Maybe we feel safer in things that hurt because we know what to expect. Maybe the thought of hurting is easier than the thought of the unknown.

Marc feels himself nodding - it's not a conscious thing he does, but rather his own brain reacting to something that seems to resonate with him---

Things fucked sucked back at the military. Not all of them, obviously, but... a lot of things did. Some comrades did, definitely - Marc's had quite some trouble with a few, and he'd always wished for his superiors to please just put him elsewhere, have him be stationed in a different country with different soldiers - and sometimes he'd even considered to quit. To do something else in life, yeah. Had lied on a stupid fucking bunk bed and stared up at the one above him, thought about getting a shitty job so he could afford himself a flat---

...But he'd stayed, because he knew what it felt like to be there. The unknown had scared him enough for him to prefer to go through episodes of self-hate, of intense bullying, of men sizing each other up so as to keep their position somewhat stable between them all...

Marc glances at Harrow, takes in the sight of him, then looks away again - lets his gaze trail along the other ones, just for a moment and a half, before his attention is on his own shoes instead - those stupid grey loafers. Comfortable, at least, but certainly not nice to look at.

Everyone listened with a deep sense of politeness, some of them looking with intrigue while some just listened to be kind. The veteran relaxed visibly, his shoulders lowering from where they’d been up near his ears. No one stared with judgement, most of them not even looking up at all; one of the women was wiping at her eyes, while others looked more tired than before. Not worn out, but seen; as if it was another bridge of connection. 

Arthur nodded, the gesture small and slow; his eyes were shining with a gentle pride, a happiness that Marc allowed himself to open up like that; it would come with shame, he knew, which was why it was important to treat the moment with such delicate nature. 

“That makes perfect sense,” he said quietly. “Two things can be true at the same time. Wanting silence and missing noise. Hating what you had and grieving that it’s gone. Wanting out, and still feeling like you left something behind. You did. It’s painful. And it’s correct, to mourn what you’ve lost. Loss is loss, no matter what it is you’re losing.” 

There was a small, brief shift as everyone took that in. One of the men crossed his legs, another scratched at their wrist. The veteran didn’t speak, but his eyes had softened; something a bit less guarded, deciding that he’d found a silent companion in Marc. Perhaps they would never talk, but it hardly mattered; having someone was better than having no one. 

It wasn’t him who spoke next. 

“That’s what I keep getting caught up on,” a young woman offered; one who had been silent until now, just standing near a wall, inspired to speak by Marc doing so. “That it doesn’t make sense. I think about how shitty it was, living with my cousin after… after what happened. But when I’m here, I just want him to text me. Even if it’s mean, even if he’s just telling me to shut up.” 

She sniffed, shifting. “Sometimes I check, y’know, at phone time. I’ll check, even though I know he won’t text me. And I’ll go through my old messages just to be sure - like… maybe they disappeared. Maybe I missed something.” 

Arthur nodded again, listening; the woman wiped at her eyes again, using the sleeve against her wrist to do so. 

“I still sleep on the floor,” the veteran finally spoke again, his gaze lightly on Marc before dipping back down to the ground. “Even at home. Pisses my wife off, she wants me to stop. I don’t like beds, though. The springs. Reminds me of some fuckin’… I dunno. Something. I don’t like them.” 

Arthur’s mouth twitched, though he nodded to that as well. “We can build strange armor,” he agreed. “But it’s comfortable. And when it gets heavy… maybe we don’t want to take it off. Maybe we feel safer in things that hurt because we know what to expect. Maybe the thought of hurting is easier than the thought of the unknown.” 

Another murmur, another set of hums in consideration or agreement. 

[nsthebrotherangstguy]

A breakdown of Kou's breakdown in chapter 87 cause if I must suffer so should you guys.

First we start by what triggered it.

It's everything he never wanted to hear. From the person he never wanted to hear it from the most.

He starts by just plain denying it, smiling nervously and sweating.

Still on defense, he continues to deflect by turning it on Teru

After one more condescending sounding comment from Teru, he finally snaps.

And it was like the floodgates had opened up, years of resentment that he kept bottled up for so long boiling over and being let out in this one moment.

And finally...

Deep down, Kou already knows that everything Teru said about him was right. He knows that he wasn't much help with exorcism. He knows that he can't do much other than do housework and make dinner in the kitchen.

He knows he's weak.

But hearing Teru say it? Someone who up to this moment has always tried to be encouraging to him? His big brother whom he idolized most over anyone else?

He just can't take that.

[satancopilotsmytardis]

Control Yourself

Pairing: Shigadabi

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Commissioned by @0-seareality-0 on Tumblr. Tomura has always liked the feeling of control. Given how he was when his teacher found him, given his quirk, given the fact that this world was not made to even accept him, he always has wanted to exert that control over himself and his surroundings as much as possible. It’s really no surprise those tendencies followed him into the bedroom, even when he’s indulging in his own fantasies as things start to take shape with the new League of Villains. 

Contents: Pre-Relationship, Masturbation, Orgasm Control, Edging, Fantasies, Dub-Con Fantasy, Degradation, Humiliation, Praise, Oral Sex, Cum Eating, Premature Ejaculation, Small Penis Humiliation, Feminization, Crossdressing, Lingerie, Dacryphilia, Sex Toys, Multiple Orgasms, Daddy Kink, Overstimulation. Sadism, Masochism, Cock and Ball Torture (light), Intercrural Sex

Word Count: 13,484

"Don't slip." Dabi's voice rings across the bar with a sneer. Tomura picks up the glass that Kurogiri slid across the bar for him in one smooth movement. He doesn't know who the fuck was responsible for raising Dabi, or who let him run around on the streets talking to his betters like that, but he is every tempted to see if he can whip the cup directly at his head. The alcohol dousing his skin would stop him from erupting in flames and the hard glass connecting against his head would be equally as effective in shutting the asshole the fuck up. Tomura would be able to get up from the bar and close the distance from his position then and he could have four fingers around Dabi's throat and force the arsonist to start taking him seriously once he did. He wouldn't even end up tearing open his stitches if he did that. 

"I never slip." Is all he actually says as he lifts the glass, whisky on the rocks, to take a sip as the rest of the new League of villains drink and eat after a long day of physical training. Another hour, maybe less if Toga gets her way, and then she'll be trying to get the others to head with her to go elsewhere, wanting a chance to run around now that she has blood supplied by Ujiko and no real adult supervision without her parents around anymore. After that, Tomura won't have to be social anymore and he's looking forward to the quiet for a bit. He used to go to the mall, to La Vénus, or just walk to the nearest park whenever he wanted to be around more people. Usually, being around lots of people helps him to clear his head. The chatter of so many other lives around him, ironically, does not make him feel more connected to other people. It just makes him more acutely aware of the things that he doesn't like about the people around him, the world at large and how this society treats them, the things that it finds valuable and those it finds worthless. 

Being around this new League makes him all the more aware of the prejudice and suffering that caused the majority of them to be villains. It makes him angry to spend time around them. Magne who has been hurt and turned into a joke because of her identity. Toga who wasn't ever given a chance because of her quirk and who was forced to pretend until it nearly shattered her. Shuichi who wasn't even given the option of trying to hide from the prejudice that he has been faced with since birth. Twice who shouldn't have ever been here, but the government threw him away in the eyes of the callous law and left him so isolated that his path was sealed and with his brain injury and record, there's no hope of ever recovering in the eyes of this world. Mr. Compress hasn't been forthcoming with anything about his identity, but he treats the others well, he seems just as keenly aware of the faults in this world and he doesn't ever flinch from them. 

And then there's Dabi. The arsonist who puts on a dumb dialect to try and act like his constantly half-lidded blue eyes aren't always on all of them and trying his best to analyze everything as if that will give him the leg up on them all if he ever needs it. A jerk who is constantly insubordinate, who never even shows All For One the respect that he deserves, and who seems to revel in the idea of causing problems on purpose and being as mysterious as possible. Tomura half-hopes that the scars all over his body are because he was in some kind of truly traumatic and fucked up interaction with heroes or something, because if Dabi is just  like that because he's a douchebag, then Tomura is going to decay Kurogiri along with Dabi as payback for the nomu stopping him from killing the bastard the first time they met. 

"Yeah, right. Bet the reason you're so uptight and weird is 'cause you dusted your own dick jacking it to your waifus or whatever." 

There isn't enough alcohol in the glass to coat enough of Dabi's skin to keep him from incinerating him if he were to throw it. So Tomura does his best to ignore Dabi and the rest of the League as Toga pesters Magne to take them all to some underground fighting ring that she knows about. 

"Maybe some other time, kid," She tells her. "Don't want to head there already wiped from training. But there is a great place that does ice cream on saltbread a few streets over we could head to instead. We can do a girl's night!" 

That seems to be equally as exciting to Toga as going and watching people beat each other bloody, and she and Magne depart, the two of them heading out signalling to the others that it's probably also about time to start to wind down as well. 

