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wartakes · 10 months

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Geopolitics: The Reason Why Your Tummy Hurts (OLD ESSAY)

This essay was originally posted on September 27th, 2022.

This is one of those essays where I see a string of posts or a line of behavior emerging on the internet and I feel compelled to push back on it. In this case, its how people don't understand the situation some countries and groups find themselves trapped in when they have to turn to less than desirable partners for help (especially if the US and the West aren't willing to step up).

(Full essay below the cut).

I feel like every time I rejoin you all with one of these essays I have to go “boy, a lot of history sure happened in the last month” and this time it’s no exception. I’m going to spare you the line-item state of the world summary, however, and I’m gonna try and get straight to the point in this piece because I really think the main point of this month’s essay is an important one that I want to really want to cram into people’s brains and make it stick there.

The Russian invasion of Ukraine has had a number of repercussions there will be more as it continues on. One that I’ve noticed online in particular – though exclusively – is the treatment of war and struggle as being almost like some kind of team sport. This in itself is not new by any means, but I believe that the monumental nature and scale of the Russian invasion and the manner in which it caught so many off guard has amplified this tendency. The result is that you get a number of people boiling down armed conflict and the geopolitics surrounding it into essentially “yay my team and anyone that supports it and boo the other team and anyone that supports it.”

Now before you take that the wrong way, this is by no means an attempt on my part to “both sides” the Ukraine conflict. I have maintained since 2014 that Russia is an aggressor trying to impose its imperialistic will on Ukraine and that belief has only been reinforced by the events of the past seven months as Russia’s war of aggression in Ukraine has slogged on. The point I’m trying to make is, by taking a “sportsball” (God help me) approach to wars like the one in Ukraine and everything else that becomes connected to it, those with that mindset begin to dumb down, disregard, or downright ignore nuance to the point that it starts to become actually harmful as it spreads to events that are removed by several orders of magnitude. It’s also worth noting that this attitude is something that’s not exclusive to any particular political ideology and that I’ve noticed it coming from all comers interacting with the War in Ukraine and other conflicts.

Said harmful effects became obvious in the past few weeks as new events unfolded outside of the scope of the War in Ukraine, but with the shadow of that conflict hanging over it and the “go team” simplified mindset having a direct impact on how it has been (incorrectly) perceived by many who have become more focused on international relations following the start of the Russian invasion. My goals for this essay are to A.) try and explain how all of this (i.e. geopolitics) is – unfortunately – more complicated than it looks and that can’t be helped; but I also want to B.) try and explain how you can wrap your head around what sometimes feels like conflicting and contradictory stances on geopolitics in a world increasingly filled with more and more crises and conflicts. At the end of the day, if you follow a consistent moral compass when it comes to armed aggression and your sense of internationalism and solidarity, you’ll find that navigating this crazy world isn’t as hard as a lot of people would lead you to believe (often to their own self-interested or sinister ends). So, without further ado, let’s get right into things.

The Tangled Web of Geopolitics

Life is inherently complicated. We, as human beings, have a natural desire to try and simplify it in order to make it both easier to understand and to manage – even if sometimes there are aspects of life that are difficult (if not impossible) to simplify. Geopolitics takes that to an extreme. Geopolitics are complicated, messy, sometimes contradictory, and always frustrating. So, it’s no mistake that the casual observer (and sometimes even the more experienced practitioner) will try and boil geopolitics down to simple, black and white terms, in order to try and make sense of it. While this desire to make geopolitics into a simple binary is understandable, it almost always ends up going too far and leads to flawed and often hurtful approaches to the rest of the world.

An excellent example of this are the latest clashes between Armenia and Azerbaijan – occurring very much in the shadow of the ongoing Russian war against Ukraine. If you’ve read my essays before or followed me on Twitter (or follow Joe Kassabian on Twitter), you’re probably no stranger to the long-time struggle between Armenia and Azerbaijan – particularly over the contested majority-Armenian region of Nagorno-Karabakh or Artsakh. However, recently Azerbaijan broadened the conflict with a large-scale series of strikes against Armenia proper, attacking across their internationally recognized border with only the flimsiest of pretenses. While at the time of writing this essay things have calmed down some, the situation remains tense – with some countries advising their citizens to now evacuate certain parts of Armenia due to fears of further Azeri invasion.

Now, whatever you think about the Artsakh issue (my stance is that it is Armenian but that’s a completely different essay), we should all be able to agree that countries should not attack one another’s internationally recognized territory proper – especially not without actual provocation or under false pretenses (which Azerbaijan’s pretenses almost certainly are). Yet, I’ve seen quite a lot of sentiment on social media that somehow Armenia has done something to “deserve” this attack or that its somehow their “just desserts” and that they deserve no sympathy or assistance.

The very flawed and twisted justification for this attitude is that Armenia is a member of the Collective Security Treaty Organization, a military alliance led (and dominated) by Russia, formed following the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1992. Since Armenia is therefore a military treaty ally of Russia, a number of supporters of Ukraine (which I also support against unjustified Russian military aggression and imperialism) seem to believe that Armenia deserves whatever it gets as its attacked by Azerbaijan. There’s also a rather rosy attitude towards Azerbaijan by Ukrainians and Ukraine boosters, as Azerbaijan has politically supported Ukraine since the Russian invasion, sent humanitarian aid, and also has expressed a willingness to step up its oil and gas exports to Europe in order to counteract potential energy warfare by Russia this winter as the War in Ukraine drags on.

There are many problems with this logic (or lack thereof). For one, it fails to interrogate the actual relationship between Armenia and Russia beyond its more surface levels, refusing to ask why Armenia is even in an alliance with Russia to begin with. Armenia is small (both population and territory wise), landlocked country that is flanked by two states (Azerbaijan and Turkey) with much larger populations and resources – one of which has already attempted to wipe out its people before, with the other essentially now daring the world to stop them from doing it again. Armenia lacks the energy resources of Azerbaijan, which has facilitated strong relationships with countries eager to buy those resources – in addition to its strong partnership with Turkey over shared Turkic culture. From the moment it gained independence following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Armenia needed a security guarantor if it was to avoid another genocide. Russia was the closest and most able and willing to act compared to other states, essentially falling into the role of Armenia’s security guarantor by default and then proceeding to hold a trapped Armenia hostage in the ensuing economic, political, and security relationship.

Essentially, Russia has remained Armenia’s primary security partner all these years basically out of both inertia and a failure by the United States and other countries in the West to do anything to change the situation – even after Armenia’s peaceful democratic revolution in 2018. Russia has also increasingly failed in its role as a security guarantor for Armenia. Russia and the CSTO’s failure to act decisively in the face of the most recent Azeri aggression (this time against Armenia’s internationally recognized territory) has sparked widespread anger and frustration with Russia by Armenians. Some Armenians have even called for Armenia to leave the CSTO and the situation has led to outreach by the Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives – Nancy Pelosi – as the CSTO appears to fragment while Russia’s war in Ukraine falters. While Armenia has been Russia’s ally on paper, it is not and has never been a universally happy and loving relationship and is one that Armenia took out of necessity and lack of options to survive.

Those making overly simplified comments about the Armenia-Azerbaijan situation also seem to ignore that, however cozy Azerbaijan has been with the West or supportive (notionally) of Ukraine, it has retained close political and economic ties with Russia – which in the typical Russian fashion has been trying to play both sides of a frozen conflict (one that is increasingly warming up). Azerbaijan isn’t acting on any profound political or moral grounds, it is simply trying to play all sides in support of its national interests – among which are removing the Armenian state and Armenian people off the face of the Earth (if you don’t believe me, take a look at what 99.9% of Azeri accounts on Twitter have to say about Armenia). Azerbaijan is taking advantage of the war in Ukraine in order to distract from what it wants to accomplish in Armenia, and unfortunately its propaganda war has been far too effective for my tastes thus far (though this time around more people seem to be taking a stand against its more naked aggression and I hope this trend continues – especially if it attacks Armenia further).

Aside from personal interest, I wanted to bring up Armenia and Azerbaijan in particular because this conflict serves as such a solid and recent illustrative example of what I’m trying to communicate. That none of these events happens in a vacuum or without a complex web of sometimes contradictory connections. This isn’t new, either. It’s always been the case, even in situations that have been historically characterized as being almost entirely binary in nature.

Let’s take the Cold War, as another example. We think about the Cold War almost exclusively as a geopolitical struggle between East and West, Communism and Anti-Communism, with two monolithic blocs led by almighty superpowers acting in perfect lockstep with one another. It makes for good propaganda, but it couldn’t be farther from the truth. Both East and West had many fissures and countries within both blocs often acted against one another out of self-interest or opposing principles and ideology – both via proxy and sometimes directly. In the East, the most famous example of this is probably the Sino-Soviet split, which led to the Soviet Union and China engaging in direct border clashes in 1969 and becoming enemies for the next two decades. Another prominent example is the Suez Crisis, where both Britain and France – in league with Israel – attempted one last great imperialist adventure to retake the recently nationalized Suez Canal from Egypt and potentially even remove the charismatic anti-imperialist President Gamal Abdel Nasser from power (against the express wishes and without the direct knowledge of their allied superpower, the United States).

The Cold War, despite our binary view of the competition, was riddled with cases like those just mentioned where supposed allies and partners crossed one another (if you really want to make your head hurt, take a look at the Wikipedia article for the Nigerian Civil War and then take a look at who was supporting both sides). Despite our innate desire to boil down geopolitics to a simple black and white, good versus evil struggle, that is almost never the case. The reality, as we’ve seen in the examples I’ve brought up, is far more convoluted than we’d like it to be.

How to Hold Two Opinions at the Same Time – A Primer

By now I’ve driven into your heads that geopolitics are not straightforward or black and white. Yeah, good, ok. So now what are you actually supposed to do with this information as you go about your lives? I’m glad you asked.

The point I’m trying to make by smashing you over the head with the proverbial mallet here, is that I want people to understand that sometimes states and their peoples are going to have to make decisions in order to survive that may not necessarily sit well with you ideologically, politically, or otherwise. To be clear, I’m not talking about excusing horrific acts of mass wanton violence like genocide or ethnic cleansing or other war crimes and crimes against humanity. Those are unacceptable no matter who is committing them or what reason they ostensibly have. I’m talking about actions like forging economic ties with, buying arms or seeking military support from, and generally associating with countries, groups, organizations, and so on that you may not be a fan of (for perfectly justified reasons in many cases).

Obviously, there’s no one-sized fits all approach to evaluating these actions and figuring out how you should feel about them or respond to them. There is no one universal “line” that once crossed a country or a people should suddenly no longer be worthy of support in its struggles against outside aggression (nor do I really think there should be a universal line except for specific cases like those acts I mentioned in the previous paragraph). But we have to understand when we see countries doing things that make you want to – for lack of a better term, God help me for saying this – “cancel” them, we also have to put said actions in their proper context (something I’m big on in international relations and security studies in general). We have to understand that, while in some cases countries may be performing certain acts purely out of self-interest and preserving or furthering their national power, in many cases countries and groups are doing them for one main reason: survival. Often, they just have no other options to turn to.

This is a frustrating thing to deal with because it means we have to take positions that, while they are not essentially contradictory, they feel so or appear so. I support Ukraine’s fight against the unjustified invasion and aggression by Russia, while also supporting Armenia’s similar fight against aggression by Azerbaijan and Turkey. What this means is I end up supporting countries that – if you connect the dots – appear to be aligned against one another. Ukraine being aligned with the West and Azerbaijan against Russia, while Armenia is (on paper) allied with Russia against Turkey and Azerbaijan (which I will again remind you both have very close relationships with Russia still despite all this), makes you think that therefore you should also be opposed to Armenia as well as Russia and that you should support Azerbaijan for supporting Ukraine. It all comes back to our innate human desire to make all this simple and cut and dry, black and white.

These types of positions may seem contradictory, but really when you get to the heart of the matter they are not. Said heart of that matter is we should always be opposed to unprovoked and unjustified armed aggression by one state or party against another, full stop. At the end of the day, Russia invaded Ukraine in a war of imperialistic aggression that was entirely a choice on their part (one they are paying for dearly now), that they were led to following their own mistakes they made via their heavy-handed response to the Euromaidan Revolution of 2013-2014. Likewise, while in past struggles with Azerbaijan, Armenia has certainly undertaken acts that were horrific and uncalled for and should be acknowledged as such, that in no way justifies the ongoing aggression that Azerbaijan continues has shown against Armenia and Armenians now for decades. As I shared earlier, Azerbaijan continues to engage in ethnic cleansing and cultural genocide in Artsakh – a historically Armenian majority region – and now seems set on taking those acts to Armenia proper with its most recent attacks on internationally recognized Armenian territory. In both Ukraine’s case and Armenia’s case, even though their relationships tie them to their enemies, it is still ethically, morally, and ideologically correct to support both of them in their struggles as they are both still fighting fundamentally the same struggle despite the geopolitical bullshit that encumbers them as they fight to survive.

As leftists – and just as people – we should take a fundamental stand against armed aggression in all cases, while also supporting those who are victims of aggression in their right to self-defense. This was one of the earliest points I made in writing my essays and one I endeavor to return to often, discussing how being anti-war does not mean that you can’t or shouldn’t defend yourself against armed aggression with force in kind. Being anti-war just means that you don’t start none – that doesn’t mean there won’t be none, if someone else decides to attack you (put another way: “fuck around and find out.”) Once again, this is not a contradictory stance to take. In fact, it is the only acceptable stance to take if you are to stay true to leftist internationalist principles of solidarity and resistance against fascism and imperialism worldwide. We cannot pick and choose the struggles we support based purely on the most superficial of aesthetics or we are betraying the principles we claim to uphold and take to heart. This doesn’t mean that we have to rush to a state’s aid directly in the case of every single war – especially in a case where you have one shitty regime attacking another shitty regime. However, we should still on principle be opposed to armed aggression in the interest of stopping the suffering of innocents caught in the crossfire, and we should then be prepared to assist like minded peoples and governments that share the values we hold as democratic socialists when they request our help and assistance.

I’ve seen plenty of cases of this on the Left, which is one of the main reasons I started writing these essays to begin with. It is most commonly observed in the tankie tendency to support authoritarian leftist regimes regardless of their many failings and crimes, as well as in the more general campist tendency to support any regime – regardless of ideology – that stands in opposition to the United States and the West simply because of said fact and nothing else. The fact is, for us on the Left, it is no less complicated, and we are not immune to geopolitics. As Democratic Confederalists in Rojava attempt to preserve their revolution, they’ve been compelled to balance between the United States and the West on one side and Russia and the Ba’athist Syrian regime of Bashar al-Assad on the other in order to defend themselves against aggression by Turkey and its proxy forces in Syria. They do so because they are doing what they need to in order for both their people and their revolution to survive, while remembering the hard learned lesson of what happens when you depend on one guarantor of your security only to be betrayed time and time again by multiple parties and left to defend yourself with little resources on hand. This is the world we live in, and it involves striking a balance between our ideological beliefs and the cold hard facts of reality. Its never easy, and ideally always a temporary act, but still one that always seems to drag on longer than anyone wants it to and can gnaw at the soul and the conscience along the way if you truly hold your beliefs dear.

Stop and Think

In a better world (not necessarily a perfect one, but a better one), this would all actually be simpler. Perhaps then we actually would have an international united front of ideologically like-minded countries and peoples assisting one another in defending against the arrayed forces of authoritarianism, fascism, imperialism, and a like; enabling its members to not have to make deals with the devil in order to survive and ensure they have a future. In a better world, the struggle of actual good versus evil – though still maybe not as clear cut as we’d all like it to be – would at least be more defined and less fuzzy and easier to get a handle on for the average person who doesn’t have an advanced degree in international relations.

But, as I’ve spent the past multiple paragraphs explaining, that is not the case. I hope someday we can get closer to that kind of world, but as with everything else I aspire to in these essays, it’s going to take many years and a great deal of blood, sweat, and tears to achieve. In the meantime, in the interest of those who engaged in ongoing battles for survival, there are certain things we are going to have to tolerate and make allowances for.

Does this mean that we should not care at all about taking strong moral positions? That since black and white issues are so rare that everything should be treated as “gray” and that ethics and morality, and ideological positions don’t matter? That we should all become ultra-realists that Kissinger would applaud? Of course not. The main overarching point I’m trying to make (and have made on other related issues in these essays before) is that all of this is far more complicated than you think. That’s not an excuse to not care, it should be an excuse to care more and an impetus for you to want to figure out how you feel and have to think about events more deeply and your own reactions to and interactions with them more deeply. It means you have to engage your brain when you see a new Tweet on world events and not immediately decide the entirety of your position right then and there in 280 characters based on whatever thoughts are floating in your head at the time. I know this is a tall order at a time when a new historical event is occurring every five minutes, but it really is essential if we are to have fewer in the future.

Ok, I’m fading fast here due to having stuffed myself with this sausage stew I made earlier, so I’m afraid I have no eloquent conclusion here other than “think” and “don’t be a fucking jackass.” Oh, and try to take a moment to breathe now and then in between major historical events or you will go insane – guaranteed. That’s all I got for now. Until next time, stay safe and look after yourselves and your loved ones, and I’ll be back with another lecture next month.

