#ir minimal

[romy350-romyakari]

My sanctuary for random music collection is in shambles 💦

Or well more like it is in shambles bc I use Android.

Hope they get to sorth it well eventually since I miss some of the tracks on my list.

[medicinemane]

I do wonder what people would do if they felt all the pain they'd caused in the world

Not even the big stuff, we're not even talking stuff like politicians being forced to feel just how much damage they've done, we're talking about the small scale stuff

All the off hand comments that were thoughtless and hurt someone, all the harm done without even realizing how much harm you're doing

I think if I could I'd like to know, I'd like to see the places I've hurt others around me

But I don't know... I listen to some people and it's just like... I don't think you even begin to imagine the damage you're doing around you. I don't think you even remotely begin to think about not even strangers, but the harm you'll do to people you claim to care about

What are you gonna do though? People are allowed to say and act however they want at the end of the day and even if I tried to explain I don't think they could hear me

[whatthefoucault]

I’m watching a video about writing/drawing comics and they gave a page from the Fraction run of Hawkeye as an example and it made me feel a little sad because fuck I love the Hawkeyes and their comics so much that I haven’t seen the Disney+ show because I got such a romantic undertone from their 616 dynamic and something tells me the D+ series is... not that

and I don’t know how I’d feel about that cognitive dissonance (and/or MCU fans coming at me for shipping their 616 selves just because it’d be weird in the D+ show and it’s hard not to conflate)

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

pairing: ceo!wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: wanda exploits your weakness for her, and fucks you in her office

content warnings: smut obvi, possessiveness, fingering, thigh grinding, a little bit of choking, slight exhibitionism

word count: 3.3k+

masterlist

Fingers Are My Weakness

‘I miss you, come to my office.’

You smile at your phone, sitting back in your seat as you come up with a response. You quickly turn the brightness down on your screen, fingers typing quickly as you bite your lip slightly. 

“Hey, are you ready to go over some of the procedures?” The voice is slightly grating on your ears, and you quickly delete your response as you lock your screen. Looking up, you see the woman who’s been showing you around all day looking at you with an expectant look on her face. 

Shit, what was her name? 

“Oh! Uh…” You check the time on your phone, noting that the workday had ended for almost everyone else. “Right now? I thought that procedures could wait until tomorrow?”

A condescending smile appears on her face, and you blink in surprise when she starts speaking. “Yeah, right now. It’s typical for newbies to stay late their first few days, just to get you up to speed. That’s ok with you right?”

Your phone dings, the woman’s eyes snap to it. Your fingers tighten around your phone, almost protectively. You huff slightly in annoyance, noticing the way the woman’s eyes linger on your legs, right where your skirt ends mid thigh. 

“Fine, just let me respond to this.”

Looking down, your heart jolts at the message you’d just received. It’s a single word, and sends shivers of nervousness down your spine. 

‘Now.’

Wanda Maximoff was not a woman you wanted to displease. Ever. You'd been on the receiving end of her ire more times than you could count, and although it was always enjoyable, the thought of punishment for disobeying a direct order sent your heart racing. 

The woman - Hailey, you remembered now - moved towards you, her heels clacking on the floor as she pulled a chair next to your desk. You had your phone angled away from her, fingers flying across the keyboard as you tried your best to minimize the punishment you'd surely receive for disobeying. 

‘I’m sorry, I can’t right now. Hailey is going over procedures with me. I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.’

You flip your phone over again, sure that your face is heating up. Your fingers tremble in your lap as you lace them together tightly. Fortunately, Hailey is too focused on not-so-subtly peeking down the front of your low cut shirt to notice your flustered state. You clear your throat, annoyance building as you raise your eyebrows at her. 

Coughing slightly, Hailey pulls out a packet of information and places it in front of you. You flip through the first few pages, groaning internally at the sheer amount of information crammed onto each section. Hailey’s speaking again, her voice high and scratchy. It is nothing like the voice you actually want to hear. 

Just as that thought crosses your mind, your phone dings again, but you force yourself to ignore it. Avoiding eye contact with Hailey, you force yourself to flip to the second page as she drones on. You can practically feel the boredom take over you, your eyes drooping as you relax into your seat. 

Sneaking a glance at your phone, you see that Wanda has sent another message. Suddenly awake, you open your texts and read, your eyes wide. 

‘I thought you wanted to be a good girl?’

Your eyes flick over to Hailey, noticing that she’s now fixating on her laptop, seemingly searching for a specific page in a pdf. You hide your phone between the pages of your packet, typing with one hand while the other nonchalantly rests on the paper. 

‘I am a good girl, just busy rn. I’ll see you later.’

Locking your phone, you try to focus. Hailey’s voice is making your ears bleed, and you constantly find your thoughts wandering to a certain person. More specifically, your girlfriend, who just so happened to be the boss of the current company you worked at. 

A loud noise startled you out of your thoughts, the images of long hair and green eyes fading as you turned to look at Hailey. She snapped her fingers again, right under your nose as your eyes went slightly crossed in an effort to track her movements. 

“Listen, newbie,” She started, her eyes glancing down at your chest. “Just because you’re a personality hire doesn’t mean that you get to slack off, alright?” 

You felt anger rise, your thoughts churning as you glared at her with thinly veiled disgust. You’d actually worked very hard for this job, submitting an application and going through the same interview process as everyone else. Your girlfriend hadn’t actually known that you applied until your resume made its way to her desk along with the other final candidates for the position. 

She’d fucked you in many different positions that night, her praises never ending as you came over and over again. You’d begged her to be fair in the selection process, not wanting to only be hired because she ordered it. Wanda had agreed, saying that she’d refrain from the hiring process altogether for your special case. 

Breathing deeply, trying to calm yourself, you were about to respond to Hailey when your phone buzzed again. 

“Okay, who the fuck is texting you so much.” Hands reach for your phone, but you quickly pull it away. There’s an unimpressed look on Hailey’s face, her palm out as she expectantly glances at your phone. 

You sigh, unlocking your phone to see that Wanda has sent an image along with a message. No way in hell were you letting Hailey see the potential contents of that message. 

“It’s actually our boss.” Your tone is short, your words clipped as you raise a single eyebrow. You pride yourself on mastering your girlfriend’s infamous ‘I’m pissed’ face as Hailey takes in your expression and pales at your words. 

“Wait…” Hailey fumbled her words, trying to remedy the situation. “You have Wanda Maximoff’s phone number?”

You smirk, mindful of how long it's taken you to respond. Any second, Wanda would probably come storming down the hall, wondering what on earth was more important than her. “I do, and I should probably respond soon, don’t you think?”

Hailey waves her hands in a flustered ‘go ahead’ gesture as she ducks her head. You give her one last glance, before angling your phone away and opening the message. 

First you see the photo, an image of Wanda’s fingers splayed out on her desk, contrasting beautifully against the dark wood, her veiny hands catching your attention. You feel yourself flush, nervous butterflies erupting as you glaze at the long fingers and delicate gold rings adorning them. Then, your eyes flit down to the attached message, 

‘Mommy’s fingers miss your pussy, darling. Don’t be a brat.’

You suck in a deep breath, your heart thudding as Hailey looks over at you, craning her neck to try and see your phone. Shooting her a glare, you jolt when another text pings through.

‘If you want to be a good girl, then you can come to my office and suck my fingers. Is she more important than I am?’

You feel lightheaded, and any thoughts of going over procedure with the nosy brunette next to you vanish. You mutter some excuse about how Wanda needed you in her office, and to not wait up for you. Hailey says something, but you wave her off, already packing your bag and walking towards the large doors that lead into Wanda’s office. 

Cursing your girlfriend out in your head, you can’t help the way your thoughts keep returning to that picture of her fingers. You should have known she’d use that against you, and you regretted ever sending her that drunk text. The one where you confessed your obsession with her hands, calling them ‘perfect to suck on’ and telling her you ‘wished she would wrap them around your throat like a necklace’.

Pushing open the heavy door, you make your way inside the dimly lit office. For some odd reason, Wanda didn’t like to use the overhead light, claiming it wasn’t good for her eyes or complexion. You personally didn’t care, as you thought your girlfriend looked good in any lighting. The room smells like vanilla, and the air around you tightens when you finally catch a glimpse of your girlfriend. 

The look on Wanda’s face can only be described as stony. You can tell that she’s upset, only seconds away from unleashing her frustrations upon you, and you waste no time. Setting your bag down near the door and closing it, you quickly walk towards your girlfriend as she slowly moves her chair away from her desk, gesturing for you to sit in her lap. 

You start speaking, your words rapid as you attempt an explanation. “I’m sorry Wanda, I couldn’t get away any sooner. Hailey…” You see a flash of anger in those cold green eyes, and resolve to never mention the girl’s name again. “Um, she was really insistent on going over procedures, and…”

The rambling explanation you’re fumbling through is interrupted by Wanda, her voice holding a dark edge to it as she asks you, “What did you just call me?”

“I’m sorry, mommy.” 

A satisfied look makes its way onto your girlfriend’s face, and you sit on her lap hesitantly. In this position, your face is just inches away from hers, and you can’t help the way your eyes flit down to her lips. 

“Tell me, baby,” Wanda begins, a dangerous look in her eyes as she slowly rolls her chair back towards her desk, trapping you between her and the dark wood. “Does she want what’s mine?”

You bite your lip, knowing that your answer could potentially get Hailey fired. Then, you remember how rude she was and the way her eyes wandered where they shouldn’t have, and the words came rushing out. 

“I mean, yeah. She kept looking down my shirt, and I kept having to tug my skirt down cause her eyes were constantly on my thighs.” The words are quiet, and you watch Wanda carefully for a reaction. Her eyes glint coldly, one of her hands wrapping around your throat as the other digs into your waist. 

“Did she touch you?” 

You can’t help the whimper that escapes you, her sharp words sending a flash of heat through your body. Your clit throbs, and you rush to respond. “No mommy, only you’re allowed to touch me.”

Wanda hums, a small smile appearing on those beautiful lips for a moment. “Good girl.”

“She, um.” You hesitate, Wanda’s hand squeezing your throat tightly at your continued silence. “She also called me a personality hire.”

Green eyes darken, and you know that Hailey will not show up to work the next morning. Or ever again. You try to calm your girlfriend, your hands coming up to cup her cheeks as she looks over your shoulder towards her door, her eyes blazing as different images of Hailey’s wandering eyes worm their way into her possessive brain. 

A whimper sounds out, ringing around the otherwise quiet room as the pressure against your neck becomes too much to handle. Wanda relaxes her grip, pulling her hand away as she leans in. Her lips attach themselves to your throat, her teeth sharp as she sucks dark bruises into your sensitive skin. 

Your moans flow freely, your hands sliding into Wanda’s hair and massaging her scalp as she marks you. When you attempt to roll your hips, needing some friction against your aching core, you find that your waist is thoroughly pinned between Wanda’s body and the desk. 

Long fingers find your lips, and you close your eyes as you wrap your lips around the very thing that you’d been fantasizing about. She presses the digits against your tongue, sliding them in and out of your mouth as you gag slightly, your tongue swirling around them. 

“Are you needy, baby?” Wanda asks after a few minutes, her voice raspy as she finally pulls back from your neck. She can sense your hips attempting to move, and raises an eyebrow at you as you fight to speak around her fingers. After a few moments, she smirks at your pleading look and pulls her fingers out, wiping them on the front of your shirt. 

“Yes, mommy.” You’re breathless, your muscles straining as you fight to keep still against her. 

Wanda smiles wider, rolling back her chair as she nods at you. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Get yourself off on mommy’s thigh.”

You hesitate, wondering if this was a trick. The hand at your waist pushes, and at the feeling of your soaked pussy sliding against her leg, you start moving. Your breaths are shaky, your hands trembling in her hair as you move your hips quickly. 

It doesn’t take long until you’re a moaning mess, your forehead resting on her shoulder as you grind your core against her thigh. You can barely think straight, all your thoughts locked on your impending orgasm as you mindlessly move your hips faster. You feel Wanda’s hand tangle with your hair, and she wrenches your head back. 

Green eyes watch your lips part, a strangled gasp leaving you at the abrupt action. Your hips are still moving, your hands limp around her shoulders as you chase your high. Wanda smiles at the sight of your glossy eyes, soft moans falling from your lips as your wetness spreads on the silky fabric of her pants. 

“Having fun darling?” Wanda’s voice is teasing and you whine. Her tone hardens, her hand squeezing painfully in your hair as she reminds you, “Remember to ask permission to come.”

You know it's a trap, you couldn’t say why, but you knew she wouldn’t give in that easily. Not after you’d ignored her for so long, your attention not solely focused on her. She hated it when someone else caught your attention, and you loved her possessive nature, no matter how much the punishments hurt.

“I want… please, mommy.” You can’t even get out a full sentence, your words broken up by breathy moans. It makes Wanda throb, and she forces your jaw up from where your head had been drooping, wanting those glossy eyes focused on her.

“Touch me,” You begged, your thumb rubbing circles against the back of her neck. “Please touch me mommy, I can’t come without your help.”

This time, it's Wanda who lets out a moan. The sound is low, resonating in her chest as she brings a hand to your pussy. At the first touch of your glistening folds, she’s hooked. She never has been able to resist you, not when you're dripping around her fingers and staring at her with adorably blown pupils. 

“Don’t worry, darling.” Wanda murmurs, letting your head fall against her forehead as she enters you with two fingers, burying them knuckle deep as you whine. “Mommy’s brainless little slut can come however much she wants.”

The words shoot straight to your core, and you know your orgasm is mere seconds away. You frantically press your lips to Wanda’s, sucking and biting as she slips her tongue inside your mouth, deepening the kiss. You attempt to convey your desperation to her, and you think she understands when she nudges your clit with her thumb. 

A few more purposeful touches, and you’re falling apart in her lap. Wanda breaks the kiss, your lips unresponsive as you gasp against her cheek. You shudder, your walls clamping down around her fingers as she continues to thrust into you at a brutal pace. Her fingers curl, and you sense a second orgasm approach while you’re still trembling from the aftershocks of the first one. 

“Wait, mommy. It’s too much, please.” You’re whimpers go unheard, Wanda’s fingers still fucking you deeply as her lips return to your neck. You feel her teeth scrape your collarbone, and another orgasm rips through you when she bites down. 

Your body aches, the sensations overwhelming you in seconds. You’re highly aware of Wanda’s teeth sinking into your collarbone, her lips sucking harshly as you writhe against her. You can feel your juices leaking around her fingers, the once pleasurable heat in your core now agonizingly painful as she slows her thrusts. 

“Mommy…” Your voice is just above a whisper, your breaths shaky as you try and form more words. 

Wanda slips her fingers from you, bringing them up to your parted lips and forcing them into the wet heat of your mouth. She strokes your hair with her other hand, bringing you down as she murmurs, “I know baby, Mommy’s got you.”

Sucking softly, you smile around her fingers dazedly, your eyes slightly unfocused as they bore into Wanda’s. She smiles back, pressing her lips to your forehead, and leaving soft kisses over your damp cheeks as you giggle. 

“Good girl, I’m so proud of you sweetheart. Since you were so good for me, would you like to feel mommy’s strap when we get home?” You nod quickly, your mouth still occupied with her fingers, sucking off your arousal as she watches with darkened eyes. 

Wanda opens her mouth to continue, when a sharp knock on her door stops her. You’re much too hazy to care, all your attention focused solely on your girlfriend. She pulls her fingers from you, kissing you quickly before calling out for the person to enter. 

You jolt, remembering the compromising position you’re in, but strong hands hold your hips still as a warning look appears in Wanda’s eyes. You stare back with wide eyes, and Wanda swivels her chair until she can see the very same employee you’d been complaining about walk in. 

Hailey looks up from the papers in her hand, her eyes widening comically at the sight in front of her. Wanda watches her eyes take in the dark hickeys covering your neck and collarbone, your smudged lipstick and messy hair, before she stammers slightly as she attempts to speak. 

Nothing comes out, her words a strained sort of whimper as her eyes bounce back and forth between Wanda’s satisfied and smug expression, and your submissive, relaxed pose. You look down, an embarrassed flush creeping up the back of your neck as Wanda’s hand rubs soothing circles against your thigh. 

“I’ve heard some interesting things about you.” Wanda says, her words drawn out as she regards the shocked employee standing in her doorway. Hailey’s eyes widen even more than they already are, and she opens and closes her mouth as she tries to find an explanation. 

Wanda tilts her head, and the color drains from Hailey’s face. You shiver, having been on the receiving end of that look before, and you can’t help but pity the poor girl trembling in your girlfriend's doorway. 

“I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson today,” Wanda begins, her voice low as she grabs your jaw, tilting your head up so Hailey can see the full extent of your hickeys. “That you shouldn’t lust over something that isn’t yours.”

Hailey nods her head so quickly that it looks seconds away from falling off. Wanda waves her hand impatiently, a silent order for the girl to get out of her office. She takes a final look at you as she turns to leave, her eyes apologetic and wide as she grips the papers tightly in her fist, the edges wrinkling under her fingers. 

“By the way,” Wanda begins, stopping Hailey in her tracks. “You’re fired.”

You barely hear the door close, your eyes wide as you turn towards your girlfriend. You can’t help the small smile that appears on your face, your pussy clenching around nothing at the power she’d just shown. 

It’s almost as if Wanda has a sixth sense for you, her senses attuned to your body as if you shared a soul. She drops her eyes to your thighs, smirking as you gently grind down against the dark fabric of her pant leg. A single finger places itself under your chin, and you let your head raise as her green eyes bore into your own.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll give you plenty of orgasms once we get home.”

You can’t fucking wait.

Part Two: The Ultimate Weakness

[dovedrangeas]

time to talk about my favorite point in snow au character dynamics:

literally like 75% of current problems in the plot would be solved if people stopped trying to make techno and wilbur live in the same house. like they get long perfectly fine otherwise, but you put them in a house together and the bitchy, argumentative, petty, purposefully hurtful energy is dialled up to 500

it’s mostly because they were teenagers at the same time which is a recipe for disaster

[ronearoundblindly]

No Promises (2)

Lloyd Hansen x rival assassin!Reader

Don't Be Blue, Bunny Boy (see previous or LH Masterlist)

Summary: Lloyd underestimates how dangerous you are when he finds you wrapped like a gift in his hotel room.

Warnings for smut, but it's Lloyd so there's a knife, a gun, name-calling, cursing, drugging, dubcon due to somno, two a**holes in competition, unprotected sex (honestly, just never do anything Lloyd would do, okay? great. excellent. good chat), and possibly the best banter I've ever written gdi. Darkfic...but, like, funny??? For the love of everything, MINORS DNI. I have plenty else for you on my Light Masterlist, but this is not for you! WC 2k 🫣

*This CT 2024 Challenge work can be read completely out-of-context from the rest of the mini-series (which isn't even written yet anyway, lalalahhhh).

It’s bad enough you took the keycard off that fat fuck of a target first, but failing to follow you smacks Lloyd’s ego in just the wrong way. By the time he gets back to his luxurious hotel room, he’s fuming and itching to shoot something. You don’t need to be a mind-reader to know this; the man is still a man, after all, no matter how trained and controlled he thinks he is.

That’s why you’re here, trussed up in a sapphire blue bodysuit, smirking at the irritation radiating off of your rival as his eyes rake the length of your mostly-bare figure.