Spinner, Compress, and Twice all have their own apartments as well, only, unfortunately, Dabi and Toga staying here at base with him. But if she's going out with Magne, then the chances they don't end up having a sleepover at her apartment is slim to none. Toga loves her knives and blood, but she adores classically feminine things too and hasn't had any genuine, accepting companionship in her life. She and Magne have absolutely latched onto each other as Toga is so genuinely excited to take part in those things with Magne who soaks them up just as happily after being stuck in a very close-minded and male-dominated field since her transition. So the two of them often go and have 'girl's night' whenever they feel like doing something like that. But the others will just go to their own places, and he clocks Dabi grabbing his coat as well. He doesn't say shit about that. He doesn't want to hear whatever annoying thing Dabi would say if he chose to show any interest in what he's doing outside of this building. As is, his teacher had more than enough spies all around this area that Tomura feels very sure that Dabi can't be working as a double agent outside of here, and thus he doesn't give a shit where he goes so long as he doesn't have to deal with his attitude again until they start training again tomorrow morning. At least, if nothing else, Dabi is very dedicated to their training. 

When all of the others have left, Tomura finishes his drink and gestures for another. He never allows himself to get drunk, or even tipsy, in front of the others. No matter the crude remarks Dabi made about his quirk, Tomura prides himself on how well he's trained to be able to keep himself and the things around him safe so long as he's conscious. But he is already, as his teacher says, 'tactless' and he doesn't know or want to find out what he would actually say to the League, but especially Dabi if he ended up letting his tongue slip in front of them. Given that three of them are only here for Stain and the damned hero killer stabbed him as he turned down his offer, he doesn't want to risk slipping with that information before their debut locks them into the League without a way to disappear from the public eye. 

Kurogiri pours him another finger, but then he sets the bottle on the bar beside his glass and Tomura looks up at him. "If you won't need me tonight--" 

Tomura waves him off. He's sure Kurogiri has dozens of standing orders from his teacher as he continues his treatments. He isn't bothered that the creature has other responsibilities to see to, and a night alone at base could be... an indulgence that he needs. 

"I will return in the morning." Is all Kurogiri says before he disappears. Tomura pours himself a second finger of whisky and then puts the bottle back, heading upstairs to his room. 

He considers getting on his computer or on his handheld to game, but that isn't the kind of indulgence that he's really interested in tonight. No, instead he goes and takes a shower, able to actually have it warm for once without he, Dabi, and Toga all trying to get a share of the hot water. He checks over the stitches on his shoulder and is pleased enough that they seem to be healing well and should be able to come out in the next couple of days. Then he dresses in just his pajama bottoms and heads back to his room. He picks up his drink again on his way over to his bed, making sure that his door is locked, as he also retrieves his phone. He doesn't care much for music, but he doesn't have to curate the selection or pay it any mind when he takes a drink as he unlocks his phone and navigates over to his music app. La Vénus, the premier sex club in Kamino, has a station that pumps the same music as would be playing at the club into his bedroom speakers, though he keeps the volume far lower than it would be at the club. 

The music is a precaution more than anything else, just loud enough that the faint hum of it would be the thing someone would hear if they had their ear to the door over the sound of his hand moving over his cock. He hasn't gotten to go to V since his debut, won't get to go again for a good long while, and can't risk bringing a partner back to base just to satisfy himself. So, despite Dabi's crudeness, he will be letting himself blow off some steam the way that he can. Tomura sets his phone and glass on the nightstand, sheds his pants, and reaches for the bedside drawer. He has a die inside along with a few different toys that he often reaches for first when he can take someone else to bed. Condoms, lube, a stroker, cock ring, bullet vibrator, an anal plug, and a package of wipes to clean his toys and whatever else on his partners' bodies. But it's late and he thinks he just needs something simple tonight, so he just takes out the die and the lube. He rolls the square of plastic against the nightstand and it clatters a few times before stilling. 

Two. 

Tomura doesn't know if this would make anyone else start to warm, but as he settles into his bed, he lets his mind start to wander. He doesn't need to look at porn tonight, his mind is already full of what he wants as he lets his hands, one finger raised, start to move across his skin. 

Dabi is such a brat, but he knows how to tame a brat. He knows that someone who runs their mouth like that just needs to be put into their place. He would glare at him, all of that bright defiance in his eyes, and Tomura wouldn't pause, wouldn't hesitate to put his hand around his throat, one finger hovering away from oblivion, as he hisses, 

"You want to test my control? Alright, why don't I show you just how easily I can have you in my hand?" 

Tomura moves down his body, feeling over the new tender scars that linger on his body from Snipe's bullets as he lets his fantasy start to heat the blood in his veins. Putting Dabi in his place would be so good for his soul, especially if he got to break him as he did it. 

He presses his palm against Dabi's big, stupid belt and hooks three fingers under his waistband, of his pants and whatever he has on beneath them, and then he drops his remaining fingers. Dabi gasps, his skin going hot and a tremble going through him as the fabric and leather turns to dust against him. Tomura races his quirk down his legs so that Dabi is naked from the waist down. 

Does he have scars across his legs too? Tomura wonders as he reaches for his lube and squirts some into his palm, letting it warm as he decides. Yes, he probably would give what the rest of him looks like. But this is his fantasy and he does allow himself a different indulgence. 

"Oh, all that attitude and that's all you have?" The mockery falls off his tongue as easily as he keeps Dabi pinned to the wall, holding him in place with the promise of death if he dares to move.

"Shut up, mop head!" Dabi tries to snarl, his humiliation more than clear as he tries to cover up his soft, small cock from his sight. 

"Hands against the wall, little boy," He teases. "Or I'll tell everyone just how pathetic you really are." 

Tomura's cock starts to harden as he thinks about that. Being a villain already makes him a monster in the eyes of most of the world, but it's different to pretend to be another kind of one in his fantasies where he can't actually hurt anyone. He lets himself reach for his cock. 

He undoes his own pants, keeping his other hand around Dabi's neck as he trembles against the wall. His cheeks are so red with his humiliation as he is left standing half-naked in the bar. Adorable. It would be so nice to see Dabi embarrassed and quiet. Already broken and Tomura has barely started with him yet. He pulls himself out of his pants, his cock much thicker and longer than Dabi's and just the sight of him, half-hard, makes Dabi whimper. He tries not to let that go through him with a thicker pull of arousal as he watches his little cock start to harden too. 

"If you can be a good boy, then I'll help you feel good, Dabi." There is no offer of kindness in the words, only the promise of more violence if he doesn't listen to him and behave the way that he wants him to.

And of course this version of Dabi, just like the real thing, needs to be broken first. "Fuck you." The words are meager, but they give him the excuse that he wants and Shigaraki is not gentle when he takes both of their lengths in his hand and then starts to tighten his grip around Dabi's throat, cutting off his air as he smears the lube over their skin. 

His hand glides easily along himself even though he skipped over that inconsistency in the story he's weaving. Tomura feels the first curls of pleasure starting to go through him as he moves his hand along his cock. He is careful to always keep a finger raised, but it still feels good. It's been, fuck, probably at least a month since he was able to get off and he didn't realize just how badly he would need this, but it feels so good that his toes are already curling as he lets his hand move deliberately over himself. 

He knows how he likes to be touched like this, and it's so satisfying to feel Dabi's small cock getting harder against his own as, despite himself, Dabi also clearly likes these touches too. He bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut, and he still somehow manages to look angry even as Tomura makes him feel good. 

He keeps going, his mouth moving to nip along Dabi's jaw as he lets the other take thin sips of air through the pressure he puts at his throat. He doesn't know what the texture of his scars would be like, but it's easy to smell the smoke that seems to be constantly sitting on his skin as he moves his hand. It seems to take no time at all before his palm is getting so much wetter and Dabi biting his lip isn't doing what he wants anymore. He can't hide the little whimpers and moans that are coming out of him now, and he can't fight the way that his hips twitch forward to try and get more friction as he starts to feel so good. Tomura feels the burn of pleasure in his veins as well, savoring the way that, with Dabi helpless where he stands, Tomura is the one who is in complete control of how either of them will find their pleasure. He could do this for hours. He just might if it means that he can have Dabi sobbing beneath him, his little prick blushing so badly that his head will be almost as purple as his scars. It would be so satisfying to see him reduced to nothing but an eager receptacle for Tomura's pleasure. He could torture him with the waiting. Dabi doesn't seem like the type who would like that the way that he does. These thoughts swirl through his mind as he takes his hand from around them, a momentary reprieve that helps him keep his own pleasure and arousal in check, before he shifts. 

He intends to give Dabi a firm tap against his sac. He wants to cause him enough pain to stave off his orgasm, maybe to make him cry and beg, but at the last second the idea changes. And as he imagines how hard he would hit the other man, his fingers connect and Dabi lets out a humiliated moan as the pain sparks pleasure brightly enough across his nerves that he cums all over himself and Tomura. His little prick rapidly softens again as Dabi trembles and his eyes go tear-bright with his humiliation as he tries to pull at the hem of his shirt like that will actually hide what a mess he's made. 

Tomura lets himself let out a soft groan as he strokes himself a little tighter, a little faster, as he imagines how easy Dabi might be beneath that big attitude. Such an easy mark for Tomura's sadism if he can humiliate him so easily and can't afford to actually hurt him the ways he likes to in play. With the increase in his rhythm, Tomura feels his own arousal creeping higher, making his balls feel a little tighter and more aware of how good it would feel to have his relief. And that's what makes him pull back. He lightens his strokes, releases his grip completely after two, and then just traces his fingers along his cock. His nerves are all lit up and sensitive, his erection arched up towards his stomach as he feels a drop of pre slip from his head and along himself. His fingers follow it lightly, circling his head and then going back down along his length as he traces the veins that he can see and feel wound around himself. He forces his body to relax as he goes back into his fantasy. 

