notes: alright, so we’ve discussed how touya-nii would react to encountering the man who took your virginity, but let's talk about how you would respond to running into the woman who took touya’s. set in my touya-nii au! as always please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: RUNRUNRUN by dutch melrose
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest (stepcest), public sex, minimal prep, extreme jealousy, toxic relationship
words: 4.7k
synopsis:
“Well, that’s alright! How long have you two been together?”
And, oh, the giggle that bubbles past your lips is downright sinister, fucking caustic, burning your tongue and eroding your teeth.
No, you’re not his girlfriend, or his partner, or his significant other.
You’re something so much better.
You’re off minding your own business, legs swinging idly on a bar stool as you wait for your designated reservation time, when it happens, when she appears.
“Touya?”
The name cuts through the blurred noise of the restaurant, both yours and Touya’s attention snapping to the source: a woman, late twenties or so, waving a little in indication on the other side of the bar.
She’s snaking through the patchy crowd, busy unfastening her hair from the intricate bun its been woven into—a requisite for all the waitresses at this establishment—eyes bright, smile brighter.
You don’t even know who she is; not technically, anyway, had never thought to press the issue any further than a simple how’d it happen, had never cared enough to try—especially not when he had been sleeping with so many others right in front of you.
It hadn’t seemed to matter much then. Not the way it matters now.
But she exists, because she must, because somebody would’ve had to take it, would’ve had to be the first, one way or another.
Doesn’t mean you have to like it.
She’s pretty, but you wouldn’t expect any less. Touya stands as she reaches the two of you, pulling your body up with him.
But then Touya greets her, a name you’ve heard kicked around every now and then, and it all fully, finally clicks.
Touya’s first.
“Oh my God,” she’s gushing, “I haven’t seen you in—What’s it been now? Over ten years?”
“Just about,” he responds easily, readjusting his grasp reassuringly on your hip as you cling to him, large palm flattening against your abdomen and hugging you closer to his side, tucked protectively beneath his arm.
“What are the chances! You look...” her eyes scan his body once, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, then back up again, and your fingers flex, coiled and rigid in the material of his shirt, stiff joints already aching. “Wow, incredible!”
“Thanks,” Touya says, an awkward lull in the conversation when he doesn’t repay the compliment.
Their discussion meanders for a little bit—how have you been, what are you doing now, remember when...?—most of it muddled by the blood roaring in your ears and jealousy burning in your throat.
But then her fingertip is just barely grazing his forearm as she points in indication at the ink etched into his skin, and your ears tune into their frequency again, white-hot fury slicing through hazy envy.
“I remember when you started this one,” she’s reminiscing. “You finally finished all of the pieces,” she says with another appreciative glance, and you grip him tighter, the skin of your knuckles pulled so taut it’s starting to hurt. “It’s so breathtaking to see them all come together.”
And you hate the way she speaks to him with a certain type of familiarity; an old friend, effortless and full of laughs, someone who knew him long before you did, when you were only in grade school.
God, how rude of her not to introduce herself, she’s telling you as she finally turns toward you, finally takes notice of you, rooted in Touya’s side; a growth he planted there himself, shoved between his ribs and engrained in his soul, roots so tangled you’re both irremovable, inseparable, now.
She holds out her hand in greeting, but you only clutch Touya more firmly, nails scraping against starched cashmere, face half-hidden in his chest, childish and petulant.
The woman’s smile drops from her face, a slow drooping of her mouth as her forehead crinkles, confusion bleeding through her features.
“She’s shy,” Touya says as way of explanation, but that wolfish smile is stretched sharply across his cheeks, teeth gleaming in the dim light.
“I see,” she says, almost hesitantly, her eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before they flit back to Touya’s face, expression brightening again. “Well, that’s alright! How long have you two been together?”
And, oh, the giggle that bubbles past your lips is downright sinister, fucking caustic, burning your tongue and eroding your teeth.
No, you’re not his girlfriend, or his partner, or his significant other.
You’re something so much better.
“Oh, we’re not a couple. This is my little sister.”
And, oh, how this is always your favourite part.
You know that it’s his favourite part, too.
Because the way that shock and disgust eats through their confusion, fucking devours any other emotion on their face, is better than anything else in the entire world. The way their expression churns into something twisted and repulsed sends sordid little thrills racing through your veins, blood buzzing with adrenaline.
The two of you must be such a fucking sight, expressions handcrafted by the Devil himself, with glowing eyes—gluttonous gazes gobbling up every little expression, two pairs wide and frantic as they glide across her face—and smug little smirks, points of your mouths so sharp they could pierce the flesh of a fingertip if touched.
Her voice sputters a little, snagging in her throat as she struggles to find the proper words, blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear the scene in front of her.
“I—Uh, I didn’t know you had another little sister?”
It’s phrased as a question, her voice beginning to tremble, unnerved as her stare swaps between your faces.
“My mom remarried,” Touya says simply. “This one came packaged with the deal.”
He jostles you in his arms a little—showing off his favourite, precious, most coveted prize—and you cuddle into him, burrowing into his chest a little, fingers flexing in his dress shirt as you clutch him tighter, gathering healthy handfuls of cashmere in your scrunched palms, buttons beginning to strain beneath the strength of your grip.