“Darling,” you burst, posing like a ‘50s housewife by the armchair, playful and sickeningly sweet. “You’re home! I was so worried.”

Anger quivers his lip coat till he vaguely resembles a pouting porcupine. God, you hate mustaches. You’re willing to bet—if you really put your back into it—you could hump his face with such friction, it’d rub him smooth. There are less-worthwhile endeavors that you’ve completely only today. Why not experiment?

“You have some fucking nerve, bitch.”

Lloyd keeps his steps forward into the room slow and casual, though his ire is obvious. He stops halfway across the carpet, unzips his leather jacket, and tosses it onto the foot of the bed.

He seems surprised when you strut over without hesitation; he hasn’t handed over any weapons, but you haven’t asked for a reason. Lloyd’s reputation is cocky, commanding, and curious—in that order—so he won’t start speculating till it’s too late.

Indeed, what possible harm could you inflict wearing this lil’ ol’ thing, huh?

As you get closer, his hand reaches out instinctually.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tsk in warning. “If you rip my lace, I will gut you like a fish. Understood?”

“Can’t make any promises, but…”

Lloyd, undeterred, clamps his hand between your legs and runs a finger through your folds, proving the crotchless lingerie isn’t in danger of typical snags.

The pad of his digit is rough and teasing.

“I think we can work with that,” he growls.

Oh yes, he’s definitely, perfectly, and predictably cocky. What fun you’ll have.

You make a show of gasping when he starts dipping two fingers into your heat, rolling your head as if truly undone by the minimal effort, and wait for him to watch his own ministrations, distracted.

Then you strike.

You grab his wrist, twisting harshly, yanking the arm behind him, straddling his shoulders so your legs pinch over his neck, and he turns slightly to nip at your thigh. You’re not surprised he still thinks he’ll win.

His steely eye winks as he looks up.

“Bet I can make you cum first.”

A dramatic sigh escapes you. You release his arm to sensually smooth your palm down his body, bending to whisper, “that implies I give a shit if you come at all.”

You fling yourself backwards, using the momentum to catapult him over you and into the side of the bed.

The mustache emphasizes his sneer when Lloyd pushes up on an elbow.

“I, too, like using a firm hand when breaking bitches’ spirits,” he mutters, reaching for his switchblade which you present instead, wiggling it in your hand with a grin.

“Oh, bunny boy, were you too firm to notice my gentle caress?” You deftly unlatch and expose the knife’s edge. “Now, strip.”

You tick the blade quickly for effect.

“Show me some skin so I can mark my two points so far. I know how you love to keep score.”

Lloyd rights himself, peeling his black turtleneck over his head and smoothing his hair into place calmly. “I can kill you just as easily naked as I can clothed.”

“Of course, cutie pie, and I’m counting on many little deaths.” You look at the knife in your hand, concerned. “Please tell me this isn’t the biggest weapon you're packing, or I’ll be so disappointed.”

He’s smug while unbuckling his belt and shucking off his pants. Lloyd Hansen now proudly stands stark nude.

You let your eyes go comically wide, but then your brow furrows and you shrug.

“You’re welcome to keep talking while I sit on your face, but otherwise… I’m unimpressed.”

Lloyd huffs with indignation.

“Fuck you.”

Like the footballer he used to be, he rushes you.

“Promise?” you coo, dodging him and landing a sharp smack to his butt cheek. It’s spectacularly sculpted, plump, and rock hard all at once.

“Oh my! Darling, you did not lead with your best asset…” You notice the faint scar on his pale skin and giggle. “Little prick got pricked, I see.”

Your amusement gives him a split second to grab you, and Lloyd uses the opportunity to shove you back into the window so violently the thick glass rattles its frame.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he spits viciously, not so cocky as before.

“Isn’t that what I’ve been begging you to do for me, sweetheart?”

Mouth hanging open in a taunt, one hand strokes him, the other warns. The tip of the knife you still wield barely grazes the notch between ribs where you could swiftly puncture his lung. Lloyd watches, fuming and mesmerized, until you transfer the pooling saliva to your palm and resume jerking his cock.

“A firm hand really does make you harder, doesn’t it?”

That snaps him out of it.

He scrambles to bend you over that same armchair you started at, and Lloyd’s version of prep is a single, perfunctory dig of two fingers into your cunt.

To his credit, you are dripping wet for him, so, though his need to check before chaffing himself wasn’t necessary, he rewards you with a beautifully debauched moan as he sinks to the hilt with one thrust.

Lloyd’s got something to prove.

Good.

He’s so focused on groping around to your breasts beneath the stretchy lace that you stick the switchblade deep into the chair’s cushion and hold on; whatever else you’re doing is irrelevant to him. There is only fucking. There is only feeling as if he owns you in this moment.

You let out a high whine and goad him. “Love it when you’re gentle with me, sweetie.”

That earns you an unhinged snarl and the pummeling slap of his hips against your thighs.

He’s so easy to motivate, a majestic maniac on a mission to turn you stupid, if only until the stench of sex dissipates. If the idiot would just reach down to your clit, you’d spare him, but Lloyd is a man.

A selfish, egotistical princeling who’s a good marksman and a shit human. Good, for the business you two are in. But not as good as you.

You sigh like you’re bored, sinking your chin to rest on your outstretched arms.

He stops moving, grunting as he pulls out of you and snapping one of your shoulder straps.

“Fine. You wanna put in the work, sunshine? You go for it.” Lloyd flops onto the bed, face up, his arms spread wide and high.

Of course, he’s going for the gun under the pillow. You know it, you’ve anticipated it, and you decided it would be a nice safety blanket to leave him, to keep him feeling comfortable.

So you crawl on top of him anyway, rocking yourself against his cock for a few seconds before shifting higher. You giggle for emphasis.

You’re just here to fuck him. You’re just here to fuck with him. That’s the truth, and he knows it. Lloyd simply doesn’t know the conditions of both your releases…yet.

“Such a desperate slut,” he rumbles as you settle above his face.

Before you cover your view of him, you pinch at his jaw and smirk.

“Only munches wear a fucking mustache.”

His cheek gets a condescending pat when he smiles back.

He’s cute when he’s having fun, apparently.

Lloyd licks his lips and slowly lifts his head to swipe at your entrance. “You owe me that fucking keycard.” He delicately kisses your folds before his tongue darts out to circle your clit. “And I’ll get it from you one way or another.”

You can hear the rustle of his hand over the sheet. Not even a solid suck on your cunt, and he’s already going for the gun…

“Oh, come on,” you plead, ignoring his threat. “Finish your meal, champ. I know you can do it.”

His eyes narrow, peeking past your mound as he growls, gripping your thighs hard enough for you to collapse forward.

Sloppy. The best word to describe Lloyd eating pussy is sloppy. He contributes as much as you do to the glide of his whole face over every intimate inch of skin. Because you’re sitting with weight mostly on him—some of it still rests on your knees—each movement pushes his nose, lips, tongue, and stache around with enough fervor to polish your raw nerves.

Honestly, it’s a shame he ruins the moment by slipping his hand under the pillow and pressing the silencer's muzzle to your side.

Petulance dialed to maximum, you whimper, “you said I could come first!”

Your hand falls below your navel, clutching the lace like he’s already wounded you, and Lloyd proceeds to laugh right into your cunt.

He doesn’t have time to form a comeback once you peel the sheer, protective layer away from the patch of fabric a mere inch above the opening of the bodysuit. If he’d have paid any proper attention to you, he’d’ve found it, but he didn’t.

The fumes of chloroform-drenched cobalt engulf Lloyd in the suffocating proximity of the bed and your body. He has nowhere to go but under.

The gun falls away once his limbs go lax.

You sit directly on his chest for the few seconds it takes to realign the inner and outer barriers of your dainty, chemical warfare, then you shimmy off of him.

He actually looks quite peaceful this way.

His features are carefree, his broad, smooth chest rises and falls steadily, and his…

Well.

Lloyd’s dick lays erect and proud on his stomach, unfazed by unconsciousness. It’d be an even greater shame to waste that.

“It’s ok, peanut,” you whisper out of habit now, forced to imagine the twitch of his lip, the pop of the vein in his neck. “This is your chance to make it up to me.”

It’s not difficult to take him into your still-sopping core, and once you angle yourself to grind on the cut of his abs, all Lloyd’s previous buildup rushes back. His ass may be the star of the show, but his dick is no fluffer act. He’s packing enough to nudge at that perfect spot relentlessly as you ride him, and you openly mewl as you approach the height of your orgasm.

You imagine he’d say you sound so pretty and pathetic.

He’d probably ask if this is the best you can do, but that makes you fuck him harder until you crash into a wall of pleasure, sweaty, exhausted, resting against that broad chest.

You catch your breath after a short while, skin humming with excitement. Absently, your hands paw at his sides for a tiny bit of comfort.

That thought gets buried in a tense heartbeat, and you climb off the bed, pleased to notice the sheer amount of cum and his softening dick means he finished, too.

You’ll leave that as a souvenir.

The plan was to carve a little message on him—nothing that would permanently scar—but you can’t bring yourself to mar such a glorious ass. That would be akin to treason. Seriously, if he had simply walked around you in a bathing suit with that thing, you would have slipped the keycard into his waistband and thanked him for his service to your wet dreams.

A bit of dried cum smeared all over his pelvis and dripping down his balls, his useless pistol still in-hand, will do fine as a statement.

You clean yourself up, snatching your real clothes from the closet where you hung them tidily beside his own, and give a gentle grip to his immobile knee where it hangs off the bed.

“Sweet dreams, bunny boy. Maybe I'll let you win next time.”

[Next Part: I Left You Something On The Body]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

This work was written for the amazing and inspirational Cum Together Extravaganza hosted by @stargazingfangirl18 and @labella420, but a special thanks to @buckymorelikefuckme for the earworm that would not quit. Poppy, you dark enabler you... I fucking love you!

Prompts: "Bet I can make you cum first." || Somnophilia || enemies-to-lovers || Characters A + B cum together at the same time

dividers by @/saradika-graphics (blue art deco) and @/cafekitsune

[jacksgreysays]

(Not sure if I can qualify for another prompt after the last wonderful prompt fill but here goes:

The Academy was perfectly fine with Shikamaru’s imaginary friend Shikako, until she managed to ____.

Oh dona, there are so many things that can fill in that blank. SO MANY THINGS. And, I’ll be honest, a lot of what comes to my mind range from funny to alarming. But the on that I think is the most encompassing—without being too boring—is simply “get caught.” Because that opens up so many opportunities for what else she could have been doing before she got caught in such a way that also builds a dynamic between those who are in on it (ie, the Rookie Nine, maybe even the full Konoha Twelve since Team Gai IS only just one year older) and those who aren’t (presumably the teachers of the Academy) However, in order to narrow this fic down into something writable, I should figure what Shikako is doing before she gets caught… and, maybe this is just me, but I kinda like the idea of… now maybe this is too specific… but basically, Shikamaru’s imaginary friend Shikako, aka his literal sentient eldritch horror twin sister that lives in his shadow, just straight up eating Danzo. Just. How do you get rid of something? Eat it. Because, like… okay. My brain goes something like this:

“Hm,” says Shikamaru as they hide in the treetops from Iruka-sensei.

Normally, Shikamaru is content with being out of the classroom that, outside from telling them the plan needed to ditch and stay hidden, he stays pretty quiet either cloud watching or napping.

Chouji, in his spot next to Shikamaru and equally satisfied with just being outside, is the only one to hear him. “What is it?” He asks.

That gets Kiba and Naruto to perk up, starting to get bored after their flawless escape with minimal conflict.

“Shikako says she’s hungry.”

Good friend that he is, Chouji offers some of his chips. A tendril of Shikamaru’s shadow shakily takes one, wobbling even under that weight, but Shikako is also a good friend so she eats it.

Well. She tries, anyway. Shikamaru’s shadow curls around it, mimicking a chewing motion, but it remains unchanged.

After a moment, Shikamaru reports, “Shikako says thank you, but she might need to eat something else specifically?”

Naruto, ever curious asks, “What does a shadow even eat?”

Shikamaru shrugs. “She says she’ll know it when we find it.”

Kiba, and an Akamaru squirming with eagerness, declares, “Akamaru and I are the best and finding stuff. We’ll get it in no time.”

—

Iruka-sensei finds them before they find the ambiguous “it.”

To be fair, they were searching through the refrigerator in the teacher’s lounge, and their self assigned mission had carried them through to lunch time. So really it was their own fault.

Didn’t stop Naruto, Kiba, and Akamaru from yelling and howling up a storm as Iruka-sensei grabbed the two boys by the collars of their shirts. Mizuki-sensei at least just gestured his two charges forward, trusting that Shikamaru and Chouji would cooperate since they had been caught fair and square. And plus, it was lunch time.

Distracted as they were, none of the boys noticed Shikamaru’s shadow stretch itself to connect to Mizuki-sensei’s.

Without that context, none of them made the connection when, not even a minute later, Mizuki-sensei stumbled, nearly falling, before catching himself in an uncertain stance.

“You okay?” Iruka-sensei asked, caregiving nature winning over his desire to continue lecturing the boys.

Mizuki-sensei waved him off with a strained laugh, “Ha, I just felt a little tired—midday slump, probably.”

Kiba and Naruto, sensing weakness, re-aim their efforts from complaining to making fun of Mizuki-sensei’s age. It draws his ire, never mind that he tries to seem cooler than Iruka-sensei, but he musters a woozy, half-hearted defense at best.

Shikamaru glances at his shadow, darker and deeper than it was before.

Shikako isn’t as hungry anymore.

—

A/N: And then something something Ino and Sakura spot the boys questing for Shikako’s food and they also believe in/like Shikako anyway so they try to help out, Shino gets pulled in because they end up on Aburame territory and he’s holding his smiling baby sister and his untouchable vibes are way lowered, at some point they’re like… maybe Hinata can use her cool eyes to FIND what Shikako needs (and she’s stalking Naruto anyway so we might as well actively include her) and then Sasuke kind of feels left out ALTHOUGH… I may have a separate thing for how Sasuke gets pulled in. Anyway the kids try to figure out what she’s doing—she doesn’t eat chakra, she eats life energy, but only out of people that she wants to kill anyway and the amount she eats from them is maybe based on how much she wants to kill them? (she really does almost eat Kabuto to death the first time they encounter him lol)—and they’re like… well… we also don’t like the people Shikako doesn’t like anyway? Here’s where plot maybe comes in and maybe where Sasuke gets pulled in but basically if this is pre-Uchiha Massacre then there could be a day when Itachi goes to pick up the little Uchiha members from the Academy and Shikako is just like ??? DO I want to kill and eat him??? because he hasn’t done anything (YET) so it’s just like… the rest of the kids investigating into Sasuke to investigate into Itachi which then somehow Scooby Doo style gets them to Danzo and MAYBE he’s being a creeper and visiting the Academy to recruit future ROOT agents or MAYBE the Academy building is near the Hokage’s Tower (I think???) or Shisui and Itachi are BOTH picking up the various Uchiha Academy students and Danzo tries to use the opportunity to intimidate/threaten them both “subtly” and Shikako’s just like !!!!! FEAST MODE!!!! And fully just eldritch style swallows him whole in front of some Academy teachers :) And it’s not like Shikamaru can get in trouble because he’s BEEN telling the truth about his imaginary friend Shikako the whole time. And as far as they know it LOOKS like a Nara clan technique so they’re like… well… uh… maybe we should tell the Jounin Commander about this. And Shikaku’s just like… uh… Kasuga… what the fuck… And Kasuga turns to Sembei-obaasan and also asks what the fuck… And Sembei-obaasan has to search deep deep into the Nara oral tradition for what the fuck is going on And Shikako is just in Shikamaru’s shadow, totally pleased with herself. I’m not hungry anymore :)

[mossdoesartshit]

ITS THE SINNER ADAM BIT. GOD HELP. this will be long fair warning

-----

Adam had woken up to another relatively normal day in hell. Weird as shit birds chirping, screaming, and explosions rattled into his ears as he blinked away sleep. It had been a while now since he'd come to the hotel, and he still didn't quite know how to feel about it, but things felt... safe, for once. Not as safe as back in heaven, mind you, but safe enough he was feeling comfortable. He still had a lot of shit to sort out (most frustratingly, emotions about this entire ordeal), but anything to get back to the comfort of heaven, he mused to himself as he futzed his hair into a good enough shape, and the minimal requirement of clothes on.

He walked down the stairs to the main area of the hotel, trying to remember if he had to hang around the hotel the entire day, or if he could go try and find that milkshake place again-

"YOU. YOU FUCKING KNEW!" Lucifers finger pointed at Adam, snapping any sleep still remaining in his body

"huh???" came out of Adam involuntarily

"YOU KNEW LILITH WAS STILL AROUND, AND DIDN'T TELL US?!" Lucifer continued, Charlie quickly closing the gap between her and her now very angry father "Dad, come on-" "NO." charlie flinched

"HE knew your mother was around somewhere, HE knew of her whereabouts, and DID NOT TELL US. Still the spiteful prick, aren't you Adam!" it came out more an accusation than a question, anger in every possible core within him. Adam brought his hands up defensively as Lucifer continued. "YOU knew and didn't think to tell us? To tell CHARLIE, to tell ME?!" it was true that Adam knew about Lilith, very much unclear as to how Lucifer, charlie, and whoever else of the hotel staff were still around, but... "I thought you guys knew!" Adam tried "BULLSHIT" Lucifer continued even further "I can't even begin to believe you! You waltz in here, pretend all this happy good stuff about how you're TOTALLY getting better, and HERE THE FUCK WE ARE!" The corner of Adam's mouth twitched. As much as he could believe that everyone in the room knew what all he'd known, and as much as he could believe that asking who even told them would be a bad idea, he was getting irritated about the method in which lucifer was bringing this up. He HAD been trying his best and the accusation he wasn't brought further ire to it all

"Hey, dude, chill out a bit-" "CHILL OUT?" ah. "How can you even THINK to say that right now, ARE you even thinking?" well ouch. if it wouldn't've made the situation worse Adam would've been hurt by such a statement, all he really did nowadays WAS to think-

"I SWEAR to.... SOMEONE, SOMETHING, ANYTHING, you probably have been lying this whole time!! About everything!!"

something snapped in Adam.

without much thought, he grabbed a hold of Lucifer tightly and harshly, flaring his wings out as he snarled right into the former angel's face, only slightly registering the sounds of the others in the room either from shock or horror. Lucifer's hat fell, the little snake letting out a small squeak in surprise.

"Listen here, you Mother Fucker. You can call me a helluva lot of things, but fucking Liar. is NOT one of them. You have no idea the shit that happened after Eden, oh boohoo, you fell out of heaven, cool, whatever, do not pretend to know me enough though that id do such a fucking bullshit act as to lie. All my life, through Eden, through Earth, through Heaven, even now, I have been doing nothing but the fucking truth."

Lucifer stared up at Adam, confusion, vague horror, as he stared into Adam's glowing eyes. Not for fear of injury or pain, but... something else. Something that felt familiar. From all the way back in...