"Oh, that's absolutely pathetic, baby boy." He says with a cruel laugh. "Tiny little prick and you can't even control yourself? You cum when someone hits you, baby? It's a good thing that I found you first. At least I'll still let you work when I'm not training your pathetic little cock to be better." He says, the cruelty in his tone, in his words doing it. 

Dabi speaks again, but his words and breaths hitch as that attitude finally starts to slip away, as those pretty blue eyes go glassy with his shame and unshed tears. "S-shut up, Duster. Leave me alone." 

"You don't get to tell me what to do, pet." It's so easy to pull him away from the wall, to push him towards the back of the couch and make him bend over it as he lets out a terrified squeak. "You're going to stay right here, you're going to behave and keep your little prick from spilling again, or I'm going to have you on your knees licking your cum out of the upholstery." He leans along his back, shifting so that he can push his slick cock between Dabi's cheeks. He doesn't have much meat there, but it's still satisfying all the same to feel how warm he is, how his arsonist trembles and lets out a thin moan as it happens. "And you know what's worse?" He murmurs the words against the shell of Dabi's ear watching as the tears start to slip down his cheeks as he tries to shake his head to keep Tomura from forcing the words onto him that will recolor everything that he is right now as he's crafted in his mind for his amusement, "You're going to like it. You like it already. You haven't even noticed that I'm not holding onto you anymore." 

Dabi gives a weak sob and tries to shake his head again and the sight of his tears slipping over his cheeks is enough to have Tomura moving a bit harder against his ass, his hands shifting now to make the press of him tighter around his length as pleasure pulses up his spine. "No--" 

"Yes, you do, baby boy. Otherwise you wouldn't be playing with your pathetic little cock trying to get more already." 

Dabi cries harder, but he stops protesting as Tomura points out how his hand has snaked beneath his body so that he can stroke himself and make it feel good. He keeps moving, letting his head prod at Dabi's hole, but not letting himself sink inside. If he did that, then he wouldn't want to keep the same measured pace that he is right now, and hearing how every movement is making Dabi moan and whine like a well-trained whore is half of the fun. He wants the other to--

"Please," the word comes out so thin and watery. It's barely a word with how little breath that Dabi gives him. "Please, Tomura." He begs so softly, so cutely, so differently from the combativeness that he always greets Tomura with, and it puts a satisfaction beneath his veins that only makes Tomura more aroused. 

"If you want to cum again, you can, little boy. But you're going to be cleaning up your mess when you're done. You had better hope the others don't come back before you’re finished, or no one will ever think you're anything more than a desperate little cum slut again." 

Dabi barely lasts to the end of his sentence, moaning so loudly as he streaks his release against the back of the couch. 

The thought has Tomura realizing that he's tightened his hand back around himself and he hisses out a breath through his teeth. Fuck, that feels good. He's aching against his palm and he's already given up his orgasm once, but he rolled a two on the die, and he knows that the release will feel even better if he takes it after another instance of flexing his control over his body. 

So he pulls away from Dabi's body, knotting four fingers in his hair instead and pulling his head back. "Just can't help yourself, can you, baby? That's okay. Always thought being on your knees would be a good look for you. Sure having your mouth full of cock will be a better use for it than all of your vitriol." He pulls the other from the couch, but he doesn't have to make Dabi turn around to face him, doesn't have to push him down so that he gets on his knees. No, his mouthy little arsonist is broken enough, the brat tamed, and he sinks to his knees eagerly, his tears still streaking his flushed cheeks and his eyes glassy. His fingers curl into Tomura's jeans and he doesn't hesitate, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue out over his lower teeth before he waits, looking up at him so pleadingly. "What a good boy." He teases lightly before he steadies himself and feeds his cock into his eager mouth. 

Tomura moves his hand to his head. He knows how big he is, has seen how Dabi's staples strain when he speaks loudly or opens his mouth widely. He wouldn't be able to take him all the way inside, and the hand he has at his tip, he makes sure is the most soaked with his pre and lube, before he starts to flick his thumb teasingly over his head.

Dabi's tongue gives him little kitten licks for a moment, allowing himself to take in his flavor before he actually closes his lips around his glans and begins to suck. He can't take much of him inside, and seeing him struggle only makes Tomura's skin feel hotter and tighter as his little brat finally turns soft and sweet the way that Tomura usually prefers his submissives. He runs his hand through his hair, wondering if it should be stiff with hairspray or gel, but finding it soft instead. He makes sure that Dabi is being good, is licking at him like he adores his taste, and lets himself take his other hand to the base of his cock. 

It's not a rare thing that partners can't get their entire mouths around his length when he has them in his bed, so Tomura is used to stroking nearer to his root as they try to suck him off. It doesn't break the fantasy he weaves for himself to do it there too as he imagines--

Dabi moans so sweetly when he gets a gush of his pre against his tongue as Tomura's orgasm starts to press even more insistently against his veins. He already refused it once, twice, and now his balls feel tight and heavy and every inch of his prick is pulsing hot and heavy with his blood as he hopes to get what he wants soon. 

"That's it, baby boy. You're going to swallow every drop. Going to know that the next time you mouth off to me, I'll put you right back here, where you belong." 

Dabi moans around him and Tomura lets those vibrations feel good as they move along him and then lets himself pretend, lets himself stretch his own imagination, and doesn't tear open Dabi's jaw around the seams as he pushes himself deep into his mouth as he lets his orgasm tear across his nerves. 

Tomura lets out a harsh breath that is immediately eaten up by the heavy pulse of the music in the room. He tightens his grip around himself, stroking as much as he can through the pleasure as it comes for him. And it's so good as it does. He doesn't know how people who have the time to edge, don't bother. Every orgasm that he gets that comes after he's held off for so long makes his pleasure roll through his body more deeply, last longer, and feel more satisfying as the cum stops spilling from his tip and he is left naked on his sheets, panting softly as he does so. There is a dazed kind of bliss that comes in the wake of that and because his sub is only in his mind for now, he is able to let himself close his eyes, slip back into that fantasy as he enjoys his afterglow. 

Some of his cum leaked down Dabi's chin because he couldn't swallow it, but he is beyond caring. He's made another puddle on the floor, just a tiny one from his little cock because that was apparently enough to push him over the edge for a third time. Tomura strokes his hair once and then takes a step back, tucking himself away as he moves to sit on the bar, his drink still there. 

"Look at the mess you made, brat. I think it's time for you to clean it all up." Tomura sits down and picks up the glass, watching with a bone-deep satisfaction as he sees Dabi immediately dip his head to start licking up the little puddle of his cum on the floor.

Tomura waits until his breathing has returned to normal and his body feels heavy with his satisfaction before he reaches to the nightstand and takes out the wipes. He cleans himself up efficiently and then reaches for the glass again. He finishes his drink, turns off his music, and lets himself lay back against his bed. He and sleep have never been good friends or even slightly ameable acquaintances, but he foes feel relaxed enough now, for the first time in weeks, to let himself just try to let himself drift away. 

///

Things are very much back to usual after that. They have a summer camp to sack, forty students to figure out how to handle, along with half a dozen pros. They need support gear, training, planning, and to bring in a handful of additional recruits to plan things and make certain that whatever blindspots that they might have are being watched out for by someone else. It's a lot of work, and Tomura is fine with that. He can work as long and as hard as he needs to if that's what's going to shatter this world of false heroes. 

And as he spends more time with the League doing that, he doesn't necessarily get more fond of them. He already liked the majority of them, though he has some distaste for the three that his teacher finds for them to help fill the gaps that he'd mentioned. He doesn't like that Mustard is such a brat to everyone, thinking that he's the smartest person in the room with the arrogance of youth that thankfully Toga doesn't have. He doesn't like that Muscular doesn't care who or what kind of government system is in control, all of it is just a barrier that he wants to crash through if that means that he can do whatever the fuck he wants. And all he wants to do is hurt people and fight strong opponents. Tomura can't stand someone like him. Moonfish is just as bad. His hunger, his quirk, whatever made him like this shattered his mind. He's not like Twice. Twice still cares about people, he still is desperate to form connections, to become friends with them despite his messed up head. There's nothing left in Moonfish but his hunger and that is only being allowed because it's useful. 

But apart from the new members, he also learns more about the older ones. He sees over the course of their planning, how clever Compress, Magne, and more surprisingly, Dabi are. They are all very good at thinking on their feet and using their quirks in clever ways to help get themselves an edge up on the fight or any training exercise they get put through. And that cleverness extends outside of the combat, the three of them often taking point with him to try and make the plan for tackling the summer camp job. And when things are serious, when they do have to buckle down to work, Dabi's attitude melts away. He focuses in, more so than anyone else in the room, like every decision they make is life or death and needs to be thought about, while understanding that there are things that they simply cannot plan for and accepting that they will have to do a fair share of improvising when things come down to that, and then proving during their training exercises that he can think on his feet and is the best at being able to adapt his abilities to those changes. 

It's a surprise to him when he says, about a month out from the actual job itself, "I'm not going to be going into the field with you for your debut. So when you go in, Dabi will be in charge of the squad. He will have the nomu keyed to his orders, and you'll take your orders and report directly to him." And he sees how that knowledge settles in Dabi's body, sees the flicker of thoughts all behind his eyes as he acknowledges that even though Compress has more experience than him, his stealth is half of their plan in the first place and Magne's quirk is too good to not have her up front and in the mix to try and pin down some of the heroes and the students with the most impressive power quirks. He knows that this is the best course of action, Tomura knows that he'll take the responsibility with the same gravity that he's taken the planning so far, and all Dabi does is shrug as he bums a cig off of Twice and lights up with a fingertip. 