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angstyaches · 1 year

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For a request, maybe something fluffy where Shayne kinda hints that he knows Charlie has a tummy kink, and kinda teases him a little bit about it. (Hope you had a wonderful break 💛)

It's definitely not my best work, but it's been a long few weeks and I'm tired lol

Thank you to the original anon and to all the anons who helped me with this prompt! Sorry this took so long. And sorry that Shayne ends up flustering himself as much as Charlie, that's just how it realistically played out. Hopefully that doesn't take too much away!

CW: stomach kink mention/implied, stomach ache (mild), belly rubs, embarrassment, a bit of silly banter as promised.

___

Shayne held his breath and waited for Charlie to look at him.

He could feel his stomach churn as it had been doing since dinner, resulting in a mild belly ache, but this was the first time that it had gurgled audibly. It was loud enough to be heard over the TV. A creaking, straining sound.

Even if Charlie hadn’t turned his head, Shayne wouldn’t have deluded himself into thinking he hadn’t heard. Charlie could easily ignore the shrieking of the dishwasher when it finished a load, but there were some things his ears just seemed more attuned to than others.

The pain in Shayne’s stomach dulled, momentarily overwhelmed by something warmer, softer. As predicted, Charlie wore a strained look of concern. His gaze kept veering down towards Shayne’s stomach, but he also seemed to be trying his best to discern the emotion in Shayne’s face.

Well, good luck, Shayne thought. He struggled to discern his own emotions these days.

“Um, sorry.”

“What?” Charlie blinked and a smile appeared on his face. The picture of innocence. “Why are you sorry?”

This bastard. Was Charlie feigning ignorance to make him say it out loud? Drawing out what was already an embarrassing moment?

Shayne’s soul wanted to shrivel at the thought of falling for such obvious bait, but this was Charlie. If Charlie was trying to prompt him to say or do something, it was just because he thought it was... What, exactly? Cute? Funny? Shayne didn’t have a firm grasp on what went through Charlie’s head when he behaved like this, but he had the vague sense that questioning Charlie about it would shatter something that could never be made the same way again.

Shayne swallowed. He was really doing this.

He laid one hand on his stomach. He’d found himself doing this a couple of time while on a video call with Charlie, just to see how his boyfriend would react to it. Charlie had never mentioned it, but Shayne could always tell, could always see him fighting back a grin, when he noticed.

Of course, it felt a little bit more intimidating when they were in person, but since his stomach had already drawn attention to itself, he decided he didn’t have anything to lose.

He let out what he’d intended to be a sigh, but the sound could have also passed for an exaggerated groan. He slumped against Charlie’s shoulder, not because he wanted to snuggle, but because he wanted to hide his face for the next part.

“My tummy kind of hurts,” he mumbled.

Charlie inhaled sharply. Shayne could have sworn he could hear his boyfriend’s brain rebooting like a laptop, fans whirring and hard drives turning over.

“Aw, I’m sorry, lovely.” To his credit, Charlie’s voice sounded relatively normal. He looped an arm around Shayne and pulled him closer, pressing his face into the side of Shayne’s neck, as though hiding his expression even though it wasn’t in Shayne’s line of sight. “Is something from dinner not agreeing with you?”

Follow-up questions? Shayne hadn’t braced himself for those. He wanted to curl up in a ball, which, luckily, he was already halfway to achieving. “I don’t know.”

“Are you nervous about anything?”

Shayne shrugged. “I mean, I could be. I’m hanging out with this guy that I kind of like.”

That wrangled a burst of laughter out of Charlie. Shayne couldn’t resist lifting his head now, just to see the smile that he'd won. He wasn’t surprised at all as he took in the redness in Charlie’s cheeks, and the way he seemed to be pulling on the inside of his lower lip with his teeth.

“Oh, yeah?”

Perfect, as always. “Yeah. He desperately needs a fucking haircut, though.”

“Hey – careful.” Charlie’s eyes flashed, his gentle smile morphing into a smirk. His fingers traced the width of Shayne’s stomach, travelling lightly. “He knows your weak spots.”

Charlie’s fingers switched to a scrabbling motion that made Shayne sit up a little straighter and – once again – catch his breath. He brought both hands to his stomach now as the muscles tensed, instinctively trying to cover as much of it as possible to fend off Charlie’s hands.

“Oh – sorry. Sorry.” Charlie pulled his hands back, showing both his palms. “Sore tummy. I forgot.”

Shayne raised an eyebrow. Liar. And then, even though the tickling had only triggered a small spasm, he rubbed his stomach as if he’d been punched there. “Yeah, ow.”

Charlie hummed in amusement. “I said I'm sorry.”

He pressed one hand against Shayne’s belly, fingers out straight this time. Shayne felt a twinge of shame at the way his stomach chose that moment to churn and groan, as though it’d been waiting.

He made an exaggerated gesture of lifting Charlie’s hand from his torso and mimicked batting it away. “Um, no. Get off me, weirdo.”

Guilt passed over Charlie’s face before he – with a disbelieving glimmer in his eyes – realised that it was a joke. In fairness, it wasn’t hard to sell discomfort when Shayne genuinely felt like burying himself in the ground and never coming back up.

“Oh, I’m a weirdo now?” Charlie demanded. He shifted his weight so that he was facing Shayne a little more head-on, and propped his elbow on the back of the couch. “A minute ago, I was some guy you liked!”

“That guy turned out to be a weirdo.”

“Well, he’s a very sorry weirdo who won’t try to tickle you again.” Charlie’s smile deepened. He was still doing the lip-biting thing, though he clearly thought he was doing a more subtle job than he really was. “I’ll be super gentle. I promise.”

Shayne’s belly fluttered at the quiet desperation in Charlie's eyes. Fuck.

“Fine.” He rolled a little further onto his back and laid his legs out across the couch. The back of his head rested against Charlie’s sternum. If he tilted it back, he had a view of the underside of Charlie’s chin.

Charlie was true to his word. He gently smoothed his palm across Shayne’s stomach a couple of times as silence settled over them. Shayne closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when he half-opened them again, Charlie was looking at the TV.

“Shit, I missed everything that’s happened so far,” Charlie laughed. He reached for his phone and put the episode back about five minutes. His other hand never stayed still on Shayne’s belly for longer than a few seconds at a time. He broke up the big, sweeping strokes by massaging it with his fingertips whenever he noticed a tight point, or heard another one of its sluggish gurgles.

Shayne told himself to try to relax, but quickly realised that the ‘trying’ wasn’t necessary. He felt his t-shirt start to crinkle up under the movement of Charlie’s hand, and the first three times it happened, Charlie carefully smoothed it back into place.

When it started riding up again, Shayne reached down to lift it out of the way. He pulled it up as far as his ribcage, holding his breath the entire time.

Charlie glanced down, and the look on his face was... well, Shayne could have compared it to the look on Felix’s face when he talked about food, or Rin’s giddiness when she watched videos of ducks marching in a line, but neither of those were quite the same thing. It wasn’t the look that characters in TV shows gave each other just before they started ripping their clothes off, either.

The sigh that passed Charlie's lips might have carried the word 'fuck' with it, but... that could have been Shayne's imagination.

The warmth of Charlie’s hand against his belly made him inhale deeply to suppress a shiver. Charlie’s fingers started out splayed in opposite directions, and he dragged his fingertips inward so that they almost collided in the middle. It was like his hand thought he was scratching a cat’s head, only it was slower, and more pressurised, than a scratch.

Shayne didn’t have to fake the little moan that bubbled up in his throat. As much as he told himself it was all for Charlie’s – bizarre and unexplainable – benefit, he couldn’t deny that he was getting something out of this arrangement, too.

“Mmm.”

Charlie chuckled softly. “What, lovely?”

Shayne inhaled and exhaled again before answering, giving himself a second to think. And giving Charlie a second to stew. He closed his eyes, unable to make himself talk while Charlie’s face loomed right above him.

“You always make my stomach feel so much better.”

“O-oh,” Charlie stammered. “Really? Is that – I mean, is that the only reason you keep a weirdo like me around?”

“Shut up,” Shayne mumbled. “I know you like it.”

Charlie fell silent at that, and his fingers clenched into a fist resting at the centre of Shayne’s belly.

"I... what?" Charlie half-groaned. "What do you mean?"

Shit. Had that been too much? Had Shayne shattered the thing he was supposed to be keeping intact?

“Like… all the touching.” His mouth started talking while his mind still scrambled for something to say. “I know I get weird about it sometimes.”

“Oh.” Charlie sounded more surprised than relieved.

Shayne tilted his head back to see more of Charlie’s face. His heart was hammering in his chest. He’d been panicking, hoping to find some half-truth he could use to break up the awkwardness and spare Charlie’s feelings, but he'd ended up saying something honest.

It felt like he’d stripped his whole body bare, not just his stomach, but somehow it wasn’t an altogether scary feeling.

“I – lovely, just...” As Charlie’s hand slowly unfurled across Shayne’s stomach again, he also carded his free hand through Shayne’s hair. “Just know I don’t ever want to rush you into anything.”

Shayne raised his eyebrows slightly. “You don’t.”

He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell Charlie he was amazing. How grateful he was for his endless patience. How loved and taken care of he felt when Charlie was around. But Charlie chose that moment to resume his gentle massage of Shayne’s belly, and the tingling sensation that filtered down through his skin to his insides made everything else fall right out of his head.

“Mmm,” he said again.

There was a soft, shaky sigh as Charlie let his head fall back against the couch cushions, no longer bothered by the fact that the episode continued to play without either of them watching.

"Mm," Charlie mumbled quietly in agreement.

#StW Shayne #StW Charlie #tummy kink #stomach kink #stomach rubs #hurt and comfort #hurt comfort #kink mention #stomach ache fic #sickfic

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lowlaif · 7 months

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Konpeito

never seen a star up close.

kinda wanna eat one.

and no, not one of those starlets hanging out in ridiculously overpriced LA villas - now finally available in "sustainable" minus an ecological footprint rivaling the size of their range rovers. the owner will fly in from two towns over so they get there early for their yearly yacht trip and ill activate adblock so palantir cant pester me with 50-euro airline ads to the maldives because shit, money is going to be a bit tight this month

i want to eat a star. actual heaps of gas and space dust and heat and whatdoiknow, im not a scientist, id rather not belie my words by googling the exact chemical configuration of something thats just bright and pacifying to me, something thatll melt on my tongue. 'm not even gonna chew. just gonna swallow it. the way i ate chocolate as a kid because relishing in something meant enough time for it to be taken away. the way i drink medicine because - if you gulp it down really quickly, it doesnt have time to taste bitter: anything can be honeyed milk if you clench your teeth hard enough

did you know thats what galaxy means anyway? milk? i wonder what galactical honey would be, then. whether id think its sweet or spicy, whether id like the taste or want to spit it out. if itd go down with well-rounded corners or lodge itself into my throat and stay there. fishbones. i also wonder whether astronauts ever feel scammed when they set foot on the ISS and realize theyre not going to bear witness to a sky made out of sparkling lights and silver threads and golden spots and rainbow clouds but rather just a sea so inky black it's going to make breathing difficult not just by lack of oxygen alone. earths much too reflective for any other luminescent object to be visible to the naked eye, ive been told, hence why youd just be looking at a planet so bright it surely hurts to stare at it, and i wonder what it feels like, being up there and gazing down only to be blinded when youre so used to looking up and squinting?

im homesick thinking of kids drawing earth into the upper right corner of their drawings. i dont actually know if theres stars up there though everybody tells me those pinprick lights are, and i cant breathe when im busy trying to figure out what exact level of depression the stale air around me tastes like. but something in my brain clicks when i think of shiny things and theres no empirical evidence that grabbing the sparkly stuff up above my head wont cure me so i want to, i want to, i want to. wanting always boils down to sinking your teeth into it and ive filed my canines far too often to fear the force of my bite now

people dance on the moon and i mimic their steps in my bedroom and though these are just small steps i dont know the names of the poor sods stuck on the ISS either, even though there's only been like 500 of them and they're all way better at living life than i am. my hands ghost over where i instinctively know the light switches of my flat are and wonder if up there somebody's got a nightlight, cheap plastic stars attached to their ceilings, one of those little projectors that put constellations on your walls. whether they ever have trouble sleeping and if yes, what the hell do they look up at then? who do they cast their wishes to?

never seen a star up close. never held one. but the concept is so familiar, so ingrained into whatever our shared consciousness is made out of, that i want with my molars. i itch to keep it in my tummy so it keeps me warm on the cold days and i only trust what i see so i want to look at it until my retinas burn, until the sound of the big bang echos in the confines of my brain. itll drown out all other unwanted thoughts and itll sing in the genetic make-up of my descendants long after my neighbours cant hear me sing in the shower anymore. ill cup my palms and pray into them. begging is easier when youre in position and im on my knees and i swear ill never run out of things to whisper to the radiant little ember in my hands because it is beautiful and because i like shiny things and because stars have always made us look up at them and

When I finally get my teeth on it and swallow it whole I'm sure a piece of the star will get lodged in my throat like. fishbones. in a last-ditch effort at vengeance. I'll spend the rest of my life attempting to choke it back up.

"I made it with love," I'll say after I finally managed to do so.

"Careful, it's hot."

#spilled ink #spilled thoughts #poetry #words #musings

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mysteriouslybluepirate · 1 year

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OFMD Favs Tag Game

I was tagged by- @likethehotsauce Thank you so much! Always love to rant.

(I'm probably not doing this right, cause I'm just using this a an excuse to look back on the parts of the show itself that I love, but I needed to write an essay today. And it's been months since I went back to my Stede/Ed roots. Before Izzy latched himself onto my brain. So here's some love!)

favorite Ed gif:

Look, I love ep7, especially on rewatches. Most rom-coms run into the trouble of not showing the audience our protagonists bond. They rarely get to relax around each other before the relationship really starts but that's what this episode is.

We've got Ed, who's starting to get comfortable/settled in around Stede. Stede having a fun little adventure, trying to make Ed thinks he's cool. Ed genuinely having a shitty day and finally getting that Stede cares about him. It's really fucking sweet. This gif just wraps that all up in a cute ball. The fit? Amazing. The lil hop? Adorable. Edward essentially telling everyone to shut up and just let Stede have his fun? Cute pre-boyfriend moment. He's a goofball, and this episode needs more love on here.

favorite Stede gif:

Yeah, yeah. Ed's here. But the scene is focusing on Stede and resolving an arc (my favorite thing), so it counts! Stede has issues feeling accepted. He has gone without a 'crew' for so long that he's unapologetically who he is. He already feels along, why the fuck would he care about dressing up and being a bit too 'feminine'? They already make fun of him for not being enough, he already feels along. Why wouldn't he try to be happy not giving a shit about what they think?

So, in ep 10, we see a Stede who feels accepted into a family. He gets to get up there with a silly little in-joke and have people put their trust in him. Are they doing this to get back at the Navy? Yeah. But Stede build himself a place where he feels like he can be accepted and welcomed. I don't always see Stede in the best light. Accountability is a huge thing for me, and S2 better include this guy fessing up for the hurt he's caused. But this scene always makes me smile when I think about it.

favorite Ed outfit:

:). I know what I'm about. I'm simple, and if you've been here a while, you already know. We get to see Edward proudly rocking Stede's lil handkerchief. The tummy is great, and so is seeing his tattoos. I always love a fingerless glove, and his jewelry is on point. Yes, I love Ed in soft fabrics. Especially the loose poet shirt moment in ep 4. But in my head, this is Ed being a frat guy and trying to seduce Stede. 'Usually the exposed skin and touching works :('. Cause this poor guy has had to seduce assholes like Jack, and isn't comfortable with opening up yet. Ed's also just having fun exposing Stede to 'pirate' things which is a favorite trope of mine.

favorite Stede outfit:

Unironically? All of them.

Next question.

OKAY. FINE. IF I HAVE TO CHOOSE-

Gender. Whole lotta gender right here. I'm a sucker for loose fabric and BOY.

Open Shirt? Yes. Hideously colored mustard robe that works because it's a part of the whole 'look'. Achieved. Rings? Amazing. Fluffy shirt that's a button-up? Yep, you could totally reveal more chest.

FLUFFY SLEVES!!!! AHHH. But seriously, most of his outfits are amazing. I chose like five different Gifs-before settling on this for the lace sleeves.

favorite Blackbonnet song:

Oh boy! Buckle up.

(I have 2 playlists with these 2 with around 40 total hours of music on Spotify from the 4 months post ep10 airing where I only read these two. So any answer I give is going to )

Stede POV specific('A Stede Soundtrack' on spotify)- Five Bells- CoCo and The Butterfields. Yes, I have better ones, but the general vibe is just happy, light, and in love. Excited for the future. (If this song is actually about something else, keep me innocent). With instrumentals, and dancing, and fucking joy. I love this song. 2.) Being 'May It Last'- The Avett Brothers if Folk music isn't your thing. 3.) 'The Bitch is Back'-Elton John For bitchy Stede. The best flavor.

Edward POV specific ('Blackbeard's Breakup' on Spotify)- Desperately in love Ed? 'honey'-Coastal Club. yes, I am a pet name Edward truther. Also a song about being excited by life and by love. If it's Stede Hating, Kraken era? 'Money, Money, Money'-ABBA. Yes, I know Edward is now the breadwinner, but it's very Him.

Gentlebeard. Sad era- 'Last Request'- Paolo Nutini. Oh shit, I have a crush era- 'I think I love you'-Specifically the Tenacious D cover. It's Jack Black, how can you hate it? Desperately in love- 'An Old Fashioned Love Song'-Paul Williams. This song has been in my Spotify top 100 for years. I fucking love it.

favorite OFMD fic trope:

HAHA! You didn't specify the ship, so I get to bring up Izzy.