Adam shifted his gaze, up from lucifer, up from the floor, to... Charlie. She was clearly nervous, never having had to break up a fight between others. "Hey, Adam, I..." she tried, taking a breath, as she tried a confident smile, her hands trembling and her brows furrowing giving her even more away. "I know that probably hurt, but let's not hurt anyone ok? Take a deep breath, and we can talk this out ok? I-... I needed an activity for today anyway!" she chuckled nervously.

Adam hated this. Fuck's sake, he was just undoing progress. He bit his lip as Lucifer turned to Charlie a little bit, ever the faintest confused

"Whatever" Adam snarled, shoving Lucifer to the side, which Lucifer had not anticipated, and promptly kind of fell on his ass about it. "Do whatever, I need some fucking air"

He shoved his hands into his pockets in frustration, moving to walk away past everyone fast, as Charlie rushed to Lucifer's side nervously. From the corner of his eye, Adam could even spot Vaggie being a little conflicted. Funny, who knows how long ago at this point she'd've looked smug.

"Dad are you ok?" Charlie asked a little hurried, picking up his hat softly, as the little snake curled up. "I'll talk to him, don't worry, I..." she noticed Lucifer wasn't really listening to her, staring after adam, still in his head from earlier. Fuck. Right. Of course that felt familiar from Eden. He was a little shocked it took him so long to remember it. The shade of the tree as he'd stared up at Adam. Fuck. That was going to be a mess to talk about. And he knew, that the two needed to talk. He just hoped Adam knew it too

[mothiir]

the lion and the pussycat

Cw: facefucking, dubcon due to the lions personality

— —

The Lion’s mouth crashes against the lower half of your face, and you know in that moment that you are dead. He’s going to do what he’s been threatening to do for weeks, and he’s going to kill you — if you are lucky it will be quick, his fangs against your jugular; a spray of blood, or a broken neck. You’ll die without knowing quite what you did to earn such ire from the Primarch, but at least your suffering will be minimal. 

His teeth graze your jawbone; you feel the feral heat of his mouth, the smell of his breath, like — like mint, actually. Odd. You thought it would smell of blood, that he would have curds of dried flesh stuck between his canines, like a beast from the wastes — but no. Mint. Spearmint, if you’re not mistaken. Your brain, careening sky-high with terror, picks out that little detail like it is somehow important. 

His hands — not gauntleted, for once, but bare, though no less strong, and no less lethal — go to your waist and lift you up. Your legs dangle haplessly; your nervous system feels like it is starting to shut down, tendons and muscles slackening; failing any other option, your lizard brain is trying to make the rest of you play dead. Like the Lion is the sort of hunter to be fooled by such a trick. Like he is the sort of man to leave his prey alone once it has perished. You know what he does to the things he kills; he’s made sure to show you. How he bears them to the ground, drives his sword into flesh, rends apart limbs, plucks out hearts, makes trophies from the skulls of once-terrible creatures. You have no idea why he insisted on making you watch, on threatening you so, but you have quickly learned that to look for meaning in the Lion’s actions is a fool’s errand. 

He explains himself to no one, not even his sons. He is a force of nature, as inexplicable as the storm, as ruthless as winter’s cold breath. 

He lifts you higher, his teeth at your jugular now. You taste your heart in your mouth, red and burning, and yet he still does not deliver the killing blow. Instead, he grunts with frustration. 

“Woman, your legs —there —“

Holding you up with one hand, he uses the other to manipulate your limbs to his liking — which, bizarrely, apparently is around his waist? Well: as around his waist as you can reach. Your thighs are forced into an awkward stretch, your knees resting at his hips, your feet dangling near his buttocks. 

“Tighten your grip — like that.”

You obey, rendered mute with fear and confusion. What is this — some kind of pre-slaughter ritual? Getting you to hold onto him so your body is more conveniently placed for the kill? You imagine him biting out a bloody chunk from your neck; the way the gore would stain his beard and splash down your front. Maybe he intends to devour you. You’ve heard tales of the dietary habits of the Emperor’s champions — of blood-soaked angels, and of dark-winged shadows who chew on human skin — and it only makes sense that the Lion shares appetites with his namesake —

His lips touch yours; his tongue fills your mouth. His hands slide from your waist to your arse and squeeze firmly; this time, the grunt sounds almost appreciative. 

It is only at this point that you realise oh. Oh. 

Having discovered your mouth, and apparently worked out the logistics of kissing someone less than a quarter of his size, the Lion rumbles deep in his chest; a sound that you feel in your marrow, and does little to quell your terror. He’s kissing you. Oh sweet Emperor he — you have no clue what to do, what are you meant to do, is he still planning to eat you —

He plunges his tongue deeper into your gullet, almost choking you. Drool slips down your chin — the divine drool of the Emperor’s son, you think, your mind unstitching with hysteria. 

The Emperor’s Son. The Primarch of the Dark Angels. 

And he’s kissing you. Badly. 

Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to cup his face, feeling the bristle of his beard beneath your palms. You’re half-convinced that he’s going to snap your hands off, leaving you with bloody stumps, but he doesn’t. He nips at your lower lip, and squeezes your arse again. You are going to be black and blue when he’s done with you; you can already feel your tender flesh start to bruise. 

Right. You refuse to let ‘choked to death on the tongue of a Primarch’ be your epithet. Mindful of his teeth, you kiss him back, tightening your legs around his waist, combing your fingers into his hair, trying to guide him into something a little gentler — or, at the very least, less wet. 

The instant you touch his scalp, he recoils, his gold eyes blazing.

”I’m sorry!” you say — by now you are well-used to gibbering apologies when he’s vexed at you, even though you are quite convinced you have done nothing wrong.

”Why?” he says, his voice low and rough, his nostrils flaring as he pants. “I liked it. Do it again. Do it while I fuck you.”

While he — what. Your mind goes shrill and empty with confused terror, your lips hanging open as you try to think of anything remotely constructive to say. The Lion resumes his dreadful attempt at kissing, his tongue slicking over your jaw before plunging into your mouth once more. 

“Wa — wait —“

You shove at his shoulders; a completely fruitless exercise, since you’ve seen him be hit by a literal tank and not move an inch, but he pulls back. 

“What?” he snaps. “What’s wrong?”

”While you — you want to have sex with me?”

”Of course I do,”  he says. “Now, take this off.”

He tugs at your tunic — dark green, embroidered with the Dark Angel’s insignia, standard wear for a serf — but, predictably, the gesture is enough to rip the fabric, splitting it up to the bottom of your breasts. 

“Wait!” you squeal, realising that he’s about to rip the rest away. “I don’t have any other clothes —“

”Don’t need them,” says the Lion, and before you can understand the implications of that, he’s torn the rest of the tunic away entirely, leaving you in leggings and breast-band. 

He glares at the breast-band like it has personally offended him. Maybe it has. 

“Wait — hang on please just wait — I thought you hated me!” you say, the words a stumbling mess as the Lion carries you over to his bed, sitting down, leaving you suddenly very aware that you are in his lap, and he is only wearing his loose linen underclothes, and uh —

Is that a sword? Please be a sword. Please be a warm, throbbing sword that happens to be directly adhered to his groin because if it isn’t a sword and it is what you think it is then you are going to suffer a far more ignoble death than ‘choked on Primarch tongue’. 

“I don’t hate you,” he scoffs. Man of few words. At the baffled look on your face he elaborates: “I want to bed you.”

”I — yes. I guessed that. Now. But — before — I thought you wanted to kill me.”

”I knew you were foolish, woman, but I didn’t know you were simple,” the Lion sneers, hooking a thumb under your breast-band to feel the soft flesh beneath. Despite yourself you shiver. 

“Wait, let me — “ To avoid losing yet more clothing that you cannot afford to replace, you undo your underwear for him, and place it to the side. The room’s silence is only broken by the crackle of the fire, and the sound of his heavy breathing, and your poor, racing heart, thundering in your ears. 

“Good,” the Lion says. He cups one of your breasts briefly, brusquely —squeezes it like he’s checking a fruit at the marketplace for ripeness — and then the room whirls around you, and your face thumps into his pillow. It takes you a moment to process what he’s done: flipped you onto your belly, which means — 

Cold air strikes your thighs as your leggings go the same way as your tunic. His teeth graze your calf, then close — bizarrely — around your knee, and you wonder if he has any idea what he is meant to be doing here. 

He hoiks you up by your hips, forcing you onto your tip-toes, and you feel his finger slide between your lips, prodding around like he’s looking for something. 

He has no idea what he is meant to be doing here, does he?

He finds your hole, and slides his finger in briefly. Your body, despite everything, has responded either out of unexpected arousal or sheer self defence and you’re slick and sticky around his digit.

Then he withdraws his finger, lifts you up even more, so your legs are forced to butterfly around him, and you feel something huge and blunt and warm nudge at your entrance and the head of it is bigger than your entire damn cunt. 

“Stop it!” you scream, loud enough to startle even yourself. “Stop it you damn fool, if you just put it in you’ll kill me!”

Silence follows, as thick as a shroud. Your flanks heave as you suck in air, and realise that you have called the Lion a damn fool, and he has burned planets for less. 

“What did you say?”

His voice is a low rumbling threat. Your fingers curl helplessly into his sheets. 

“I mean — my lord, you cannot just insert yourself into me — you are very big, and I’m not ready, and it will tear me and — and then you’d only be able to bed me once, and not for very long at that!”

Unless you want to fuck a split open corpse, you think but do not say. 

The Lion doesn’t let you go. You feel his cock resting across your buttocks, and onto the small of your back, like a damn threat. 

“Women birth children. They can stretch.”

”Well — yes. Yes they do and they can —“

He’s a virgin. He’s the worst kind of virgin, because he’s a genocidal war lord who thinks that he knows literally everything.

”—but that takes hours and hours of labour and the cervix has to open and you can’t just do it on command!”

The Lion huffs. “A failing of your kind.”

”Yes my lord,” you reply, rolling your eyes into the pillow. “A failing most severe. But — if I may? —“

You wriggle, and much to your relief he understands that at least, and lets you go. You roll onto your back, wanting to keep an eye on the Primarch. 

“When — “

You stop. You can’t start explaining what happens when a man and woman lie together to the Lion; you think he might well kill you for patronising him — and even if he didn’t, you’d probably suffer a shame-induced heart attack. 

Instead you try a different tactic:

”Humans are weak, frail things my lord — human women especially so. I can’t just…take your cock inside me with no preparation. It would damage me. I am — I am honoured that you desire me but — but can we start things slower? Please?”

He looks unconvinced; though that could just be his face, which — even at rest — seems set in an expression of simmering anger. 

“Like — can I —?”

You gesture to his cock; the absurdity of you being so careful to seek permission when his seduction technique was apparently limited to grabbing is not lost on you. Still. He’s a Primarch. The rules are different. 

“If I wanted my cock stroked I could do it myself.”

“Yes my lord. Of course. But — let me just —“

You lean forwards and lick up his shaft, tasting salty arousal and the plain-scented soap all the Astartes here seem to use. Soap. Mint. He washed before coming here. He brushed his teeth and sweetened his breath. He wanted to impress — if he just intended to force you he would have done so already. 

(The bar is on the Emperor-damn floor, isn’t it?)

He moans, his head lolloping back. You weren’t expecting quite such a dramatic reaction, and a perverse sense of pride kindles in your chest. 

“Yes — yes, like that,” he moans, and shuffles back against the headboard, spreading his legs wider. “Keep going.”

For the next half hour, you perform the most nerve-wracking fellatio of your life. You lick his shaft, and mouth gently at his balls; your jaw cracks painfully as you manage to wedge his tip onto your tongue, using your hands to slick over what you can’t reach. The only indication that the Lion is enjoying himself is the occasional little huff or moan — and the pulse of his pre cum onto your tongue. The only words he utters are —

“Eyes on me. Keep them open — want to see —“

— and so you pin your eyes open wide and try to blink as little as possible. As your wrists are starting to ache, and your jaw is twinging, his breathing changes, growing sharper.

“Swallow me —“ he pants, and pushes on the back of your head. His cock rocks forwards into your throat, knocking against your palette, and you instinctively try to draw back. He holds you in place, his hips twitching up, trying to work himself deeper. He’s not going to fit — but he does not see it that way. He wants to fit, so he will. You gargle and choke around him, eyes beginning to water, and he just forces your head down again.

“Swallow — let me in —“

You gulp, hiccuping and choking, and his cock somehow sinks another few inches into your throat, stretching your gullet open. Your feet kick helplessly against the bed.

“So close — good girl — sweet girl —“

His words are disjointed; his hips stuttering forward.

“I’m —“

That’s the closest you get to a warning before he’s cumming down your throat; swallowing is less a choice, more unavoidable. He’s buried so deeply that his seed just spills inside. He keeps you held there, your lips sealed around his cock, until the last little oversensitive shiver.

Then, and only then, does he release you. You sputter and cough, mopping at your teary face, trying not to retch. 

“That was tolerable,” says the Lion. “Now, when you’ve finished your dramatics, get down there and do it again.”

[gallusrostromegalus]

Do mermaids exist in tpof?

There's exactly one "Classic" Mermaid. A pregnant woman on the west coast of Ireland was afflicted by a curse where she'd give birth to a Lingcod instead of a human baby, but since she was carrying twins, the curse was split between them. One sister has a human head, chest and abdomen, and from her pelvic girdle on she has the powerful and beautiful tail of a Blue Lingcod. She's the current record holder for long-distance swimming, starred in several movies and holds multiple modelling contracts- but she's always been notably jealous of her sister, who has the head and chest of a Lingcod but the pelvis and legs of a human and (the source of her sister's ire) a devoted husband.

There's a few things that European sailors could have mistaken for human women while they were on long voyages, dying of syphilis and scurvy too- Dugong and Dolphins both exist in great numbers in TPOFATGIF, along with some very large Mimic Octopodes. But the most likely, or at least, most startling candidate is a creature only described in 1996- Ziphiius andersoni, or "Anderson's Beaked Whale", after the first ...semi-credible witness.

Ziphidae is a family of deep-diving whales whales known almost entirely by beached corpses, and Z. andersoni holds the peculiar title of the most and least seen member of the family. No body has ever been found to examine, but the animal is (apparently) the subject of many amateur sightings.

Like most Beaked Whales, Z. andersoni is about 13 feet long, and shaped like an extremely hydrodynamic sweet potato- a sharply tapered head, tubular body with small pectoral fins and a minimal dorsal fin, and an similarly sharply tapered tail with small fins, and a mouth with only two teeth- a pair of overdeveloped lower canine teeth that form a pair of tusks. Unlike most marine life, Z. andersoni has reverse Cryptic camouflage- where most marine animals are darkly colored on the dorsal side and pale beneath to hide from predators in the open water, Z. andersoni has a large, bright white pattern on it's back that starts at the head and runs the length of it's spine and across the tail fin, and includes both pectoral and pelvic saddle patches. between the whale's darkened and unusually anterior blowholes and the gloom of the twilight waters they inhabit, Z. andersoni's peculiar markings bear a STARTLING resemblance to a human woman with a piscene tail.

The species is named after the famed Fairy Tale Author, Hans Christen Anderson, who in 1835 saw what he described as a "Mermaid" swimming near the surface of the North Sea coast near Hanstholm, Denmark, when out in a rowboat with a cousin on a summer holiday. The Mermaid was "Ghostly pale, with large, dark eyes that stared up at us as she passed. She circled the boat thrice, seemingly regarding us with sadness, before she vanished into a cloud of sea-foam and we could not find her again." This encounter inspired him to write The Little Mermaid the following year. Despite his and his cousin's insistence that the event took place exactly as described, it was largely written off by the general public, and Anderson was discouraged from sharing it by his publisher.

In 1996, a family had a similar experience while Kayaking, save that this time the encounter took place in the sunny clear waters off Baja, Nihofornia, and the family had a video camera. A juvenile Z. andersoni approached them, circled the family a few times and even hung out under them for almost 12 minutes. This video proof sparked international interest, with dozens of other pictures, videos and oral accounts coming forward about encounters with these strangely friendly yet elusive creatures.

Most Recently, an exceptional individual, thought to be an old bull from it's size (i and scarring was seen following underwater welders as they repaired an underwater naval installation, picking off the curious squid that came to investigate the lights. The Naval Engineers have nicknamed the animal "The Duke", short for "Ducolax" on account of one of the engineers realizing there was 16-foot long, multi-ton carnivore floating just over his shoulder and (understandably) shitting himself.

[zeravmeta]

"the missed potential of arc v is how it fucked up the ending/didnt expand on the yu boys or bracelet girls/didnt last long in the xyz dimension/ didnt do whatever-" shut up. the true missed potential of arc v is that it did not fully capitalize on how fucked up the dynamic between yuya, serena and shun could have been. shun is hanging out with two people who look exactly like the two most important people in his life but one of them killed his best friend and the other one was part of the organization that destroyed his life. yuya is stuck facing the ire of someone who is incredibly justified in his anger and at the same time barely understands how it even happened while also around serena who shares yuzu's face and is here Because yuzu sacrificed herself to let serena escape. serena has to deal with the fact that both of them wish she was someone else and for all intents and purposes they are stuck with her and she hates the situation just as much as they do but they'll die if they don't work together, and its not easy when you look like ones childhood friend/girlfriend and the other ones sister. like immediately after learning about the dimensional counterparts they are fully 100% in the know for which is which and yeah they have different clothes + hairstyles but like you're telling me that they didn't ONCE accidentally misname yuya or serena in a fit of rage or sadness? how can shun be angry at serena when shes the spitting image of ruri who was kidnapped. how dare yuya wear yutos face and steal his monster, hes not the best friend shun has been through hell and back with. yuya grieving over how yuzu was taken and some part of him cant help but blame serena, which is even worse because she looks just like yuzu. yuya having to actively cooperate with shun who wishes he were dead. serena once again being minimized by the people around her only instead of the professor trying to recreate the image of his daughter, shes stuck with two guys who cant even look her in the eyes for wildly different reasons. its a complete and total clusterfuck of projection, unhealthy coping, grieving, maybe selfcest?, and it could have been everything.

every argument on arc-v's missed potential shut up forever you will never be THIS missed potential.

[eldritch-spouse]

https://www.tumblr.com/eldritch-spouse/749681172914782208/i-want-to-know-how-many-monsters-spend-their?source=share

Imagine Santi's perfect match is that poor bastrad's friend.

The monster is just ranting about getting their heart broken by Santi and is mad at both Santi and their friend. Their mad at their friend because they did the one thing she told them not to do, never fall in love with a thot and their mad at Santi because he could've just been profesional and let them down gently instead of absolutely oblitirating their existence over text (lmao Gallon).

So one day she sees Santi working so obviously she goes over there to confornt him, "I know your buisness doesn't include any emontional factors but you don't have to be such a cold blooded bitch when you rejected my friend. You could've just said no like-" and she goes on a yap session about why she think what he did was wrong.

I think Santi would be overjoyed but also annoyed, like yay my match, but also why is she on my buisness, did my old client send her?

["How DARE you not date my pathetic wet cat friend??!??"]

While Santi would usually be pretty direct in these cases, telling you that his policy and limits are very clear, and that you need a day in his shoes (or lack thereof) to understand what it's like to deal with people who just can't buzz off or think that they're now entitled to his time and affection-

He's not even annoyed.