And he states it proudly, as if he’s glad to own you, to be your big brother, to call you his, staring down at you with so much fondness it melts his hard eyes, sapphire turned to something thick and gooey.
“Oh,” the woman responds, but her voice wavers through a wobbly smile on her face, lips unsure if they want to grin or grimace. “That’s cool.”
“Yeah,” Touya responds, though his eyes do not leave yours, voice softening. “I got pretty fuckin’ lucky. Don’t think I could’ve asked for anything better.”
You can feel the sick, sadistic glee radiating off of him in dense waves—something heavy, something intoxicating—and, if this girl knows him well enough, you’re sure she can, too.
It’s so thick it’s nearly suffocating, but you breathe it in readily, greedily, draw it into your lungs and let it marinate in your tissues—infect, consume, decay.
“We should go for drinks sometime!” her unnaturally chipper tone snaps the trance, draws both of your gazes back to her. “You know, to catch up and all that.”
A noise shudders your ribs, something between a growl and a whine, and Touya laughs as if it’s so fucking cute, looking back down at you with so much adoration in his eyes it’s nearly spilling past his lashes.
“Nah, I’m good,” he says, but his stare never breaks yours. “Thanks for the offer, though.”
“Mr. Todoroki?” a smooth voice floats above the indistinct murmur of the venue. “Your table is ready.”
“Ah, that’s us,” Touya says to you.
“It was nice—”
But you’re already turning away, a single entity in the way you move, think, breathe, be.
“I don’t like her,” you’re grumbling as Touya guides you toward the hostess, not caring that she’s still very clearly in earshot, the confession spilling from your mouth almost subconsciously, having pried past your lips, desperate to be heard.
“I can tell, baby,” Touya snorts, though the smile on his face is soft.
“I—I don’t even wanna eat here anymore,” you sulk, feet starting to drag, words filtered through a deep pout. “And I don’t ever want to see her again!”
It comes out as a demand, a little harsher and firmer than you had intended, uncharacteristically surly, and Touya stops.
Blinking down at you, Touya’s face falls, features suddenly serious, all mirth evaporated from his expression in an instant.
His head dips, voice dropped to a low, dire murmur—something secret, something just for you.
“You want me to kill her for you? Huh, princess? Does niichan need to get rid of her?”
And, oh, how your heart soars, swells, swoops then nearly bursts from your ribs, desperate to claw its way from your chest and into the palms of its owner. Tears rush to cloud your eyes, vision thick and bleary, and two large hands cup your jaw, tilting your face to his.
“I’ll do it, baby, I swear to God. All you gotta do is say the word.”
He will. You know he will. You love that he will.
“I love you,” you nearly whimper, hands pawing at him urgently, the words a garbled mess in your mouth, weighted with spit and tears. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he laughs a little, but concern is warping his features, eyes sweeping across your face in search of an answer.
His hand squeezes your jaw gently, callouses decorating the pad of his palm scuffing your soft skin as he holds you in place.
“Just tell niichan what he needs to do to make this better.”
Your gaze holds his for a moment, heavy and unblinking.
“Fuck me,” you finally say. “Remind me who I belong to, remind me who you belong to, remind the whole fucking world who we belong to.”
Sapphire turns to navy, lips spreading into something sinful.
He can do that.
The parking lot is sparsely populated, rows of cars jagged and gapped like knocked out teeth. A small cluster of people hover outside the restaurant’s golden doors, encased in a hazy cloud of smoke and murmuring quietly amongst themselves, and a few people are scattered throughout the lot, just arriving or preparing to leave, but for the most part, you are alone.
The Audi is parked near the back, narrowly missing a pool of white light from one of the tall lampposts.
A chuckle is huffed from tattooed lips, shining eyes trained on your profile as you march toward the car, his long legs easily keeping up with your own.
His baby is on a mission tonight.
“You know, it’s really cute,” he’s saying as he presses you up against the driver’s door, “to see to see you so fucking determined.”
“Want everyone to know you belong to me,” you whine a little, forehead scrunching as your pout deepens.
“Is that so?”
“That is so.”
“And how would you like to show everyone that niichan is yours?” he murmurs into your flesh, lips tracing the curve of your neck.
“Want—Want you to fuck me, right here.”
“Right here?” his hips shove against yours in emphasis. “In the car?”
“No,” your hips push back into his, back arching, already so needy for him. “Right here, in the parking lot. I want that bitch to see.”
And for once, you do not get scolded for such foul language.
“Yeah?” Touya’s breathing into your mouth, hands already rucking up your little cocktail dress. “All out in the open where everyone can see how much of a little whore you are for your big brother?”
“Right here, right here,” you’re nodding, words cracking with desperation. “Right now.”
“So greedy, my little sister is.”
“I don’t care,” you gasp. “Show them, Touya-nii, show them all.”
And he’s so fucking hard you swear you can feel his cock throbbing with each rush of blood, each of your little pleads and dirty words sending another bout of it southward, swear you can feel it twitching and gorging with lust.
“You don’t care, huh?” Hardened fingertips sink into the plush flesh of your ass, kneading a little as his hips gyrate in pitiful little circles, more teasing than anything else.