SteddyHands specific- Stede&Ed working together/competing for Izzy to choose them first. Especially if Ed&Stede already know that Izzy has a crush on them but Izzy doesn't. I don't read this ship too much anymore, but this always made me happy.

Izzy Specific-Post S1 Izzy hunting down Stede, hijinks ensuing. Izzy gets injured, and this starts his character jornery into a mentally healthier person. Him getting loved tbh. Aslo, Izzy getting described as short. He's really not that much shorter than most of the crew. I just love when it's brought up.

Long fic- Anything character based, post S2 'reunion'. Essentially skipping how they all resolved S1 and skips to the fun parts. Love Izzy learning/starting to care for the crew. If reading a fic kinda feels like going to therapy, you're doing it right. Huge shoutout to anyone who has tried to break down how Izzy's brain works for angst fic. Also, Ed and Stede being held accountable for some of their more shitty actions.

Short Fic- You know what, I'll say it. I like soulmate (and adjacent) AUs. Love me a Hanahaki, or similar curses. If there's a story reason two characters are dubiously forced to admit their feelings, I'm there. I love that 'what if they don't like me' rant even though its destined, I love the holding yourself back to keep another person happy shit. Yes, irl, that'd be fucked. But since it's a short fic, it doesn't need to worry about all that.

Trope Tropes- Buttons being a Disney princess around animals. Lucius living in the walls. Izzy swears every other sentence. Any media of the Revenge (music, stories) being super out of time period. Two characters are falling in love, but are the last people to realize it. Stede being a pirate parent.

Ed’s hair or Stede’s hair:

I agree with what likethehotsauce said. Both fit the character really well. I can't imagine Stede or Ed suddenly shaving their head. It's a part of who they are.

If this is about me wanting their hair? I'm choosing Ed's. I've had Stede length hair for the past 2 years, and miss braiding my hair. Also, his hair looks soft as shit. Good to run your fingers through, etc.

longest gap between rewatches:

July 2022-January 2023. I watched it like 13 times post ep 10 aired, then immediately jumped into fan content. I'm a huge 'character' person when consuming media, so I generally enjoy doing that vs rewatching the show itself again.

Lucius is Hiding in the Ship vs. Lucius is Dead and a Ghost:

No corpse= Not dead. Once Ed and Stede reunite I don't think Ed would be able to forgive himself if he actually killed him. Lucius was saved by someone on the ship and hidden away. I do think Lucius will be discovered before the captains reunite. As much as I love ghosts, our guy is safe. Fearing for his life, but safe.

favorite Revenge crew member: OG Revenge-Frenchie or Buttons. If y'all haven't written him in your fics, including Buttons. He's so much fun to make the 'Cassandra' of your work! Let him be ominous and all-knowing, it's a great time! Frenchie because I'm always up for a bard, and he's a character that has so much potential. From being a bard to an 'assassin in training' with Izzy & Jim. They're fun to throw in!

Again, many thanks to @likethehotsauce! I would like to tag — absolutely zero pressure!!! I know most of you are mostly into Izzy, and I love hearing harsh opinions about Ed&Stede or general thoughts on the show looking back, after a year. @ivegotnonameidea @dianetastesmetal @gydima @downinthehull @treesofgreen @ladyrenity

#tag game #OFMD favorites #our flag means death #gentlebeard #stede bonnet #edward teach #see #Izzy isn't the only thing I like about this show.#ed x stede

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slowlycrispingsandwich · 11 months

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Someone asked me today how i was and i had to say "good!" instead of

"One on my internal organs is having a temper tantrum and literally ripping itself too shreds and making ME push it out along with tons of fucking blood. Everything hurts, my wrist, ankles, tummy, back, head, throut everything!!! My hormones are playing ping pong in my brain and all my thoughts have turnd into clouds of fluffy rage and discomfort, being spun into yarn tangling up all my emotions and somehow knitting it into a really scratchy blanket that muffles all communication!! HOW DO YOU THINK IM DOING!!?"

#Rant #Periods f****** suck

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zach-is-here · 11 months

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When Wednesday Night approaches, Josh comes-a-calling.

7/5/23

In what was supposed to be a run-of-the-mill wing night - too much chicken, never enough sports talk, and a tummy ache for the ride home - myself, Josh, and Reagan came in touch with our spiritual side.

That is far too dramatic as to what actually happened. I picked up Josh and told him I was going to bum some wings off him b/c I didn't want much, and to my surprise, he let me know that he too wasn't hungry either. Already on the road and heading towards Reagan's house (who we knew was already out for wings) we had to make a choice. We could either,

A. Force ourselves to eat wings and socialize

B. Reject tradition, and embark on a journey not knowing where it would take us.

In the driver's seat, I ultimately pressed forward, past Recovery and towards the great unknown (also known as South 30).

After, some back and forth, we had found ourselves heading towards the Auriesville Shrine. And when Josh said he had never been, we had to go. Thus, God had overtaken chicken as our primary focus. At the shrine, we had taken an interest in the Buddhist temple that lays adjacent and tried our very best to get in. Unfortunately, we had arrived outside of business hours and mass is on Saturdays at 6:30am. Defeated, the three of us turned to where we could go –including the bug-filled ravine and the potentially haunted gift shop. With no where else to go via car, and an unspoken agreement not to get out on foot again, we made way to the south-side staple, Karen's.

It was at Karen's, Josh revealed he'd gotten wings 4 hours earlier, giving reason to why he wasn't hungry when I picked him up (what a goon). After much debate between the lil blue panda and sugar cookie flavors, I settled on the sugar cookie ice cream milkshake. If that sounds like too much, you are correct. Somehow, the great pioneers at Hershey's ice cream had found a way to combine the sweetest ice cream I've ever tasted with artificially sweetened frosting and sprinkles. Put it all together in a milkshake and I couldn't get through a quarter of it. Josh and Reagan both confirmed my assessment of the shake, but ultimately it made its way to Dixie (a little over 4 hours later) who was the first to enjoy it (Kumbaya!). Afterwards, we explored and discussed the varying jams, spreads, and ice cream cookies available at Karen's before moving on to our next stop.

As the driver, this is where I could've went home and called it a night. However, my brain insisted we go to the nearby Schoharie Crossing (nowhere close to Schoharie itself). In another feat of astonishment, Josh had let us known he had never been here either. I love the crossing and was ecstatic to introduce it to Josh. While there, we made some TikToks detailing my love of the hidden park, and called it a day. Until, I got behind the wheel once more and figured one more stop wouldn't hurt.

Sam P., the newest resident of Tribes Hill and five minutes away from the Crossing had spoke of a stowed away basketball court by the water he had wanted to visit. We never made our way there due to a lack of a basketball. But now, I came prepared. With a basketball in the trunk and a desire to go anywhere else but home, I had made it my final goal to find these courts. Just as all hope was lost and I had settled on returning to home base, we found it. Once there, we decided one TikTok was not enough, and engaged in some true tom foolery.

Sweaty, spirited, and satiated, I finally brought the car home, and prepared to do it all again with Torin tomorrow.

#upstateny

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chronicrealnesscushings · 1 year

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Symptom Log Day 1

It's a warm spring day here in the Great Lakes region. 73 degrees when I woke up. I got about 5 hours of sleep but I feel better than I usually do. Not even as tired as I usually feel. Today is a good day. I'm not in a flare up, my body seems to be calming down, and I'm not binge eating. Mentally, I feel a bit weird. I wonder if I have pseudo cushings. Ever since I found an answer to how I feel, I haven't had a flare up. But my mind likes to gaslight itself a bit. Most of my symptoms align with episodic or cyclical Cushing's. It could be a different reason. I tend to feel better when I get out into the sun, which we've had more of lately. My endocrinologist has ordered pretty much all the test. 24 pee test, dex test, and another round of cortisol swabs. I love how when I finally get the testing I need to get answers, things calm down. Funny how that works. Almost like it knows that I'm on to it. My therapist told me not to personify it, but for me, Cushing's is like a little goblin that sneaks up and puts a bag over your head. You feel around, blind, trying to get the damn bag off and when you finally figure it out, and get it off your head, the little damn goblin is nowhere to be seen.

I've been trying to find more information on cyclical and pseudo, but everything is in academic language and my brain isn't really good at paying attention to that. I mean, I love reading, but it's hard to keep going when the text is so dry. It's also bit a hard to remember all the of definitions for each different thing. I used to be awesome at stuff like that, but then again, my brain is like half functioning nowadays.

I'm starting to get a bit agitated, so maybe my cool period is starting to come to an end. This time, it's welcome. I need the test results to get any treatment.

At my last doctors appointment, I hit the dreaded number I was trying to avoid. 225. I can't say my eatings been all that great, but 15 lbs since last month? Insane. When I look in the mirror, I don't recognize myself. I am huge. My arms and tummy especially. I don't feel right in this body. Growing up, I was always bigger. Taller than the boys, thicker than girls. I grew a chest way before any of my friends. But I lost the weight eventually. I had been riding 145 for almost 5-6 years. I was healthy. I was in shape. I was doing well at my job. I had a career. Now I just sit at home watching Scooby doo and feeling like this. No career. No friends. No health,

I have a wonderful fiancé. I have two beautiful dogs. Our nephew is coming to stay the summer with us and I'm excited to have him. But I am tired and depressed and I don't want to go outside in a pair of shorts. My thighs are like tree trunks. I am all for body acceptance... except when it comes to mine. It's not even just about the size. It's about not being able to walk up steps or hike like I used to. Kayaking, rock climbing, river rafting... I am a liability. That hurts me more than anything.

#cushingsdisease #cushings #chronicillness

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wh0rephobic · 2 years

Note

All thoughts? Gone.

Brain is just sex with will.

"Darling, not right now." William said. He was driving home, with you in the passenger seat.

"William! I can't wait..." you said pouting

"Darling don't pout. Its 3 minutes till home."

"William, please! My pussy aches...you've not fucked me for 2 days!"

Then, after alot of begging William got pissed. "Stop begging me, can't you wait?!" William snapped. You stayed quiet for the rest off the ride home.

"Darling im sorry. I think all off me should apologize, mostly my tongue for upsetting you."

So he apologized and fucked you so fuckin deep with your tongue.

oh my gosh GENUINELY i’d be so devastated if he took this tone with me 😭😭😭

but yeah, staying silent the whole ride home, not even turning to look at william, just staring out the window quietly. when you finally get home you’re basically tip-toeing into the house, your body having closed in on itself in shame of what william had said to you… it’s almost like you’re walking into a strangers house for the first time with how nervous you look. well, it might as well be a strangers house, as the william you know would never raise his voice at you like that.

you head straight upstairs to hide in your shared bedroom, to get as much privacy and distance from him until he decides it’s time to go up.

which in about half an hour, it is. a few quiet taps on the door lift your head from the book you’re reading to watch him open the door slowly and poke his head in, making eye contact with you.

“can i come in?” he mumbles, to which you just put your head back down to your book.

he knows you’re mad, he’ll sort the rest out. he takes your silence as a yes and enters the room, walking slowly towards your side of the bed and sitting in front of where you’re curled up on the bed. you raise your book higher, seemingly hiding yourself from him. though, william isn’t having it. he reaches his hand up and slowly lowers the book. you comply, gazing up at him with an unreadable expression that makes his mouth dry.

he’s very soft spoken, “i’m sorry dear… i shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

you say nothing.

“and i believe that all of me should apologize.” you blink a few times. “especially my tongue, for upsetting you.”

oh. well, you can’t stay mad forever; all you really wanted was an apology and william gave it to you… plus, your pussy does still hurt from neglect…

william hooks his hands below your knees, spreading them out on the bed and adjusting himself so that he’s kneeling between you.

“so, what to you say?” he rubs his hands up and down your thighs. “do you forgive me?”

how were you supposed to say no to that?

you nod, sitting up and putting your book on the nightstand. william sighs with relief and without another word meets you for a kiss.

oh boy, you forgot how good his kisses were. the way you sigh into it, bringing a palm to rest on the scruff of his face, his hands reaching for leverage on your hips… he darts his tongue out to lick your lips, deepening the kiss when he slips it through. your tongues happily dance together as william pulls your hips down so that you’re laying flat on the bed. when your head his the mattress, he pulls away, you gaze at him with doe eyes that he just can’t resist planting a few more pecks to your lips before leaving to suckle on your neck.

you can feel william roll the skin between his teeth with the intention to leave bruises. you begin to pant.

he leaves two dark red hickeys throbbing on your neck before continuing to move down. he kisses down your shirt, before getting to the hem and pushing it up slightly so that he can leave wet kisses against your tummy. you whimper, watching his delicate movements, skin ghosting over skin whenever he moves and making your pussy ache.

by the time william has rested his chin on your pelvis to gaze up at your blown-out eyes, you could practically be begging him to take your pants off. but, you don’t have to.

“may i?”

you nod, fast and eager to be pleased. he stifles a chuckle at your desperate complexion, but doesn’t tease you about it. william, as eager as you, undoes your pants and sits up to pull them all the way off of your legs, throwing them on the floor.

he takes his time continuing to warm you up so that your body doesn’t shock when he comes in contact with your heat. aka, teasing. he’s teasing you.

you can feel his mouth attach on to the soft skin of your thigh, kneading it with his tongue and fluttering kisses around them in between sucks and bites as he lifts your legs over his shoulders. a few minutes later, you begin to soak through your underwear. when william notices, he can’t help but look up at you, lips parted, face flushed and a complete mess and he hasn’t even started yet.

there’s a dark look in his eyes, right before he moves forward to press kisses to the wet cloth, darting his tongue out and taking in the taste of you… you can feel his tongue squirm, it makes you whimper and grind down on him, just trying to give him the hint.

of course, william takes it. you didn’t need to hint, he always knew. he keeps his gray eyes locked to yours when he moves up to your stomach again, hooking his teeth in the lace lining of your panties and beginning to drag them off of your thighs. you throw your head back and sigh.

william makes contact with your clit, dragging his rough tongue over it like a puppy before attaching his mouth. your legs twitch as you finally get attention there, sitting up with a gasp. you watch him as he wraps his arms around your legs, holding your jerking body in place as he licks and nips at your lips, slurping up all of your juices.

“o-oh my god, f-fuck,” you moan, “william!”

he pulls away, “there’s my girl-“

“oh, please don’t talk right now, please! j-just keep going!”

without another word, william dives back in. he finally inserts his tongue inside of you, pushing the warm muscle against your walls and feeling as you clench down on the unusual sensation of his squirming, wet tongue. he only holds tighter, restricting you of your attempts to escape him and pushing his face further into your pussy to reach your g-spot. you’re panting, face red as you flail your arms for leverage as your body both tries to push into william and pull away.

the way he’s rolling his tongue inside of you is heavenly mixed with the way he reaches over your leg to begin rubbing your clit. you’re a mess of drool and slick, dripping down your shaking thighs and making a mess on the bed as you drill your heels into his back.

“oh, oh-!” you grip the sheets. “awwh!”

william loves when you get noisy, it spurs him on to dive deeper, practically suffocating himself with your pussy in order to please you as you squeeze his tongue delightfully. his eyes are closed, brows knit as he focuses on reaching as deep as he can inside of you. his teeth are resting on your clit as he growls into you.

then, he hits it. his tongue licks against that sensitive, spongy part of you that makes you go absolutely insane. your back arches as you reach down to grip onto his hair, pulling it so hard you could rip it out as you cry out repetitions of there, there, there! before you tighten your legs around his head and use all of your strength to flip both of you over so that you’re seated on his face.

william gasps in shock, tightening his hold on your thighs as you reach up to grab the headboard of the bed for balance before you begin rutting your pussy against his face like your life depends on it.

everything is perfect. the way despite literally being suffocated by your sex (though he enjoys it), he’s still actively fucking you with his tongue while you grind your clit down onto his nose… you’ve never felt this good in your life.

your movements become sloppy the more the knot in your stomach tightens. it’s not long before you stop and with one long drag of your hips, you gush out all over william’s mouth and start to drown him with your cum.

you let out loud, breathy moans as you rock through your high. you can feel william retract his tongue in order to swallow everything you just gave him and when the heat inside of you finally cools, you sigh and roll off of him, collapsing down on the bed.

william takes a second to catch his breath and revel in the activities you two just preformed. when he finally gathers himself, he turns over and crawls up to you, brushing the sweat-stuck hair out of your face and planting kiss after kiss all over your face while you pant.

you reach a hand up to cradle his jaw, gesturing to him as he kisses you and thumbing at the wetness left on his face.

“oh god,” you giggle, he moves back to look at you. “what did i do to you?”

his eyes are wide with fiery passion. “oh, you better do that again.”

“you liked that?”

“yes!” he groans, “oh darling, i’m so sorry for yelling at you…”

you scoff, over it now. “well, if you’re gonna apologize to me like that then you should yell at me more often,”

the two of you share a laugh before william relaxes next to you, pulling you into his chest so the two of you can catch your breaths before getting up to shower together.