"Whatever. If you fuck up and get lost in the forest, that's not my problem. If you don't stay where I want you, I'll leave you behind." 

The others seem a little put off by that, but it doesn't mess with group cohesion enough for Tomura to regret his choice. He's too busy thinking how cute it is that Dabi perks up like a dog waiting for another treat throughout the rest of the meeting. 

///

The weekend, for some reason, is something that they still mostly abide by at base. And that means that when they're done working on Friday nights, more times than not, the others go out to do something in the seedier parts of the city. Twice, Toga, and Magne, for certain, have active warrants out for their arrests. Spinner hasn't even committed a crime yet in the eyes of the public, while Compress and Dabi are both like ghosts with nothing that he nor his teacher have been able to find out about them since they joined up. That, at least means that they're fifty-fifty on people likely to get picked up by the cops too soon, but the good thing is that Magne and Twice also have years of dodging the cops under their belts and Toga can transform. Given those three are the ones more likely to try and get the others to go out with them, or just head out on their own when they feel like it, Tomura is glad that they have those skills to fall back on. It's rare, but to celebrate Dabi's 'promotion' they seem to bully him into going out with them on Friday while he and Spinner stay in and play a few games together. It's strange to play his games with someone else. It's been something that he's only done for himself for so many years that sharing the experience with another person is... grounding? Unique? Strange. Just strange, but something he wouldn't mind turning mundane. 

They stay up late before Kurogiri opens a portal for him so he can get back to his apartment once the last train has stopped for the night, and Tomura stays up a little later, enjoying the quiet in the bar as the others continue to stay out and galavant to their heart's content. Sleep isn't easy for him to find that night, but he is able to zone out enough that his long waking hours are peaceful enough for it to feel restful.  

He doesn't hear the others come in through the door, which must mean they texted Kurogiri for a portal very early the next morning. He hears the footsteps on the stairs and realizes that it's just one set, not two, and that has him getting out of bed, taking off his gloves in case he needs his quirk against whoever this person is that is making their way into the hall. He opens his door just a crack and after sitting in his room, in the dark for hours, he is able to see the familiar shape of Dabi's body as he walks down the hallway. But he is leaning a little to the side, his breaths sound a little rough and when Tomura opens his door the rest of the way and turns on his light, illuminating a sliver of the hall just as Dabi steps into it, he sees very quickly that even if the others went out and got drunk wherever they were the night before, he isn't swaying because of that. 

"Fuck, Shig. Do you want to blind a guy or give him a heart attack first?" He hisses the words, not really angry, but definitely sounding tired himself. 

"What happened?" He asks as he steps out of his room. Dabi must be hurt, more badly than the splotches of blood on the collar of his shirt that have gone brown from how old they are, and then the fresher patch of it going crimson over his side would make Dabi think he is, because he lets Tomura hook a hand under one of his arms and direct him to the bathroom. It's small, but he throws the lid of the toilet down before Dabi sits on top of it, Tomur turning to take their first-aid kit out of the cabinet beneath the sink. 

"Was a planning week and Toga still wanted to go see the fighting ring. Was fine when we got there, having fun and shit." Dabi says, doing his best to shrug out of his coat with a soft hiss as Tomura sets the plastic box on the counter. "Magne got in the ring and we were putting bets on her. She fucking thrashed everyone in the ring with her and then someone got transphobic after losing. Threw a punch out of the ring and Toga leaped on him like a feral monkey and stabbed him in the kidneys. He went down, knocked over the table taking bets, cash box went flying, and that had everyone scrambling. Pretty sure that douchebag got his skull cracked by people trying to get the money. We tried to get out pretty fast, but I got decked a couple of times since I couldn't use my quirk without lighting up the whole place. Was just glad they didn't break my nose at first, and we all went to crash at Magne's place." He still seems stiff and as he tries to lift his arms to take off his shirt, he lets out a sharper hiss of breath that speaks to the pain that he must be in. "Fuck." 

Tomura reaches for the neckline of his shirt and closes five fingers around it, letting his quirk creep over the surface of the cotton, turning it to dust that flakes away easily from Dabi's skin without requiring him to move. Seeing the little silver barbells through each of his dusky nipples nearly shatters Tomura’s sanity right then and there, but he tries to maintain his composure. 

"Hey--" 

"You have at least four other identical ones, and don't tell me you were actually going to bleach the stains out." 

Dabi huffs and shuts up any other complaints about how he's helping him. He shifts instead to look down at his side, and his skin there is tacky with blood, a large curving scar, the same as the others that Tomura has seen across his skin, moving from just above one hip to over the upper part of his stomach, stopping an inch or so below the bottom of his pecs. On the side that goes higher over is ribs, there is blood sticky and smeared over the dark and light skin alike, a few staples torn free from that section, and others barely sticking into him as he can see that the blow that he took, one that probably would have just been a tender bruise on anyone else, has swollen around that connection point and made the metal piercing his skin worse. 

"Are your organs going to fall out if you don't put those back in immediately?" He asks as he reaches for an anti-bacterial wipe to help clean up some of the blood. 

"No. Main concern is infection now that it reopened." He takes the wipe from Tomura's hand when it's close enough to reach and he cleans up only what he needs to before he carefully unthreads the staples from the swollen sections. They each weep a little more blood, but Dabi's breath gets a little easier as he does it, dropping the staples in the trashcan by the sink. It's only then that he realizes that Dabi's nails are painted with a glittery dark blue nail polish that sparkles on his hands. 

"What happened there?" He asks, because getting into a fight is something he would expect from him, a manicure is not. 

Dabi glances at his hands and snorts, "After that shit show we went and got some food and headed back to Magne's place to eat and drink. Toga begged me and Twos. This was the closest thing she had to black. Thought I would be fine until morning, but it woke me up and I didn't want them to tear out. Didn't have replacements there so I came back early." He shrugs weakly and tries to reach into the first-aid kit. Tomura takes out another wipe for him and then a sterile pack of gauze and some of the waterproof tape to secure it in place. Dabi accepts the help but seems far more embarrassed about that than anything else. "Not fragile. As soon as the swelling goes down, I'll put in some new staples and I'll be fine." 

"Alright. Do you want me to help? It's late." 

Dabi's eyes flick up to his and they seem... hesitant. Like he doesn't believe that Tomura would just offer to help him like that. "Yeah, just don't slip, Duster." 

"I never slip, Dabi." He tells him evenly as he takes over what he can to make this easier on him. 

They clean up the wound, take out the staples they need too, only seven, and then Tomura has Dabi hold the gauze down as he tapes it down. Hopefully this will staunch the bleeding until he's ready to close the wounds back up again. By the time they're finished, the other man looks like he's relaxed a little and he looks like he's exhausted again. It's beyond late, so the last thing Tomura offers is, 

"Do you want an ice pack? It will help the swelling go down faster." 

"'Kay," he sounds sleepy when he says that, blue eyes blinking up at him owlishly from where he's sitting and Tomura isn't prepared for the way that lances heat through his body. He shakes that as quickly as he can and puts back the things they're finished with before grabbing a clean towel from beneath the sink. 

"I'll bring it to your room, go lay down." 

Dabi is tired enough that he doesn't fight Tomura on that, and they both leave the small bathroom together. Tomura goes downstairs and digs in the freezer, knowing that they have at least a couple of ice packs inside for occasions like this. He hesitates when he remembers the hot water bottle that is upstairs underneath the sink with the first-aid kit, knowing that isn't something Dabi needs right now, and isn't something that he should be thinking about. But he quickly fills the electric kettle anyway and sets that to heat as he heads back upstairs with the ice pack. Tomura wraps it in a towel and then pauses, knowing that Dabi has his own pain meds from the few times he's seen him taking them before he heads downstairs to a meeting, but he usually takes those dry. He fills up a glass of water at the sink as well before he brings his offerings to the other man. He barely has to knock before the door is opened again and he finds that Dabi has changed into his pajama bottoms and taken off his boots. The scars under his eyes stop Tomura from seeing any dark circles there, but his eyelids look more heavy than artfully disinterested and just past him, Tomura sees that he's got a set of headphones, possibly the only luxury that Dabi has bought for himself since he joined up, on his bed. 

"Don't melt it too quickly and try taking your medicine with some water before you burn a hole in the back of your throat." He tells the other man easily. 

"Whatever, Duster." He takes both though and before he kicks the door shut, Dabi doesn't meet his eyes, a touch of color creeping up over the edge of his scars along his cheeks. Just seeing that makes Tomura feel like he's a wild, starving animal that has just scented blood. "...Thanks." He shuts the door quickly after that and Tomura forces himself not to stay rooted to the spot as his bad idea becomes a foregone conclusion as he takes that image of Dabi, the quiet one. The one who would take those hits for his companions and then sneak out of the house to patch himself up so that none of them realize how badly he was hurt because of it, the one who would accept his help and care and thank him so sweetly even though it's clear he hasn't had any help or any reason to thank another person in a long time. Tomura takes those new images of Dabi in his mind and he knows he can twist them into something else that might actually exhaust his body enough for him to get some sleep tonight too once he's done. It's the weekend, maybe he'll act like an actual nineteen year old and stay up too late and sleep in too long in the morning. 