“No, no,” you’re shaking your head. “I want it now!”
A palm collides with your flesh, hard and sharp, the sound echoing out among the space, chased by your resounding yelp. It draws a handful of glances from the throngs of people loitering around the restaurant’s entrance, but doesn’t keep their attention for long.
“Don’t be impatient, now,” Touya warns, but the glint in his eyes begs you to keep misbehaving. “Get my cock wet first.”
Your face falls as your fight fades, a small frown on your lips.
“Wh-What?”
“You want my cock so badly, baby? Get it fucking wet, then.”
He pauses, watching you closely, smirk growing into something sinister when you freeze in hesitation.
“Aw, what’s wrong?” he pouts, and it’s so condescending it scathes your cheeks. “Not so bold and brave now? I thought you wanted everyone to know; I thought you wanted to show everyone who I belong to,” his tongue tuts, head shaking in mock disappointment, “and you can’t even take my cock down your throat?”
“I do,” you nearly growl, eyes flashing with sudden jealousy, uncharacteristically fierce.
His expression softens, that sharp glint in his eye dulled to a smoldering glow, full of fondness.
“Then get niichan’s cock wet,” he says, hips shoving against yours in emphasis again, “so he can fuck you properly.”
And although it is still very much a demand, a direct order, his voice is tender, his edges worn down by years of affection.
Sliding down his body, your fingers furl in the waistband of his suit pants and tug a little, pulling his hips closer to your face. The buckle of his belt clanks heavily as you tug it undone, the button on his trousers pops easily, and then you’re yanking them halfway down his thighs, freeing his cock.
It’s so fucking pretty, dusty pink from base to tip and smoother than the most expensive velvet, and you just can’t help but nuzzle your cheek into the head with a cute little hum, smearing a thick stroke of pearlescent pre-cum across your skin.
But you know that Touya doesn’t like that, no matter how beautiful you look with his pre-cum slathered all over your face, that Touya can’t stand anything he deems even remotely teasing, and you’re quick to wrap a hand around the shaft as the beginnings of a growl rumble against his ribs, feeding him to yourself.
“S’it, there you go,” he praises as you gorge on him, stuffing him down your throat in a single swallow, reflexive tears burning your eyes.
Lashes flutter quickly, desperate to clear your vision, little drops of crystal collecting in the wispy strands.
It’s pathetic, really, how much your heart soars with such bland praise. But it doesn’t matter, you don’t care, willing to soak up any scraps he’ll afford you, an addict endlessly chasing a fix.
You force your mouth open wider, hinges of your jaw stretching, straining, your tongue curling around the underside as you suck him in further, viscous globs of drool already beginning to collect at the corners of your lips.
“Yeah, yeah, swallow me whole, baby,” he breathes, gaping pupils glittering with a thin ring of cobalt. “God, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this.”
A choked little whine, muted by his cockhead grinding itself into your throat, vibrates, evoking a cracked little moan of his own, hips twitching involuntarily, an instinctual reaction, searching for more.
The asphalt is rough against your knees, skinning them with superficial little scrapes as Touya fucks your mouth a few times; first slowly, breath huffed out through spit-slicked lips as he glides in steadily, inch by inch, voracious eyes watching as your wet mouth puckers around his shaft, coating it in thick, gleaming saliva.
He whimpers a little as the tip of your nose scrunches so cutely as he presses it to his pubic bone, holds it for a breath and savours the way your throat flutters with hiccups and gags before pulling nearly all the way from your mouth, repeating the process as he gains momentum; then faster, harder, cockhead rubbing against the back of your tongue, each quick stroke leaving bitter streaks of pre-cum.
And you hate how his palms are pressed against your ears, muffling every sweet sound you manage to elicit from him as he holds your head still, his thumbs pressing into your cheekbones, nails biting shallow crescents into the skin as they dig deeper, grasp tightening as your face becomes slippery with tears, cascading over his knuckles.
Even so, his grip isn’t enough to keep the back of your skull from banging off the door of the Audi, each thrust procuring a dull thud of flesh against metal.
And, Christ, what a beautiful symphony it all creates; the rhythmic sound of your head thwacking against his car, the dainty jingle of his belt buckle, hanging heavy and undone and bouncing between your chin and his thigh, those precious gags and gurgles and sniffles and hiccups that he loves so much, choked off and snuffed out as his cock rams them back into your chest, the half-stifled sounds that keep shattering to pieces on his tongue, shards swallowed down with difficulty, scraping against the walls of his throat and leaving his voice ragged and raw.
“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” he’s panting as his fingers thread through your hair, fisting at the roots and dragging you off of him. “S’a shame, because you look so pretty,” a rough thumb skims over your swollen, glossy lip, his gaze following its trajectory. “But I wanna cum in your cunt, not your throat.”
And then he’s pulling you back up from the ground, strong arms wedged beneath your own and hoisting you into the air, your legs instinctually wrapping around his waist, locked securely at the ankles as they hook together at the base of his spine, thighs squeezing around his hips in anticipation.
He pins you to the metal of the Audi, one palm securely cupping your ass as the other wraps around the base of his cock, hips inching back just enough to find your hole.