#🍒 — let’s talk!#🍒 — william afton #william afton smut

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inkykeiji · 3 years

Text

little bit of poison in me

characters: dabi | todoroki touya, takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut and angst

notes: okay FINALLY!! very loosely inspired by tag you’re it by melanie martinez!! uhh dabi’s a drug dealer, keigo’s in his third year of university and a track star, reader’s in her first year of university. please, please pay attention to the warnings below! if keigo’s your comfort character and you cannot handle him being physically abusive and a drug addict, then you might wanna sit this one out! promise he’ll be painted in a more sympathetic light in part two. | aaah dedicating this to @rat-suki, because ur the only one who’s actually known the details of this fic since november, and because i put a lil something inspired by new moon in there for u ehehe <333 | title credit: tag you’re it by melanie martinez

warnings: 18+, noncon/dubcon, physical abuse, drug use & abuse + graphic depictions of addiction, mindbreak, overstimulation, manipulation, lowkey yandere vibes (which will get worse), daddy kink, a brother a lil too obsessed with his sister + questionably close sibling relationship, generally toxic relationships (possessiveness, jealousy), rough sex, semi-public sex, cumplay/cum feeding, minimal prep, degradation/dumbification, choking, kinda brat taming???

words: 14.8k

synopsis:

“Do you wanna come home with Daddy, princess?”

He’s caging you between his body and the murky convenience store window as he asks, both palms pressed flat against the grimy glass.

No. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, can almost hear your brother’s voice in the back of your mind telling you not to. But you’re too enticed in sapphire to care, drawn into pretty, almost glittering blue fire, letting the flames lick your skin as you immerse yourself in it, deeper and deeper and deeper, and allowing it to wrap itself around you, to consume you, to knock the very breath out of you as you gaze into it.

“Okay,”

It’s well past midnight, but the moon is still hanging high in the sky, illuminating the dingy shopping mall parking lot, its reflection gleaming on the wet, cracked concrete. Breathless little laughs and squeals of surprise and pleasure ring out among the vast empty space, your own voice echoing around you.

“Gonna get ya, baby,”

He’s chasing after you, legs longer than yours, faster than yours, mischievous little growls getting caught in his chest as you daintily leap away from him, just out his grasp again, the tips of his fingers grazing the soft linin of your dress.

“No!” you giggle, pushing your burning thighs to keep running just a bit longer, propelling you forward.

But he’s getting closer and closer with each pound of his boots against the pavement, encroaching on you more and more with each tiny gasp exhaled through your parted lips.

Eventually, he catches you, like he always does, large hands wrapping around your hips as strong arms pull you backwards against a solid chest. You’re both panting, chests heaving with exertion, bubbles of laughter escaping your throats.

“Tag,” he breathes, hot breath curling around the shell of your ear. “You’re it,”

His arms encircle you, holding you tightly, your own arms covering his, little fingers digging into the skin of his forearms almost possessively as he uses his strength and bodyweight to guide you towards the car—a 1959 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz that runs like shit and guzzles gas like no tomorrow. But it’s pretty, and he loves it, with all its chrome and argyle blue, glittering in the moonlight.

“You’re being bad, princess,” the words are mumbled against the skin behind your ear, and you can feel the smirk on his lips. “Good girls don’t run away from their Daddies like that,”

And he says the word with so much disdain, cruel and mocking, making you feel sick for liking it.

“Baaad girl,” he whispers, dragging the word out.

A tiny pout settles on your face, eyebrows knitting. “Am not,”

“Are too,”

“Am not,”

“You are,” he chuckles, pressing you against the damp metal of his car as you finally reach it, his body still draped over yours. “What? You gonna fight me on it?”

Squirming a little in his grasp, you turn to face him, a playful glint shining in your glassy eyes as you nudge your nose against his. “I just might!”

“Hah,” the breath of air washes over your face, scorching and sweet, a stark contrast to the humid, cool air surrounding you, causing your exposed flesh to break out into chills. “I’d like to see you try, dollface,”

“Oh, I’m sure you would,” you murmur, yelping when his fingers dig into the supple flesh of your ass through your dress, grabbing a healthy handful and squeezing in retaliation.

“Mmm,” he hums nonchalantly, pushing his forehead against yours, eyes nothing but gaping pupils outlined by a thin ring of sapphire. “You gonna show me?” his rough voice fades into a whisper, unblinking eyes holding yours steadily. Calloused hands are sliding up your thighs now, slipping underneath the thin material of your dress and taking the hem with them.

“N-Not here,” you breathe, trying and failing to pull back from him, eyes widening in alarm as you feel his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties.

“Yes, here,” he responds, voice smooth as velvet as soft lips drag along your neck, sharp teeth sinking into your flesh like a hot knife slicing through butter.

Panic is beginning to rise in your chest, your throat closing up, and you choke a little on your words, shaking your head frantically. “Please, Dabi, no, we could just—”

“Wow, you really want me to bruise that pretty ass of yours,” he smirks, cutting you off and pulling back to gaze at you lazily, lips glimmering with saliva.

“No, I—”

“Especially with how much you’re saying no today,” he tuts his tongue in disapproval. “Such a bad girl; a silly, little, stupid, bad girl,”

Each word is punctuated with a sharp slap to your scantily clad ass, each bringing with them a sharp sting that you can hear, echoing out among the parking lot.

“Not bad,” you whimper, eyes shutting tightly against the familiar burn of tears. “Not bad, j-just wanna—”

“Wanna what?” he teases, voice mocking yours as his palm collides with your ass again. “Huh?”

“W-Wanna—Want you to fuck me right,” you rush to say, the words exhaled as a singular huff of breath.

“Oh?” he pulls back slightly, eyes searching your face, his own features contorted with false concern. “Is that so?”

You nod quickly, eagerly, and he can see it in your eyes, how desperately you want him to buy your lie.

But you know he hasn’t the moment that trademark smirk returns to his face, mouth curling up at the edges as he leans forward, lips moving against your ear. “I think that’s a boldfaced lie, babygirl,” his voice is low, sinister, dangerous, traces of amusement sown into his tone. “I think it’s because you don’t want anyone to see how much of a little whore you truly are,”

“D-Dabi, please,” you whimper, vision blurry with tears as you paw at his jacket, pleading with him.

He thinks it’s so cute when you beg, his silence imploring you to continue, urgently rambling on in your quest to convince him.

“I-I want you to really fuck me; I want you to leave b-bruises all over my body, I want to feel you in my tummy, I want you t-to stuff me so full of cum that it goes to my brain and makes me stupid, please Daddy, I want—”

Slim fingers wrap around your neck and squeeze, forcing a cry of surprise from your lips and effectively cutting you off. “I’m gonna make sure you remember those words, sweetheart,”

✰ ✰ ✰

The thump of your own heart echoes in your ears as the Cadillac Eldorado thrums under your body, the leather sticking to the bare skin of your thighs.

“Open,” he demands, delivering a harsh slap to the thigh nearest to him, eyes never leaving the road as his foot presses down, car accelerating. Your thighs obey immediately, spreading as far as they possibly can in the cramped space, knees knocking against the door and center console box.

A rough hand, decorated with callouses and scabs, kneads the flesh once before sliding up, up, up, and then hooking in the elastic of your panties, Dabi spitting out a curse as he lets it snap back against your skin.

“Take those off,” he seethes, aggressively ripping his hand away from you as if he’s aggravated that you’re even wearing them at all. Your dress hitches up around your waist in your haste to obey, little fingers catching in the lacy material as your hips squirm, seatbelt cutting into your flesh, wiggling a little as you pull the dainty material down your legs.

He’s already holding his hand out expectantly and you press them into it, waiting for his fingers to close around the garment before taking your hand back. He feels them, rolling the fabric around in his palm, between his fingers, chuckling darkly as he chucks them over his shoulder a moment later, onto the dirty ground of the backseat.

Those were your favourite, but you know better than to say anything, forcing your expression to stay neutral, to keep your nose from wrinkling up in distaste.

“They’re wet, but not nearly wet enough,” he tsks as if he’s disappointed, hand finding your thigh again. This time, they part instantly, without any verbal prompting, hips pushing towards his palm as it skims the skin of your inner thigh.

“Now, I’m gonna play with this cute lil clit of yours,” he begins, fingers brushing the sensitive nub, words tumbling from his lips slowly, lazily, unhurried, as if you’re stupid, as if you need an ample amount of time for each word to sink in.

It makes your pussy throb, and the borderline malicious smirk that spreads across his face tells you that he felt it, too.

Speaking through his smirk, he continues in the same patronizing voice. “And you—you’re going to be Daddy’s good little girl and get nice and wet for him, so he doesn’t hurt his cock when he fucks you. Do you think you can do that for me, sweetheart?”

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

It’s torture in the most delightful way, coarse pads of his fingers just barely grazing your clit, just enough for you to feel it, just enough for you to want—no, need—more. Heat, thick and sticky, pools in the pit of your stomach, thighs straining to open impossibly wider, edges of the car’s interior digging into your knees as you desperately try to shift your hips, to press further into his touch, to evoke anything harder than these teasing, feathery touches.

Blunt nails sink into the tender flesh of your inner thigh, hard enough to make you yelp, entire body flinching from the sudden pain. “Big girls use their words,” he chastises, voice fading from a growl into a pleasant, light tone.

“Please, Daddy, I-I want more,” you whimper, hips still trying to catch your clit on his fingers, on his palm. “Touch me more,”

The hum that vibrates in his throat has your heart sinking, corners of your mouth tugging down as you blink against the sting of disappointment—you know that hum, know it all too well, know all of Dabi’s bizarre mannerisms at this point and what they mean for you. And that hum, the one that only lasts for a moment, the one that’s barely a noise at all, the one that doesn’t even sound like he’s considering anything, means no.

His eyes don’t leave the road in front of him, despite the fact that his car is going faster, and faster, and faster, whipping through the empty city streets, neon buildings and harsh florescent lights becoming nothing but a blur. And if it weren’t for the hard lump straining against the black denim of his jeans, you’d figure him disinterested; facial features relaxed, breathing normal, entirely unresponsive to the pathetic little noises he’s so effortlessly pulling from you.

It ignites a fire in your chest, blazing with the need to make him react, to make him pay attention to you.

Wearing your best pout, you arch your back a little, the action shoving your hips towards his hand again. “Daddy, Daddy,” you whine, low and needy in the back of your throat, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Please, touch me more? Please, Daddy, I want it so bad, want your cock so bad, please, help me get wetter? Wanna be dripping for you, Daddy, I wanna be soaking for you,”

“Fuck,” he breathes, smirk growing into a full grin as he glances at you from the side of his eye. “Such a brat,” he shakes his head, through the grin is still present on his face as he finally presses two fingers against the swollen bud, rubbing slow, hard circles into it. “You better be drenched for me by the time we get home, you little bitch,”

✰ ✰ ✰

Large hands are on your body as the two of you stumble up the stairs, nimble fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, obscene sucking and slurping amplified by the stairwell, bouncing back to your own ears, saliva slicked lips slipping and sliding together messily as teeth clack together, practically tripping over each other’s feet and fucking Christ he needs you, he needs you now, his cock hurts, goddamn it.

And you’d be lying through your teeth if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, all clingy and needy and desperate, hushed little whines catching in the back of his throat, fading from deep, rumbling growls as rough hands paw at you.

A sharp gasp is knocked from your chest as he slams you against the wall on the landing of floor three with such force that your head ricochets off the concrete, your resounding cry silenced by Dabi’s lips, tongue invading your mouth as he swallows your beautiful little noises of pain.

You can feel his cock pressed up against your hip, hot and hard and throbbing through the denim that conceals it as he grinds against you, fervent, eager, impatient.

That panic is bubbling up in your throat again, bitter and acidic and eroding, rendering your voice weak and frail as scabbed knuckles drag across your bare thighs, inching higher and higher.

“Da-Daddy, wait,”

“No,” he growls, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to break the skin. “I’m done waiting,” hands are rucking up your dress. “You made me wait that whole fucking car ride,” sharp hipbones keep your thighs spread. “I can’t wait any longer,” the clinking of his heavy belt buckle echoes throughout the stairwell, sending chills pebbling across your skin.

And then he’s forcing himself into you, shoving his cock into your tight little hole, a choked cry bouncing off the dirty white walls as your eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking from the edges.

The stretch is magnificent, little cunt aching as it sucks in his thick cock, and you swear you can feel the burning in your belly, little pinpricks of pain shooting through your gut.

“G-Gonna tear me in half,” you wail, head falling forward, forehead bumping against his.

“Shh, baby, Daddy’s got you,” a callous laugh leaves his lips after he spits out the nickname, the singular word filled with such derision it must sting his tongue. Large hands hoist you up, and your legs immediately latch around his waist, seeking comfort in the monster that hurt you.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Tears drip down your cheeks as you bury your face in his shoulder, the word escaping your lips in tiny half-sobs catching in your throat, little fingers curling against the worn leather of his jacket.

And he can’t help but soften a little as you weep into his neck, thinks it’s so cute that you need him so bad, your little stuttered breaths hot against his neck as you cling to him, reminding him that he is the only man that can make you feel like this; he is the only man that can make you cry while simultaneously finding solace in his embrace. It makes his blood surge, sends cinders searing up his spine, gives him a high better than any other drug every could, and he finds himself hushing you gently, twitching cock buried in your cute lil cunt, snugly pressed against your cervix.

“Okay, okay,” he’s saying as his hips begin to pump, slow and languid. “Quiet, Daddy’s gonna make it feel good, alright? Daddy’s here, Daddy’s gonna make it go away,”

The sweetest, airiest little mewls of Daddy, yes, Daddy, soak into the inky skin of his neck, sandwiched between uneven hitched breaths. He’s gaining speed with each thrust, though, working up a steady rhythm that has you practically bouncing on his cock, little wails of pain fading into whimpers of pleasure. The combination is dizzying, infecting your mind with a haze that is only Dabi, surrounded by him, immersed in him—glowing sapphire and burning hickory and spicy nicotine—unable to quell the little noises spilling from your throat, each one louder than the next with each bump against your cervix and drag against that spot.

“That feel better, princess?” he breathes out, pausing just to readjust his grip on your ass—to angle your hips just right, chuckling at your selfish, needy whine—and then he’s drilling his cock into you, head pounding against the spot that has his name escaping your lips in high pitched squeals that break in your throat, heavy belt buckle clanking against the wall with each of his thrusts.

It sends sparks of mind-numbing pleasure burning through your abdomen, your chest, straight to your very core and collecting there, each spark adding to the growing fire that’s beginning to blaze, followed by intense spears of pain, slicing through your gut and down the muscles of your thighs, legs beginning to quiver as ankles hook tighter, tighter, tighter, the heels of your sneakers digging into his back dimples, trying to get him closer, closer, closer, desperately begging for more, more, more.

Yet it’s all so much, too much, please, Daddy—the harsh sound of metal colliding with concrete mingling with your pathetic whines and his panted breaths, rough whimpers catching deep in his chest, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard a more beautiful sound.

“C’mon, babygirl,” he gasps, pace never slowing, never faltering once, even though there’s glistening dewdrops of sweat decorating his hairline, inky strands beginning to stick to the skin of his forehead. “Be a good girl and cum for Daddy, cum before someone catches you being such a sweet little—God, Christ—a sweet little slut for me,”

And your cunt submits, would never dare to disobey a direct command from its master, from its owner, clenching around him as you cream all over his cock, a sharp cry ripping up your throat as your nails scrabble against leather clad shoulders.

A growl rumbles, deep and dark and dangerous in his chest, as his hips piston a few more times before they still, tips of his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, branding his name in tiny blotches of navy and violet as his cock throbs, coating your insides with spurts of thick cum.

Head falling forward, his forehead collides with yours, chests heaving and breathing laboured. And he can’t help the little chuckle he huffs out as you wiggle your hips a little, eyes still closed as you rock in little motions against him, clit catching on his pubic bone.

Needy little bitch.

But he isn’t nearly done with you yet, because that desire, thick and sticky in the very pit of his stomach, only wants more, insatiable and voracious, desperate for more of your whines, more of your tears, more of your cunt.

You’re gonna make good on all those words you spewed in the parking lot, baby, he’s nearly snarling at you, cutting off your whiny complaints as he drags you up the final flight of stairs, stopping halfway to haul you over his shoulder with a huff and a deft slap to your ass, carrying you the rest of the way to his apartment.

“Dress, off. Now.” He orders as he throws you onto his mattress, pulling his shirt over his head, belt buckle jingling as he walks, still hanging undone.

And then he’s crawling over your naked body, lips attacking yours, smashing and smacking and slurping, a large hand wrapping around your wrists as he shoves his tongue into your mouth, laving over yours in slow, deliberate drags, pinning your wrists against the cold cracked drywall behind his nearly bare, minimalistic bed, squeezing hard enough to grind the bones together between a singular rough palm—a silent warning—and forcing a yelp from your throat into his.

“Don’t move them,” his lips mumble the command against yours before he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, between sharp gleaming teeth that bite down hard, sinking into the soft flesh and refusing to release until he tastes copper, the tip of his tongue tracing the harsh indents left behind, licking at your lip once more before pulling away completely.

“I want you to leave bruises all over my body!” he mimics, voice absurdly high as lips skim the curve of your neck, tongue darting out to trace along your collarbones. “Isn’t that what you said, baby?”

But you can’t answer, too busy sucking on your now swollen lip, trying to soothe the incessant throbbing as metal stains your tongue. That’s disrespectful, you think you hear him growl into your unmarred skin before something sharp pierces your nipple, clamping down around it and tugging. A resounding cry tears through your throat as your body instinctually bows off the bed, pressing further into him, a muffled snicker vibrating against your chest before his tongue flicks, licks, slobbers, thick strings of saliva glimmering in the dim light as he pulls away, breaking and slapping against his chin.