He goes back to the bathroom under the guise of cleaning things up, and he takes the hot water bottle from beneath the sink along with another small towel. He brings those downstairs and the kettle is full of steaming water that he pours into the pouch and wraps with a towel before he heads back up to his room. It's a short matter of time before he has his door locked, his music on softly again, hoping that Dabi is actually wearing his own headphones as he settles in to sleep, and stripped out of his clothes as he moves over to his nightstand again. He takes out a bottle of lube, his favorite stroker, and the die and lets it clatter against the nightstand as he tucks the other two items beneath the hot water bottle so that the heat from them starts to leech into the fluid and silicone. If he keeps this fixation on Dabi, he's going to have to get himself a toy that heats itself, he thinks, not certain if he's amused or annoyed with himself as he checks the results. 

Three.

Tomura's skin automatically starts to prickle with his arousal as he sees how many times he'll have to walk himself back from the edge as he settles on his bed and decides that if he's going to be indulging himself for so long tonight, he might as well allow himself a fantasy that he doesn't believe could ever be real while he's at it. He settles onto his bed and closes his eyes, shaping the start of his fantasy as he does so. 

Pretty pink nails. Still short, but neatly polished, feminine on a hand that shouldn't be and that is half gnarled with staples that creep up over the heel of his palm. He traces his eyes up from that hand that's reaching for his shirt and finds Dabi dressed in a short pink dress too. It's a light summery dress with a princess bodice attached with bows around his biceps, the skirt flaring a little out from the waist, but only falling to just above the middle of his thighs. Dabi's legs in pale stockings being held up with a garter belt, his feet in a set of chunky white heels, and a shiny pink gloss on his lips. And those big blue eyes look at him, sleepy and warm, as he says, 

"What are you doing, Duster?" 

His hands are reaching for him. He wants to touch. He wants to hold, to take, to ruin-- but not the way he did before. They're in his bedroom now. No chance of the others walking in, no possibility of someone coming and seeing Dabi like this the way that he can only dress for him. He's the one who gets to decide what Dabi will wear and he'll make certain that his firefly doesn't ever get spoiled by anyone else. He cups Dabi's cheek and he leans into the touch with a soft, fluttery sigh as he does, no trace of fear or hesitation that his hand might hurt him as he reaches out to touch. "Just admiring you, princess." 

Dabi's face goes so hot under his palm, his eyes opening back up, but not glaring at him. They barely meet his eyes before they're flicking back down to his lap, the other man trying to pull at his skirt like that will miraculously turn it back into his usual pants. "Stop it, pervert. I can't believe that you're into this." He mumbles without much heat. 

"Why wouldn't I be?" Tomura tells him, his hand moving down from his cheek to along his neck, over his shoulder, two fingers trailing delicately, and making Dabi shiver as he gets his fingers beneath the edge of his sleeve and traces that soft fabric back to the neckline of his dress. "You're always cute in anything, but seeing you dressed up like this? You look beautiful, baby girl." 

Dabi shivers again at the words, that touch of color going brighter in his cheeks as he does. "Stop it." 

"No, I want to spoil my little girl tonight." He doesn't have to fight with Dabi this time, doesn't have to break him. He can just play with his princess until he's satisfied, even if it takes a little coaxing for his baby girl to understand how good his embarrassment can feel when he's soaked in it the right way. He moves his hands along Dabi's chest, taking the muscle beneath and squeezing at him carefully, his thumbs trying to find the barbells through his nipples that made his mind nearly short-circuit in the bathroom. He can feel that there is more than one layer of fabric beneath his palms, enough of it that there is certainly some padding there too, and he can't help chuckling. "Oh, princess, are you wearing a padded bra? Were you worried that I wouldn't already be impressed with your pretty little tits?" 

Dabi whimpers, his thighs pressing together like he does have an eager cunt that's getting wetter as he starts to get more aroused. "Stop it, Tomura." 

"You don't have to worry, baby girl. I'm always going to think that you're so pretty. Prettiest girl in the world." He teases him further. "Always happy to have you being so sweet and dressed so cute for me." 

"Tomu," his voice is even whinier and that makes Tomura's blood heat more sharply through his veins. Fuck. 

"Absolutely adorable. I'm going to make you feel so good, princess, and by the time that you're begging me to stop again, it's going to be because you don't think you can feel any better without falling apart." His hands squeeze Dabi's chest tighter and the other man lets out a weak moan and then a louder, false protest. 

"Daddy!"  

Tomura's hand pauses as it was moving over his skin, his cock half hard already just from imagining Dabi dressed like that, acting like that, but saying that? Even in his own fantasy it seems taboo. He hasn't acted as a caretaker or a Daddy Dom often, so he hasn't used that honorific very much. But the thought of Dabi slipping, of how red his face would go as he said that, that makes him hotter than he thinks that he's ever been hearing it falling off of someone's lips before. 

"What's wrong, baby girl?" He asks, in front of Dabi once again, taking his hands away from his chest as he sees him squirming again as he tries to pull his skirt lower. It's low enough to be covering him, but it certainly isn't full enough to disguise the bump that is beneath the fabric that wasn't there before. It's a small bump, but Tomura can't help chuckling when he sees it. "Oh, princess. Are you already getting so excited? If you lift up your skirt and let Daddy see, then maybe you'll get a reward." 

Dabi shakes his head weakly. "...You'll see my... underwear." 

Tomura can't help laughing at his little girl as he coaxes him further back on the bed so that he can make Dabi back up against the pillows, still trying to arrange his legs to keep his modesty covered. "Princess, Daddy is going to strip you naked and see every inch of you tonight." He tells him so easily. "It's not going to matter if you're hiding your panties or not. Daddy is going to take them off of you before we're done tonight." 

Tomura reaches for the bottle of lube, now warmed through from the water bottle, and he lets himself slick his hand with it. He may be dragging this out to make his orgasm sweeter, but that doesn't mean that he has to wait to start building his pleasure. He's certain that he has a hundred ways to twist this scene in his mind to keep him going for as long as it takes for him to find and step away from the edge of his orgasm as many times as he wants to. He moves his hand along himself slowly, teasing himself how he can start to work that pleasure higher. 

Dabi is so reluctant, still blushing hotly as he lifts the hem of his skirt. Tomura shifts, kneeling between the legs that he makes him spread open before he shows him the white panties that he's wearing beneath the dress. They're a mix of cotton and lace, that is so fine and delicate over the small but definite bump of Dabi's cock and balls that have been shoved into the fabric, his erection straining it with his arousal. He looks so cute like that, trembling with his embarrassment and so vulnerable and ready to be touched. 

"Adorable, baby girl." The arousal is dripping from his tongue as he says the words, trying to decide how to have him first. But just the words have Dabi whimpering, one hand leaving his skirt so that he can shove his knuckles between his teeth as his whole body shudders. It's something beyond satisfaction, beyond heat that goes through him as just his eyes watching him while he's wearing such a humiliating outfit is enough to send Dabi over the edge. Tomura watches as his back arches a little, his choked-off little moan slipping out of him as he cums hard in his little panties and soaks them through with his cum, making the fabric translucent. 

Fuck. Tomura has been with a fair few partners, but he didn't think that he had such a kink for people who cum too quickly. It's beyond hypocritical of him as he works his hand along his length, thumbing over his head, moving down to stroke his balls as well as he tries to get all of his nerves worked up and hotter so he can make this feel even better. But the idea of Dabi, who has so much attitude, being so inept at the kind of play that Tomura does on his own, for his own enjoyment, and who would be so embarrassed about that and an undersized cock, makes his brain hum with the same pleasure he gets seeing a sub following all of his instructions and rules. 

Dabi trembles for a moment longer on the bed before he barely takes his knuckles from his mouth, his blush hot on his cheeks and his eyes bright with unshed tears. His voice is watery and weak when he says, "I-- I didn't mean to, Daddy." 

Tomura is going to eat him alive. But he doesn't want his baby girl to see it coming, so he smiles at him sweetly as he says instead, "It's okay, princess. You can cum as many times as you want to. Daddy just wants you to feel good." He moves up Dabi's body and makes him take his hand away from in front of his mouth and then presses kisses along the seam of his cheek. He knows what his scars feel like now and he likes the way he imagines the texture will be against his lips as he trails his kisses until he's hovering over his baby girl's mouth. 

Dabi lets out a shaky little breath before he closes the distance and gives Tomura a soft, timid kiss. So cute. So different than the Dabi he knows in their day-to-day. Absolutely adorable. He settles between Dabi's legs, his skirt falling again and sticking to his wet panties as Dabi moans into his mouth and wraps his arms around his neck to hold him there as Tomura imagines how good it would be to kiss him the way he does his subs. Dabi's skin is fire-bright against his hands as he moves them over his body through the dress. He strokes up the outsides of his thighs, his sides, back over his chest, and he takes his mouth and sets bites and kisses into Dabi's skin along his jaw and down his neck, moving back to give him a proper kiss whenever Dabi whimpers, 

"Daddy," and tries to tighten the arms around his neck to get him back up to his lips. Tomura lets him again and again. 

Lets his mind wander in that loop for a while as he focuses on stroking himself, trying to make himself more sensitive, his arousal higher, his nerves aching for the orgasm that he's not going to give himself. He does it until he feels his balls starting to tighten and then forces himself to ease off of his cock as he slips more fully back into his mind. 