All the calmness in the world seems to be channeled by the incubus while you point your finger so hard at him you're almost touching him. Not very bright of you, a lesser demon might have snapped it. Santi insists that the two of you sit down to talk over this.

Then come the excuses. See, he has to be mean. When someone gets as in love as your poor (idotic) friend, a simple "I'm not available for a relationship" won't work effectively and neither will a "Piss off", the demon has to hurt them deliberately so that the rose-colored lenses shatter. Would you really prefer it if Santi had gently turned your friend down, only for said friend to keep trying over and over, getting their self-esteem destroyed in the long process? He was quick and merciful, if you think about it.

Ir's definitely very bizarre that he keeps looking so lovingly at you during this conversation. It might even make you guess that's why people keep falling in love with him, because he makes those swoons and sighs and casts infatuated eyes at his clients. But no, in this instance, they are as sincere as it gets. And Santi will try to hurry this conversation along so he can convince you to have him for the night. To see for yourself that there's no reason for someone minimally intelligent to fall in love from his services.

Though, naturally, the challenge is only a ruse, and Santi will treat you in a way that'll keep you addicted to him, coming back over and over, so that he has time to form a bond, to explain the concepts of matching to you. This will be more complicated than usual, he acknowledges it, but like Hell he's giving up.

[oftenwantedafton]

the new hire | steve raglan x female reader

rating | explicit

part 3/?

words | 3k

ao3 link

It feels different, opening up the restaurant alone the following evening.

You find yourself wishing for Steve’s presence for multiple reasons, not the least of which being at least it was somewhat comforting having another person beside you. You’d brought a flashlight this time, a little better prepared. It helps allay some of the discomfort as you proceed through the darkened dining room, glancing warily at the curtain shrouded stage before making your way to the back of the building. Once the lights are on you feel moderately better, trying to shake off your fears as you enter the security office.

As promised, there’s a folded pile of clothing waiting for you beside the keyboard that controls the monitors. A card bearing your name rests on top, the writing familiar. Raglan’s, of course. It seemed silly. Who else would be here? Who else but yourself would ever find these garments? The colors of the uniform aren’t so different from what you’d worn the previous shift. You realize you’d never told the social worker your size. You set the card down and lift the shirt, stretching it out in front of you. It seemed okay. Maybe a touch small. Same with the pants. Well, you’d make it work.

You glance around the room. Storage locker, coat rack, an out of date calendar and a poster of the lead mascots tacked to a corkboard on the wall. No windows. You should be safe getting changed here, but…you couldn’t shake the feeling you were being spied on. You bring the uniform with you to the nearby employee restroom and get changed in there, still feeling a little creeped out. The outfit does fit, albeit snugly. The buttons of the shirt strain more than you’d like. Not ideal, but again, who the hell was going to see you? It shouldn’t really matter.

This task completed, you return to the office and settle behind the desk. Your eyes scan the monitors for any signs of movement. Nothing. The card with your name still sits on the desk. You stare at the writing, debating about tossing it into the small wastebin beneath the desk, but it ends up in your pants pocket instead. You can’t say why. The business card remains on the desk. You figure in an emergency you’re going to want to have it readily accessible, not digging around frantically for it. Maybe you’ll bring tape and affix it near the phone permanently. That phone. So old fashioned. Still corded. You suppose it makes sense if this place had been shut for awhile. That was why everything seemed so out of date. Why would the owner bother replacing the older tech? Why didn’t they just sell the place, period? Even if its days as a pizzeria were long behind it, wouldn’t this piece of real estate sell for a good amount? Homes always needed to be built. It seemed foolish to just let it continue to rot here.

The hours drag and your mind wanders. You’d left the game token at home, remembering its presence after you’d gotten undressed. Such nimble fingers, performing that little trick he had. What others did Steve know? Oh, this is going to keep you occupied for awhile. Thinking about him leaning towards you. His mouth so close. You want to know what it feels like to have that facial hair brush your skin. Tickle between your thighs. Scraping and chafing and…

Something moved. That screen there, the camera focused near the stage. You swear you’d seen…yes. Right there. A shape moving in the shadows, hovering just beyond where the minimal lighting can reach.

Your heart pounds. What should you do? How had someone gotten in? You reach for the flashlight, considering the phone and the man you’d just been fantasizing about. You should call. You should tell him…what, exactly? That you think you see something moving? You can practically hear his ire now. Waking him up for that. You should at least check the situation out first.

You grab the flashlight and step into the hall. You feel like you’re making too much noise. You try to tred more gently. Maybe sneakers aren’t the best choice of footwear. Steve hadn’t specified what you should wear. You don’t have a large selection and you’d thought maybe something athletic would be…well. It sounded foolish now. Better to run in? Is that what you’re going to do?

What are you going to do if there actually is an intruder? Would you make it back to the phone in time? Should you even use the flashlight, make your presence known? Maybe you should use the shadows to your advantage, too.

You’re still agonizing over the decisions as you reach the dining room. Your steps slow to a crawl that you hope is somewhat stealthy. You squint. Maybe you’d been mistaken. Sleep deprived and distracted and…

A rabbit moves forward, the barest shift, still swathed in the darker recesses of the room. You can make out the outline of the giant mascot, this one missing half of an ear. The eyes glow with a dull silver light. You swear you can hear it breathing. Feel it watching you. Waiting for you to approach. Your blood runs cold. You’re frozen, immobile. Your palms grow sweaty and you nearly drop the flashlight. The tall animatronic has made no further movement. A standoff, just like in those old spaghetti westerns. Each person waiting for the other to draw first, hand to hip, gun in hand, bullet lodging in chest. It doesn’t seem likely that the robot could move faster than you, but then again, it doesn’t seem likely that a robot could have moved off the stage of its own free will.

The rabbit steps towards you, the foot meeting the carpet with a loud thud, the sounds of the internal servos whining a terrifying screech. You can barely discern the color of its fur, a sickly sort of putrid yellow-green. There are dark spots, holes that make you think more than just the ear is damaged. You swallow and your throat aches. You know you’re panting, not from exertion but from fear. You have to call Raglan. Right now.

You turn and rush towards the doors that lead to the employee restricted area. There is no sound of pursuit, but you’re not taking any chances. You don’t pause to look back over your shoulder, don’t stop until you reach the office, slamming the door shut and locking it. Wondering if you could move the locker, tip it to block the entrance and create a more secure barricade. You try to move it but have no luck. Too heavy. The chair would be useless. You can’t move the desk because of all the monitors. There’s nothing. You’re out of options.

You glance at the camera footage, paying particular attention to the one focused on the stage, where you’d seen the rabbit. Nothing there now. Was it in pursuit? You clamp a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the strained drags for air, letting your flared nostrils do all the work. Still too loud. You hold you breath, pressing your ear to the door. Nothing. Not a sound. Surely you would hear those heavy footsteps if the animatronic was approaching.

You lift up the receiver, the business card in your shaking free hand. Still wavering with indecision. Do you call? Is the job really worth risking your life over? In the end, you dial the number. It takes you several tries. You keep hitting the wrong sequence, your nervous fingers stumbling over the buttons. It rings. And rings. And rings. Was he deeply asleep? Did he have the ringer off?

“Hello?” The voice of the career counselor sounds a bit breathless, as if he’d rushed to answer. You’d been expecting him to sound irritated, drowsy.

“Mr. Raglan.” You’ve never actually addressed him before, but the formal approach seems best. You’re staring at the monitors as you speak, all of them now, in case the rabbit has moved to another area, but you don’t see anything suspicious. “There’s someone here. At least, I think they’re still here. I saw them on the monitors, then I went to go check and—”

“—Slow down. You saw who, exactly?”

“Um.” You bite your bottom lip, knowing how absurd this next bit is going to sound. “I saw one of the animatronics walking around. The rabbit.”

“You’re imagining things,” he says dismissively. “None of the robots can leave the stage. Bonnie is permanently stationed there, just like Chica and Freddy. You can’t have seen—”

“—It wasn’t Bonnie. He’s blue, right?” You’re staring at the poster of the trio on the wall. The shape was the same, but the color…

“Yes,” Steve replies, sounding hesitant.

“This one wasn’t blue. It was like yellow or green. And all messed up. One ear torn off. Holes everywhere, like the thing was trashed.”

“The animatronics can’t leave the stage,” he repeats firmly.

“Well this one did. Wherever he came from. Its eyes…they were silver. Weird looking, not like the others’.”

“None of the mascots have silver eyes. You’ve imagined this entire incident. You’re probably not getting enough sleep, I told you—”

“—I didn’t imagine it,” you interrupt. “I know I didn’t. I’m not crazy.”

“You expect me to believe what, one of the animatronics just came to life and decided to go for a stroll? No. You didn’t see anything. You’re confused.”

“I’m not.” You feel tears of frustration building in your eyes. He doesn’t believe you.

“You do realize the time, don’t you? It’s three ’o clock in the morning. I have to be up for work in two hours. So I can help people like you get a job.”

The man despises you. It’s obvious. “You said to call any time. You said you were a light sleeper.” Your voice sounds small, pitiful. Weak.

“Yes, I did state those facts. I did not say to call because your sleep addled mind decided to conjure up some mysterious decaying monster stalking the pizzeria.”

“You said to call…” Your voice trails off. You know how it sounds. You do sound hysterical. Had you really just imagined the entire encounter? Could you really create such a convincing, vivid scenario?

A heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “You want me to come down there?”

Oh? Maybe he didn’t despise you, then, if he was making this offer. Disappointed in, maybe. Exasperated by. But no outright hatred. “Could you? I’d feel better…”

“Fine. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Thank you, I really appreciate—”

The dial tone cuts you off. He’s hung up. You set the receiver down, glancing at the monitors. Nothing. Had you really made the whole thing up? You know you have some issues, but this? Really?

You’re torn between wanting to wait by the front door and hiding in the office. What if you were right, and something was still in the dining room, hiding, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. What if it attacked Steve?

What do you think you could do if it did?

Maybe it’s somewhere else. Somewhere closer. Stealthier than you’d thought. Ready to strike the moment you emerge from the office.

You heave a sigh of relief when you see the career counselor on the cameras. He’d taken a little longer than his claimed ten minutes. He’s carrying something. Cups? Something white clutched in each hand. You follow his path through the building with your eyes, anxious when there are no cameras to capture all of his movements. There is no view of the back corridor.

Something taps on the door. Not a human hand. A foot, kicking lightly. “It’s me. Unlock the door.”

You scramble to open it, another wave of relief flooding through you as you watch the career counselor enter, setting a pair of styrofoam cups on the desk. His eyes flick to you, first lingering on your face before tracking downward. You’re suddenly reminded of your snug work shirt and you flush.

“Let’s go look for your rabbit. Or did you want to stay here?”

“No. I’ll come with you.”

You bring the flashlight, this time determined to illuminate everything you can. Not sure if you’re more dissappointed that you don’t find anything than if you had proven yourself right. There were no signs of trespassing, nothing disturbed. You jump a little as Steve draws back the stage curtain, granting you your first up close and personal view of the trio of animatronics, but they remain motionless and look as dusty as the rest of the place. There are no footprints on the floor other than the ones you’re making now.

“Satisfied?” You nod reluctantly, snapping the handheld light back off. You walk back to the security office slowly, like a reluctant dog knowing it’s about to be scolded, tail tucked between legs. The older man perches on the corner of the desk, one hip cocked over the edge while you drop back into the chair. He lifts one of the cups and folds back the plastic lid shielding the opening, taking a sip. He gestures to the other one and you automatically lift it but make no move to drink. You think you’re going to struggle with sleep as it is; you don’t need an extra jolt of caffeine this late in your shift.

“Why aren’t you drinking your coffee?”

You look at the bearded man. He still looks remarkably well groomed, considering the late hour. Or early, depending on how you looked at it. He doesn’t look like a man who’s just been woken up, rolling out of bed, hastily preparing to leave the house. He’s already dressed in his office attire. It doesn’t really make sense. Nothing about tonight does.

“I don’t know if I should have caffeine at this hour.”

“Nonsense. It will do you good.”

You doubt that, but you find yourself unsealing the lid and taking a cautious sip. Too hot and extremely bitter. You wince.

“Prefer it sweeter, do you?”

“I probably would.”

Steve reaches into his pants pocket, digging out some packets of sugar.

“Thank you.” You reach for them but he yanks his hand back, much as he had done with the keys the previous evening, shoving them back into the depths they’d been stored in.

“Do you think you’ve earned a reward, after your behavior this evening?”

His voice is calm but you know better. You already know, in that short amount of time you’ve been acquainted, that this reserved, casual tone is far more dangerous than anything else he might exhibit.

You swallow thickly, setting the cup back on the desk. “Steve, I’m sorry, I honestly thought…”

“It’s Steve now, is it? Are we on such friendly terms?” He places his cup near yours, his lifted leg sliding off the desk. The older man stands beside your seated form, looming. “Are we that intimately acquainted, do you think?”

“I was just doing my job. Trying to keep the place safe. I’m really trying hard, I want to make this work. I’m tired of moving around and changing jobs.” It’s more of a confession than you’d intended on offering up.

If he’s moved by this insight, he certainly doesn't reveal it. “Are you that starved for attention, that you felt the need to make up such a wild story?” He’s gripping the back of your chair again, leaning close like he had yesterday.

“No, I didn’t…”

“Or did you just make up the excuse so I would come down here?”

“I…what? No, I…”

“You didn’t want to see me, then?”

You can hardly keep up with his accusations. How are you meant to answer? What is it he wants to hear?

“Be careful how you answer. Be very, very careful.” His face moves forward and for one heart pounding moment you think he’s going to kiss you, or bite you, or God knows what—he’s transformed, these last few moments, his eyes shining wildly, his mouth panting, glistening with spit, his demeanor no longer calm. He doesn’t look angry so much as hungry, ravenous, and the worst part is you don’t even care if he decides to rip your throat out right then. You feel his furnace-like heat, smell coffee and mint from toothpaste mingling on his breath, and you want to taste it, drink it in, let it wash over you, let him put his cruel mouth and his large hands all over you. You’d let him ruin you and thank him for it afterwards, if there was anything left of you to express gratitude.

Instead his mouth veers, avoiding yours and hovering near your ear instead, the sensation still pleasant when his breath tickles you there. “Don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you do.”

“I wanted to see you,” you whisper near his cheek, your lips brushing facial hair. Nearly a kiss. So nearly.

“How badly do you want me to sweeten that coffee for you? Would you beg me for it?” He draws back to see your features, savoring the need and want that must be so raw there.

“Please. Please give it to me.”

He smirks, his fingers sliding through your hair just above the nape of your neck in a gentle caress, then abruptly jerking your head back, your slack, startled mouth positioned just below his.

“You think you deserve it?”

You surprise both of you when your tongue bravely darts out, stroking across his bottom lip, painting a little wet stripe there. He growls, tugging until your scalp burns as the roots are strained, his mouth crushing yours.

You can’t stifle the moan that escapes you. His tongue moves everywhere, tangling and swirling, tight and loose, over and under, poking and prodding, stroking and exploring. You suck on his bottom lip and he nips at yours and then all too soon he breaks away, relaxing his grip, his breathing more ragged than ever, the blue eyes now black with desire.

He straightens, chest still heaving, and you want to pull him back down, guide him to all the places you need him most. You watch him drop a couple of sugar packets on the desk, the amount clearly smaller than all that he’s in possession of, and you suddenly understand the rules. You only get a small sample. A teasing taste, like the kiss he’d just granted you.

You’d have to work hard to earn more.

[bittersweetarts]

Fanfic Recommendations ✴ by bittersweetarts (Volume I)

Fandoms: Harry Potter (Books), House of the Dragon (TV), The Bear (TV), Criminal Minds (TV)

As much as I like writing fanfiction, I love reading it even more! I enjoy a beautifully-written story as much as anyone does, and recommend the following for those looking for a wonderful read that will make you feel like you're in another world –

dirty old town – Regulus Black x OC

Author: WizardGod

Status: Complete - AO3 Page

One of my favourite stories that I have ever read.

Set during the Marauders Era, the plot follows a young woman named Finn Lynch, who lives a reserved life in rural Ireland, until her uncle, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, asks her temporarily house a war defector from a Wizarding World she is not part of.

Word Count: 286,984

Tropes: Slow Burn, Mild Enemies-to-Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family

Thy Wicked Torment – Fred Weasley x OC

Author: this_pendent_world

Status: Complete - AO3 Page

You know it's a good fanfic when the writing actually makes you feel like you're in Hogwarts, and this story is impeccable!

Set during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, the story follows a young Slytherin named Evangeline Parkinson Rothchild, and the trouble she ends up finding herself in as she becomes involved with Fred Weasley, Gryffindor's resident troublemaker.

Word Count: 218,347

Tropes: Enemies-to-Lovers, Slow Burn, Angst, Found Family

Where the Gold Meets the Green – Aemond Targaryen x OC

Author: vhagarapologist

Status: WIP - AO3 Page

Well-written House of the Dragon fanfiction with romance, political intrigue and minimal Targ-cest?? Say less. This is a fairly recent-read and is still being regularly updated, but I am really enjoying it and look forward to reading new chapters when they come out.

The story follows Leona Lannister, the only surviving child of Tyland Lannister, during the Dance of the Dragons, as she navigates life in King's Landing and catches the eye of two Targaryen princes.

Current Word Count: 67,148

Tropes: Slow Burn, Enemies-to-Lovers, Angst, Toxic Relationship

The Fool and the Dragon – Aemond Targaryen x OC

Author: prince_aemond_targaryen / @prince-aemond-targaryen

Status: WIP (Almost Complete) - AO3 Page

The first Aemond Targaryen story that I adored (written before the episodes with him as an adult aired) - back when Season 1 was airing, I would re-read the chapters between the weekly episode premieres to tide me over; it's just that good.

Faune Follard, the valued lady-in-waiting of Princess Helaena Targaryen, navigates life in King's Landing whilst enduring the ire of the One-Eyed Prince.

Current Word Count: 99,899

Tropes: Slow Burn, Angst, Mild Enemies-to-Lovers, Toxic Relationship

How Can You Mend a Broken Heart – Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto x Reader

Author: justfantasy

Status: WIP - AO3 Page

Finding good Carmy fanfiction is akin to searching for water in a drought, and I do really wish there was more! This is my favourite one, but sadly there aren't many chapters and it hasn't been updated in a while.

Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto, a man of few words, has a one night stand which turns into something more.

Current Word Count: 11,345

Tropes: Friends-to-Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining

The Keeping of Words – Spencer Reid x OC

Author: BryWrites

Status: Complete First Version on Fanfiction.Net + WIP Second Version Re-Write on AO3

I read this story originally when it started being published seven years ago, and I was obsessed!

The story follows an aspiring human rights lawyer, Bianca Brown, as she is asked to assist on a BAU case and ends up finding herself intertwined with a member of the BAU, an elusive man named Dr. Spencer Reid.

Word Count: 264,402 (FFN) / 202,439 (AO3)

Tropes: Hurt/Comfort, Second Chances, Slow Burn

This list is not very long, but like said, these are stories that I really enjoy and feel passionate about. Evidently I prefer self-insert fanfiction, but I do read anything and everything. If you have a recommendation (for any fandom and any pairing), feel free to share in the comments!

I also write fanfiction myself, and my masterlist is linked below incase you'd like to give any story a read.