The head, now slicked with your spit, glides over your clit twice—a cheeky little tease, just to hear you whine his name again, all stringy and petulant through a swollen pout—then down your slit until it catches on your hole.
It stings as he forces himself into you, always does no matter how wet you are, no matter how much you’ve slobbered all over his shaft, because Touya routinely refuses to prep you at all—not that you would’ve let him, not tonight—because he loves it, too, he loves it just as much as you do.
He loves the sharp little hiss pushed through the gaps of your teeth by your tongue, he loves the gentle fluttering of your cunt as your most delicate skin stretches, splits itself open for him, to suck him in and swallow him down, he loves that sweet sigh that melts from your mouth as he bottoms out, slathered over his own huff of breath, conjoined relief.
“Touya-nii, Touya-nii,” you’re whimpering out, fingers curling against his shoulders.
“M’here, baby, m’here,” he pants out, forehead pushing against your own, eyes slipped shut.
And for a moment everything is still, breath held stagnant in swelling lungs as you both savour this feeling—of fullness, of closeness, of wholeness—appreciation unhindered by noisy exhales or slapping skin.
Then his hips are moving, gyrating in little circles that gain speed with each completed motion, cockhead grinding into your cervix.
He can’t exactly fuck you properly like this, can’t exactly fuck you like he wants to, like he normally would, not all out in the open like this.
But he manages to make do, the pace quick right from the start, shallow fast snaps of his hips that have the buckle of his belt is clanging against his car, leaving superficial little scratches just below the door handle.
It’s all still so fucking hot, though, his forehead pressed tightly to yours as he exhales nicotine-tinged breath across your face, each one pushed from his chest with the rapid little ruts of his hips.
It’s all so fucking naughty, fucking out in the open where anyone who’s paying more than a shred of attention can see, his movements just barely hidden by the flesh of your thighs, cushioning his hips.
The thought that anyone could be watching, touching themselves, filming you has your muscles tightening and your stomachs fluttering, the dirty, illicit nature inspiring another rush of adrenaline to taint your blood.
Your mouth drops open, starved for more of him—never satisfied, are you, greedy lil thing—welcoming his huffs onto your tongue, spicy and sweet as hickory. Your tongue unfurls from your mouth, dumb and lazy and so fucking messy, licking at his lips in quick, uneven strokes, sopping up any remnants of his essence.
The tip slithers between his parted lips, kittenishly lapping at the edges of his teeth, tracing the sharp ridges one by one, and he laughs, warm and airy.
His own tongue shoves against yours, pushing it from his mouth and back into it’s rightful home before he flattens the slick muscle against your face and drags it, slow and steady, from the point of you chin to the tip of your nose, leaving behind a thick, fat trail of cooling saliva painted across your face.
The action has you squealing, scrunching up your nose as you involuntarily suck your bottom lip between your teeth and suck it clean.
His scent is strong, now saturating your skin as it dries, tight and hard, on your face, sealed by the breathless little giggle he exhales across your cheeks.
And, Christ, he’s so fucking gorgeous, strands of alabaster plastered to his forehead and stuck to his temples in scraggly strings, clumped into damp little tufts that curl up at the base of his neck, drops of sweat balancing precariously on the points.
His rough, quick movements have them breaking free, glistening drops of sweat rolling down his puckered skin, tracing the curve of his neck, streaking ink and ivory with glimmering little trails. They pool in the dips of his collarbones and soak into the collar of his shirt, turning cashmere translucent.
The sleek muscles in his forearms flex beneath inked skin, gliding as he readjusts his grip, holds you closer, hugs you tighter, fucks you harder.
His whole body is covered in a sheen layer of sweat, urgently chasing that high that only his little sister can gift him, sharp pistons of his hips keeping you pinned to the car while he uses you as his personal little toy, his favourite little toy, forcing you to just take it.
And yet, despite it all, his eyes are bright, his lips molded into a brilliant smile, a sick sort of love stained with exhilaration—the thrill of getting caught: fucking all out in the open, fucking your family—brimming in his gaze.
He’s such a fucking pro, knows you and your body better than anyone else ever has, ever could, ever will, angling his hips so they fuck you just right, each stroke of his cock an upward curve, dragging against that puffy spot buried deep within your cunt, head swiping against your cervix with each draw back.
Across the lot, that girl is fiddling with the keys to her shitty little car, rooting around for something in her bag, and Touya laughs—a loud, booming sound, heavy with deranged delight that echoes throughout the space, garnering the attention of a smattering of bystanders.
“Look,” he nudges his head to the right, your gaze following his own, slippery cheeks pressed flush together. “She’s watching. She can see you, sweetheart—can see us, can see you’re mine and I’m yours.”
Good. If she hadn’t already figured it out before, it should be abundantly fucking obvious now, who he belongs to.
“She—She looks disgusted,” you snicker.
Even from several meters away, she does, you can tell, face twisted up somewhere between horror and shock, eyes wide and unblinking as they scan your conjoined forms, brow scrunched and chest beginning to heave.
She looks like she’s going to be sick.
You hope she is.