“Answer me next time I ask you a fucking question,” The words are spit so harshly they slice into your skin, head nodding fervently before he’s even finished speaking, blinking the bleariness from your eyes. Smoldering sapphire holds your gaze for a moment, burning into your very soul—digging, prying, searching, scrutinizing, his breathing slow, calm, controlled with each deep rise and fall of his bare chest.

You aren’t sure what it is he’s looking for as he peers into the depths of your eyes, but you don’t dare let your gaze stray from his, don’t dare blink, don’t dare breathe until he breaks the spell, blinking once as his lips curl up into a wicked smirk.

“I’m gonna turn your body into a work of art,” he promises you, voice low and guttural, forcing thorns of ice up your spine as lips drag across your jaw.

And he does, paints little galaxies across your skin with his tongue and his lips, asymmetrical blotches of blues and greys and purples, ivory bones scraping against your flesh, signing his name into his masterpiece in deep, dark indents of crimson and violet.

It aches and it pulses and it stings, glittery trails of salt water staining your cheeks, tiny shimmering droplets clinging to your clumped, spiky lashes, adding the finishing touches on the greatest piece he’s ever created.

And it’s so pretty, you’re so pretty when you’re like this, baby, covered in navy and plum and carmine, and, fuck, it’s a shame you won’t stay like this.

It seems he’s in a trance for a moment, in awe of his craftsmanship, of what he’s produced, breathing laboured as shining azure eyes drift over your body, slowly, purposefully, as if he’s memorizing every single nick, bite, scrape, bruise, burning the image into his brain forever.

His gaze floats back up to yours, holding it for a moment, pupils big and gaping and swallowing you whole—before something snaps, breaks, and he comes back to himself, remembers why he did it.

Narrowing slightly, his eyes darken, that sadistic smirk returning to his lips. And then he’s shoving his cock into you again, hard and leaking and the prettiest red you’ve ever seen, cute little cunt stretching around him for the second time tonight.

But little girls who act like brats deserve to get fucked like brats, he tells you in a snarl, slender fingers collaring your neck and squeezing slowly, slowly, slowly, crushing the column of your throat.

Everything’s beginning to grow hazy, vision sliding in and out of focus as those calloused hands continue to tighten, and tighten, and tighten. He looks like some sort of sick angel as he looms above you, nothing more than a shadow of sharp edges and smooth curves, inky spikes and glowing sapphire, haloed by the weak neon light that spills in through grimy windows. Jutting bones prod the soft flesh of your inner thighs, carving out a space just for them as his hips snap viciously, relentlessly, obstinately.

And it’s all overwhelming, overstimulating on every front, uncontrollable tears streaming from your eyes as you choke roughly on your own sobs, each one being forced from your chest by your Daddy’s harsh thrusts, only to get caught on the palm pressed to your airway, ears ringing from the slap of skin against skin overlapping those harsh words spit at you in his falsely saccharine voice.

Aw, no, baby, wispy words caressing your cheek as they float by, eyes starting to roll back in your head. Don’t pass out on me, dollface. I want you awake when I fill your cunt with cum.

The pressure around your throat lets up just a hint, and you wheeze in air, a rush of cold flooding your body. You can feel it, that contrasting, familiar heat scorching the pit of your stomach, beginning to curl in on itself more, and more, and more with each pump of his hips, until it explodes, your body arching off the mattress, unintentionally pressing into the hand adorning your neck, restricting your air entirely.

The chuckle that leaves his lips as you choke yourself is dark, would send spears of ice slicing through your veins if you weren’t otherwise focused on trying to fill your lungs with air. Nothing leaves your mouth other than a few choked whines, barely more than a huff of light breath.

But his hips don’t slow, and he’s glaring down at you with parted lips and lidded eyes, pupils gaping, so large you’re unable to detect even the slightest hint of blue outlining them—nothing but big black orbs, absorbing everything in their vision, sucking everything from you, every hitched sob and soft whine and gorgeous wince, each time he pounds against your cervix.

And it’s how your looking up at him—with those gleaming, adoring eyes and that blissful, fucked out grin—that has him cumming with a shuddered f-fuck, forcing his eyes to stay open as he pumps you full of thick cum, desperate to catalogue every little expression that crosses your face, the way your eyes flutter slightly, the way your neck arches, the tiniest little moan slipping through chapped lips as his cock pulses inside of you.

You must pass out for a second, Dabi’s calloused palm lightly tapping against your cheek as he murmurs to you in that sinful, silky voice, sugared sentiments twining around your exhausted body.

Wake up, princess. Daddy isn’t done playing with you yet.

Words tumble past your lips in a mumble, though you aren’t quite sure what you’re saying—everything feels hazy, like you’re gazing through a thin cloud of smoke, and despite the fact that you can barely move, your body feels light, almost floaty in a way, entirely numb to the immense pain it has endured thus far.

Two fingers, coated in thick, gleaming cream, are thrust into your gasping mouth, tongue met with the salty, bitter taste of his cum. You cough around the sudden intrusion, immediately obey when he orders you to clean, sluggish tongue sliding up and lapping at and slipping between them, sucking the digits free of cum.

Good girl, he leans away and your heart flutters weakly at the praise, saliva slicked fingers dipping into your hole again to gather more.

“C’mon,” he breathes as he brings his fingers to your mouth again, sticky viscous glops collected on his fingers. They catch in the dim light streaming through the window, a unique mixture of pale moonbeams and hazy neon, cum almost glittering, almost pretty. “You wanted me so bad, didn’t you?” your head’s moving—nodding, you think, you can’t really tell, breathing shallow as your eyes belatedly follow his glistening fingers—and he smirks down at you. “Then eat my fucking cum,”

Lips part instantly, mouth falling open as your tongue lolls out, eyes drifting up to his and pleading mutely, begging for the substance—the very essence of him—and nearly moaning when he drags his fingers across the saliva coated muscle, curling and sucking his digits back into the heat of your mouth.

And he’s fucking high off of it all, pupils blown to hell, outlined by the thinnest ring of cobalt, barely detectable, visible only when it catches in the moonlight.

A lumpy pile of denim sits abandoned and bunched up near the end of the bed—he must’ve kicked his pants off at some point, though you don’t remember when—and his cock’s hard again, head brushing your inner thigh. It’s hard for you to tear your gaze from it, fleeting thoughts of stamina and impressive grazing through your mind, turning to smoke the moment you try to latch onto them.

He notices, of course—you’ve been staring at it for nearly a minute now, glazed eyes unblinking, soft little pants passing through barely parted lips. But it’s the way you’re staring at it—in the purest, unadulterated form of desire—that makes it jump, twitching a little against your thigh. You think you hear your Daddy breathe out a curse, think his rough fingers brush some hair back from your drenched forehead, think he says something along the lines of how much he fucking loves you, but in your dreamlike state, you can’t be sure.

Because then rough hands are on you, manhandling you as whatever trance he had fallen into yet again snaps once more.

“We’re gonna put that pretty, empty head of yours to good use!” he’s saying almost enthusiastically as he hoists your boneless body up, propping you up against his chest and securing you with a strong arm wrapped around your waist. “Whaddya think about that, hmm, princess? Want Daddy to use your little skull as his own personal cumdump? Huh?” lithe fingers squeeze your cheeks so hard your lips pucker up, a high-pitched whine getting caught in your throat. “That’s all it’s good for anyway, isn’t it?”

You try to nod, but all your head wants to do is flop back against his shoulder.

“Oh baby,” he cooks mockingly, jutting his inky bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I thought that was what you wanted?”

“T’is!” you mumble through his grip, drool beginning to collect in the corners of your scrunched mouth, dribbling down your chin. Gazing at him through the corner of your watery eyes, your resolve hardens, doing your best to hold your exhausted body up on your own, expression steeling as you force your woozy head to nod as best you can in his bruising grasp.

“Yeah?” he breathes, mouth curving into a dangerous smirk before his lips are at your ear, voice dropping an octave lower. “You’re fucking stubborn, y’know that? Stubborn little brat, just like your bullheaded brute of a brother,”

And then he’s pushing you down, shoving your head into the mattress and pulling your hips up, a hiss spit through your teeth as he purposefully presses into the fresh bruises.

Your poor little pussy aches, fucked open and raw by his cock, but you are stubborn—you can’t help it, it runs in your blood—exhilarated by the challenge and pushing your hips back weakly towards him.

Your Daddy chuckles behind you, but it’s one of those annoyed chuckles, one of those disbelieving chuckles, one of those chuckles that consists of an audacious smirk, quick short nodding that’s more to himself than anyone else, and a tongue running along his top teeth, sucking on the bones, before it fades from his face completely, replaced with scorn in an instant, eyes cold and jaw clenched as he delivers a harsh backhand to your ass.

Then his body’s blanketing yours, chest hot and heavy against your back, lips moving against the shell of your ear.

“Oh, you really want me to break you, don’t you?”

No, truly, you don’t, but you grit your teeth, eyes shut tightly against the sting of a fresh wave of tears, trying to stop your head from involuntarily shaking no.

He laughs again, this time mean and sharp and full of malice, as he straightens up, lining his cock up with your hole.

“Nah, nah,” he’s saying as he pushes in, and God, it still hurts, it still stretches you, reopening little sutures created in the stairwell. “I think you do—Actually, I know you do. And Daddy knows best, right?”

Yes, of course, Daddy knows best, Daddy always knows best.

And it burns, that relentless snap of his hips, driving his cock into you with deep growls and grunts, with such force that it’s jostling you up the mattress, little hands planting themselves in a pitiful attempt to press back against him, to keep yourself in one place. Every muscle in your arms screams at the effort, stiff and rigid from being held, kept, still and obedient against the wall for an extended period of time.

The dreaminess has faded again, leaving behind a dull haze, and it all just hurts. It seems to come in bouts, inexplicable waves of numbness and pain, alternating sporadically and sprinkled with spikes of intense pleasure, a potent mix of chemicals swirling in your brain, lust and desire and terror and anguish burning through your veins.

You’re sobbing into the mattress now, fingers curling tightly in his soft black sheets as your bleary vision begins to darken at the edges, mumbling out something almost in a chant—his name, you think, though you’re not sure, it all sounds muffled to your ringing ears—vibrations of your voice getting caught in your throat, hitching with your sobs and the rough piston of his hips.

It’s building again, licks of fire scalding hot against the walls of your stomach, the temperature rising with each drag of his cock against that spot, until you’re sure the flames are going to engulf you from the inside out.

Little squeaks, poor imitations of moans, escape your lips, interspersed with your pathetic wails. He’s speaking once more—you can feel it, his chest reverberating against yours, lips moving against your ear again. Something rumbles, rattles, deep and dark and dangerous at the very core of his body, and then he’s tangling a hand in your hair and tugging, hauling you up, a choked cry slipping from your lips.

It pulls you from unconsciousness’s grasp, just for a moment, clears the mist from your mind as he snarls against your ear, taking the cartilage between his teeth and biting down, hard.

“Thought I told you to answer me the next time I ask you a fucking question,” he breathes, and he almost sounds gleeful, contradicting his voice, so rough, so hoarse, so hot.

You did, Daddy, you did, you’re trying to say, trying to nod in the vice grip he has on your strands, the words jumbled and muddled and near incomprehensible, wet and messy and coated in spit.

“But I guess my—Christ—my cock makes you too stupid to do that, huh?” he’s panting now, in time with his thrusts, huffs of breath sweltering against your already sticky skin. “What would your goody-two-shoes brother say if he could see you, hmm? If he could see how fucking dumb his little slut of a baby sister goes from my cum,”

It’s too much, too much, Daddy, too much, the brutal pounding of his cockhead against your swollen cervix and the continuous stream of strained, husky, filthy words he’s spewing in your ear and the sting in your scalp and that spot, that spot, that spot—

It hits you so hard it’s painful, knocks what little breath you had right out of you as your entire body convulses on his cock, little cunt clenching and gushing as you weep Da-Daddy! over and over and over, the only word your soupy brain is capable of conceiving, body going pliant in his arms as your head lolls back against his shoulder, struggling to keep your eyes open while he continues to drive his cock into you, hard and fast and messy.

He cums with the prettiest broken whine you’ve ever heard—or at least, you think he does, entire body gone numb once again, think you feel his hips juddering and his cock pulsing, think you feel that familiar, thick substance filling you to the brim. Everything is still for a moment, his chest heaving against your arched back, and then he laughs malevolently, though it sounds far away, even though you can feel the sound vibrating against you.

“That ought’a teach you to say no to me again,” he spits harshly in your ear, giving one more hard yank on your hair before letting go completely, your abused body collapsing in a heap on his mattress.

It feels like you’re more Dabi than yourself now, with his name written all over your body, signed by his mouth, his teeth, his fingers, and his cum leaking out of you, drying hard and sticky on your thighs, his scent being all you can smell, all you can taste, heady and fiery. And as you crawl into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness—finally, finally—you think about just how much can change, and how fast it does, in a mere 92 days.

✰ ✰ ✰

Three months earlier

The air is hazy with thick smoke, heavy enough to dilute the already dim yellow light shining from the bare lightbulbs overhead. The stench of cheap beer, weed and sweat stings your nose, and it wrinkles reflexively.

You aren’t supposed to be here.

Throbbing music radiates through the house, causing the structure to tremble in time with the beat, the dirty drywall you’re currently pressed up against quivering in response. It’s so loud it hurts, vibrating through the warped linoleum floors and through your body. It makes you shiver in disgust, as if it’s some sort of parasite worming it’s way through your veins in timed intervals.

Your brother would kill you if he knew.

You’ve been backed into a corner—literally, surrounded by three college boys you’ve never seen before as they drunkenly leer at you. They’re a year or two older than you, glassy half-lidded eyes scanning your body in a way that makes you feel filthy, in a way that makes you want to scrub your skin raw to rid it of their slimy gazes.

They’re mumbling out something, speaking amongst themselves in low voices, peppered with raspy snickers that make your skin crawl. Pressing further into the corner, you quickly wrack your mind for something—anything—that will get them to part just a little, that’ll crack the wall of bodies you’re now surrounded by just enough for you to barrel through. Adrenaline begins to surge through your veins as you gear up, drawing in a deep breath, and—

“Whadda we have here?”

The men part immediately at the sound of that low voice, smooth as melted chocolate, revealing a figure with spiky onyx hair, an involuntary gasp escaping your lips the moment your eyes collide with sapphire.

“Ah, I thought it was you,” he smirks, peering down at you with a gaze so intense it feels like your body’s been set aflame. “What’s a good little girl like you doing in a place like this, hmm?”

Dabi.

This wasn’t the first time you had seen him, remembering the man with the pretty cobalt eyes and inky hair standing under a singular flickering lamp post outside of the tiny house you and your brother share, or lingering on the threshold of the front door, eyes lazily darting around the space as he waits.

He never comes inside. Your brother doesn’t allow it.

You’ve barely spoken any words to him, always responding to his polite greetings with shy nods or little waves.

But this is the first time you’re meeting him properly.

Feet bolted to the floor, you try to respond, only able to emit a pathetic little squeak.

He huffs out a condescending chuckle, gazing down the bridge of his nose at you, head tilted up just a touch, lidded crystal eyes glittering in the dim light. That trademark smirk spreads into something darker, something almost ominous in nature, something that whispers in your ear that it knows something you don’t, sending sharp spikes of ice shooting up your spine.

“Does your brother know you’re here?”

You shake your head quickly, eyes widening in panic as anxiety begins to rise in your throat. He isn’t about to rat you out, is he?

“Thought so. Dunno why I asked,” he heaves a heavy sigh, chest rising with the force of it, as if he’s extremely exasperated, as if you’re some sort of child lost at a supermarket and he’s bringing you back to your parents. “Alright, let’s go,”

A hand extends, hanging limp in the smoky air for a moment, waiting, before Dabi sighs again with a roll of his eyes, latching onto your wrist and all but dragging you out of the corner, maneuvering through the mass of sweaty bodies crowding the dingy living room.

“We’re leaving?” you ask dumbly as Dabi approaches the back door, hand still wrapped in a firm grasp around your arm.

“Yep. My work here is done, and you,” he tuts his tongue with a slow shake of his head, hidden smile on his face. “Your work here is done, too,”

“W-Where are we going?” you ask as the two of you stumble outside, shivering a little as the cool, fresh air hits your heated skin.

“No idea. Away from this place,” he looks back at your briefly, giving your wrist a soft squeeze before dropping it. “You tryna put your brother in an early grave or somethin’?”

A frown tugs at the corners of your lips as you shake your head again. “No, I just—”

“You shouldn’t have been there,” his words echo your thoughts from before. “You were in some real danger for a second, y’know that?”

“I-I know. Thank you for, uh, s-saving me, Sir,”

“Sir?” his eyes are bright with mirth, shining despite the weak light provided by the waxing moon. The smirk returns, and you feel it again—like he’s plotting something, like he’s got some big secret he’s hiding, a plan, something up his sleeve. “Sir is nice, but I think there’s another name you’d rather call me,”

Eyebrows knit in confusion, your eyes drift to the ground, mulling over his words. Something else you’d rather call him? Like what? You’ve only seen the guy a few—

“Still have no idea why you haven’t fucked him yet,” one of your friends muses as Dabi’s exiting his car, eyes watching him lazily from where you’re both seated on the front lawn.