– Masterlist ✴ by bittersweetarts

Until next time, Happy Holidays!

PS. I still don't know how to respond to comments on posts (as this is a secondary blog), but I read and appreciate them all! If you ever want a direct response from me, you can private message me or send a question in my ask inbox.

[lemonhemlock]

Is it just me or is everyone's obsession with being "disappointed" in Alicent greatly exaggerated? It is true that most of these concerns were raised when the trailers were released, but it seems to me that episode 1 turned out to be pretty.... normal? God knows the writers flip-flopped on her reactions and objectives in the second part of season 1, but so far I think she had a pretty understandable characterisation?

She is angry with Aemond for killing Lucerys, but I feel like that's a pretty basic reaction? What was she supposed to do, congratulate him? He went to Storm's End on a diplomatic mission, after all. She does tell Otto that she understands Aemond's ire with Lucerys and even kind of excuses and minimizes what he did, because he never got justice for his eye. But it's a normal scolding mother reaction to not encourage these kinds of behaviours in one's children? Also, it's been, what, a week? She's allowed to be upset that Aemond goes on one (1) big boy errand and immediately loses his temper.

I also wouldn't be taking Aemond branding her "a fool" at face-value lol. This is the boy who will soon be executing children at Harrenhal and lighting the Riverlands on fire. Sometimes "holding love for your enemy" is not such a bad thing, Aemond!

She does light a candle for Lucerys in the sept, but this is, again, not that big of a deal? She is allowed to extend sympathy for the senseless loss of life and regret that it has come to this, without ~betraying her family, lol.

She accepts in front of Otto that there will be violence, but insists that it need not be senseless. I'm having a hard time understanding why this is such a controversial take. There are so many pieces of meta that people reblog constantly about how the Dance of the Dragons consists of wanton and unnecessary violence, but god forbid the same sentiment comes out of Alicent's mouth. 😂 Then she is branded a Rhaenyra-lover at the expense of her children. I'm not denying that the writers have a problem with separating her actions from gravitating around Rhaenyra, but wanting to prevent as many deaths as possible is not some woke take in the service of better-written female characters.

Similarly, of course she is still writing letters to Rhaenyra! You must never abandon diplomatic efforts if there is the slightest chance it will reduce bloodshed! Sure, you can argue that the narrative is also simultaneously assigning her the motive of (still) being love-sick about Rhaenyra, which can get grating, but I feel like fans fail to realise that killing off members of the black faction that they find annoying is always going to come at the cost of the smallfolk and other innocent people who have nothing to do with this quarrel. Sometimes you have to eat your tongue and make concessions in order to avoid military escalation.

[inkykeiji]

i love it when i hear you breathing, i hope to god you’re never leaving

characters: dabi | todoroki touya, takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut and angst

notes: aaaah oh my gosh!!! i can’t believe this series is finally finished! this is the third and final part of my tag you’re it series. thank you so much to everyone who stuck with me and this series throughout these two years; you all mean the world to me and i hope you enjoy this final piece! as always, please heed the warnings below and stay safe!! | title credit: tag you’re it by melanie martinez

part one | part two | part three

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, toxic relationships, drug use and abuse, overdosing, hospitals, blood, verbal fights, daddy kink, minimal prep, size kink/size difference, degradation/dumbification with a dose of praise, rough sex, biting/marking, dacryphilia, a hint of mindbreak

words: 14.9k

synopsis:

What is real? What is right? Does it exist in concrete terms, or is it some sort of continuum? Is it easily sorted and separated, like pans of paint on a palette, or is it all muddled and bleeding together, like strands of paint in a glass jar, irrevocably intertwined as they dissipate in the water and impossible to separate in any way, colour of the tainted water morphing depending on the angle the light hits it at?

Does it even matter at all, when your brother is in the hospital and your boyfriend, no matter how implicitly or explicitly, had a hand in putting him there?

It’s been three weeks since yours and Keigo’s accidental meeting on the track, three weeks since you’ve been meeting privately, behind Dabi’s back, three weeks that you’ve gotten absolutely nowhere in terms of any sort of ‘plan’.

It isn’t either of your faults, you think. Your time spent together is incredibly limited, which makes it incredibly precious, and neither of you particularly want to spend it discussing the difficult stuff—your brother’s addiction, and how to deal with it.

“I can buy my own food, you know,” Keigo jokes as you sit down across from him, crosslegged, knees bumping against his own.

“I know you can,” you say as you hand him a small bento, stuffed to the brim with rice and yakitori. “But you don’t.”

“Well—”

“And you don’t make your lunches, either,” you continue dryly. “I bet you haven’t made a single lunch for yourself since I moved out.”

“I mean—”

“Buying lunches from the convenience store doesn’t count,” you add, and Keigo has the decency to look sheepish, huffing out a soft chuckle as he regards you wearily through his lashes, a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck.

“You know me too well, songbird.”

“I’d hope so, I’ve only known you my entire life.”

Another laugh tickles his throat, this time sweeter, gentler, and his gaze softens a little, fondness melting his ire, a dirty finger reaching out to caress your cheek. Your head tilts instinctively, nuzzling into his touch, and his smile spreads, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You know you must talk about all of that difficult stuff eventually, can feel it all piling up at the back of your consciousness, growing larger and larger, heavier and heavier, as it slowly encroaches on the future, but it’s been so long since you’ve just been able to sit together.

It’s been so long since you’ve been afforded the luxury of just basking in each other’s presence, of just enjoying each other’s company, of just existing together that it now feels as though you must cherish every single moment, unwilling to waste even a second on something so unpleasant, so complicated and full of pain.

What used to be so regular, so routine for the both of you has now become something to be coveted and protected, each of you reluctant to break the delicate peace thinly glazing something hard.

“Thank you for this,” Keigo says as he looks down at the box in his palms. “It looks delicious.”

“It’s not much,” you shrug as you tug open your own lunch box, eyes focused on your actions and avoiding his own. “But it’s better than nothing.”

“It’s perfect, and I love it,” Keigo says warmly, his hand on your thigh prompting your gaze to his. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you murmur as you place a hand over his, a small grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’m glad you like it. I mean, it is your favourite, after all.”

“It is,” Keigo nods before craning his neck a little, peering into your lap. “And, uh, what’s in yours?”

You can’t help the fond little snort that barrels up your throat as you look down at your own lunch, a crude version of one of those picturesque bento boxes you’d find on Pinterest, the seaweed faces all muffed up, the heart-shaped rice balls lumpy and uneven, the small medley of vegetables messy and overflowing.

“Dabi made it,” you respond softly, still smiling down at the food, index finger tracing the plastic edge of the container. “They always look ugly, but they taste surprisingly good. He tries his best to make them look cute, but…”

“He’s too rough.”

“He doesn’t know how,” you correct. “But it doesn’t matter, I love them all the same.”

Keigo hums to himself, chopsticks clicking together before they dive into rice. “And he makes those for you every day?”

“Every single day. Even when he’s running late.”

“That’s…Uh, that’s really thoughtful of him,” Keigo chuckles a little, the sound drenched in incredulity, head tilting slightly. “Honestly, I’m surprised.”

“You don’t give him enough credit,” you say lightly, attempting to keep accusation from seeping into your voice.

Keigo scoffs at that, eyes rolling with a shake of his head. Yeah, sure, he doesn’t give the guy who emotionally manipulates his baby sister and dangles drugs in front of his face like he’s some sort of fucking dog ‘enough credit’.

“I’m serious,” you continue, an edge sharpening your voice. “He does a lot for me, Keigo.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t.”

“Really? Because that look in your eyes is telling me otherwise.”

“Look,” Keigo sighs, eyes closing briefly with the slow exhale of breath. “I don’t want to fight with you. Not here, not now. Let’s just…Can we talk about something else?”

Silence rings in the air, dense as it weights the atmosphere, and Keigo’s tongue sucks on his teeth as he waits, a desperate attempt to keep his criticisms safe in his throat.

It isn’t like he doesn’t recognize all that Dabi does for you; he does. He sees it, even it if makes his chest burn and his eyes sting and his heart ache, even if he wishes he didn’t. He can’t exactly deny that Dabi takes good care of you—in some respects, at least.

But that doesn’t negate all of the bad Dabi commits, too.

That doesn’t negate the fact that he’s a criminal, that doesn’t negate the fact that he’s highly and convincingly conniving, that doesn’t negate the fact that, while Dabi may take good care of you, Keigo takes great care of you.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, after a few moments of tense contemplation, chopsticks poking idly at your meal. “Yeah, sure.”

Reticence saturates your features, eyes forlorn and despondent as they watch your motions with idle disinterest, and guilt unfurls deep in the pit of Keigo’s stomach, thick and sticky like tar as it seeps through his tissues, encasing the surrounding organs in its suffocating embrace.

Swallowing thickly, Keigo pushes forward.

“Uh, so. How are your classes going? Are you sure you can be skipping class like this every week?”

“Oh, sure,” you shrug, eyes still downcast. “I’m ahead in this class. Actually, I’m ahead in all of my classes. Um, I’m doing better than I ever have been before.”

“You are?” Keigo asks, eyes wide, and it’s hard for him to stifle the notes of surprise ringing high in his voice.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Dabi really keeps on top of my schoolwork. I study every single night, all of my readings are done on time, I start all of my assignments early…” you trail off, chewing on the end of one of your chopsticks. “There isn’t really much else to do while—”

A frown laced with concern tugs at Keigo’s lips, his forehead wrinkling as he observes you carefully. “While what?”

“I—While Dabi works.”

“Works,” Keigo repeats slowly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “And what exactly does that entail?”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about him.”

“Well now I do.”

“Keigo, please—”

“Does he take you out with him?”

“No!” you shake your head vehemently, voice glassy and thin. “He leaves me with Jin most of the time,” you say, defensive. “Jin is a friend—he owns the convenience store at the base of Dabi’s building, and, uh…”

“Go on.”

“And he takes me to The League a lot.”

“The diner?”

“Yeah, they…I mean, they have meetings there, and stuff,” you say slowly, unsure of how much you should reveal to Keigo, of how much you’re allowed to reveal to Keigo. “And so I—I just do my work while they do all that.”

“They?”

“His friends.”

“And what about your friends? Do you ever hang out with them anymore?”

“His friends are my friends,” you respond dutifully, though there’s genuine warmth in your tone, a sweet little smile cracking through the hard dejection coating your face.

“Songbird…” he begins slowly, eyebrows pushed together and forehead creased with concern, and you can hear it, can hear him gearing up to deliver one of his signature Big Brother Lectures, one of his I’m-Older-and-I-Know-Better speeches, piercing stare overflowing with worry dipped in disapproval.

“Look, it’s fine,” you say dismissively, a distinct note of protection ringing clear in your voice. “It isn’t like I really had any friends before anyway, not when I was too busy—”

Too busy taking care of you.

You kill the rest of the sentence before it can reach your tongue, but it doesn’t matter. He already knows exactly what you were going to say.

And he already knows you’re exactly right.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The time to broach the topic finally comes during the next week, after the two of you have cleaned out your simple bentos for the day, when you can no longer keep it locked up anymore, can no longer continue with this pretty facade no matter how nice it is, the winter wind whistling down the desolate subway tunnel, long forgotten beneath the grounds of the university.

“Let me check you into a program, or something,” you beg, beseeching eyes rapidly scanning his features, little fingers digging into his biceps, flexing in your fervour. “Let me help make you better! I want nothing more, Kei-nii, I swear.”

“I can’t go into treatment, songbird,” he responds, desperately trying to rid his voice of that frustrated tremor, to keep his voice even and calm. “You know I can’t. The moment they catch wind of my addiction, my scholarship is gone—”

“So!”

“—Along with all of the opportunities that had come with it,” he continues, eyes hard.

“Well I mean, can’t they cover it up or something?” You cry, distraught. “Your coaches, or the crooked sponsors who already know, the ones who keep this secret for you?”

Dryly, Keigo shoots you a glare. “It’ll be very difficult to cover up a sudden prolonged absence.”

Begrudgingly, he has a point.

“Well what, then?” you ask, whole body deflating, leaning against him in your defeat. “What’s our plan? You said we’d make one—to beat this, to make it all better, to make it all right again, but—”

“I’ll do it on my own,” he says resolutely, and his voice is so strong, so sure that you can’t help but believe him. “Okay? I’ll take a week—next week—and I’ll throw it all away. Flush it, pour it down the sink, do whatever I can to get rid of it for good, and then I’ll weather the withdrawal.”

“Really?” you gasp out, both hands clutching his arm in their excitement, wide eyes shining with potent hope as they search his face. “You—You’ll be okay doing it alone?”

“Yeah, songbird, really,” a thumb swipes across your cheek, eyes liquid amber as they gaze at you. “I can do it. For you.”

“For you, too,” you remind gently, Dabi’s words ringing out clearly against the walls of your skull. He has to want to get better for himself, baby, or it’ll never work. No one else can do it for him.

“Yeah, for me, too.”

And, for a moment, it appears as though he has done it. Two weeks later, he looks better, sounds better, feels better, curls shimmering bright and gold, cheeks rosy and full of health, muscles beginning to swell as they regain strength, twining themselves protectively around his sharp bones.

You’re so elated by his apparent success, so in awe of it all, that you insist the two of you tell Dabi right away, desperate to share the good news with your boyfriend.

But it isn’t a good idea, Keigo tells you. Not now, not yet.

“Dabi has to see it for himself—Dabi needs proof. Telling him prematurely not only outs our little meetings here, but I can almost guarantee it’ll be met with a hefty dose of doubt.”

Eyes lidded with carelessness, Keigo mimics Dabi, doing a surprisingly good job, his voice flat and apathetic, his stare bored and jaded.

“Yeah, sure, he’s clean for now. But will he be clean in a week from now? A month from now? A year from now?” Keigo shakes his head. “Dabi needs to see that I’m truly doing this, that I’m dedicated to doing this.”

You suppose that makes sense. And you don’t ever want to do anything to put your niisan in danger.

But you, God, you’re so proud of him, so proud of the progress you think he’s made, so proud of the commitment he’s displaying.

Maybe Dabi will finally allow the two of you to start meeting again, as soon as he sees the dedication Keigo has to getting better, you’re chattering on animatedly one afternoon, head resting dreamily on your big brother’s shoulder.

Maybe, Keigo shrugs.

Maybe not.

Because while Keigo is getting better, and slow progress is better than no progress, he isn’t exactly as clean as you think he is, and Dabi knows it all the same.

He masks it well, he thinks. The plan you had concocted together had been to choose a week where Keigo would finally quit, cold turkey, no assistance at all (because he adamantly refused it), and stay home ‘sick’ as the withdrawal took it’s vicious toll on his body.

And he did, for the most part. He did go through withdrawal, he did stay clean for a moment or two, but he didn’t stop shooting, hasn’t stopped shooting; not technically, not entirely.

He’s just shooting way less now, the dosage only a smidge of what his body was accustomed to. It barely gets him high, barely makes him feel anything at all—nothing more than a tingling, wispy warmth reminiscent of that unparalleled bliss he loved so much—but it’s better than nothing at all.

Dabi had been intrigued, impressed, it had seemed, by Keigo’s sudden urge to cut down drastically.  

“What’s up with you?” he finally asks, the third time they meet after Keigo’s so-called ‘purge’, the reduced dosage held securely in his rough hand.

“What d’ya mean?” Keigo murmurs distractedly as he cards through the money in his wallet, counting it under his breath.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Dabi snorts, shuffling the small packets in his palm, accentuating his words.

“Oh,” Keigo glances up, fingers stilling. “Uh, just trying to quit, that’s all.”  

“Quit?” Dabi blinks in shock or surprise, Keigo can’t be sure which. Sapphire rakes over his body, slow and methodical, a smile slithering across his face as his gaze drifts back to Keigo’s. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Keigo swallows, desperate to keep his voice calm. “I—I’m trying to do it slowly. Lower the dosage until my body doesn’t need it anymore.”

“You know, that’s not really how it works,” Dabi begins, suspicion bleeding into his voice, eyes narrowing as he regards Keigo with a sweeping gaze, fingers curling into a protective fist over the drugs. “Besides, that’s a slippery fucking slope, Keigo. Sure, you’re doing it now, but what happens when something triggers you, huh? What happens when you suddenly need a higher dose, just today, just this once, because you’re stressed, or sad, or whatever the fuck it is. Hmm? You need to have self-restraint made of platinum to quit in this fashion.”

Shrugging, Keigo looks away. “Yeah, well, I’m trying this first. If this doesn’t work, I’ll try something else.”

And he hates the way his words quiver slightly, hates the way his voice rings tinny and high with lies, with terror.

Tilting his head, Dabi hums, eyes performing another full-body scan of Keigo. “And why the sudden change of heart?”

“What?”

“Why now? Why are you unexpectedly deciding to quit now, instead of after all those instances of your sister begging you to quit; after I told you to quit how many times? What changed?”

Keigo’s palms prickle with sweat, and his hands ball into tight fists, a desperate attempt to halt the tingling, fingers flexing as they unfurl again.

“I—I miss her,” he manages to stutter out, blowing the confession from his mouth in a gust of breath. “And I, uh, I want to do this for her. Your combined pleads took a little while to set in, I guess,” he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling at the thin skin, feigning contemplation. “But I hear what you’ve both been saying now, loud and clear, and I’ve decided you’re right.”

“Really?” And although the question sounds genuine, something sharp and dangerous glints in Dabi’s gaze; piercing, penetrative. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He can tell Dabi doesn’t buy it for a fucking second, eyes attempting to dissect Keigo’s mind, to pry apart the tangle of tissue and neurons and synapses and peer inside for the truth.

But he can’t.

“Alright,” he says slowly, the word soaked in incredulity, as he exchanges powder for paper. “Good luck, then.

“Thanks,” Keigo says flatly, already beginning to back away, inching towards his car. “And uh, hey, don’t tell my sister.”

Dabi’s eyebrows push together, forehead wrinkled with confusion. “The fuck? Why not?”

“Because I want it to be a surprise, you know, when I’m fully clean. I don’t want her to know anything until I’ve made it.”

Dabi stares at him for a moment, another one of those invasive, assessing looks where he attempts to decipher Keigo through his expressions alone,

It’s only after Dabi’s car is long gone that Keigo can breathe normally again, heart abandoning its venture to shatter his ribs and flatten his lungs. His head drops in relief as the tension in his neck ebbs, his forehead pressed tight to the steering wheel.

He’s safe; for now, at least. He knows Dabi isn’t at risk of discovering yours and Keigo’s secret meetings, because you wouldn’t dare tell him and risk upsetting him—or, worse, getting yourself and your brother into some serious trouble—and he knows Dabi won’t tell you about Keigo continuing to purchase drugs from him, because you don’t ask—won’t ask, have no reason to ask, have no reason not to trust in your big brother’s truths—and Keigo trusts, for some inexplicable reason, that Dabi will not tell you about their questionable conversation today, not until he figures out what’s really going on, anyway.

And, sure, Keigo feels guilty lying to you, misleading you in such a manner, but it isn’t like he plans to keep this up forever. Besides, he’s nearly clean anyway, isn’t he? He may not be there in it’s entirety yet, but he is doing better and progress is progress, even if it isn’t as much progress as you’re giving him credit for. He will quit eventually, he swears it. He will kick the habit, permanently, he knows it.