"Time to show me your cute panties again, baby." He tells Dabi and in a falsehood, he doesn't have to pull at his own clothes to have himself naked between Dabi's thighs, but he does imagine untying the bows around his biceps. He does think about how cute he was when he removed his shirt before and when he hooks his fingers into the fabric of his dress, it falls away without any scattering of dust over the sheets or his skin. And then Dabi is laying beneath him, his face blushing so hotly as he shows him the strapless, padded white cotton and lace bra, his soiled matching panties, white stockings, and the delicate garter belt with golden chains and heart fastenings that are keeping those in place. "You look so beautiful, baby girl." He tells the other man as he looks down the length of his body. His panties are soaked through with his cum, but that only makes it all the more obvious that his cock is hard again and curving up towards his stomach as he reaches to tease his chest and then brings three fingers down the plane of his stomach, hooking and pulling lightly at the garter belt around his waist, before he brings those fingers to the hem of his panties. "You're already hard again, princess? Are you even going to be able to last at all when Daddy has his hand on your cute little clit?" 

Dabi keens, the word making his whole body tremble and him leak so much pre that it starts to soak through his panties even worse. Tomura sees the beads of fluid dripping across the fabric now that it can't absorb anymore and he shifts down Dabi's body. He moves between his legs, hooking two fingers in each garter to gently coax Dabi to keep his legs spread, and then he brings his mouth to his adorable little cock all messy in the too small panties. 

He doesn't love giving other people oral if they're not restrained. The act itself doesn't bother him, seeing how it makes his partners fall apart is a delight, but when he's got his head between people's legs, they have a much greater ability to move around and endanger themselves if he's not wearing his gloves while he's got his hands on their bodies. But in his mind, he makes Dabi perfect so that he can enjoy the thought of giving his little girl what he wants. 

Dabi moans and quivers on the bed, the muscles in his thighs jumping and his breaths coming in shorter pants as he tries to keep himself from going over the edge as he lays beneath him. He stays so good and still for him overall as Tomura moves his mouth over his soaked panties, taking away streaks of his cum, but leaving behind his own saliva that doesn't help to make them any dryer. He doesn't care. He just loves that he can taste the salty, bitter tang of Dabi's cum and feel the heat of his skin through the soft fabric that is covering him. Tomura savors how he can close his lips around the entirety of Dabi's cock through his panties without stretching his jaw and how Dabi all but wails with his pleasure as he does. Tomura moves his mouth over him, licking and sucking, hooking a finger around the crotch or his panties so that his cute nuts are slipping out from the fabric, and then giving them a soft kiss before he starts to lick and suck on them too, able to fit both in his mouth and feel how they start to get tenser and tenser against his tongue. He keeps doing that as he unhooks Dabi's stockings from his garter belt and takes those straps out of the way before he rests his palm against Dabi's little clit. His princess doesn't need to be told. He starts to hump himself against his palm, moaning and whimpering like the cutest little whore that he could imagine as he does so. 

It barely takes three seconds of the friction for his balls to go so tight and for him to spill all inside his panties again. 

Tomura eases off of his own sac, the movements of his slick hand there and the other along his length making his arousal burn so hotly under his veins that the thought of bringing off his little girl so quickly is making his own need too insistent. He doesn't want to be the one losing control like that. He wants his princess to be able to enjoy everything that he can give him, and he wants to hold out for as long as he can. It will only make it better when he does finally allow himself to let go, the satisfaction of being able to control even his basest desires always managing to work him into a frenzy. He lets himself come away from that edge quickly enough as he decides it's time for what he was so prepared for at the start of this.

He takes the stroker from beneath the water bottle, the silicone a little too warm to the touch, but he knows that's what it would feel like. Dabi is already too hot to the touch and Tomura would chance burning his dick if it meant that he could have the arsonist tangled up in his sheets, back arched, tears streaking down his cheeks as he begs for more. So he gets the inside of the penetrable wet with lube to make sure that it will feel perfect as he sinks back into the fantasy. 

Dabi is a mess already. Soaked with his own cum, smeared with spit, and those glassy eyes have given up their tears, two streaks of them slipping over his cheeks as he tries to catch his breath enough to say something as his second orgasm finishes wracking his body. Tomura presses a kiss to his inner thigh before he dances all five fingers along the rest of his clothing. He has perfect control here, and it's like the clothes are melting away as they leave his firefly naked beneath him. He's only just reaching for Dabi's bra when he mumbles, "What about you, Daddy?" 

"What about me, baby?" He asks, taking his bra away and leaning down to give all of his newly exposed skin some additional kisses. 

Dabi squirms beneath him, his cheeks pink again as he sniffles and tries to make his brain work when Tomura is bound and determined to turn it to mush between his ears. "...I want to make you feel good too, Daddy." 

Tomura coos at him, giving him another kiss against his lips before taking away some of the tears on his cheeks too. "That's so sweet, princess. If you want Daddy to feel good too, why don't you spread your legs a little more. Daddy wants to see your tight, pretty pussy, baby girl." His mouth waters as Dabi whimpers and does as he's told, his little cock all pink still from how sensitive it is, and his hole the same shade even though he hasn't even gotten there yet-- "Your pussy is all red." He says as he reaches between his legs, circling his hole with his slick fingers. 

And the lightest touch has Dabi arching off of the bed, another loud moan tearing out of his chest as he tangles his fingers into the sheets. 

"Are you always so sensitive, or were you being naughty while you were waiting for Daddy to finish his work and come spoil you?" 

Tomura has to take a slower breath. He hasn't even sunk his cock into his toy yet, but the thought of Dabi wanting him as badly as Tomura wants him? Dabi being alone in his room, biting his knuckles or pressing his face against his pillow so that he doesn't make too much noise as he fingers himself open, wishing that it was Tomura's cock pressing inside of him? It's such a good fantasy that Tomura nearly gives up on the one he's currently in to pursue that one. But he sets it aside for later. He has a feeling that for as long as Dabi is in his life, he's going to be fantasizing about ways that he can take him apart.

"I missed you," Dabi whimpers like his loneliness is the biggest horror in the world. Tomura kisses him again, trying to devour that need out from underneath Dabi's skin as he works his fingers inside of his already stretched, already wet hole. He knows he doesn't need to. He could rush and be inside his tight, hot, wet body as quickly as he wants like this, but the entire point of this is not to rush. He is the master of the fire in his blood, not the other way around. And he likes the idea of being the one in control of the fire beneath Dabi's skin in however many ways he can get that. 

He opens him up until Dabi is just letting out sound after sound of his pleasure, until his adorable clit is half hard, but not for lack of trying. He doesn't think that his baby girl can make his clit any harder than that after how many orgasms he must have had today, certain that he got a few as he tried to play with his own tight cunt too. Tomura savors the way that Dabi's body fails him, the way that he can't control himself and needs Tomura to do it for him. To teach him how to enjoy his pleasure all the more the way that Tomura can by having his meticulous control. It's only when he is feeling like he's on the edge of his own pleasure that he wants to test those limits once again and make it harder for himself to do so. Only then that he takes his fingers out of Dabi's dripping cunt and he murmurs, 

"Alright, princess, now you can make Daddy feel good." He doesn't wait until he gets a response from Dabi. He just shifts between his legs and steadies his cock as he pushes it inside of his pliant, eager body. The heat, the texture, the slickness as he sinks in is blindingly good and Tomura feels his balls tighten and start to ache from how he's already denied himself so far. He feels a gush of his own pre slip out of him and has to focus so hard, maintain his control when he refuses to try to pull back and escape the stimulation that is so hot and so good against his length. No, he's going to stay just like this, and he's going to keep his orgasm at bay as he watches his baby twist and moan beneath him as he tries to get more, tries to get closer, tries to get the gratification that Tomura is fighting so hard. His baby girl, his beautiful id that he won't let sway him from his goal.

He holds off and when he manages to get his arousal back under his control, he begins to move. The fantasy doesn't change much from there, the penetration always the most mundane part of fucking his subs. It's fantastic, of course, the feeling of being sheathed inside of their bodies intoxicating even when they aren't so soaked with heat the way the Dabi's insides are. But he can only move in so many ways that will make this part of the play unique. His mouth and hands roam as he moves, making sure to swallow as many of Dabi's tears as he does his moans, his fingers playing with his nipples and the pretty barbells through them until his princess's tits are pink and swollen, and then he goes lower to play with his oversensitive clit. That makes his baby girl squeal, barely managing a couple of drops of cum on the next climax he reaches. And Tomura keeps stroking, keeps thrusting, savoring the way that his walls get even tighter around him for a moment as he cums, and then enjoying how Dabi sobs harder with the overstimulation, his words barely choked out between breaths, 

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy--" he wants him to stop. Needs him to be done because his clit and pussy are so sore from how much pleasure that he's already taken. But Tomura doesn't want to stop. He wants to take every inch of his body, every concept he has for what he can handle in bed with another partner, and he wants to make him know that nothing else has ever or will ever match up to what Tomura can do for him. He would fuck him through his first, second, third orgasms and keep going. He would wear Dabi out to the point of the other man being near unconscious before he stopped and let him collapse into the bed so absolutely and completely deliciously used. He can give him all of that because he doesn't stop until he's certain of it. Until he knows that the only other pleasure that Dabi can find is in the knowledge that--

"Please, Daddy," he manages to catch his breath, his arms back around his neck, tears still on his cheeks, but his voice more sure than it was a moment ago. "Please show me I was a good girl for you." 