“Keigo would murder me, literally,” you giggle a little, glancing over at the man with inky hair before looking away again, down at your lap as little fingers thread through the grass beneath you and shaking your head.

“Shame,” she sighs, twirling her sticky pink lollipop idly, the candy catching in the sun. “He’s Daddy as hell,”

A sharp gasp leaves your parted lips, eyes snapping back to her face and holding them for a moment before the two of you burst into a fit of giggles, your fingers tapping her bare knee in a silent warning that he’s approaching.

Heavy black boots collide with the front stone path, buckles jingling daintily, his head perking up in a catlike manner, trademark smirk forming on his lips as you both urgently try to calm your laughter.

“Ladies,” he nods with a wink as he passes, little giggles cutting off instantaneously, the two of you mumbling shy greetings in response.

That was the only time you had ever spoken to him, until now.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment. He did hear.

He chuckles slightly, dropping the subject with a shake of his head.

“So. Where to?” he asks expectantly, feet slowing to a stop on the cracked sidewalk as he taps out a cigarette. He whips a silver Zippo open, sharp twinge of metal swiping against metal cutting though the silent nighttime air. “Home?”

A shrill bubble of incredulous laughter escapes your throat. Dabi glances over at you, amused, raising an eyebrow in question as he cups the flame and brings it to his lips.

“Do you want to put my brother in an early grave?” you snort.

“I could just walk you to the street, you know,” he rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face. “Precious niisan wouldn’t even need to see me,”

You shake your head, idly kicking a rock with the toe of your shoe as you begin walking again. The campus is beginning to bleed into the city now, engulfing the two of you in familiar florescent light. “No, I can’t go home,”

“Why?”

“I…” you trail off, heat flooding your cheeks. “I, um, told him I’d be staying at a friend’s place tonight,”

Dabi gasps mockingly. “Baby, you lied to your niisan?”

Knocking your shoulder against his arm, you scoff, trying to hide the stupid smile the nickname conjures. “Oh, shut up,”

“Getting bold now, I see,” he hums to himself. “Could’a swore just a few minutes ago you were scared of me,”

“N-Not scared, just—uh, just surprised, that’s all,”

“Uh-huh, sure. Tell me again why you can’t just go to this friend’s house?”

“Well, she’s—she’s, like, y’know—” you shrug as a form of explanation, deflating a little at his unimpressed stare as he blows smoke out his nose. “She’s going home with some guy,” you mumble. “A-And I was supposed to too, but…”

Dabi tsks, shaking his head in false sympathy. “Sweetheart, you’re a teenage movie cliché,”

“Shut up,”

“You tell me to shut up one more time and I’m gonna have to do something about it,” he singsongs, a thinly veiled threat coated in sugar. Swallowing thickly, you glance up at him, blinking twice. His eyes tell you that he’s not fucking around, despite the relaxed features of his face, smile easygoing and gaze lidded.

“S-Sorry,” you murmur, looking away.

“Don’t you know? Good little girls don’t speak like that to Daddy,”

He spits the word out, almost patronizing in his tone, but that fails to stop the way your stomach flutters when it falls from his lips, fails to prevent the choked little gasp that escapes yours. He laughs loudly, your cheeks burning with shame.

Sapphire eyes glint in the pale moonlight, as if he’s just discovered the most valuable treasure, as if he’s just been given the key to the universe—a predator who’s just ensnared it’s prey, and the smirk that slowly etches itself across his face is nothing short of sinister.

“Do you wanna come home with Daddy, princess?”

He’s caging you between his body and the murky convenience store window as he asks, both palms pressed flat against the grimy glass.

“Hmm?”

No. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, can almost hear your brother’s voice in the back of your mind telling you not to, but you’re too enticed in sapphire to care, drawn into pretty, almost glittering blue fire, letting the flames lick your skin as you immerse yourself in it, deeper and deeper and deeper, allowing it to wrap itself around you, to consume you, to knock the very breath out of you as you gaze into it.

“Okay,”

✰ ✰ ✰

He only has one bed and no couch, he informs you as he leads you up four flights of stairs, explaining that the elevator’s been broken for a few months now, panting out the words just a little.

A soft giggle slips from your lips, amplified by the empty stairwell and echoing off the concrete walls, and Dabi looks back at you, amused.

“Something funny, princess?”

And although there’s a friendly grin on his face and mirth in his eyes, something in his voice makes you tremble, shoots scorching sparks up your spine and sends them rushing through your veins, and your laughter immediately cuts off.

“No,” you say simply, shaking your head and hoping that he didn’t catch the full body shiver that coursed through your figure just a second ago, all thanks to his voice. “Just laughing at the absurdity of it, s’all,”

“Ah,” he says sagely, nodding once. “Well, here we are,”

A tattooed hand gestures vaguely to a white door with a large, black 4 painted on it, the paint beginning to chip away, worn down and faded in some spots.

Dabi’s apartment is small, but you like it. He’s surprised, he tells you, expected someone like you—someone brought up with luxury, someone who’s never had to ask for or want anything in their life, because they always already had it—would hate it.

“Or maybe, that’s exactly why you like it,”

It’s a little snarky, the way those words flow out of his mouth, biting your cheek as they pass, and you wince a little.

“I think it’s homey,” you say quietly, tiny voice raw and honest, deciding to omit the fact that you’ve never really had a space that felt homey yourself. “It’s very you. I really do like it.”

His eyes soften at your gentle confession, features relaxing a little as calloused fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Then, I’m glad,”

For a moment, you’re positive he’s going to kiss you, staring down at you so intently with that look in his eyes as they slowly sweep across your face. But he turns on his heel a moment later, stalking into the tiny bachelor and beckoning for you to follow with a wave of his hand, flicking on a lamp as he passes.

“You hungry?” he’s asking as he walks. “I know this kickass noodle place that delivers 24/7,” he collapses on his bed, outfitted in black sheets, looking up at you expectantly when you stop hesitantly a few feet away. “You should probably eat something,” he continues, pushing himself up on his elbows, legs dangling off the end of the mattress. “Especially if there’s still alcohol in your—”

“Oh no, I don’t drink,” you cut him off without thinking, the words etched into your permanent vocabulary, sitting down next to him, just a hint too close.

“No, no, of course you don’t,” he says with a laugh and a shake of his head, sitting up fully. “Let me guess; niisan doesn’t allow it,”

A frown forms on your lips, brows knitting together. “Well I—”

“Ah! Stop,” he cuts you off with a disinterested wave and a roll of his eyes. “I’ve heard enough,”

Normally, you’d scoff at someone speaking to you so rudely. But with Dabi, with Dabi, it’s different. A little giggle escapes your lips without your permission, the bubbly noise surprising you, and Dabi chuckles in response, a genuine grin spreading across his face, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“So. Food?”

The takeout arrives at 1:56am, Dabi bringing the bag full of noodles and other appetizers—too much food for only two people, if you’re being honest—back to his bed, placing it in front of you and then crawling onto the mattress, sitting cross-legged.

The action surprises you—he doesn’t have a table, but you had been expecting him to bring the food to the small breakfast bar, complete with two mismatched stools, not his bed.

Old Hammer Horror films flicker on the TV as the two of you pick through the food together, Styrofoam containers littering the bedspread. And it’s…fun—it’s the most fun you’ve had in a long time, a strange, unfamiliar giddiness fizzing in your tummy every time you make him laugh, every time his eye catches yours, every time he shoves your knee and calls you dollface, despite the deep, honey-coated voice echoing in your head telling you that you shouldn’t be doing this and he’s dangerous.

✰ ✰ ✰

“Bedtime,” Dabi says simply as he returns from the little kitchenette after storing the leftover takeout in the fridge, using a hand to tug at the back of his shirt and pulling it over his head.

“Wha—”

The material hits you square in the face and an involuntary, entirely unsolicited giggle bubbles past your lips, pulling the garment from your head.

“Pajamas,” he nods at the fabric now bunched in your hands, but you can’t seem to find your voice to respond.

Teeth bite into your tongue hard enough to make you wince in an effort to keep a gasp within your chest when he comes into view. He’s lean—toner than you expected, muscles gliding smoothly under his skin as he moves—and you’re unsurprised to find his chest and back decorated with vibrant, intricate tattoos.

Of course, you knew Dabi had tattoos—they’re on his face, his neck, his collarbone, disappearing under the neckline of his shirt and resurfacing under his short sleeves, curling around his arms, brilliant flowing ink telling stories across his skin. They’re beautiful—they’re mesmerizing, inquisitive eyes slowly roaming the expanse of his chest.

But you had never noticed the soft, slightly puckered skin they hid. Scars, your mind provides dimly.

“Do you want to touch them?”

The rumble of his deep voice snaps you out of your revere, heat flooding your cheeks when you realize you were staring. There’s a playful lilt to his voice, and you can’t quite tell if his offer is serious or not, your eyes floating up to his.

“Here,” he chuckles a little as he sits down, offering you his forearm, flipping it over and resting it on the bed.

He lets you trace every single one. He won’t tell you where or how he got the scars, and you don’t push, even as curiosity erodes your chest. It’s impolite to pry, Keigo’s voice echoes through your mind, and you nod once to yourself.

You don’t have sex that night. He doesn’t force you. You nearly tell him that you’re surprised, what, a man of his stature, of his reputation, has a pretty girl in his bed and he doesn’t fuck her?, petty retaliation for what he had said to you when you entered the apartment hours ago, but you chicken out at the last minute. You’d soon come to find that some things are better left unsaid.

✰ ✰ ✰

Spring has just arrived, bringing with it cool, gentle breezes and swaying blades of grass decorated with glistening dewdrops that sparkle when the sun catches them in just the right way. The smell of freshly battered cinnamon sugar donuts and cheap coffee wafts in through the open window, drifting over your bodies and embracing you.

It rouses you, and your eyes flutter open to be met with Dabi’s face. And, God, he’s so damn pretty, with thick dark eyelashes fanned out delicately across inked skin and tousled onyx hair, breathing deep and calm, sharp jaw on display. Reaching out, you daintily trace over his relaxed features—circling defined cheekbones, sliding down the slope of his nose, trailing along his jaw—allowing yourself a moment to admire him before thick guilt begins to strangle you.

You should go. Keigo still thinks that you’re at a friend’s house, and doesn’t expect you to be home until late afternoon, but that belated bitter guilt finally brands the back of your tongue, face souring a little at the idea of deceiving your big brother. And after all he’s done for you, niisan tsks in your head, voice sweet and syrupy, and you can almost see the disappointment in his eyes as he shakes his head. We’re all each other has, you know. And you do, really, you do know, head nodding routinely, instinctual at this point, as you begin to push yourself up.

“Stay,” Dabi says softly, eyes still closed as a hand catches your wrist. You stop immediately, allowing him to pull you back down to the mattress as lids lift to reveal the most brilliant sapphires. Fingers trace down the curve of your neck and you hum, arching into his touch.

“Keigo—”

“Doesn’t have to know,” he cuts you off, his voice still quiet, rough around the edges and heavy with sleep. “C’mon. We’ll go get pie for breakfast, and I’ll have you home to niisan by dinner, promise,”

Giggling a little, you roll into him, allowing him to wrap his arms around you and pull you atop his chest as he flops onto his back.

“Pie,” you laugh, resting your chin on his toned muscles and gazing up at him. “For breakfast?”

“Why not?” He asks, and that smile is back again, the boyish one that looks like he’s hiding something, a little amusing secret just for him, the one that induces a whole flock of butterflies in your chest. “It’s Saturday,” he shrugs as best he can, then squeezes you to his chest. “You don’t got anything to do, I don’t got anything to do...”

Crystal eyes glitter in the morning sun as they gaze at you, golden rays creeping through the small gaps in his thick purple curtains, swaying gently in the wind.

Molars sink into the inside flesh of your cheek as you think, and Dabi tuts his tongue softly, a hand coming to gently pull the skin from between your teeth.

“Okay,”

His lips curl into a smirk, something sharp flashing in his cobalt eyes. “Okay,”

That’s how it begins—with deceptively bright, youthful smiles and cherry pie for breakfast— and five days later, in the backseat of his Cadillac Eldorado while James Cagney flickers on a worn out, off-white screen and two of his fingers are three knuckles deep in you, he asks you to be his, digits curling in your pretty little pussy as he breathes the words against the shell of your ear.

You’re whimpering out yes as you cum, nodding almost frantically against his shoulder as your hips roll towards his palm.

That’s it, that’s his good girl.

✰ ✰ ✰

But it progresses faster than you ever thought it would—faster than you ever thought possible—like a shot of morphine straight to your bloodstream, pupils gaping as DabiDabiDabi surges through your veins, becoming all you can think about—all you want to think about, all you want to do, eat, feel, breathe.

Midnight double-features of old Hollywood films at the local rundown drive-in become one of the many staples of your relationship, finding comfort in the sharp smell of buttersalt popcorn stinging your nose, in the way the film’s sound cracks and pops as it travels through the car radio, staticky like an old record, in the way Dabi forces a cherry Jolly Rancher from his mouth into yours, the hard candy clacking against your teeth.

This is how you spend most of your weeknights for the next month or so—passing candy through kisses in the backseat of the Eldorado, tongues shoved down each other’s throats, stained red and purple and blue from the cheap artificial dye, hands wandering up dresses and little fingers tugging at beltloops and buckles.

On Saturday mornings—sometimes Sundays, too, if you’ve been a really good girl—you find yourself in a familiar red booth at The League—a little diner tucked away on one of the city side streets not too far from Dabi’s apartment—cheap speckled plastic glittering in the sunlight and sticking to your thighs as your favourite waitress, a young woman by the name of Himiko who insists that you call her Mimi, takes your order. She seems to know your Daddy—your Dabi—somehow, but you don’t press, because it’s impolite to pry, you know and niisan raised you better than this.

He always lets you pick what you want for breakfast, but Daddy always orders it for you, always reminds you the mornings you decide on pancakes that if you get those, you aren’t allowed any sundaes or a slice of pie, because too much sugar is bad for his babygirl, and he knows how much syrup you drown those things in, dollface.

But there’s one staple of your relationship that you love more than all the others.

Joyrides.

That’s what he calls them, those drives through the bad parts of the city, the parts with cracked concrete sidewalks and shattered glass and needles littered in the dying grass.

Dabi takes you along frequently, tells you that you have an important job to do, that you play a crucial role in this whole operation, because the police—including your father—have been cracking down especially hard on dealing in this area. But nobody bothers to question a seemingly innocent young woman delivering inconspicuous brown paper bags—bags full of pretty little pills and tiny baggies of white powder—to shop owners and crumbling apartment complexes, eerily reminiscent of a Girl Scout selling cream filled cookies and thin-mints.

Keigo would kill you, if he knew.

It’s an instantaneous rush, though, being allowed to participate in Dabi’s business ventures, being allowed to help. It’s a privilege, you think, makes you feel like he trusts you, and you absolutely live for the praise, for that gorgeous smile he gives you after you deliver the sweets to the client, for the passionate kisses he rewards you with for being such a good little helper.

Joyrides are the best. Because it’s just you and him, the Eldorado’s radio struggling to play whatever station it’s picking up on—usually some sort of sixties rock—as you cruise the streets in his absurdly large car, the sky smeared with strokes of faded pinks and oranges, peppered with wispy clouds that look like loose strands of white cotton candy.

And sometimes, after his work is all finished, he’ll drive you to one of those cliffs you’ve come to know so well and let you ride him in the drivers seat—precious little whines and pathetic broken whimpers spilling from your lips as you rest your head against his shoulder, gyrating your hips in fast, shallow little circles, using his cock like it’s a toy, just like he told you to—before taking you back home to fuck you properly, to fuck you right.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s quaint, the little house you and your niisan live in, with its perfectly trimmed hedges and well-manicured grass, a stone walkway leading up to the front door, which is painted white. White windowsills, white brick, white, white, white, the whole thing is white—bright, pure, untarnished.

It’s just enough space for the two of you, your adoptive father, an absurdly large man by the name of Toshinori Yagi, had stated proudly, the first day he showed it to you.

And it’s only a short walk from the university, his wife chimed in with a smile too wide for her face, nodding excessively.

It’s convenient, they had said, the day you received your acceptance letter and scholarship offer from the university your brother attended. It’ll be good for you to stay with your older brother for a little, before going off into the world on your own, they had promised.

You hadn’t really wanted to go to this university—would’ve much preferred to go away to school in another country—but you didn’t. Keigo knew it, too, knew your desire to leave, to see more of the world, to experience it on your own without that hulking shadow with the wild hair. But he coaxed you into it, convinced you to stay, just like he always does, begging you softly not to leave your poor niisan all alone as gentle fingers pushed locks of hair from your face, trailing down your cheek and coming to cup your jaw, reminding you that you’re all each other has.

And you had nodded, nuzzled your face against his palm, sought comfort and relief in the presence of your big brother, just as you always do. He was right; you had your entire life to travel the world, what’s the rush? Why leave now? Stay with him, just for a little longer.

But your niisan, your niisan has a secret.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know. Keigo has always had a penchant for living fast, after all, seems to somehow incorporate conceptual and literal speed into all aspects of his life—his marks in school, his record-breaking track races, and now, his personal life, too.

It started in high school. He was in twelfth grade. You still don’t know who gave him his first taste, still don’t know why he decided to shoot up that night, but he did.