He just needs a little more time.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

It’s always the most inconspicuous things that do it, that set something off, that give something away, that indicate that something isn’t quite right.

The question comes late one night, after you’ve both finished cleaning up the small kitchenette, as Dabi’s putting away Tupperware containers.

It’s asked innocuously enough, imbued with a touch of genuine curiosity, voice muffled by the cabinet his head is currently buried in.

“Where the hell are all our bento boxes disappearing off to?”

“Uh,” you blink, mind taking a moment to register the question, the shock—and stupidity—of you’re failing to realize that this might be a red flag numbing your brain. “What?”

“Our bento boxes?” Dabi repeats as he stands, turning to face you, eyes performing a singular sweep across your face. “We’ve gotta be missing like, half of them now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Dabi scoffs. “I bought them specially for you. They weren’t fuckin’ cheap, and I know how many I bought.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly, chest beginning to tingle with adrenaline. “I—I don’t know, Daddy, I didn’t even realize we had any missing. Maybe I left some in your car?”

“Pretty sure I would’ve noticed dirty containers in my car if there were any,” he retorts dryly.

“Um,” you hum, desperate to keep your expression from giving you away—to keep your mouth from trembling and eyes from widening—features scrunching in mock thought. “Well, then maybe I left some at school! I’ll check with each of my profs throughout the week and see if they remember finding any.”

Skepticism shines bright and blue in his narrowed eyes, stare steadily holding your own. It feels as though he’s trying to dissect you with his eyes as his sole tool, to tear the skin from your face and split your skull and peer inside, searching for the answer he’s looking for, searching for the truth.

“This isn’t like you, princess,” he says slowly, each word a deliberate thought, handpicked. “You aren’t usually forgetful. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you respond instantly, the word barely more than a huff of breath. “Nothing, I just—Maybe I’m just stressed, you know? Midterms are coming up and all that, so…”

“There’s been a lot of maybes peppered throughout your sentences today. Is there anything you know for certain?”

You know he can tell, can see it shimmering in your eyes, gaping and alert; can see it wavering in your smile, artificial and stretched too tight across your cheeks.

A lie.  

“Hmm?” he presses.

Shoulders raising in a defeated shrug, you shake your head, sucking on your tongue. He scrutinizes you for another moment more, sapphire performing one final sweep across your features, slow and thorough, before he nods to himself—just once, a sharp and short motion—and turns away.

If there’s anything he knows for certain, it’s that you’re hiding something. The only question is what.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

“Are you sure this is really necessary?” Tomura’s asking as he exhales steady streams of smoke from his nostrils, regarding Dabi blankly through the haze, crimson eyes watching through lidded lashes while Dabi paces the length of his car—back and forth, back and forth, a restless panther waiting and ready to strike—in the dimly lit diner parking lot.

“Yes,” Dabi snaps. “They’re both acting too weird; it’s too much of a coincidence.”

“It’s missing bento containers and a guy who’s cutting down on his drug use, actually. It’s entirely plausible the two have absolutely no connection to each other whatsoever.”

“You don’t get it,” Dabi nearly snarls, stride halted to whip around and face his friend. “Alright? You didn’t see the two of them, their eyes…There was something odd, wrong, in their eyes. And their voices, too. They sounded, I dunno, fake.” False. Off. Tinny and artificial and quivering ever-so-slightly with the restraint of hiding something.

“Are you…Did you take something?”

“You know I don’t do that anymore,” Dabi seethes.

“Yeah, yeah, right, but I just thought…” Tomura trails off, shrugging, the cashmere of his sweater catching on the brick wall behind him. “Dunno. Thought the stress might be getting to you, or something. Thought a few lines might take the edge off, maybe, but you know how coke can make you paranoid—”

“I’m not high, Tomura. I haven’t been high since—”

“Yeah, I know,” Tomura rolls his eyes. “But you’re acting a little weird, that’s all. Agitated. Jumpy. Could’ve been a possibility, whatever.” Flicking at the cigarette resting on his knuckle, Tomura disregards the idea, tendrils of smoke curling delicately in the air between them. “I still don’t see the correlation between these events, though.”

“You don’t need to see the correlation, for fuck’s sake,” Dabi finally explodes, throwing his arms in the air. “You only need to help me.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do,” Tomura warns, something sharp slashing through ruby irises. “You may be my best friend and all, but I’m still technically your fucking boss.”

“Your dad is my fucking boss, actually,” Dabi corrects, smugness temporarily melting his frustration, an eyebrow raised in playful challenge. “But details don’t matter, this has nothing to do with work. This is simply one friend asking another friend for a favour.”

Running his tongue along the front of his teeth, Tomura stares at the man in front of him, contemplating. After a moment, he pushes himself up from his slouching position, a resigned sigh heavy on his chest.

“Alright, fine. But when this turns out to be nothing, I get to tease you for being a fucking lunatic.”

It won’t be nothing. Dabi can feel it in his soul.

And, as always, he was right.

“That fucking bitch!” Dabi screams when Tomura delivers the news outside of one of his father’s warehouses, features screwing into a wince as his best friend’s fist collides with the closest car window, glass shattering upon impact. “I knew it! I knew she was hiding something from me!”

Dabi’s had enlisted in Tomura to tail you for roughly five days now, documenting every single thing you do from the moment you arrive on campus to the moment Dabi—or one of Dabi’s friends—picks you up.

And on the following Tuesday, this Tuesday, he hit the fucking jackpot.

“How dare she! After all I’ve done for her, you know? After everything I’ve done for her and that good-for-nothing pathetic brother of hers…” Dabi shakes his head, tufts of ink bouncing violently with the motion before sharp teeth pull a cigarette free from a weathered cardboard carton, the corners worn and fraying. “And this is how they repay me? By sneaking around behind my back and fucking lying to my face about it? By disobeying the most important rule I’ve set?”

Scarlet oozes from his knuckles, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. His skin sparkles as unsteady hands pat his body in search of an opening, microscopic shards of glass still embedded in his skin. Trembling fingers pull a silver Zippo free from his pocket and whip it open, thumb missing the flint wheel twice, a growled curse rumbling in his throat.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Tomura says as he sits perched on the hood of his parked Maybach, a burger in his lap and grease shining on his fingers. A nod of his head motions for Dabi to come closer, soft palms cupping Dabi’s blood streaked hand and igniting the Zippo with ease, steadying the flame as Dabi leans in to torch his cigarette. “You were right. I can’t fucking believe it.”

“Of course I was fucking right!” Dabi roars through a dense shroud of smoke.

“So, now what?” Tomura asks as he nibbles on his burger bun. “What do we do?”

“Oh, it’s a we now, is it?”

“Would you rather it not be a we?”

“No,” Dabi responds through a begrudging frown. “Your help is valuable.”

“Thank you.”

“Honestly, I should fucking kill him for everything he’s done, for such disrespect,” Dabi seethes, nostrils flaring, that tense fury unable to hide the distinct crack at the end of his words. “I should bash his fucking skull against a brick wall.”

“Sure,” Tomura says easily, examining a piece of wavy lettuce before pulling it free and throwing it to the dirt floor. “He deserves to be dead. But what would she think? How would she react?”

“She’d be better off if he just wasn’t in her life anymore.”

“Maybe,” Tomura agrees. “But that doesn’t change the fact that she’ll never forgive you if you kill her big brother.”

“I could make it look like an accident,” Dabi says.

“You could try,” Tomura corrects. “But you know just as well as I do that staging accidental deaths is no easy feat.”

“He’s a fucking junkie,” Dabi says, as if this is obviously the answer to all of his problems. “Slip some fentanyl in his smack and bam! Dead within minutes.”

“She’d know it was you.”

“How?”

Tomura sighs, index finger rubbing at one of his eyes.

“Dabi, for as well as you know her, she knows you, too. Do you really think you could look her straight in the eye at her brother’s funeral and tell her you didn’t have a hand in it? While she’s sobbing over the man you despise so much, the man who has caused her so much suffering—who still causes her so much suffering—do you honestly believe your eyes or your voice won’t betray you?”

A growl rattles his ribs, facial features crunched together in a tight glower. Holding his blazing stare with ease, Tomura raises an eyebrow in question, smugness tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Fine, fuck,” Dabi finally erupts with an exasperated gasp, viciously turning away from his best friend and raking both hands through his hair, nails audibly scraping against his scalp as his fingers curl, tugging at the roots.

“Well then, what, huh?” he’s asking as he spins back around, voice straining under desperation, sapphire frantic as it searches Tomura’s face for an answer. “What? Because I’m all out of fucking ideas.”

“Threatening him might work.”

Dabi shakes his head. “I’ve tried that. I even took away his most precious possession. Nothing seems to get through this motherfucker’s head.”

“Well, not quite.”

“What?”

“Not quite. You haven’t truly taken away his most precious possession, have you?”

“Heroin?”

“Yeah, cut him off or something. He told you he was trying to quit, didn’t he? That he was on the way, or whatever. Why don’t you help give him an extra push?”

“And if he goes to find it somewhere else?” Dabi questions.

“My father will know,” Tomura’s lips curl up into a sinister smile, crimson eyes practically glowing. “And so will we.”

    ✰          ✰          ✰        

Dabi doesn’t go home. Dabi can’t go home; not like this, not with the way his heart rages against his ribs and singes his chest, not without losing his entire fucking mind on you and spoiling his whole plan.

Instead, he pays Keigo a much-needed visit.

The terror-tinged surprise that saturates Keigo’s features when Dabi turns up on the other side of his front door is almost laughable—in fact, Dabi’s sure he would laugh if his insides weren’t boiling in his own rage—Keigo’s body gone loose and pliant in its shock, making it exceptionally easy for Dabi to wrap a hand around his bicep and yank him through the doorway of that godforsaken house.

“Get in the car,” he’s saying as he shoves Keigo towards the Eldorado, buckles of his boots jingling daintily as his heels collide with concrete.

“What?” Keigo asks as he stumbles to a stop, the question nothing more than an incredulous huff of breath.

“Get in the car,” Dabi repeats, slow, calm, cold, stare holding Keigo’s over the roof of the car. “Or I will put you in the fucking car.”

The drive isn’t long—maybe a mere twenty minutes or so—but it’s to an area of the city that Keigo has never visited before; an area with cracked asphalt and orange caps littering the dead grass, an areas with sun-washed plastic slides and rusted swing chains; untended, uncared for, and forgotten.

Rocks pop beneath the tires of the Eldorado as Dabi pulls into what might have been, once upon a time, a park, the lot full of faded concrete with peeling white paint and thorny weeds sprouting up through the fragmented cement, the field an unruly tangle of jade with a chain link fence that leads to nowhere.

“Get out,” Dabi instructs. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Using his teeth to pull a cigarette free from a veiny cardboard box, Dabi begins to stroll along the warped fence, Keigo starting a little in his haste to catch up to him. The sharp twinge of metal slicing against metal as Dabi whips his Zippo open makes Keigo cringe, the harsh sound piercing the thick atmosphere.

“So,” Dabi finally says, puffing the word out with a heavy cloud of smoke. “I know what you’ve been doing.”

Frowning, Keigo blinks at him, eyebrows furrowing slightly in confusion. “What are you—”

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me, Keigo. Not today. I don’t have the patience.”

The sentence, while flat, has an edge of warning to it, complemented by Dabi’s look of caution, thrown at Keigo through the side of his eye.

Chest deflating, Keigo slumps forward, head hung shamefully between his shoulders. “How’d you find out?”

“Does it matter?” Dabi stops suddenly, turning to face him. His tone is bored, almost indifferent in a way, but Keigo can see it: that restrained anger, wavering sapphire flames burning bright in his eyes.

Lips pressed together, Keigo holds his blazing stare, waiting for him to continue.

“Surely you must’ve known I’d find out eventually,” Dabi laughs a little, and it’s cruel, mean, mocking. “Surely you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep such a secret from me for very long.”

Maybe Keigo did. Maybe, on some deeply subconscious level, Keigo knew this would happen, knew this would be the end result no matter which way they tried to spin it, because it’s the only result it could’ve ever ended with.

Maybe not. Maybe Keigo was foolish—he has always had a streak of dreamer in him, after all—maybe Keigo was hopeful, desperate, that this would all somehow work out in the end, that the power of your love and your hope and your sheer, steadfast belief in him would enable him to magically quit, to kick the habit forever without any assistance or hard work at all—and everything would go back to normal.

He answers with a shrug, expression saturated in a sort of ambivalent confusion, and Dabi’s nostrils twitch.

“Fucking look at me.”

With a flexing jaw, Keigo’s head lifts slowly, his stare nearly dead, exhausted, but there are cinders of anger, frustration, maybe even hatred smoldering in those golden eyes, flaring as they meet the flames licking along Dabi’s pupils.  

They’re extinguished almost as quickly as they’re ignited, though, weak flickers snuffed out by the smug smirk on Dabi’s face, and his features sag under the weight of dismal weariness.

“Just...Whatever you do, don’t hurt her, alright? It wasn’t her fault.”

His voice is quiet, resigned, though it isn’t enough to mask the delicate tremor sewn into his words—something full of defeated fury, of disquieted frustration as Dabi comes stomping through his life with his big black boots and crushes it all to dust, burns it all to ash, breaks it all again, because that’s what he’s best at.

“Hurt her?” Dabi’s voice raises in sincere surprise. “You know I’d never.”

“I don’t mean physically,” Keigo clarifies, topaz solidifying in his eyes; hard, gleaming.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Dabi dismisses with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Because she isn’t going to know about this at all.”

“What?” Keigo spits, eyes narrowing with sharp suspicion. “What are you—”

“Because you and I,” Dabi continues, speaking over Keigo, voice clear and strong. “Are going to make a deal.”

Blood turns to ice in his veins, frost lacquering his bones, and Keigo’s body freezes, the hinges of his jaw creaking as he forces the word from his tongue.

“A-A deal?” Keigo pants out, breath trembling slightly.

“That’s right.”

Something vicious glints in Dabi’s eye—something sharp and dangerous, half-submerged in sapphire—and his mouth stretches into an abnormally large smile, spread so deep and tight across his face it looks as though it’s been carved into his cheeks.

A gust of wind tangles in the bare branches of a nearby tree, bark knocking together, and Keigo shudders, the breeze like a million little pinpricks piercing his clammy skin.

“You want to get clean, right? I mean, you’re trying to get clean, aren’t you? On the way to being completely sober and all that; that’s what you told me, is it not?”

“Yes,” Keigo says slowly, cautiously, as if the letters are navigating a field of landmines, one wrong intonation and he could trigger a fucking explosion.

“I’m going to help you.”

Dabi’s voice has suddenly turned amicable, as if it’s been shocked back to life from the indifferent, bland anger it contained only moments ago, now vibrant with this control, gleeful with this power.

“Help me?”

“I’ll allow you to keep seeing your sister on one condition,” Dabi pauses, and Keigo’s too petrified to ask, rooted in place, breath held stagnant in his lungs. “From this day forward, you will never take another drug for as long as you live.”

And, just like that, Keigo’s whole world, teetering precariously on the point of a needle, comes toppling down.

“One single slip-up, one teeny, tiny mistake—one shot, one snort, one swallow and I can promise you, you will never see your baby sister again.”

Frantic topaz flies across Dabi’s face, rapid as it searches his expression for any indication that this isn’t real, isn’t true, isn’t happening. His thoughts flow in hasty conjunction with his gaze, frenzied brain working desperately to figure out an immediate loophole.

His breath is coming faster now, short, sharp, uneven huffs shoved from his mouth as panic claws up his throat. No. No. This can’t be happening right now—there’s no way this is happening right now, because he’s not ready yet. He’s not ready to give it up yet, not ready to face reality without it yet, the thought of his addiction being prematurely ripped from his palms inspiring another bout of thick dread to course through his veins, drenching any remaining flickers of anger.

Keigo tries to tell Dabi this, to explain that this is all happening too quickly, too suddenly, that he needs more time, just a little more time, he swears—but his voice whimpers in his throat, sentiments rendered nothing more than pathetic squeaks of breath.

“If I find out you’ve purchased even one tenth of a fucking milligram of any narcotic I swear to the good Lord himself, I will take your sister so fucking far from this country that she won’t even know where the fuck she is. Do I make myself clear?” Dabi pauses, allowing Keigo a moment to respond with a mechanical nod.

“And I will find out, Keigo,” blue eyes shimmer with mirth, that sharp glint practically glowing now, so strikingly brilliant Keigo has to look away, a malicious laugh rattling around in Dabi’s mouth. “I own this fucking city now.”

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The front door swings open with a vigorous flourish, the fork between your fingers slipping from your grasp and clattering against the warped hardwood floor.

“Gosh, Daddy,” you breathe, a palm pressed to your racing heart, a hesitant smile tugging at your lips. “You scared me!”

He says nothing as he stalks towards you, a large grin stretched tightly across his face, sapphire eyes shimmering in the low light, irises seeming to swirl with something akin to delight, darkened with delirium.

“What’re you—”

Calloused hands seize your face the moment they’re close enough, slim fingers hooked behind the hinges of your jaw as they drag you toward their owner. Sharp teeth suck your bottom lip between their edges, sinking into your soft flesh and keeping it captive as Dabi’s tongue caresses it in slow, fat strokes.

Copper floods your mouth, the strength of the bite forcing a squeal from your throat into his, Dabi’s tongue dipping into the warm heat to soak up your blood—to stain his own flesh with it, to suck it in and swallow it down, to keep it inside of him; a small piece of you, infused in thick sticky crimson that seeps through his tissues and into his soul.

“Hi, princess,” he breathes as his forehead presses tightly to your own, eyes so brilliant and bright with exhilaration it’s almost as if they’re glowing.

“Hi,” you can’t help but laugh a little around the greeting, your gaze searching his face in happy confusion as your arms twine around his neck, pulling your body closer to his.

Breathy little giggles laced with mania waft across your face as his palms find your ass, fingers flexing against the supple flesh before he’s hefting you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, ankles hooked and heels digging into the dips at the base of his spine.

And then, he begins.

It’s almost elegant, the way he twirls your clinging bodies around the tiny kitchen to whatever invisible, silent tune is playing within the walls of his skull—something that you are not privy to, something that has him feeling elated—narrowly missing the corners of cabinets and the edges of counters as he goes, movements fluid and effortless.

But it doesn’t matter that you can’t hear the melody, the song in his head supplemented by your intertwined laughter, the sweetest music either of you could ever ask for, notes full of amusement and affection as it encases your conjoined forms, blanketing the atmosphere and filling it with the warmth of love.

The front door is still hanging open, dull yellow light from the hallway spilling into Dabi’s small apartment and alighting it with a hazy glow.

“Dabi, Dabi, the door!” you’re laughing out as he whirls toward it, skillfully using the ball of his foot to kick it shut as he ends his performance with a graceful spin and slots you up against the surface, trapping you between the cool metal and his body.

“What has gotten into you?” you’re asking as your chests heave together, eyes searching his face for any indication of an answer, residual amusement still tinging your words.

“I love you, that’s all,” he responds simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I love you, and I’m happy you’re mine.”

“I am happy to be yours,” you say softly, a hand moving to brush a strand of ink out of his eye.