And the thought of even that amount of Dabi's satisfaction being under his control is what finally allows him to let go of his own. 

Tomura groans softly as he fucks his cock deeper into the toy, squeezing it more firmly with his other hand as he does so that he can feel every inch of texture inside of it as he finally lets his orgasm crash over him. The way his whole body thrums and tingles is so sharp, so good, that he is regretting only waiting three times before he's even halfway through it, his cum spilling hot and thick into the toy. Four, five, even six, and every delay would only have made the final release better. But it's still good enough to leave him sweat-drenched and out of breath on his bed as he finishes. Tomura stays there for a while. It's additional indulgence, but he likes the idea that he might have gotten his baby girl to curl up against his chest and fall asleep there. He hasn't gotten to spend the full night with other partners often. But it would be nice to see if Dabi stays so warm in his sleep. If he would wake up with his cock hard and let Tomura tease him for a few lazy hours before they faced the day. 

It's another nice thought and another one that Tomura will put aside to use at a later date, but for now he has to get up, putting on the clothes he was wearing earlier and picking out his pajamas. He uses them and his towel to hide the hot water bottle and the filthy toy so that he can go and put the former back and the latter can get a good clean. 

The real Dabi sleeps soundly through his late night activities, and when Tomura does finally get to lay back down, he does so and lets his mind imagine the other man laying beside him. What the hell? He's already been indulging himself so much lately.

///

It's a few days later and as far as Tomura knows, Dabi is all healed up and ready to lead the others into the summer camp job as originally planned. That's more than enough for Tomura to be happy as far as work goes, and he's very good about compartmentalizing anything outside of work when it comes to the arsonist. 

So he's fairly surprised when one night, as they are both in the small kitchen, waiting for more hot water to heat up in the kettle for their instant noodles, it well past midnight, but neither of them wanting to stop their work until they've finished what they're doing, Dabi turns to him. 

"Hey," 

And they've been talking for hours, so Tomura waits for Dabi to actually say what he wants to instead of belittling him. 

He doesn't meet his eyes as he takes the kettle off and pours the water into Tomura's cup first. "...Sorry I was such a dick when we first met. Still gross as fuck that you wear dead people hands as a costume, but I guess you're not that bad overall. Shouldn't have been so rude." 

Of the things that he had expected to come out of his mouth, that's not a combination that he'd expected, and Tomura only blinks before he manages to regain his composure. "It's fine, Dabi. I shouldn't have been so irritable either. I'm glad Kurogiri stepped in as my common sense and stopped me from hurting you." He is careful with his words, not wanting to let too much slip as he watches Dabi carefully as he fills their cups and then goes into the fridge to get some extra toppings as the noodles sit. "I had just been recently stabbed and shot, but I shouldn't have taken that out on you." 

"Know about the bullets, you and Stain not hit it off either?" 

And Tomura has been keeping that under wraps, but Dabi doesn't look or sound like he would be surprised or upset if that were the case. "Our goals aren't entirely aligned and our methodology conflicts." 

"Yeah, anyone who's not a fanatic would be able to tell that after being here for less than a week. Good thing you picked up Toga and Spinner instead." 

"What about you?" He asks. 

A blue eye meets his, glancing over at him for just a moment before he goes back to what he's doing. "You're lucky that I have goals that do align with both you and the hero killer and that I don't give a shit about methodology as long as you let me get them done." 

It's far too honest when Tomura tells him, automatically, "I'd let you do anything if it keeps you here and working towards our goals. You're a good player to have in this game, Dabi." And there's no mistaking how that has Dabi's spine straightening a little more, how his cheeks pink a little again with his... pleasure at the compliment. 

"Good. Otherwise I'm gone, Shigaraki." He cuts two softboiled eggs and takes the coverings off the top of their noodles, dropping them inside before he passes Tomura's to him. They both silently open up the additional seasoning packets and put the aromatic oils inside of the cups. Tomura forgoes the spice packet while Dabi dumps his into the noodles, and after a second, he offers him his as well. "Thanks. Don't like spicy food?" 

"Indifferent mostly, but I don't choose it for myself." He shrugs. 

"Weak." 

"I like to actually taste the rest of my meal." 

Dabi snorts. "Whatever, Duster." They start to eat together, standing right there in the kitchen and after a few bites, Dabi asks, "So do you do anything else besides game and brood over All Might-- for fun I mean." 

And there is such a high chance of this going wrong, but Tomura wants to know that now before he keeps steeping himself deeper and deeper into this... crush. It's definitely not just a passing attraction, a way to remove his frustrations when Dabi steps on a nerve. No. He... likes it when he has the opportunity to have conversations like this with him. He enjoys working with him. He thinks he's attractive even though he knows that his looks are certainly not conventional. 

"I used to go to a sex club to blow off steam." He tells him, watching closely for his reaction. 

Dabi nearly chokes on the bite of food in his mouth and when he manages not to, he immediately turns incredulous eyes on him as he looks to see if he's joking. But he doesn't ask if he is, blue eyes searching every inch of his features as Tomura meets that scrutiny with as much genuine openness that he can without words. After another second, Dabi turns back to his food with a soft snort as he pulls up another bite of noodles from his cup. 

"That why you seemed so sure about not slipping?" 

Maybe Dabi thinks the comment is innocuous, but it lights up Tomura's entire mind like he was struck with lightning. It's been a long time since they had that conversation and Dabi had never brought it up in front of him again. But if that comes so readily to his mind, then that means that the other man was thinking about it. 

So it doesn't feel like as much of a risk when Tomura tells him, "Well, if you're so curious about it, you could join me some time. I'm sure you could guess based on the venue, but I'm not shy."

There is definitely a touch more color across his cheeks, but Dabi doesn't explode at him, doesn't call him a pervert, doesn't tell him he's disgusting, and, most importantly, doesn't shoot him down. "Get all of this summer camp bullshit sorted out for us with enough time for us to spare on sex, and maybe I'll take you up on that Duster. It could be... good to blow off some steam." 

And Tomura is a master of control when he knows that waiting will benefit him. So it's very easy for him to say, as nonchalantly as Dabi, "Alright, I'll see what I can do, firefly. I wouldn't want my squad leader to go into his debut fight at less than perfect." 

Dabi lets that stand and the two of them finish their midnight snack. He knows that he's working harder after the break because he would shatter UA right now if it meant he could get Dabi in V. But he supposes that Dabi has some plausible deniability that the time away from the work and the meal are what seem to have rejuvenated him. But he also moves his chair close enough that Tomura can feel the heat pouring off his body, so he's pretty sure that they might finally be on the same page after all. 

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, consider leaving a comment/ask, I really appreciate them! And if you're interested in getting a commission for 50% off, the summer sale is going on now and you can find out more about it here!

[sharlotscarletfox]

EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND LOOK AT MY BABY COMMISSIONED FROM @rhewart FOR MY FIC!!!!!!

I am so grateful to have this down to the last detail. I think she nailed her distraught expression and instinct to protect Ominis in this scene. LOOK AT THE STANCE THE POSTURE I LOVE HER SO MUCH. Also fun fact I made Rena's model in BG3 so I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for her to translate that artsyle into more of a Hogwarts Legacy style.

Here is the scene from my fic Meet: The Gaunts for anyone interested:

Cassius’ spell on him crumbled, and Ominis let out a sigh of relief. He looked understandingly upset, but that was going to be a problem she dealt with later. She grabbed him by the arm and urged him along. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

She pulled him toward the estate, walking as fast as she could without being suspicious about it. Behind them, Cassius spoke:

“Crucio.”

Faster than lightning, she whipped around with a single thought screaming in her head: This curse will not cause any more suffering to anyone close to her ever again. 

“Protego!” She yelled, and her ancient magic flared around her, forming a protective shield that encircled both of them. “Expelliarmus.”

Thank you everyone that has supported my fics AND CHECK OUT MY ARTIST HER COMMS ARE OPEN EVERYONE AND SHES AMAZING

[ohwyrmm]

Stuck in a Box

Full concept is that they were both tricked by the same enemy ? In their vigilante era. And are apprehended and knocked unconscious. But because they have both caused so many issues to the organization, they want the boys to suffer and throw them in a metal box and into the ocean. They gain consciousness, and Hanzo has the dragons push them along the ocean floor, and when they get to the beach Jack is able to rip the box open easily, and then carry Hanzo to a motel (as the dragons were so strenuous to have out that long that he faints the moment they reach dry land?) and that's kinda like a meetcute

[twoplayergaymers]

Continuation of this cause I can’t emphasize more how much I need this mf. Not proofread cause it’s 1am

Washday

Eijiro Kirishima x Black! Reader.

You slammed the door shut with a sigh, mumbling curses under your breath. Your feet ached, your scalp throbbed, and the once-cute braids you’d promised yourself you’d take out last weekend were now hanging on by pure stubbornness and the mercy of a headscarf.

The stares at work every time you patted your head to soothe the itch? Unbearable.

You kicked off your shoes, slumped in front of the TV, and grabbed the scissors. Time to face the music.

Your fingers moved through the roots, undoing each braid one by one, synthetic hair piling beside you like a fuzzy mountain of regret. A sharp tug, a quiet snap, and—

“Shit… was that my actual hair?”

It was slow going. Your arms hurt. You kept pausing because your phone lit up every few minutes.

Kiri 🦈❤️:

“Hey baby how was work?”

“You eating??”