And it made him feel invincible. It made him feel like he could fly.

He hid it well, didn’t look like a heroin addict—at least, not what the words ‘heroin addict’ usually conjure up. His topaz eyes were bright as ever, even if his pupils were just a pinprick; nails cut so short it looked painful, to keep from scratching and scabbing his body; was always sure to keep his track marks well hidden, methodical in choosing his injection sites, and kept up with regular hygiene, even if his wild, windswept hair did get a little messier.

Yes, he hid it well.

But he couldn’t hide it from you for long, didn’t hide it from you well enough, becoming increasingly careless the deeper he spiralled into the addiction.

And it takes a while for you to truly acknowledge it. You didn’t want to—not at first, anyway—didn’t want to believe that your all-star, top-of-his-class, golden-child of a big brother was a junkie.

So you ignored it. You ignored the way he began recklessly disposing of the needles in the small trash can under his desk instead of hiding them in the kitchen trash whenever your mother asked him to take it out, ignored the burnt spoon you found in the sink and the bloody Q-tips you found littering the counter of the bathroom the two of you shared, ignored the way those tiny orange syringe caps had begun appearing in odd places, seeming to pop up more and more frequently.

Yes, you ignored it, until he stole one of the shoelaces off of your sneakers. And you still can’t explain it, exactly, can’t explain why that was the final straw, why that had you gripping a laceless shoe in a trembling hand as you stormed into the washroom uninvited and unannounced, catching him with the string between his teeth, just as the last of that disgusting orangish-brown liquid sunk into his veins.

The words disintegrate on your tongue, escaping in a pitiful little squeak, all of the fury you felt towards him for his behaviour melting the instant your eyes catch the end of the injection, wide and unblinking as they stare at the needle stuck in his forearm.

For a moment, neither of you are able to speak, Keigo’s mouth opening and closing a few times as his eyes flood with tears, the prettiest topaz shining in the warm washroom light as they frenetically search your face.

“Sit,” you tell him, finally breaking the silence, your voice not your own. His eyebrows knit together, and he shakes his head a little in misunderstanding, but you persist. “Sit,”

Shoulders deflating, he holds your gaze for a moment longer before nodding once and obeying, sitting on the closed toilet.

“We have to—” you stop as your chin begins to wobble, swallowing thickly against the sob crawling up your throat, quivering hands rooting haphazardly through a first-aid kit. “W-We have to clean those, so they don’t get infected,”

Glassy golden eyes watch you intently, his chest hiccupping just a little as he wordlessly holds his arms out to you, armed with a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol, the scent stinging your nose.

There aren’t many—only a few little pinpricks on each arm, some decorated with dark blooms of periwinkle and violet, but they still cause your tongue to crumble to bitter, suffocating ash in your mouth.

Tiny fingers encircle his wrist, your touch always so soft, so gentle, as if you’re afraid to break him, and he chokes on a noise that sounds suspiciously similar to a sob.

“You don’t—You shouldn’t have to—” and he can’t even force the words out, breathing out forcefully through his nose as his tears finally overflow, glistening drops streaming down his cheeks, bleary eyes unblinking, focused on your little fingers as they continue their tender ministrations with so much care, with so much love it’s nearly stifling, and he can’t breathe, because he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve it—

“I want to,” a knuckle catches one of his fresh tears, swiping it across his cheekbone and leaving a glimmering trail in its wake. “Alright? I want to,”

And this—this becomes a habit.

✰ ✰ ✰

You don’t tell Keigo about your relationship. Not at first, at least, conjuring up flimsy excuses that become more ridiculous as the days pass, as your disappearances steadily increase. Dabi doesn’t want to, makes up some bullshit excuse about how he isn’t ready yet. But you buy it anyway, and you wait.

Until the morning of one of your niisan’s big races, the ones where multiple trainers and coaches come from all over the country to assess his performance, when Dabi shows up entirely unannounced and uninvited, makes sure he’s in Keigo’s line of sight as he bounces around at the starting line, and kisses the life out of you, right in front of him.

That’s the only time he attends one of Keigo’s races.

The rest you continue attending by yourself. Dabi doesn’t like it, doesn’t like to have you out of his sight at all lately, but he knows it’s moot to argue with you. You’re going, you told him firmly, the night before Keigo’s next race, whether he likes it or not.

But, boy, was your niisan fuming by the time the two of you arrived home that day.

He hadn’t cared that he had, essentially, lost the race, hadn’t cared that he didn’t even manage to place in the top three for the first time in literal years, hadn’t cared that he just blew several chances with potential coaches and sponsors.

None of it mattered.

With a rough hand wrapped around your bicep, he all but yanks you out of the car, doesn’t care that you’re stumbling over your own feet as he drags you towards the front door, doesn’t care that he shoves you inside the house so hard you do trip, crying out as your hands and knees collide with the cold tiled floor.

And he’s yelling, yelling at the top of his lungs, the moment that white door slams shut, shut so hard the walls tremble.

“Fucking Touya Todoroki!? Are you fucking kidding me?”

You can barely see him through your tears as you quickly flip yourself over, beginning to inch away on your hands and feet as you stare up at him, breath hitching in your chest.

“Wh-Who?”

“Dabi, for Christ sake!”

“T-T—” Touya?

“Oh Jesus, don’t tell me—He didn’t tell you his fucking name?”

No, you shake your head quickly, chest stuttering as the name echoes through your mind, your big brother nothing but a blur of crimson and gold advancing towards you, mumbling to himself about how no, of course he didn’t, why would he? Of course not, as he drags nimble fingers through his messy hair.

“To-Todo—”

“Todoroki,” he spits, so harsh it makes you flinch.

“Your coa—”

“Yeah, I know his father,” Keigo rolls his eyes as he crouches down, catches your trembling chin between his thumb and forefinger, and you cease all action immediately, freezing in his grip. “You know his brother,”

Your brow furrows as you belatedly search your memory for any instance of the name, gunmetal grey and snow white flashing through your mind, but everything’s too foggy, too hazy with the fear of disappointing your niisan more, eyes squeezing shut as you hiccup at the mere thought.

But then he’s sighing, always knows when he’s gone a little too far—you are very delicate, after all, so small and naïve and in desperate need of someone to take care of you, aren’t you?—collapsing back on his heels and pulling you into his lap as soft hands smooth down your hair, murmuring it’s alright, it’s alright and niisan’s got you, niisan’s got you.

“What’re you doin’ with a man like that, my little songbird?” his voice is gentle as he rocks your bodies back and forth, after your sobs have calmed a bit.

What are you? you want to ask, front teeth sinking into your tongue hard enough to make you wince, keeping those three tiny words inside of your mouth.

“I like him,” you mumble instead, nuzzling your face into his chest and hiding from those bright, inquisitive topaz eyes.

“You—You like him,” he snorts to himself in disbelief, shaking his head a little.

“I do,” you respond, a little firmer as you pull back to stare at your big brother’s face, eyebrows knit together in determination, sparks of fury igniting deep in your chest at the thought of Keigo thinking he knows better, when he’s just as bad.

“He isn’t good for you—”

“He isn’t good for you,” you shoot back, tone clipped as you level your gaze, squirming a little in his arms. His grasp tightens, like he’s terrified you’re going to leave, honey eyes holding yours for a beat before he lets out a breath, looking away, defeated.

“That doesn’t mean you should be allowed to see him,” he mutters, glancing at your tear-stained face for a moment before his eyes flit away again. “But…” his chest rises with a deep inhale, pressing against you. “I guess…I guess it isn’t very fair of me to, uh, judge you, is it?”

“No,” you pout a little. “It isn’t,”

He huffs out a soft chuckle, gazing at you from the side of his eye, a tiny smirk spreading across his face. “Stop being so cute,” he grumbles, squeezing you against him just a bit too hard, giggles spilling from your lips as your fingers curl in the cotton of his hoodie. “I’m trying to be mad at you, y’know,”

“Kei-nii,” you whine with a roll of your eyes, shoving his shoulder weakly, though there’s a smile on your lips.

“Alright, alright, alright,” he’s saying as lithe fingers brush some hair back from your face, palm resting against your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw rhythmically. “Just—Promise me, if he ever hurts you…You’ll tell me immediately, yeah?”

Blinking a few times, your eyes search his face, sobering up as gold bores into you. There’s something in his stare, something you’ve never seen before, something that you can’t decipher, and it sends chills pebbling across your skin. Swallowing thickly, you nod, little jerky movements as your eyes hold his. “Y-Yeah, promise, niisan,”

“Good,” he whispers, chin resting atop the crown of your head as he cradles you to his chest. “We’re all we have. Never forget it.”

✰ ✰ ✰

You only question Dabi about his name once, lounging around on his bed in the early hours of the morning, tangled in his sheets, wearing his t-shirt, with his large hand resting on your bare thigh. His head’s tipped back against the headboard as he exhales smoke in pretty little curls that disintegrate into hazy nothingness only a moment later.

“T-Touya?” Your hearts thudding against your ribcage as you almost whisper the name, barely audible at all, but his head snaps forward, sapphire eyes finding yours immediately.

And for a moment you’re terrified you’ve made a grave mistake, that you’ve crossed some invisible line you hadn’t had a clue about, his glare scathing your skin; but then his features relax, and a little smirk spreads across his lips.

“Ah, so he finally told you,” his voice is quiet, and you can’t read his tone, eyes squinting a little as you lean towards him. “I don’t go by that name anymore,” he speaks up, voice ringing out clear and strong. “Don’t call me that again,”

The or else is implied, and you nod meekly, promising him softly that you’ll never utter it again.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s been gnawing at you all week, sitting heavy like a block of lead in your stomach, the cuticles on your left thumb bitten raw in agitation. You need to tell him. You’re going to tell him, it’s just…

It just never seemed like the right time to tell him—then again, is there ever a right time to tell your older brother that you’re spending the entire weekend at his drug dealer’s place?

But now it’s Friday, and Dabi will be here in a few minutes, and you still have yet to let Keigo know.

Because Keigo is currently otherwise occupied. With a girl.

You hadn’t been expecting to hear the tinny laughter of a woman when you entered the house, arriving home after your last class of the day, hadn’t been expecting to walk into the living room to find said girl splayed across your niisan’s lap, staring up at him dreamily as endless giggles spilled from her painted lips, hadn’t been expecting him to be so completely enamoured with her that he doesn’t even greet you.

It burns up all of the anxiety that had been building inside you in an instant, turns it into boiling rage that bubbles and pops, noxious as it rises up your throat.

And so, you decide that you won’t say anything at all. If he’s too busy to even acknowledge you like he normally does every single day, then surely he doesn’t care if you leave, right?

“I’m going out,” you toss airily over your shoulder as your halfway out the front door, a small grin spreading across you lips as you spot Dabi leaning lazily against his car. He gives you a nod of acknowledgement, smug grin of his own forming on his lips.

Keigo shoots up immediately, nearly knocking the girl to the floor, moving faster than he ever has in his life as he catches your wrist and tugs, hard. A loud yelp sounds from the back of your throat and you stumble backwards, right into your big brother’s chest.

“Where? Huh? Where?” he growls out the word through clenched teeth, squeezing again. “With who? That—That fucking scumbag?”

At the sound of your yelp, Dabi straightens up instantly, usual lidded eyes now wide open and alert, zeroing in on where Keigo has ensnared you.

“Not like it matters to you, not when you have a whore to entertain,” you spit, and though your gaze is blazing, your eyes are filling with tears, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. “Right?” you push, after a few moments of silence.

His grip loosens, although he doesn’t let go completely, fingers still clasped around you.

“Princess, I…”

“No,” you snap, viciously pulling yourself free of him. “Don’t princess me. Not after ignoring me like that,”

“You’re overreacting—”

“Then so are you,” you cut him off sharply, already beginning to back away and blinking hard to clear your eyes of stubborn tears. “I’m spending the weekend at Dabi’s. I’ll see you on Sunday,”

Dabi catches you the moment you’re within reach, drawing you close to his chest for a second before pulling back. Calloused hands gently raise your wrist, sapphire eyes assessing the damage. His thumb caresses the rapidly bruising area rhythmically, back and forth, back and forth, and he frowns deeply, his gaze finally meeting yours.

“Does he do this often? Hurt you like this?”

And it’s startling, shocking, to see the overflowing concern in his crystal eyes, studying your face intently as you try to find your voice. You don’t think he’s ever sounded that serious before.

“I—No, of course not,” you shake your head, tongue tripping over the words. “We—Y’know, siblings fight, and stuff, it’s—he doesn’t know his own strength, sometimes, uh, forgets it, a-and I bruise easily,” you shrug, wincing a little at the serious expression still etched deep into Dabi’s face.

“If he ever puts his hands on you again, I’ll fucking kill him,” Dabi says slowly, softly, as if he’s reciting the morning news to you, dark eyes drifting up to refocus on the figure still standing in the doorway. “Do you understand me?” he asks, though his stare does not leave Keigo’s, voice still calm, almost serene. “I’ll fucking kill him,”

He won’t, you reassure him, countless times over the next few weeks. Niisan’s never intentionally hurt me, Daddy, he won’t, I promise.

And they’re all true, those words you repeat to him, over and over and over again, while you comb fingers through his inky hair or press chaste kisses against his scarred skin. They’re all true.

Until they aren’t.

You should’ve known, really, not to talk about it. He doesn’t—not when you’re cleaning his track marks or wiping sweat from his forehead, not when he lays his head in your lap as he’s coming down, eyes fluttering as your fingers thread through his hair, not even when you’re feeding him teaspoons of water to keep him hydrated as his body forces him to throw up nothing, again, lips dry and cracked, skin clammy and cold—and you shouldn’t, either.

“Have you ever thought about switching to pills?” You ask one night, casually, as if this is mundane, normal, to discuss while washing dishes. “I heard oxy is like, heroin in a pill,”

His jaw clenches, you can see the motion out of the corner of your eye, quickly refocusing your gaze on the bowl in your hands, the same bowl you’ve been washing for about five minutes now.

“No.”

“Why not? They’re more controlled—”

“I said no,”

“And I asked why not,” you spit, dropping the bowl from your hands. It cracks as it collides with the aluminum of the sink, the sound piercing through the tense air as you turn to glare at your brother, soapy hands on your hips. “It would be safer—”

“Marginally—”

“That’s still better than nothing, Keigo! Christ,” you sigh, running a sudsy hand through your hair. “They’re all fucking opioids, what’s the difference!? They’re all gonna get you high the same way, aren’t they?”

“No—for fuck’s sake—”

You wouldn’t understand, even if he tried to explain to you. You wouldn’t understand that he’s already attempted this, attempted to switch from heroin to pills, and that it wasn’t the same—isn’t the same. You wouldn’t understand that oxy doesn’t give the same instantaneous rush as heroin does, doesn’t take his breath away like heroin does, doesn’t warm his entire fucking body the way heroin does.

No, you wouldn’t understand how most of the time he feels like he can’t fucking breathe until he shoots up, wouldn’t understand how, at this point, heroin feels like an old friend, safe and cozy and more comforting than anything he’s ever felt before, than even your arms are, wouldn’t understand how heroin makes him feel like he’s fucking invincible, like he can take on the entire world in one day, like he can continue living.

It makes him feel whole again, full again, put back together with no cracks or missing pieces. It distracts him from how irrevocably shattered his insides truly are, providing him with quick, fleeting relief, just long enough for him to keep going, keep striving, keep breathing. But you wouldn’t understand any of that. How could you?

He’s sighing as he walks away from you, raking both hands through golden hair.

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t see what this shit is doing to you! It’s killing you, niisan!”

God, no, not the honorific. Not when you’re gazing at him with tears spilling from your eyes, little hands desperately pawing at his t-shirt, urgent just to make him understand, to get through to him for one instant.

“I-It’s killing you and all I can do is watch,” your voice fades into a whisper, breaking on the last word as more tears streak your cheeks, leaving small gleaming trails in their wake, fingers readjusting, knotting in his shirt and tugging, latching onto him as he keeps walking, jaw clenching again as he tries to ignore you. “Y-You have to stop—no, no, n-not stop, just—just slow down, yeah? Slow down a little, it’s—it’s too fast, niisan, you’re going too fast—”

But it’s building, and building, and his head is throbbing, and throbbing, and your voice is rising higher and higher, louder and louder, and it’s all just too much, and before he even knows what’s happening, his hand is cutting through the air, knuckles colliding with your cheek so hard it sends you stumbling backwards, tripping over your own feet as you fall on your ass.

He regrets it the moment it happens, the very moment his skin makes contact with yours.

But that doesn’t matter; the damage is already done.

He’s never hit you before. Sure, he may be a little rough sometimes, and his grip may leave a few bruises every once in a while, but he has never deliberately hit you, until today.

He never thought he would.

Golden eyes dart from his hand, still raised in the air from where it struck you, blood gleaming on his silver rings, to your face, small and terrified, crimson flowing down your cheek, mixing with your tears as it slowly drips off your jaw, and then back to his hand.

And for a moment, he swears, the whole world stops.

Then, a mere second later, his whole world shatters.

You’re trying to form words, staring up at him with impossibly wide, unblinking eyes, but they’re just escaping your lips in little mumbles, half-formed and coated in spit.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, nothing more than a pitiful huff of air formed in the shape of a curse leaving his lips.