“Oh, she doesn’t even know—fuck—the half of it, does she?” Touya keens, hips faltering for just a moment before regaining their momentum. “Why don’t we give her something to really be repulsed by?”
Yes, yes, yes, you’re nodding your head, little mewls of affirmation spilling from your throat.
“Give your big brother a kiss, then.”
And oh, how eager you are, ever his good girl, ever his best girl, arms tightening around his neck as you pull yourself closer, smashing your lips to his. Dainty fingers thread through the hair at the back of his scalp, soaked with salt, and tug harshly, enough to have a reactionary hiss slipping through his teeth.
Using the opportunity, you suck his bottom lip into your mouth between your teeth, clamp down hard and yank backwards, so hard his lip stretches like shimmering, pink bubblegum, gums beginning to strain until it finally slides free of your hold, teeth scraping against flesh. He spits out a curse, muddled and chased by a laugh, tongue laving over the indents you left, now weeping copper.
“Niichan’s gonna get you back for that one,” he says, sadistic glee shimmering in his eyes almost as pretty as the crimson glazing his mouth.
You’re sure he will, too, later tonight, with that cherished knife you gifted him last year.
The giggle that pours past your lips is fucking raucous, leaves your tongue sticky and tingling, so wicked it rivals your brother.
“I wanna show her, niichan,” you’re panting out, voice fading into a whine. “I want to show her that you’re mine.”
“Do it, baby,” he breathes. “Show the whole world how fucking gorgeous you look cumming for your big brother.”
Three more rapid pumps of his hips and you’re convulsing around him, cunt clenching almost viciously around his cock as your heat gushes down his shaft, sticky and messy and so much, so much it pools in the folds of his heavy balls, so much it streams down his taut thighs and soaks the waistband of his trousers, so much it dribbles down the metal of the Audi, smeared across the door in sloppy strokes.
“Mi-Mine,” you growl, thighs squeezing around him as if you’re attempting to milk more juices from yourself, trying to stain him with you and stake your claim.
“Yeah,” he nearly moans, hips beginning to stutter. “Yours, baby, niichan’s yours. Tell him again.”
“You’re mine!” you sob out, nails gripping the sleek muscle of his shoulders with such strength the joints of your fingers crack and ache, clawing at him as if you’re trying to gorge every part of you on him, eat up every piece of him you can, stuff every bit of you as full of him as physically possible.
“Fu-Fuck,” he keens, the curse shattering in his throat. “That’sa—That’s my good girl.”
He’s close now, you can tell; can hear it in the way his words keep splintering on his tongue, can feel it in the way his thrusts have gone from precise and particular to loose and sloppy, an urgent, uneven rutting of his hips.
“Fill me, fill me, fill me with your cock, niichan,” you’re gasping out, scrabbling at his neck, scraping skin and sweat beneath your nails. “Fill me with your cum, fill me so much, fill me until I can’t take anymore and it starts le-leaking out, all—all over the place.”
And, well, he’s never been one to deny his precious baby sister what she wants.
Because then he’s complying, hips stammering to a halt and pressed flush to your ass as his cock throbs, stuffing you full of thick, burning cream.
“More! More, more,” you’re gasping out as you try to fuck yourself on his twitching cock, desperate to pump him for everything he’s got to give, eliciting a breathless, broken little laugh falling from his lips.
“S’all yours,” he manages to slur out, slumping a little against his car, knees beginning to quiver as his cock strives to please you, giving another weak spurt of cum. “S’all yours, princess, always.”
notes: eee first alhaitham piece!!! please heed the warnings for this piece; reader is quite bratty and avid in her quest to get alhaitham to pay attention to her! this technically isn’t written in canon (aka it would be considered a modern!au) but this is hardly noticeable since there’s no mention of visions or canon events etc within the piece | title credit: take a slice by glass animals
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, slight dubcon, minimal prep, sex gets rougher near the end, size kink/size difference, reader is a Brat with a capital B, daddy kink, one instance of name calling (slut), alhaitham is very clearly a professor in this although it isn’t explicitly mentioned, cock sucking, cock riding, a tiny bit of crying, dom/sub power dynamics, praise, reader is female, hints of a toxic relationship
words: 4.5k
synopsis:
It’s horribly selfish, you know it is, and on most days you can control yourself, can render yourself content with the fragments of attention he affords you, cradling them in your hands, savouring them like precious candies, hesitant to put them in the heat of your mouth lest they melt too quickly. But he’s been gone so often lately, busy with papers to grade and applications to reject and lectures to teach, and you just miss him so much.
And today, you can’t control yourself.
But trying to get your Daddy to take notice of you when he’s preoccupied, absorbed in the pages of his book or sucked into the writings of his dense work, is no easy feat.
Luckily, you’re a pro at it.
The late afternoon sun streams through the stained glass in large, lazy strokes, painting the room a glowing gold-tinged green. Motes of dust shimmer in the beams, floating aimlessly in their warm light, your eyes trailing their movement halfheartedly. A gust of wind wanders through the open window, slow and careless, dispersing the specks, and you sigh.
It’s Sunday.
You hate Sundays.
Because Sundays are the days before Mondays, and Mondays are the day Daddy goes back to work, and Daddy likes to spend Sundays doing nothing—which, in Alhaitham speak, translates to spending the whole day lounging around and reading.