“Want me to come rub your feet 😩👀”

“Okay you ignoring me but I love you 😘”

You smiled, thumb hovering over the screen before you typed:

“Stop texting me I gotta take out my hair 😩 this is gonna take all night.”

No reply. You assumed he finally got the hint.

Except—

Forty minutes later, the door opened with a soft click.

You didn’t even turn around. “You used the key?”

Kirishima grinned and plopped down beside you. “Well, yeah. You’re suffering, and I miss you.”

He leaned over, kissed your cheek, and without being asked, picked up where your fingers left off. His calloused hands worked through the sections with gentle ease, unweaving synthetic from natural like he’d done it a hundred times. You didn’t have to guide him. You didn’t have to say a word.

Later, your head leaned back over the sink, eyes closed as warm water ran down your scalp. Kirishima’s fingers moved with practiced grace, massaging shampoo into your curls, scratching gently at the places you loved most.

He kissed your nose, then your temple. Your eyelids. “Stay still,” he whispered when you giggled. “This is serious business.”

He detangled every strand like he was handling treasure, muttering about how beautiful you looked, how much he adored this part of you.

When it was all done, you sat with a towel around your shoulders, curls damp and free, watching him eat a bowl of cereal on the floor, cross-legged like a kid. He offered you a spoonful without looking up, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it was.

You smiled softly, the moment quiet and full. “Thank you.”

He shook his head, eyes meeting yours. “You know I love taking care of you, right?”

You nodded, heart full. “I know.”

Washdays weren’t the same without him after that.

And honestly?

You never wanted them to be.

—

Tags: @poemeater @mimzyu @beabamboo @superlegend216

[all-pacas]

she seems to have raised in a religious setting, because as you mention, she CLEARLY has a lot of thoughts on god/faith/etc even though she is a pretty stringent atheist. i think she was raised in a generic religious household, internalized certain messages and ideas on morality, but was ultimately never as religious as foreman or ......... whatever the hell is going on with chase's thing lol

cameron has never had an issue with drinking/casual sex/kind of drug use; she's not puritan or "repressed" in the least. she has no problems with house's drug use (and in fact goes the other way, living in denial that he's an addict in s1); she drinks casually but doesn't have hangups about excessive drinking as chase does; she partakes in casual sex and dating with no problems. she's not at all opposed to drug use -- she has an issue with s2's Kalvin's drug use, but mostly as a symptom of his partying/unsafe practices. and, you know, later borrows and takes his meth, something she never repeats but also never seems to particularly regret.

nor does she "slut shame" anyone, nor is she a prude. quite the opposite: cameron is pretty consistently an admirer of open/adventurous sexual practices, makes a lot of bawdy jokes, openly and happily engages in casual/adventurous sex. she isn't a fan of the kids in safe (who are sexually active), but because she just doesn't like them*; she also does slut shame the porn actors in s6, but in a moment where "how can you lead a separate life from and 'betray' your marriage" is. um. a pretty relevant issue on her mind. i don't know what else could construe a "lifestyle she doesn't agree with." she's on record as admiring the couple whose sex life includes heavy roleplaying and threesomes, lol.

cameron's relationship with "fixing" others is complicated, not in the least because the only person we ever hear say she wants to do so is house, not cameron herself. never once does she say or imply she wanted to/believes she could have fixed her husband/patients (search for an alternate diagnoses in s2 aside). her perspective is just as messed up but more straight forward: she doesn't believe anyone should die alone, that the world should be "fair" and good people shouldn't suffer.

this all ties into your questions about her marriage and her morality, because that's really the crux of it. cameron is a damaged, hurt person. as house says in 'fidelity,' her husband was a symptom and not the disease. we see the same disease in fidelity, aimed towards house in the same scene: he tells her she's messed up, and she says he is too. cameron is broken, and so she tries time and again to help others who are (in her mind) similar. a great episode for this is "the itch" in s5: she sees and wants to help a patient (whose grief is literally killing him). he is afraid to leave his comfort zone, and the subplot is about her doing the same with chase. she thinks his dead girlfriend caused his trauma; he tells her he was like this before, too. cameron is hurt, and because she is hurt, she is both drawn to other people and wants to help them/comfort them ("when a good person dies, it should matter," she tells wilson). she's very concerned with fairness and justice and a sort of black and white morality - good vs bad, cheaters should suffer, people should be honest - because she knows the world isn't fair. she's just like house in this way: the world is unfair and that sucks and they're both angry about it, but cameron channels it into a belief/conviction/outrage that if she tries hard enough and enforces her will enough, it won't be.

this is the core of her morality, too. the world should be fair. it's a very black and white and flawed way of thinking, and we see her struggle with it time and again: what if the nice old man has done terrible things? what if murder is wrong, even if it's an evil person? what if an athlete gets away with his cheating? what if good people die? we see she struggles with decision paralysis and sometimes tries to opt out of hard decisions; we see she expects/wants everyone to act better and she is her angriest when this is betrayed. but it's pretty consistent. and it all stems from the simple fact that she knows, full well, that the world isn't fair or kind, and people (including, maybe, herself) cannot be fixed.

ok i'm on my allison cameron bs again. but like. someone please give this poor girl some more backstory.

some notable thoughts:

she's explicitly said not to believe in God, but also does use the phrase 'the sanctity of human life', and is generally pretty puritan in her moral rigidity, but not so puritan that she has a problem with premarital sex. but she's also clearly quite keen on the traditional idea of getting married, having kids, and having a family. so she's got some kinda conflicting beliefs. what's her deal with religion? if Foreman and Chase get to have messy relationships with christianity, then what can we do to elaborate on her relationship with religion, and how messy it might be?

jesus, could someone just tell me what she does for fun?

how much does she drink? how much is she ok with drinking, given that the guys in the office have more of a tendency to get wasted when miserable? how does her drinking (since we've seen her enjoy a glass of wine) work out with her beliefs around drug use?

what are her views on sex, given that she's willing to have it if there's either a relationship involved or a strict lack of emotional stakes, but given that she's also willing to slut-shame patients whose lifestyles she disagrees with?

when does she think someone's able to heal? who does she actually think she can fix, and what things make her believe she can fix them?

barring possible religious influence in upbringing, where the hell did she get her morals from? because even if she's inherently very moral, where'd she learn her principles from?

finally, in her first marriage, we know she was very, very young. frankly, was she really old enough to understand/prepare for how being a widow would later affect her? did anyone try to talk her out of it? did anyone talk her into it? did her family attempt to protect her? if not, why not? if so, how did she marry him anyway? does she regret any of it? does she resent regretting it, or resent not regretting it?

[kingzombear]

remember that one post you did a while back with pomni and jax’s personalities swapped?

can i have more of that, my good bear?

She likes to sneak in his room when he's sleeping w an airhorn and when he jolts awake screaming she decks him in the face with a pie lol

[koszmarnybudyn]

I won't let myself get devoured

Or a Normally Oak-swallows-garcia angst post about grief and anger.

[dykedvonte]

I was rewatching mouthwashing, and I ended up thinking of the different reactions that Curly and Jimmy had in doing their tasks. How during the scene of Anya evaluating Jimmy and showing dread towards the idea of doing his evaluation, Curly was the one that offered to take it off her hands. He had no issue with adding more to his plate, because he knew - or well, thought, he knew that Jimmy wasn't going to "bullshit" with him since he's known him for a long time. When Anya hands Curly a note from Swansea, Curly goes to check out what the issue is and he takes care of it without a complaint, the only "complaint" he has is how this incident could have damaged the pods. Which is reasonable, those pods are their only way to be saved if anything tragic happens on the ship. However, in comparison to Jimmy being asked to do things, he's passive-aggressive about it. When Anya asks Jimmy if he could help her out with Curly's painkillers, he tells her that people should be worth their titles, specifically using her title as a nurse when she asked him for help and then when she says forget it, since he made her feel insecure, he still goes "Oh no, I'LL take care of it" as if he was doing a chore, a favor for her. Then, there's that part where he blows up at her for things that she didn't even ask him to do - more so the others asked him about it, like the code scanner, him deciding he needed to find the axe for the foam, and then, there's the medicine part (which when she does ask, and she reconsiders - going to do it herself, he takes that away from her). Jimmy complains about the tasks he has to do and he treats it like a big issue, a "woes me" that he has to do this and that - wanting the praise of the capital without actually doing any work. While Curly doesn't complain about it, in fact, he even mentions that he's aware of how well he is doing at his job as a Captain during that cockpit scene with him and Jimmy. If Jimmy only had to do a small amount of tasks to get irritated and annoyed at being captain, while Curly didn't which I feel like encapsulates their personalities. Curly understands what he's doing is a job, it's a responsibility, why would he complain at any point for doing what he's suppose too? Why would he be upset at people asking him to do tasks? While Jimmy on the other hand, isn't used to it at all and it's different to what he's had before and he's realizing that he doesn't actually like doing the work he has too. I just wanted to ramble about it even if it seemed kind of obvious xd

It’s obvious but it is a thing people miss or understate when trying to find parallels in Curly’s and Jimmy’s relationship/personalities.

Like the way people portray it as neither taking responsibility when it is almost split down the middle of Curly taking responsibilities and faults that shouldn’t be his and making himself unequipped to handle the ones that are while Jimmy refuses to handle the responsibilities he has because he wasn’t expecting the work that comes with them.

Not a lot to say but people forget that another thing the game comments on is prioritization of issues and responsibilities and how the guys fail at it in one way or another in the situation.