It takes your mind a moment to register what’s happened, numb with dizzying shock, stupid with the most heartbreaking pain, dazed as tiny, trembling fingers raise to tenderly prod at the wound, wincing the moment they make contact. But the throbbing of your cheek brings you back quicker than Keigo would’ve liked, and then your eyebrows are knitting together, mouth settling in a wobbly line, blinking hard to clear your eyes of pesky tears.

And all he can do is watch, watch as you shakily push yourself to your feet, watch as your hand grips your phone like it’s a fucking lifeline—a lifeline he very briefly thinks about diving forward and snatching out of your grasp—watch as you turn on the balls of your feet and disappear down the hall, the slam of your bedroom door echoing a moment later.

You barely make it into your bedroom before your collapsing on the floor, wheezing out uneven breaths, sharp, hard huffs of air that slice through your tight chest with each exhale, vision blurry with stinging tears as you stare down at your phone, cradled in quivering hands.

You know that if you make this phone call, Dabi will never let you come back. You know that if you make this phone call, this is it. Trembling fingers hesitate over his name, those four glowing letters staring back at you, an unnecessary amount of various heart emojis cushioning them.

He doesn’t pick up the first time. Maybe it’s a sign, you think to yourself, a sign that you shouldn’t leave just yet, that you should stay and rot away with him for a little bit longer, remain with him for a little more and give him another piece of your soul that he can add to his prized collection as he slowly steals your life force from you.

But then searing pain radiates through your entire face, along your jaw and to the back of your head, and the coppery smell of blood stings your nose, and you press on Dabi’s name again.

✰ ✰ ✰

If he’s being honest, he would’ve never picked up for anyone but you, probably would’ve killed the idiot that thought to interrupt him during one of the biggest deals of his career—of his life.

“What?” he snarls as he answers, pacing along the wall outside the warehouse like a rabid dog, anxious and eager. “This better be important, sweetheart. You knew I was meeting with one of the bosses today—”

“He hit me,”

It’s hard to understand you when you’re still sobbing, words all wet and garbled, and Dabi squints as he focuses his concentration, feet skidding to a stop as his heart begins to pound.

“What?”

“He hit me. Nii—Keigo hit me,”

And then, his blood runs cold. His ears are ringing, vision fading in and out of focus as red tinges the edges, breathing beginning to accelerate, exhaled harshly through flared nostrils. The thin skin stretched taut across his bony knuckles has turned white as he grips his phone so tightly he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter in his hand.

“Pack your shit,” he tells you, voice oddly calm, cold and sterile and sending shivers skittering up your spine. “I’m gonna fucking kill him,”

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #dabi #takami keigo #bnha smut #mha smut #aaaaaah fucking MONSTER #anywayyy cant wait to hear what u all think!!!#dabi don't get mad at me i lost track of time editing n i've been real good going to bed on time #tw noncon #tw dubcon #tw daddy kink #tw drugs #tw:abuse

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hotwings0203 · 3 years

Text

Bully!Dabi pt. 3

Tags: @shikamaruscumrag @pinkiy13l @an-ambivalent @luno614 @sukunasleftkneecap

Tw:dubcon, noncon, bullying, manipulation, Russian roulette

“Doll? Come on out and I won’t hurt you too bad.”

You wait with bated breath as he walks right past your hiding place behind some crates, blue fire licking up the sides of his body and held in the palms of his scarred hands.

He’s mad, you know he is. He’s teasing you, of course he is, why else wouldn’t he just turn on the lights and pounce?

No, this is another punishment of sorts. A punishment for escaping your previous punishment from being locked in your room.

Another lash of burning cobalt strikes against a wall about 10 feet away from you, and you curse yourself internally. If only you had just stayed in bed a couple days more, if only you hadn’t snuck out when he left, if only, if only…

“Baaaabbyyyyy”

It sounds so wrong and uncharacteristic coming out from his gravely voice.

You huddle your limbs even closer to yourself, paying no mind to the cramping in your knees from being squished for so long.

It’s been about 25 minutes or so from what you can remember. It’s hard to remember anything that happened this bland morning anyways when the climax of your life was seemingly taking place here, after you entered the wrong room.

You had honestly just wanted a peek outside of Dabi’s room and maybe a drink of water, nothing more.

Or so you tell yourself.

But can you really be blamed? Who else wouldn’t have run out the moment they got a chance after spending almost two weeks in the same shitty room, being used as fuckmeat and only given bread scraps and salty cum as meals.

It didn’t matter how close he held you at night, how his strokes seemed to brush up against all the right places, how he tried catching your eye every time he wanted to talk about anything (which you would never really indulge in, only giving him a soft grunt or a nod). He was a monster, a demon in disguise that was keeping you against your will in his clutches.

A loud crash closer than before hits your ears, and you stifle an impending whimper. You can tell he’s roamed closer than before, finding nothing from his earlier place in the front of the storage room.

“I’m getting pretty fucking tired of repeating myself doll. You must be even more of a masochist than I thought since it’s like you want me to fuck you up even worse than I did before.”

His words are quiet but they do enough to cause a loud beating in your already-pacing heart, so loud in fact that you fear he can hear it racing a mile a minute.

You wonder if anyone is nearby, if they even remember you’ve been missing for a while now.

“Y/N”

“Come out, pretty girl. You know I miss you”

But you don’t miss him.

What you do miss, however, is not being chased into an empty storage room and hounded like a fucking dog. You miss joking with Twice, painting your nails with Toga, making Shigaraki chuckle.

All of a sudden, the crate next to you is covered with hellfire. The flames that are thrust from Dabi’s hands are so wild that they seat through your shirt and prick your skin.

You scream and scrabble backwards, the light of his fire illuminating his face leering up above you in the dark like a ghoul from a children’s book.

You clap your hands over your mouth, ignoring your bubbling skin as fear overrides premonition, but the damage has already been done.

It’s eerily quiet for a minute. Then, he whispers,

“Found you”

Even in the pitch black room you can practically see him lunging towards you, and you scuttle backwards on your hands and feet in terror. His hands miss your bare feet by a few inches, and he snarls before making another swipe.

“Fucking bitch, this is the thanks I get for taking care of you, bathing you, feeding and fucking you?”

You yelp as he lights up the floor on both sides of your trembling body, and you see his figure once more as the blue fire shows the sick grin twisted up on his face.

“Leave me alone,” you sob, clambering up on your feet and running backwards as he advances on you. The smoke from his quirk is filling the room, and you erupt in hoarse coughs as it’s filtered through your aching lungs.

Everything about him is toxic.

“Nah. That’s not how this works sweetheart. You see, I take care of you, and in return, you do whatever the fuck I say when I say it.”

He raises his palms to you and you flinch, covering your head and colliding with the wall behind you. You’re too scared and tired to evade him again as you feel his body cover you and brush against yours as you shake in place, your arms still above your face.

He cooes at you. “There there, my stupid little bitch. You were scared daddy was gonna hurt you, right?”

His stitched palm caresses your bitten bottom lip and trails up to your tear-stained cheek.

After a moment of you saying nothing, he slaps the side of your face, hard, and you gasp in pain. Now it wasn’t just your stomach that felt on fire.

“I asked you a question, you brain dead whore. Are you scared daddy’s gonna burn you? ‘You scared he’s gonna beat you black you blue? ‘Scared he’s gonna cut a gaping hole in your burnt tummy and fuck the gash?” He leans in and lets his raspy words settle over your ears as he tenderly brushes your hair away from it. He softly kisses the shell of you ear, and when you sob quietly he wraps his arms around your middle and hugs you close, paying no heed to how you uncomfortably squirm when your raw torso burns from the contact.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to inhale too much, lest the smoke embedded all over his body gets too close for comfort in your system.

“Y-yes daddy. Please don’t hurt me, I was…a bad girl.” You cringe when the words are wobbled out, but you know it’s what he wants.

To humiliate you, to hurt you. Who was he kidding when he said he loved you?

Dabi, however, feels butterflies in his own stomach.

See, this is what you need. To answer to Daddy, to submit to him so that he can take care of you. That’s why you stayed so long in his room, right? It’s cause you knew it would make him happy if you listened to him. You let him make love to you, and treat you like his little girl because deep down, you know this is where you belong.

So why are you fighting him? You never raised a complaint for a week and a half, you only stayed quiet and kept your eyes shut when he asked if you were okay. That means you liked it, right? No real opposition, after all.

Except for now.

Dani is honestly disappointed in you right now, you were doing so well…so why’d you have to go and ruin it?

He might’ve softened from the way your body shakes and your sobs are muffled by his smoke-scorched jacket as you press against him for comfort, but the image of you turning around and running away when you saw him earlier hurts him too much.

It angers him.

Why the fuck were you so scared? Hasnt he shown you enough that he loved you? What, does he need to fucking spell it out for you?

Why were your eyes filled with such terror when he caught you? Did you turn away from him and run because you thought he was going to make you look like him, all burnt up and hideous?

Honestly, he would never, but if you’re so hellbent on making him the bad guy, then fine, he’ll play the bad guy.

Anything for his precious little girl.

And so he tightens his arms around you and chuckles cruelly when you whine at the lack of air.

“Well, you were right. I am pretty pissed, I mean I told you to come out and you didn’t listen right?”

“S-sorry,” you weakly choke out.

He laughs even more crazed now, crushing your ribs so tight he could actually hear your breath wheezing out of you, could feel your weak little punches against his back.

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it. No no, I want you to beg for your fucking life now.”

Your eyes widen as his arms begin to warm up and become unbearably hot.

“Dabi, no, no please!”

You writhe in pain as he cackles above you, savoring the choked breaths that emit from your wetted lips.

As soon as you begin to see spots, he releases you, and flings you against the corner of the room.

You go flying and bang your head against the concrete wall, his voice muted and swimming around in your ears as you fight for consciousness.

He saunters towards you in all his flaming glory, hands in his pockets as if he were walking out for some fresh air. He crouches in front of you and lifts your head with the pads of his fingers.

“Awww, my poor little girl. That had to have hurt, huh? You’re bleeding,” he cooes and blows a strand of hair away from your eyes.

He’s not lying, you can feel hot blood trickle down the side of your head as your vision sways.

“Stop this,” you pant. “I get it, I’m sorry- you were right and I was wrong, I shouldn’t have ran. I’ll listen to you from now on-“

“-But you said that last time, didn’t you?” He cocks his head and with the light of his turquoise fire against the shadows of the room, he looks like a being from hell itself.

“Remember? When you sucked me off like the dirty whore you are? Remember that you stupid cunt?” His grin becomes more reminiscent of a wolf baring its fangs, and you’re rendered silent in complete terror.

He takes your silence as an encouraging factor to continue his fun.

“You ever played Russian Roulette, Y/N?”

You have enough sense to quickly shake your head, a sinking feeling in your stomach forming at his implication.

“Me neither. But I kinda wanna try it right now. So, back against the wall. Stand up straight and spread your legs.”

You look at him incredulously. “You can’t be serious Dabi.”

He raises an eyebrow and a fire grows in the palm of his hand. “Wanna find out? Oh wait, you already are- now do what I said otherwise you’ll have one less leg.”

You don’t need more motivation to act on his orders.

Taking a deep breath, you hesitantly spread your legs and place your palms flat against the wall.

“Spread ‘em more. That shouldn’t be anything new to you.”

You wince at his dig but continue to widen the stance between your legs.

He smiles at your compliance.

“Good. This should be fairly easy, I mean the room is already dark enough to count as having a blindfold. Whatever you do, just don’t move.”

You wouldn’t know it, but he’s sincerely saying it for your sake. He’s glad for the safety of the dark, because he doesn’t want you to see the way he hastily wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans as he prepares himself for his next move.

The room goes dark, his fire has been put out.

You inhale softly, blood pounding in your heart as your hands shake in anticipation.

Then all of a sudden, a fireball comes barreling right towards you, in between your parted legs.

You shriek and jerk, but luckily you’re saved from being singed.

“I told you not to move, babe.” He clicks his tongue and rubs his erection absentmindedly.

A second, then third bolt of fire comes at the side of your head, singing your hair and then dangerously close to your already burnt stomach.

At each one you sob and do your best not to move, not to take in Dabi’s utterly emotionless face as you wail for mercy.

The last one comes so powerful that as it strikes the wall next to you, flecks of ash sting your cheeks and lips.

Your knees are jelly, your mouth is aching from begging for your life as he wanted.

But you know he’s done when he lets out a loud yawn and groan as he stretches his arm and flexes his fingers.

“A-are we done?” You sniffle.

He says nothing at first. You just hear him ask a couple steps towards you, his boots echoing in the room. You assume he stops in front of you because you can feel his body in front of your kneeling figure.

His hand descends and feels around until he reaches the top of your head. Stroking softly, he twirls locks through his fingers and gently shushes you until your hiccups subside, and you lean your forehead against his thigh.

“‘You happy it’s done? You did so well for me, sweetheart.”

“Yes Dabi. Thank you,” you utter softly, knowing it’s what he wants to hear.

“Yeah? How thankful are you?”

You still at that.

He starts to unbuckle his belt.

You pull your head back, and he pulls his pants down.

“Dabi-“

“Shhh, don’t ruin this. Just keep your mouth shut and let your body do the talking. Show me how grateful you are that I spared your fucking life.”

The gentle way he handled you clashed with his harsh words, and you have a moment of whiplash.

He kneels down in front of you and lets his hands wander in the dark until he meets your torso.

You hiss at the sensitive flesh, but he doesn’t stop. He just moves his hand under your shirt and higher, pushing your bra up until your tits spill from the bottom of it.

He bites his lip as you whimper from his touch, his thumbs swirling around your nipples and prodding the squishy flesh.

Dabi gets more eager when you throw your head back at one particularly rough squeeze and shuffles even closer, his pants and underwear at his knees, member bouncing out in the open air.

“Take your panties off,” he rasps, furiously stroking his cock.

You surrender and slowly pull your sweats off, and then your panties as you hear him lightly panting in eagerness.

The second he hears them drop to the floor he lunges for your feet and yanks your forward, catching you in his lap as you yelp.

It’s pitch black, but he can feel you clear as day.

The tickle of your hair hanging in his face, your sweet smell clouding his rationale, the melodious sounds of fear and pleasure mixed with pain make his prick stand painfully at attention, weeping at the slit for your pussy.

He doesn’t even bother taking your shirt off in impatience, he simply barks at you to hold the hem up so he can feel your breasts bouncing against his face when he motorboats them.

You, however, shakily hold his hand at your waist when he pulls you forward until your bare hole presses against his length, coating it with light juices.

“Oh fuck, doll, your pussy’s practically begging me to fuck it. ‘You like having your life in danger? No wonder you keep fucking up,” he groans as he moved beneath you, letting his hips rock back and forth to gain friction from under you.

“Wait, go slowly-“

“No the fuck I won’t,” he interrupts. You have enough sense to bite back any retorts from the subtle growl in his words.

He lifts you up from underneath your ass, and you raise your hips in compliance as he grabs his dick, circling it around your swollen nub and then pressing it against your entrance.

You breath shakily and run your hands through his hair, not so much in a loving gesture but tightly in futile hopes to deter him in any possible way.

He takes it either way as you wanting him equally, and without further ado he slams your hips down on his whole length.

You howl in pain as he begins bouncing you, pressing down on your shoulders and forcing your poor cunt to envelope him fully at each stroke.

The room is filled with the lewd sounds of your ass clapping on his dick, the mixed fluids from both of your bodies and the harmonies of his low grunts and your high pitched whines.

You can feel his dick twitch violently inside of you as he nears his climax. He flips you over on your back and starts pounding into you, laughing cruelly in your face as you cry out from the intensity of his strokes.

“D-Dabi! Pull out, I’m not on birth control!”

“Good.”

You open your eyes to stare at him in horror, barely making out the marred features of his face.

“I’m gonna fill you up with my babies. You’re gonna be plugged with my cum from now on, ‘s the only way you’ll stop running.”

“Get the fuck off me, this isn’t funny-!”

He grabs your rising fists and pins them back against the floor, crushing your wrists in the process.

“Who said I’m laughing?” And he isn’t laughing anymore, no, on the contrary he looks the most serious that he’s ever been, and that terrifies you the most.

The upper half of his body is suspended in midair above you as his pelvis smashes against your clit in a steady rhythm.

“‘Bet you’d like that, bet you’d like having all your holes stuffed with my kids. They’re gonna grow up and know how slutty their mommy was, they’re gonna watch and learn how Daddy earned his name. You think they’ll cry when they hear you scream for me?”

You want to rip out your ears from the filth pouring from his mouth, but unfortunately your hands are trapped under his grasp.

All you can do is chant “no, no, no,” under your breath as he’s pushed over the edge.

“Or maybe I’ll tie your legs against the barstools outside and let every man out there have his way with you. You missed them, right? I’m sure they missed you too, I’m sure they missed the way you’d fuck them the second they made you laugh,” bitterness seeps into his voice as ropes of cum shoot out.

He moans loudly in your ear and collapses against your body, sweat intermingling in the cervices of your entangled limbs.

It takes around three minutes for you both to catch your breaths, and for him to shakily raise himself on his elbows to peer down into your ruddy face.

“Clean yourself up. You’re going back to my room. And this time, if you try to run we’ll repeat this entire process again, but I’ll actually let everyone have their way with you. It’ll be like an orgy version of Russian Roulette, well all place bets on whose kid it is.”

You don’t miss the rest of the League, anymore

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