“Good,” he whispers, nose nudging yours slightly. “That’s exactly how it should be.”

The claim is sealed with his lips, over and over as they stamp their claim across your flesh using broken blood vessels and thick saliva.

His teeth are ruthless as they mar your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, leaving superficial splices across your soft skin, little slashes that weep blood. His lips are gentle as they kiss the blood away, murmuring affirmations of love into the wounds, strokes of scarlet staining his flesh.

Calloused hands explore the curves and contours of your body—the notches of your spine and the ridges of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts and the bends of your tummy, rough fingers dipping between your dress and your skin to tug at the material.

Daddy can’t wait but it seems, neither can you.  

“I need you, baby,” he nearly whines, pet name cracking in desperation. “I need you, I need you right now.”

“Take me,” you’re gasping, little hands pawing at his clothing, trying to pull him closer. “Take me, take me, I’m yours!”

“Get my cock out,” he’s demanding, your hands moving to obey before the order has fully left his lips.

It’s difficult, in the position that you’re in, to wiggle your hands down to his belt and pick away at the buckle, flakes of cracked white leather collecting under your nails as you claw at it.

But you succeed, of course, because you will always succeed when it’s him who’s asking, silver buckle clanking heavily as it hangs open and limp. A hiss of air rushes down your throat as one of your nails chips on the brass button of his jeans, but the injury doesn’t hinder you in the slightest, avid to please.

“Good girl,” Dabi’s purring as your dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock and finally pulls it free from the confines of his clothing. The simple praise inspires a dreamy little giggle, and you gaze at him, eyes lidded with lust and love, giving his cock a gentle squeeze before pumping it twice.

“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, cobalt fading to navy as he crushes his lips to yours again.

It’s like he can’t get enough of you, like he’s been starved for you—your tongue and your attention and your cunt—for an eternity, calloused hands graceless as they ruck up your dress, fabric bunching around your hips. Removing your panties is deemed too time consuming, as is his usual method of tearing them to pieces, deft fingers shoving their way between your tightly pressed bodies to push the soaked lace aside, revealing your cute little hole.

It’s all so much, his tongue on your neck and his teeth in your flesh and his cock bumping against your ill-prepared hole, the whimpers spilling from his lips as his hips nudge forward with pathetic precursory mini-thrusts, the smoky sweet scent of smoldering hickory and spicy nicotine that’s invading your nose and mouth and lungs and brain like some sort of parasitic addiction: a haze that consumes your mind and body and soul, a haze you endlessly crave more of.

Everything aches as his cock splits you open, sensitive skin ripping while his cock carves itself into you.

“Da-Daddy,” you wail, head falling forward to bury your face in his shoulder, little fingers twisting in the tufts of hair at the base of his skull. “It’s—It’s so big!”

“Shh, shh,” he hushes you, but you can hear it, the sadistic smile in his voice, laced with a sick kind of pride. “Daddy’s almost in, you can take it for him, can’t you?”

You can, of course you can, he knows you can.

Usually, he shoves the whole thing in with one single thrust, hard and fast. But today he chooses to take his time, all of his previous urgency seemingly pacified the moment the head of his cock is inside of you, Dabi opting to savour every fucking inch as he pushes into your cunt, slow and steady.

It only prolongs the pain, fissured flesh tearing itself open more and more with each leisurely second that passes, and your head falls forward, face smushed tightly into his neck, the sweetest little whimpers spilling from your throat.

Tears burn your eyes as he finally bottoms out, heavy balls pressed flush to your bottom, your raw hole fluttering a little in pain, sending tiny stinging spears shooting through your gut.

“Look at that, huh? Such a good little whore for her Daddy, aren’t you?” he practically purrs, breath sweltering against your damp skin. “Crying like a little baby and acting like she can’t take it, when she fucking loves to take it,” he tsks, almost as if he’s admonishing you for such behaviour.

“Daddy,” you whine, the world garbled with spit, tears clinging to your lashes. A dull throb roots itself deep at the core of your body, beating in erratic rhythm with your heart.

“Go on,” he breathes as his hips begin to draw back torturously slow, tender cunt aching with the motion as his shaft grinds against the micro-cuts, velvet feeling as rough as sandpaper. “Tell me. Be honest, and tell me how much you love to take my cock.”

And despite how much it fucking hurts, his words inspire a small, dim spark in the pit of your stomach, veins beginning to tingle gently.

“I—I love to take your cock,”

“How much?”

The question is growled out through clenched teeth as he rams back into you with such force that it sends your body skidding up the door, head bouncing against the surface with the motion.

“So much!” you cry out instantly, eyes shut tight and face screwed up in pain. “So much, so so so much, Da-Daddy, I—”

“Open your eyes, princess,” he orders softly, your lids lifting to reveal brilliant sapphire gazing back at you, tremoring with excitement, with the power coursing through his veins, your Daddy already high and heady on the control he holds over you as you instantly obey. “Daddy wants you to look at him when you tell him how much you love taking his cock.”

Crystal teardrops roll down your cheeks, thick trails of salt water sparkling in their wake. Your nose twitches in your effort to calm down, to stop crying, a hitched affirmative stuttering in your throat.

His hips are pulling back again, unhurried in their movement as his bright gaze sears into your face, eyes unblinking and alight with twisted excitement.

“I love—I love taking your cock so much, Daddy, it—Ah!” you manage to hiccup out just as his hips slam forward again. With gritted teeth, your eyes close briefly and breathe out, slow and controlled, your throat stinging as you stubbornly swallow the tremble in your voice, a steely breathiness replacing it. “It’s my favourite thing to do, Daddy, wanna take your cock every day for the rest of my life, Daddy.”

“Christ,” he exhales, the curse infused with an airy chuckle, lips spreading into a grin, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you. “You’re so perfect, baby,”

Something warm and bright blossoms in your chest, ribs swelling with it.

“Jus’ wanna be good for you, Daddy,”

He laughs again, eyes darkening, something sinister glinting in his smile. “We both know that’s a lie,” he grunts as his hips rock again. “But that’s okay, because Daddy loves his perfect little brat so much. Besides,” he whispers, voice dropped to a smooth murmur as his lips caress your ear. “Brats are a helluva lot more fun than good girls, anyway.”

You aren’t given a moment to respond as his hips begin to piston, hard and fast and sudden, any answer to his remark morphing into a loud whine in your chest.

The pain has mostly faded now, any residual shocks promptly chased by flares of pleasure, cunt growing wetter and wetter with each drag of his cock.

Your chins slide against one another, slicked with thick saliva, and his front tooth catches on your bottom lip, hard enough to nick the flesh. Blood oozes from the wound instantly, but Dabi is sure not to waste a single drop, the tip of his tongue running along the fine line of scarlet and lapping it up.

Your mouth, licked raw and sliced up, doesn’t even hurt anymore, small cuts and bruised flesh buzzing as Dabi crushes his mouth to yours again, exhaling copper-tinged breath onto your tongue.

It’s all so potent, so intoxicating, so desperate as you gasp, viciously sucking air from his lungs into your own, gulping down his essence and holding it against your heart—bright and burning and blue, full of him—protected by a cage of ivory.

Your nails rip into his flesh through the thin cotton of his shirt, starved for him as they gorge on his shoulders, fingers digging deeper and deeper into the muscles with each ruthless piston of his hips.

He loves it, too, that thin, almost delicate streak of masochism that runs through his soul shimmering in the dim light as your vying hands force a deep groan from his chest, the sound vibrating in your mouth, rattling your teeth.

It’s so good, he’s so good, and you want more, because too much is never, and will never, be enough.

“More, Daddy, more, more!”

“My greedy fucking girl,” he pants, pupils cavernous and carnivorous as they devour your precious little expressions; the way your nose scrunches and eyes roll white and mouth hangs open, emitting sugary sweet sounds in hot little huffs of air. “So needy, huh? So fucking desperate for Daddy’s cock and Daddy’s cum, aren’t you?”

“S’all I want, Daddy,” you nearly sob, head nodding stupidly to accentuate your point. “S’all I ever want,”

“That’s all, yeah? That’s all that’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, isn’t it?”

“Jus’ wanna be your perfect lil slut, Da-Daddy!”

“Cum on my cock, then,” he demands, pace never slowing. “Show Daddy how good you are and cum on his cock.”

Each pump of his hips, each brush of his cockhead against that spot sends more sparks coursing through your body, little flares of ecstasy collecting in the crevices of your body and igniting a satisfying inferno that spreads through your veins, blood fizzing as it rushes through your body, alighting every nerve until it reaches the apex of your thighs, and then you’re obeying his order, cunt convulsing as you gush heat all over his thick cock, his title shattering on your tongue, shards melting into gasps of air.

The blaze has spread to your brain now, tissues melting to goo as the flames lick the walls of your skull, extreme pleasure the most potent shot of novocaine to your brain, everything gone numb, dumb, under its influence.

“Tell me,” he nearly whimpers, breathy voice fading into growl as it cuts through the thick haze. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You!” you cry instantly, the word fragmenting as he pounds into you. “You, you, Daddy, I belong to you, wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s, ever.”

“Mine,” he snarls, the word imbued with such brutal possessiveness it stings your skin, his eyes shining bright with the elation of owning something so special, with the comforting knowledge that it is yours and yours only. “Forever.”

“For eternity,” you mewl out, head nodding in quick little motions.

“You’re goddamn right,“ he rasps, hips starting to stutter. “Your cunt, your tits, your entire fucking body, it’s all—ah, Christ—it’s all mine. You belong to me.”

The proclamation is spit into your mouth just as his cock throbs, pumping you full of thick cum. Your thighs tighten around his waist, squeezing him closer, as if you’re trying to wring every last drop from his body, and he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

A soft whimper vibrates in your throat the moment he begins to pull out of you, and Dabi laughs again, murmuring out pacifying remarks doused with condescension as he pushes back into your sopping cunt, carrying you toward the bed.

With grace and fluidity, he manages to maneuver your knotted bodies under the fluffy comforter, keeping his cock from slipping out of you even an inch. A sweet little hum of contentment spills from your lips as you snuggle into his neck, riding on the tails of a giggle, the precious sound seeping into his skin.

It sends a shock of warmth through his system, your intoxicating happiness like bubbles of sunshine in his blood, and he emits his own hum, deep and vibrating against your temple as he allows the clutches of unconsciousness close in around him, because you’re his, you’re his, you’re his.

Forever.  

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The early evening wind is cold but gentle as it plays with the hem of his shirt and the ends of his hair, softly caressing his bare skin as it passes. A shiver slithers up his spine, chills erupting across his flesh, and Keigo hugs his arms tighter, desperate to retain as much body heat as physically possible.

I’ll be surprised if you can keep up with this for more than a week or so, Dabi had hollered out the open window of his car as he backed out of the parking lot, voice overlaying the growling of the Eldorado. Go ahead, prove me wrong! Show me your pathetically weak self-restraint isn’t as pathetic as I think it is.

And then he was gone, leaving Keigo standing alone in the steadily setting sun, strokes of fuchsia tingeing his gold curls.

The walk home should’ve been sobering, Dabi’s threats and promises bouncing off the walls of his skull, their direness reverberating in Keigo’s very bones. The walk home should’ve scared him enough to quit for good, forever, used needles bestrewn across the dry, sickly yellow grass like some sort of cliché omen, men with bruised eyes and scabbed skin staring as he passed them, unbeknownst to the fact that he’s exactly like them, that he could be them, one day.

And it did. It did scare him.

But not enough. Not in the right way.

It starts with a small, almost tender tingle beneath his skin, something birthed in his chest, in his soul, maybe, complemented by the anxious fluttering of his heart and the haphazard racing of his thoughts.

It grows as they do, becomes bigger, stronger, fiercer, almost voracious in it’s need to be sated as it eats through the blood in his veins, as the tingles turn to itches turn to pricks—sharp, desperate, painful.

By the time he arrives home it’s bigger than he is; a dark, suffocating cloud that enshrouds his form, zaps of lightning striking his skin, urging him to act, to soothe the sting they leave behind.

He knows it’s dumb, even as he’s doing it. He knows Dabi will find out, knows Dabi’s words were not merely empty threats, knows Dabi can and will follow through on his promises.

He knows this threatens everything. He knows.

And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Because this has grown out of control. This has engulfed him in its sickly sweet embrace, has invaded every single nook and dip and crevice in his body and filled it with an insatiable longing for poison, has overridden all of his thoughts and all of his feelings, all of his judgements and all of his impulses and corrupted his very sense of right and wrong, of permanent consequence; eaten through it like some sort of toxic acid and left emptiness in it’s place.

Emptiness that needs to be filled.

Just once more.

Just once more, he promises himself, fingers trembling as they scroll through his contacts, looking fruitlessly for someone Dabi might not know. Just once more, and then that’s it, he swears to it. Just once more, and then he’ll kick the habit for good, he promises.

He just needs it just once more; needs to feel that comforting rush of warmth embrace his veins and twine through his blood, his nerves, his tissues and bones and organs until he’s drowning in it, a sick, sweet paradise that’s all for him, that’s all his.

Just once more he needs to feel the safety of his lover as it bursts through his system, a feeling of euphoria, of pure bliss that saturates every bit of him until it’s all he is, until it’s all that matters.

It takes too long, whole body quivering with desire by the time Keigo secures a reliable supplier after fishing through a chain of people, the sun long gone below the horizon, his only source of light leaking from one sad lamp in the corner of his living room, pooling around the base in a greyish-yellow puddle.

Chisaki is the guy’s name, a friend had informed Keigo. He’s got good shit, but it’s gonna cost you.

Keigo’s never heard of him before, and in his hunger fuelled haze of addiction he can only hope this means Dabi hasn’t heard of him either. He knows he’s wrong, knows Dabi knows everyone in this fucking city by now, but he continues to hope anyway, as if the very act itself will somehow change the outcome.

In the moment, though, it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter that Dabi will inevitably find out, probably sooner rather than later. It doesn’t matter that this next fix may cost him you, permanently snatched form his grasp and whisked away to a secret land. It doesn’t matter that this could be the singular most fucked up mistake he’ll ever make in his life.

It doesn’t matter, because his true love is on it’s way, and it’s going to make everything alright again, even if only for a few hours.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

Tomura would be lying if he said the call that comes a mere few hours after Dabi’s supposed meeting with Keigo is surprising.

In a way, Tomura wishes it was.

It isn’t from him directly, and Tomura’s sure Keigo truly has no idea just how far reaching his—and now Dabi’s—drug empire reaches.

Tomura’s also sure Dabi warned Keigo of doing this exact thing and, just as they had predicted, Keigo hadn’t heeded that warning nearly as seriously as he should have.

It’s a request from one of their men stationed all the way on the other side of the city, a man Keigo must’ve played a torturous game of broken telephone to contact, a man reporting an order of two grams of China white to the good part of the city, the safe part of the city, the rich part of the city.

“This isn’t within my jurisdiction; I don’t even know how this guy got my number,” he says nervously, and Tomura can almost hear him fidgeting. “So I was wondering—I mean, should I do the delivery myself? Or do you have some other guy who’s a little closer? Not that I mind,” the man rushes to assure, and Tomura chuckles.

“Don’t worry about delivery. I’ve got just the person in mind,” he promises the man before hanging up.

Normally, Tomura would never handle a delivery himself, but this is a special case.

“Dabi, he broke,” Tomura’s saying as he climbs into his Maybach, phone held tightly between his ear and his shoulder, keys jingling in his palm. “Two grams of China white.”

“Fucking pathetic,” Dabi spits, though Tomura can hear the faint notes of disappointment cracking in his voice.

“We knew it would happen,” Tomura shrugs. “We knew he wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re doing the delivery yourself?” Dabi asks, voice high with surprise.

“Yeah, I…” Tomura trails off, chewing on his cheek. “I have a bad feeling.”

Dabi snorts. “A bad feeling? Since when are you superstitious? Since when do you give a fuck about any of our junkies—no, sorry, clients—at all?”

“Shut up,” Tomura snaps, and Dabi snickers. “Just have the shit ready, and don’t let her see.”

“Hit a nerve, did I? You goin’ soft for my girl?”

Tomura hangs up in response.

He can’t exactly explain it—or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it—but something thick and ominous has been sinking in his stomach since he first received that call; something heavy and toxic and full of sticky ink, something that feels very, very wrong.

Tomura isn’t stupid, and Dabi isn’t, either. Two grams is way too much smack for an addict that’s been cutting back as drastically as Keigo has been.

He hopes Keigo isn’t dumb enough to shoot it all at once, but he knows the way addiction roots itself in the mind, warping the brain into something illogical, something incomprehensible, something that craves only one thing and nothing else, no matter the cost.

He knows the way addicts work, the way addicts think, and the way these thought patterns are amplified by emotional triggers.

And as much as he’d never admit it, there is a tiny part of him buried deep within his soul that wished Dabi had refused the offer; that hoped that Dabi would go back on his word, decide this wasn’t worth it, that they’d get through to Keigo in a different, less dangerous way.

But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

Despite the fact that it’s where every ounce of his smack has come from, Keigo Takami doesn’t know the name Shigaraki.

He’s heard you mention a man named Tomura in passing every once in a while—nothing more than a sentence or two, about how he picks you up on the days Dabi can’t, about how he shares your penchant for sugar—but he has no idea what the man looks like, or what his last name is, or the legacy said last name carries.

So when Tomura Shigaraki shows up on his front doorstep with a palm full of pure China white, Keigo is none the wiser.

It doesn’t seem to matter that this man is very clearly not the man he spoke to on the phone, not the man he nearly lost his mind attempting to chase down.

All that matters is that he’s got drugs, and he’s here.

Finally.

A smooth palm trembles as it shoves money into Tomura’s waiting hands, fingers eager and vying to have that powdery ecstasy between them.

Keigo doesn’t even care that Tomura doesn’t leave immediately after receiving payment—barely notices the man standing near his front door, watching with soured disgust as Keigo frantically readies his paraphernalia.

And that sinking feeling, full of heavy ink and acid, finally takes root in Tomura’s stomach as he watches Keigo pile a tiny mountain of heroin on his blackened, warped spoon, trembling hands careful not to spill even a single granule on his denim-clad thigh.

“Uh,” Tomura begins, unsure how to proceed, voice painfully flat. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

“Nah,” Keigo mumbles past the rubber held between his tightly clenched teeth, not even bothering to spare Tomura a glance, hyper-focused on his actions. “This is what I always shoot.”

Tomura’s tongue is too slow, words fading to ghosts on his tongue, unable to trigger Keigo’s rational memory at all. Because then that brownish liquid is sinking into his veins, and his head is falling backwards, mouth hung open in pure bliss, and he’s gone.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

It would be a lie if Dabi said that he didn’t expect some sort of update call within the next few hours.

It would also be a lie if Dabi said he expected it to be from the Goddamn hospital.

It isn’t exactly surprising that Keigo had chosen to put you down as his next of kin instead of your adoptive parents—his own flesh and blood, his only flesh and blood, his precious baby sister.

Vibrations quiver gently though the mattress, a low whine of protest slipping from your lips as you grope around with halfhearted interest for your phone, buried within the ridges of Dabi’s comforter.

The bright light of the screen outshines the small flickering television a few feet away and your lids squint in retaliation, vision temporarily blurred and face scrunched with concentration as you attempt to make out the bleary letters written across the top.