It’s fine for the first little while, laying with your head in Daddy’s lap as his headphones cup your ears and sing you into a state of semi-consciousness, the fingers of his free hand brushing across your scalp, mindlessly tracing along the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the shell of your ear, then repeating the routine in an endlessly loop as aqua eyes fly across the pages of his book.
And, sure, that’s nice, feels nice, just basking in the company of one another, coexisting in an easy, peaceful, almost languid sense, but you only have a mere shard of his attention; a sliver, hardly sustainable for the entire day—and you, being the greedy little thing you are, want more.
It’s horribly selfish, you know it is, and on most days you can control yourself, can render yourself content with the fragments of attention he affords you, cradling them in your hands, savouring them like precious candies, hesitant to put them in the heat of your mouth lest they melt too quickly. But he’s been gone so often lately, busy with papers to grade and applications to reject and lectures to teach, and you just miss him so much.
And today, you can’t control yourself.
But trying to get your Daddy to take notice of you when he’s preoccupied, absorbed in the pages of his book or sucked into the writings of his dense work, is no easy feat.
Luckily, you’re a pro at it.
It starts slow, almost unobtrusive in a way, as it usually does on days such as these.
Turning your head, you scatter a few kisses along his inner thigh, dangerously close to his cock, nose nuzzling against black denim; needy, clingy.
Teal eyes flick down, sparing you a millisecond glance, lips quirking up into the breath of a smile and snorting before going back to his book.
Alright, that’s fine, you can do better.
Nosing at the outline of his cock, you smirk as you feel it begin to fill with life, your tongue unfurling from your mouth to flatten against the half-hard lump and curl, lips closing around it a moment later and sucking. Drool begins to collect at the corners of your stretched mouth, quickly drenching the material as you grind your tongue over his cock in slow, hard, repetitive motions, the denim rough against your sensitive skin, leaving behind tiny burning tingles.
This time, he doesn’t even bother looking at you, doesn’t bother going through the trouble, the only indication he’s even affected at all the slight hitch in his breath and how quickly he hardened beneath your lips.
“Are you misbehaving?”
“Maybe,” a cross between a purr and a pout. “What are you gonna do about it?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
An indignant huff leaves your mouth in a whoosh, uncontrollable and automatic, features crunching under the force of your pout as it deepens.
“You can act like a little slut if you want to,” his voice is passive, dismissive, though there’s a ghost of a smirk on his face, one corner of his lips twitching and tugging upward. “But you’ve got another thing coming if you think I’m going to bother entertaining such behaviour. Brats don't deserve Daddy’s attention.”
His words spark a fierceness behind your ribs, bright and blazing, and you swallow against the urge to grin. You can tell from his word choice alone that he’s game, player two rising to his rightful place and ready to play, his claim a prompt, a challenge, a puzzle for you to solve, for you to win.
Grumbling under your breath, you turn over with more force than strictly necessary, purposefully jostling his body, clothing rustling against the leather of the couch, and sink your teeth into his thigh, teeth scraping against denim. His cock, pressed tight to your neck now, twitches once.
Squirming a little, you flip yourself onto your stomach and tuck your knees beneath you, back arched, ass in the air. Dainty fingers find his belt buckle, undoing it with a practiced carelessness, movements vague and loose.
He chuckles—nothing more than a patronizing little snicker, gurgled at the back of his tongue—but keeps his gaze averted, arms raising to make room for your body as you adjust your position, elbow resting on your lower back, fingers flicking the next page.
His cock, massive and leaking, strains against the soft cotton of his briefs, material sticky and wet from your copious amount of spit, clinging to him, outlining the smooth shaft and the ridges of the head.
Pre-cum dribbles through the fabric, a pretty jewel shimmering near the elastic waistband, garnishing the head.
It’s such a pretty sight, tongue peeking out from between your lips to lap it up, giggling a little as more instantly oozes through the cotton, another dewdrop of arousal assembling in it’s previous place.
The taste lingers on your tongue, bitter and strong like his favourite roast of coffee, searing itself into your tastebuds. Your mouth waters, nerves tingling for more of his essence, desperation collecting in the dips and crevices beneath your tongue and along your gums, thick and staved.
It’s quiet as your fingers curl in the waistband and tug, but he lifts his hips, silently aiding you in your venture, and you smirk up at him, eyes burning into his face, a flare of pride igniting in your chest when you see his gaze still, staring motionlessly at the page, abstaining from the temptation to meet your own.
But for now, that’s enough—enough of a reaction to fuel you further, to feed that hunger just enough to keep it wanting more—and your eyes refocus on the task at hand, jeans and briefs yanked haphazardly halfway down his thighs.
His cock is monstrous, gorgeous, all straight lines and velvet skin and gleaming with smeared dewdrops of pre-cum steadily accumulating in the slit, a singular thick vein ivied along the underside—your favourite vein, the one that pulses eagerly, the one that rushes with new bouts of blood with each upward pull of your mouth—and you use a palm to steady yourself, gripping his thigh as your lips part, little pants of breath hot against his skin.
With a hand firmly wrapped around the base, you feed him to yourself, taking him inch by inch down your throat, leisurely and teasing just the way you know he hates it, jaw stretching wider and wider the further you gorge yourself on him.
You make it about three quarters of the way—never can fit him completely in your mouth without a little bit of his help—before you drag your mouth back up, lips leaving the prettiest shimmer of spit, a thin film coating his cock, aiding your hand in its slide.
It’s slow but deep, each stroke of your mouth ramming his cock down your throat as best you can, tongue curling almost possessively around the shaft as cheeks hollow on the pull back up, that big vein throbbing against your flesh.
His blood must be fucking buzzing, because you can feel it, the sudden influx that courses almost violently through his cock with each tug of your mouth upwards, procuring another surge of blood teeming with fizz.
It has your own thighs clenching, knees pressed tightly together, body shifting only slightly as you squirm—though you do not kid yourself into thinking that he doesn’t notice it, those minuscule mannerisms, that faint wiggle—a torrent of heat flooding the apex of your thighs, clit throbbing hungrily.
It’s difficult to glance up at him from this angle, head turning just enough to catch a glimpse of his mostly indifferent profile, the only change in his demeanour the flexing of his set, strong jaw as his molars grind together.
But that’s just not good enough, is it?
It’s getting messy now, just the way you know he likes it, lips glittering with your own drool, dollops of it running down his shaft in thick streams, pooling on his heavy balls. Saliva has soaked your own hand already, too, cumulating in the gaps of your fisted fingers and outlining your nailbeds, aiding you palm in slick strokes as it follows the trajectory of your mouth, viscous ropes keeping the two connected.
It dribbles off your jaw in big, fat globs, and you tug your mouth, almost reluctantly so, off his cock to lick at his balls with a certain voraciousness, avid in your quest not to waste a single drop of your combined fluids, chin glazed with your essence (because you know how Daddy hates waste).
Using this as an opportunity, you look up again, heart hardening into cold platinum when you discover that barely anything has changed, his eyes still flying across the pages of his stupid book, albeit a little slower now, tracing and then re-tracing certain lines as your tongue laves over his balls in flat, fat strokes. His own tongue darts out to glide along his bottom lip, drawing into his mouth and biting down on it, fast and hard, before releasing it.
With a petulant little mewl, you nuzzle your face against his bare thigh, nose brushing his drenched cock, and he swallows thickly, defined Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion, tongue curling around his teeth and sucking on them, eyes pausing for a mere moment before resuming their reading, gaze dragging across the words with a cultivated concentration.
A cute grumble rattles around in your chest, features chiseled in a tight, deep pout—brows knitted, nose scrunched, chin puckered—and you resume sucking him off with renewed vigour, desperate to garner his full attention, desperate for him to snap.
Because the tiny cracks in his mask of passivity are not enough. You want it to shatter into sharp shards, you want him to spare you more than a moment of recognition, you want him to pay attention to you!
Obscenity fills the room, your slurping vulgar as you slobber all over him, the rhythmic squelching of your hand as it pumps the shaft crude, filthy, voice muffled as you whine, high and pitchy and needy, around his cock.
But if the noise bothers him, he refrains from saying anything, readjusting his grip on his book, as if grasping it tighter will help him fine tune his focus.
It isn’t until you’re choking yourself on him—head bobbing hard and fast as rough coughs tangle in your throat, routinely shoved back down by the head of his cock; tears streaming down your cheeks, leaving glistening trails in their wake and spiking your fluttering lashes; chest hitching with suppressed little sobs that twitch your nose and tremble your chin, sprouting claws as they tear at your ribs, desperate to be released from their cage—that he finally acknowledges you.
“It’s difficult for Daddy to concentrate with his cock shoved down your throat,” he warns, words straining just a touch. A large hand threads itself through the hair at the back of your skull, tugging you off his cock with unexpected tenderness.
“Really?” you ask, unable to quell the brattiness frothing viciously in your chest, voice wrecked and ruined, another cough strangling itself on the back of your tongue as you stubbornly fight past it. “It wasn’t such a difficult feat for you in the past, what changed?”
His nostrils flare as he exhales, breath sharp and hard and heavy, jaw clenching twice and stare never straying from his book, though his eyes have stopped moving again, gaze unfocused and hazy.
Your tongue slithers out from between a haughty little smirk, tip trailing around the head of his cock in an unhurried loop before digging into the slit, daring.
“Why are you lying to me, Daddy?”
“Why are you being bad, baby?” he answers your question with another, finally looking down at you fully, hand with the book sagging just a touch. His eyes are considerate, curious, concerned, notes of genuine worry infusing his tone.
Sudden guilt swamps your stomach, thick and sticky as it sinks into your gut and solidifies, and you swallow against the sour sludge staining the back of your tongue. Are you being bad? Have you blurred the boundaries between playful brattiness and real brattiness without even realizing?
“I—I—” the word hitches, but you push through. “I’m sorry,” you whimper, and you really do sound regretful, eyes shining as you look up at him, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle.
“What’s going on with my girl, huh? What’s got my little princess acting up like this?” his gaze searches your face, slow, scrutinizing, as if he can decipher the answer through your features alone. “It’s become clear that this is more than your usual coltish brattiness,” he says carefully. “You aren’t usually this…aggressive.”