The hospital.

The words give you a jolt of pure adrenaline, whole body shooting up suddenly despite your sore muscles aching in protest, tingling adrenaline eating through the fatigue like an urgent corrosive, alighting your limbs, alerting your mind.

“Who is it?” Dabi asks with sleepy disinterest, gaze never leaving the television, slim fingers still tracing mindless patterns on your bare skin.

“The hospital,” you breathe, voice sounding faint and far away even though you can feel it distinctly vibrating within your chest.

Your mouth has gone dry, like your tongue is a thick swab of cotton, soaking up all the saliva from the corners and crevices of your mouth.

“What?” Dabi says, but you don’t respond, everything feeling numb, muted, muffled as your thumb taps the ANSWER button.

And then, everything goes blank.

You barely remember saying hello. You barely remember responding to any of the nurses questions—about your brother, your relation to him, your identity. You only remember a single sentence with startling clarity, something that rings loud and lucid throughout your skull, bouncing off the thick walls of bone and reverberating endlessly.

“Your brother has overdosed on heroin.”

It’s so simple, so straightforward, and yet your mind can’t seem to comprehend it, can’t seem to deconstruct and absorb those six simple words.

And then, everything goes blank again, brainwaves flatlining, rushing blood a strong, steady ringing in your ears. You can feel your body going through the appropriate motions, can feel the expected questions bubbling up your throat and past your lips, frantic, urgent, leaving an unpleasant buzz on your tongue—Is he alive? Is he stable? Can you come see him?—but you have no control over them, consciousness curling in on itself as it attempts to create sense from the situation.

How could this be possible? Keigo had stopped, hadn’t he? At least, that’s what he had told you, what he had promised you…And you had been stupid enough to believe him.

Because you had wanted to believe him.

You had wanted it to be easy and effortless, clean and concise, void of all the pain and intricacies and work that usually comes with achieving such a feat.

You had wanted, so desperately, for it to be the truth, for everything to go back to normal, just like that, in a mere instant.

A block of disappointment, filled with shame and glazed with guilt, sinks heavy and sharp in your stomach. It cracks as it hits the pit, contents leaking into the bubbly acid and causing it to roil.

He lied to you.

But he isn’t fully to blame, either. You should’ve known better, a tickle at the back of your mind chides gently. You shouldn’t have taken it at face value. You should’ve pushed harder, done a shred of investigation yourself to verify his claims, asked for more concrete proof than the sheen in his hair and the glow in his cheeks.

But you hadn’t wanted to.

Because you had wanted it to all be better instantaneously. You had wanted Keigo to prove all of Dabi’s words wrong, had wanted Keigo to show Dabi how incredible your big brother is, how vivacious your big brother is, how he can always do what he sets his mind to, no matter what.

How utterly, devastatingly stupid you were.

“Hey!” Dabi’s voice, full of concern and garnished with a touch of fear, finally slices through the thick mist that has encrusted your brain. “What’s going on? Baby, please, talk to me, tell Daddy what’s wrong.”

“Did you know?”

The question is small, frail, nothing more than a wisp of breath, so fragile it’s as if a tone any louder would simply smash it to bits.

“What?” Dabi frowns, eyebrows drawn in confusion, sapphire rapidly searching your face as you stare dead over his shoulder, unblinking eyes focused on the drywall, those lithe fingers wrapped around your biceps flexing, blunt nails biting your flesh nothing more than a faint pressure, flesh gone numb.

“Did you know?”

The question is stronger now, harder now, firm with resolution and conviction. Finally, your gaze meet his, eyes blazing with a shield of watery glass, so fierce that he flinches a little, features crunching in irritation at his own surprised reaction a second later.

“Did I know what?”

“Did you know Keigo was still using?”

For a moment, it falls silent, the gears in Dabi’s head turning, whirring, clicking into place, his gaze methodically scanning your face, blazing in his scrutiny as his mind cards through all of his options, potential scenarios and possible outcomes, categorizing them in terms of likeliness.

Then he’s cold, hands dropping from your body, features hardened into that carefully crafted mask of incomprehensible passivity.

“Since when? Since you began meeting with him secretly, behind my back?” Dabi pauses, but your expression does not falter, stare solid as stone. “Yeah, I knew. Of course I fucking knew.”

Sapphire burns into your face and your molars grind together, glaring back at him just as fiercely. Viciousness brews in your chest, boiling as it singes your ribs.

“You know, I could’ve helped you,” Dabi continues, notes of accusation in his voice, “had you just told me what was going on instead of sneaking around like that.”

“Oh, don’t start. Don’t try to make this about you and how you feel left out. Don’t try to make me the bad guy.”

“And, so, what?” he shrugs, raising an eyebrow in mock question. “I’m the bad guy because I continued to supply your brother with exactly what he asked for without having even an inkling of the lies he had been feeding you? If you had just told me, we could’ve tag-teamed him. We could’ve beat him at his own game. We could’ve won! And then, maybe, none of this would’ve ever happened!”

“I couldn’t have told you, and you know it!” you cry, voice burning veraciously in your chest, words blistering your tongue. “You—You wouldn’t have helped, you would’ve put an end to everything straight away and locked me up like some sort of—some sort of prize, never letting me out of your sight for a fucking second ever again!”

“No, you are just assuming that,” he seethes, eyes narrowed sharply. “All I’ve ever wanted to do is help you—help you both. Do you—Do you really think I’d have reacted that way instead of offering to help?”

“Yeah! I do! I’m not the villain here!”

“Neither am I!” he roars, eyes alight with blue fire, surging forward to grasp your shoulders.

A surprised yelp hiccups past your lips and Dabi tugs you toward him roughly, your chest pressed to his as he leans over your face, so close your noses nearly bump together.

“Y’know, it isn’t my fault your brother’s a fucking junkie, alright?” His grip tightens, painting his fingertips into your flesh in splashes of blue and violet. “It isn’t my fault he lied to you, just like they always do, because it’s more important to him to keep heroin in his life than it is to keep you in his life. It isn’t my fault you just assumed the worst of me instead of being honest with me, coming to me, asking for help!”

“What else was I supposed to assume, Dabi?” your nose twitches with the threat of a sniffle, the ghost of a sob, and you exhale harshly, a feeble attempt to halt it. “How was I supposed to know any different, when this is the way you’ve been treating me?”

“Everything I’ve done—every single fucking thing—was done to protect you, I can promise you that. I love you more than anything in this world, can’t you see that?”

His voice fissures on the last word, breaking under the weight of authenticity, but you do not yield, holding steadfast as you force your next question from your mouth, slight tremors running through your words as your body trembles in his hands.

“If you love me more than anything then answer me honestly. Did you supply him with drugs tonight?” The sentence tapers off into a whisper, those tears that you had held so stubbornly behind your lashes finally spilling over, strolling down your cheeks in pairs.

The silence is stifling, your breath held stagnant in your lungs as you wait, vying eyes searching his face for any shreds of clues and finding nothing but truth.

“No,” he finally responds, but his voice is kinder, softer. “How could I, when I’ve been with you all night?”

“But they were your drugs, yes?”

“Sweetheart, every drug in this city is my drug,” he chuckles a little at your naivety. “All I can tell you is that I didn’t give them to him tonight. Besides, the amount he’d need to OD is more than what I’ve been selling him.”

“But…But you…”

Agony cracks your words into sharp shards that pierce your organs, and you cough around the pain, both palms pressed flat to your chest as you try and hold your body together.

What is the truth? Is there even a truth? One correct, indisputable answer?

“I don’t—I’m—I can’t—”

A dense blend of anguish and confusion drapes across your brain, burning holes through your thoughts and rendering them incomplete, incomprehensible, a tangle of half finished sentences.

Because none of this makes any sense anymore, trust and truth shattered to pieces, scattered among skepticism and deceit.

What is real? What is right? Does it exist in concrete terms, or is it some sort of continuum? Is it easily sorted and separated, like pans of paint on a palette, or is it all muddled and bleeding together, like strands of paint in a glass jar, irrevocably intertwined as they dissipate in the water and impossible to separate in any way, colour of the tainted water morphing depending on the angle the light hits it at?

Does it even matter at all, when your brother is in the hospital and your boyfriend, no matter how implicitly or explicitly, had a hand in putting him there?

It seems as though you can’t inhale enough air into your lungs, organs shrivelling up and rejecting the oxygen your broken, uneven gasps send rushing down your throat. Your body crumples in a heap on Dabi’s lap, and the air around him changes instantly, its suffocating heaviness eradicated as love dipped in guilt devours it.

Ferocious sobs slash through your chest, ribs creaking beneath their force as your whole form stutters, heavy sorrow weighting your heart. It aches, each dull pulse procuring another wave of spiked anguish, and you suck a hiss through your teeth, furling in further on yourself in a desperate attempt to quell the pain.

Gathering your limp body in his arms, Dabi hushes you gently, your tears seeming to have melted his hard exterior, dousing the flames raging in his eyes.

“Shh,” he murmurs, a palm rhythmically smoothing over your hair as you weep into his chest, little fingers scrabbling against his bare skin. “Shh, it’s alright, I’m here.”

His soothing voice calms the turmoil in your chest, his tender touches dimming the chaos in your skull, and you snuggle into him, seeking more of his solace.

“Listen to me,” he pulls back, taking your salt-sticky face between his palms. “I love you, you hear me? I love you, and all I want to do is protect you. From everything. I’m sorry that this has happened. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to keep you safe, I promise.”

A pause, a moment for his words to brand themselves into the tissues of your brain, steady sapphire boring into your face, bright with sincerity.

“Maybe I didn’t do the best job, or make the best choices, but they were all with your—with our—best intentions and interests in mind,” he continues, the edges of his voice rough, eroded by emotion. “I’m trying with all my might. I love you more than anything. We’re a team, right? Let’s solve this together. No more secrets, no more lies, from either of us. You don’t have to do this alone, not anymore.”  

“Neither do you,” you mumble, words knotted in strings of spit.

He laughs, and it sounds wet, large hands cradling your head to his body again. “You’re right. Neither do I. So let’s make it better, together, okay? You and me, always.”

“You and me, always,” you repeat.

“Always, baby,” calloused fingers brush back strands of sweat-soaked hair from your forehead, lidded eyes watching his actions with fondness. “Now,” he whispers, a sad little smile on his face. “I think we have a hospital to visit.”  

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The scent of Clorox burns your nose as you hurry down the dull white corridors, frantic eyes flying across each of the silver nameplates bolted to the wall outside each door until finally, you find the corresponding number the nurse had given you.

And although you knew the sight you were to be greeted with would hurt, you didn’t expect it to be quite so heart-wrenchingly gruesome.

Lilac encompasses his closed eyes, the tiny spider veins knotted across his eyelids a deep, sickening purple. Dried blood, well on it’s way to forming thick scabs, has pooled and oxidized in the lines of his lips, cracked open from dehydration.

Dim curls, matted with sweat and salt, stick to his forehead and his temples, their usual lively gold now dulled and void of their sheen. Sallow skin stretches across all his sharp edges—his knuckles and his wrists and his elbows and his collarbones—lacking that healthy, radiant glow Keigo had always seemed to emit before.

It’s hard to look at him like this, veins and nostrils hooked up to a tangle of clear tubes and whirring machines, the steady beep of his heart in direct juxtaposition to the erratic thumping of your own.

Nausea swells in your stomach, acidic bile burning up, up, up your esophagus, but you swallow against it, teeth clenched as your force a deep, calm breath out your nose.

“Is this the all-time-low you kept talking about?”

You don’t look at him as you speak, gaze still captivated by your feeble big brother, the question trembling with muted anger.

“Yeah,” Dabi says quietly. “This is it.“

This is it. This has to be it; there’s no where else for him to go from here, except into the ground—and that’s forever.

Your voice rouses Keigo, golden eyelashes fluttering open to reveal bloodshot topaz, filmy gaze taking a moment to clear before it focuses on you, recognition shocking clarity into his brain.

He exhales your name in a small, weak huff, fingers twitching against the threadbare bedspread, as if he yearns to reach out for you, to grab you and pull you towards him and never let go.

For a moment, you’re frozen in place, feet bolted to the floor, veins filled with something colder, sharper, than ice.

It’s Dabi who gives you the nudge you need, his gentle touch torching the frost coating your body and jumpstarting your limbs, finally allowing that familiar presence of your big brother draw you in, as it’s done so many times before.

And then you’re running to him, crossing the sterile room in a mere few strides and flinging yourself down on his hospital bed, arms latched tightly around his neck, face buried against his chest.

He’s saying something, you can feel his words vibrating against your cheek as his frail arms wrap around your waist, but it all sounds muffled to you, nothing more than a steady, hazy stream of his voice, sentiments drowning in your own ragged breaths and vicious sobs.

Those large hands skim across your form, patting and grabbing and kneading as if they can’t believe you’re here, as if they can’t believe you’re real, as if you’ll disappear from their grasp the moment they aren’t on you anymore.

His touch causes something to break, cracking wide open at the core of your soul, so deep, so dark you’re terrified it might swallow you whole. Your body crumples under the strain, curling into the warmth and comfort your big brother provides—that only your big brother can provide, that your big brother will always provide, no matter the circumstances.

Everything hurts, and you cling tighter to him, fingers twisting in his thin hospital gown as claws of despair shred your lungs and tear at your stomach, desperate to be felt, acknowledged, known.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Keigo croaks, his voice dense with spit. “It’s okay, it’s okay, niisan’s here, it’s okay.”  

Those roaming hands clutch you tighter, pressing you close to his heart and promising to keep you together, to keep you whole as those talons threaten to rip you apart. Nothing can hurt you anymore—not here, not now, not with Keigo wrapped around you.

You aren’t sure how long you stay like this, cuddled up in your big brother’s arms as silent tears leak from your eyes, his lips pressing routine kisses to the crown of your head as you cry, but it’s long enough for Dabi to leave, smoke, and then return, the scent of nicotine twined around his body, his reentrance bringing a whiff of it with him.

Finally, you lift your head, swollen eyes blinking slow and sticky, Keigo rendered as nothing more than a wavering blur through through the thick tears coating your vision.

“You can’t...” you begin, words fading to ghosts in your throat, weighing heavy and bitter on your tongue. “This has to stop, Keigo. We can’t just...We can’t just sit around waiting and hope it gets better on it’s own. We need help. You need help.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice grating on his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you’re murmuring out, pacifying palms rhythmically running over his matted curls, a fresh bout of tears shining in your eyes. “I’m just happy you’re alive, Keigo.”

“I should’ve never lied to you,” he whimpers, face screwed up as if the words are painful, barbed on his tongue. “I just—I wanted you—”

And, really, that’s it. He wanted you. He didn’t just want you to be proud of him, nor did he just want you to stop worrying so much. He wanted you, all of you, to himself again. He wanted you, safe and sound and at home, where you should’ve been all along, where you’ll always belong.

As it turns out, he’s just as selfish as Dabi.

“I know,” you whisper. “And I want you; I want you to get better, I want my big brother back.”

And it hurts to hear that, your voice so raw, so honest, cut open with a sharp razor as emotion spills out and washes over him in burning waves, his eyes glazing over as his bottom lip twitches.

“I miss you, Keigo. I miss all the things we used to do together, before this—this monster that you’re grappling with took root. I miss getting ice cream from that mom and pop shop a few streets over; I miss going for bike rides as the sun set, and I miss stargazing at the park after it sunk; I miss it all. Don’t you?”

The question cracks on your tongue, more tears dripping down your cheeks as your eyes search his face, begging him to see your sincerity, begging him to say yes, genuity written into the creases of your forehead.

His own tears, caught so artfully by his long lashes, finally break free from their confines, streaming in pairs across his hollowed face. Because, yeah, he does, he misses those moments more than anything in the world—because, really, nothing else matters more than those sweet little memories made with the one person he loves most, the one person he loves more than anything or anyone else.

Not even heroin.

“You can do it, Keigo. I know you can. You’re so—” A hiccup cuts you off but you swallow past it, powering on, voice thick with love, care, belief. “You’re so strong, niisan; you’re the strongest person I know, and you’re a hell of a long stronger than this addition, I’m absolutely sure of it.”

Both of his hands grip one of yours with such force it’s a marvel his sharp knuckles don’t slice right through the thin skin stretched tight and taut across them. You place your other hand atop his, dainty and gentle, thumb running across his flesh in soothing motions.

“I don’t want to watch you kill yourself slowly,” you tell him, resolution firm in your voice. “And I won’t. I won’t do it, niisan. Not anymore.”

Blood drains from his face at your statement, skin gone from sickly to ashen, and his body goes rigid, hands still as stone in your palms.

“Is this goodbye?”

“No,” Dabi cuts in before you can question him about what the heck that’s supposed to mean, coming to perch on the parallel edge of Keigo’s bed. “This is we’re here to help.”

That sentence should bring a rush of much-needed relief gushing through Keigo’s veins, loosening his tight muscles and unclenching his jaw and relieving the stress that has snuggled into his very soul. It should make him feel revitalized. It should make him feel elated.

But it doesn’t.

Because Dabi’s eyes are hard, and while his gaze is fiery, it holds no warmth, the flames of contempt blazing in his irises contradicting his flat words. A rough palm clamps itself over Keigo’s collarbone, a poor imitation of friendly, and Dabi leans forward.  

“Make no mistake,” he murmurs in Keigo’s ear, just loud enough for him to hear, the force of his grip tightening to bone crushing. “I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for her. Don’t you ever fucking forget that.”

Keigo’s shock must be evident on his face, shining in his eyes and trembling on his lips, because Dabi smirks—a small quirk up of his lips, arrogant and self-satisfied—before he pulls back completely.

This is the second time Dabi has surprised him, in all of Keigo’s years of knowing him. This is the second time Dabi has proven to him that he is, in come capacity, capable of thinking about people other than himself—even if Keigo’s sure this decision isn’t entirely separate from Dabi’s own agenda.

And while Keigo still can’t convince himself that Dabi has your best interests in mind, it’s abundantly clear that he has some of your interests in mind, this singular action speaking volumes.

Because Dabi rarely, if ever, goes back on his word; it’s a well known fact at this point that his threats are never empty threats, always containing some sort of meaning, some sort of promise, and that thought sends spikes of ice shooting up Keigo’s spine.

If you notice the odd interaction between the two of them, you don’t say anything, a gentle squeeze bringing Keigo’s dumbfounded attention back to you.

“I have some news,” you begin softly, a small, sad smile on your lips. “I’m coming back home.”

That belated elation finally floods his veins, warm and tingling as it rushes through his body and eradicates all of the desolation Dabi had just instilled in him, a genuine smile breaking through the hard trepidation coating his face.

“And Dabi’s coming with me.”

The bright happiness that had blossomed in his blood dries up instantly, veins shrivelled and parched, panic and despair bolting through his body like sharp spears of lightning, and Keigo’s expression withers, face screwed up with a certain sourness before it droops, giving in, giving up, features weighted and grim as he nods his understanding.

“Compromise,” Dabi says, and while his voice is amicable enough, something sharp glints in his eyes, something sinister tugging at his lips.

Still, it’s something. It’s a start. And Keigo will take anything he can get.

Compromise. Compromise.

Keigo supposes he can live with that.