“I just—” you begin, heat seeping into your cheeks, nails digging into your palms as you resist the urge to hide, to bury your face in his tummy and whine, feeling exceptionally childish and chastised. “I want your attention, that’s all. I miss you.”
“Miss me?” he blinks, brow furrowing with confusion. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”
“Are you, though?”
The question is fragile, wobbly as if you may cry, words leaving your lips before you can even assess them, and he frowns, placing the book face down and open on his thigh, muscles holding his place.
A film of memories glazes his eyes—a look he gets when he recollects and categorizes important information, and you swear you can almost see him shuffling through that big brain of his, analyzing, dissecting, concluding—before his features soften, melting under a sudden realization, and he tuts his tongue, tugging you into a sitting position and tenderly removing his headphones from your ears.
How can he scold you for behaving in such a way, when he’s been neglecting you, failing to recognize the cues—all of the signs and the symptoms; the way you twined yourself up in him on Monday night, reluctant to let go even for a moment, reluctant to go to bed on your own; the way you insisted on curling up in his lap on Wednesday while he did his marking, even though it was an absolute waste of time for you, drifting between napping on his chest and idly scrolling through your phone; and now, today, on one of his only days off, borderline ignoring you as you practically begged for him to pay you a few shreds of notice—failing to recognize what you need.
“Daddy’s been neglecting you, hasn’t he,” he sighs gently.
“Well, it’s—”
“No, no, he has,” Alhaitham cuts you off, voice stern. “Sundays are meant to be for both of us, aren’t they? For us to enjoy together, no? Especially after such a stuffed week.”
“I guess so,” you mumble, picking at a loose thread on his sweater, eyes focused on your fingers. “But it was rude of me to interrupt your reading like that. I—” Shame burns in your throat, achy and stinging. “I know better than to do such a thing.”
“It was, and you do,” he agrees with you, even and pragmatic. “You should have just communicated with Daddy instead of trying to provoke him. You’re a big girl, you’re capable of using your words.”
“You’re right, Daddy, I—”
“But,” he continues, speaking over you. “I should’ve picked up on the signs, too. I’m not a mind reader, and honest, open communication is important in any relationship, but I should’ve noticed something was wrong sooner and pressed the issue instead of dismissing it in favour of work, irregardless of how busy I was. That’s a Daddy’s duty.”
Tears prick your eyes, a heaviness you hadn’t realized you had been holding instantly eradicated, the platinum encasing your heart dissolving into sparkles of silver—light, sweet, happy.
“Hey, look at me, princess,” a thumb and forefinger grasp your chin, nudging your head up. “If Daddy lets you ride his cock, will you behave? Then can Daddy read?”
A compromise.
“Okay,” you’re whispering with a tiny nod, his hands finding your hips and hauling you toward him, into his lap. “Yeah, okay.”
A palm wraps around the base of his cock as you hover above it, holding it steady. He’s still soaked from your spit, your cunt slick from sucking his cock, enabling you to sink down easily enough, cute little hole stinging with the sudden stretch.
“Ah,” you whimper, eyes squeezed shut tightly, forehead pressed to his. “Hurts, Daddy.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he pacifies, slightly breathless. “But I know you can take it for me, right? Show Daddy how you can take his cock.”
Of course you can take it for him, will always take it for him. He’s so fucking big, though, both girth and length well above average, but you were too impatient to be properly prepped, and he was too impatient to insist on it, the fingertips prodding your cunt deeming you wet enough to ride him.
He reaches for his book just as you bottom out, cockhead pressed snugly to your cervix, tiny spears of pain slicing through your gut, cunt spasming as it attempts to accommodate him.
A satisfied sigh slips from your parted lips, body molding into his—chests pressed flush against one another, sharp hipbones digging into plush inner thighs, face nuzzling into the junction of his neck. His chin rests on your shoulder as he resumes his reading, allowing you to wiggle around in his lap a little, getting used to the feeling of being stuffed full.
“That better, baby?” he asks, the question barely more than a wisp of breath, curling enticingly around your ear.
“Much,” you breathe, head nodding in slow, languid movements. “Thank you, Daddy.”
His lips press a kiss to your temple in response, distracted, already drowning in the pages of his book again as you begin to move.
It doesn’t take long before you’re whimpering into his shoulder with each uneven rut of your hips, small puffs of Daddy hot against his skin, letters of his designation humid and sticky. Silver hair twines around your fingers as you toy with the tufts at the base of his skull, hands laced lazily behind his neck.
It’s a little pathetic, a little desperate, how you aimlessly hump away at him—not chasing anything, just enjoying the sensation, enjoying being close with him—slick coating your inner thighs and staining his jeans, thick puddles of it seeping through the material and dampening his flesh.
But it’s so good, cords of drool drivelling from your mouth and onto his sweater, leaving tiny gleaming pools, eyes half-lidded and rolling, each brush of his cock against your favourite spot pushing another sweet little sound from your lips.
It’s all so languid, all so easy, just as Sundays should be, your cheek smushed against his shoulder as you drift between dreamy states of pleasure, forehead pressed to his neck, babbling out nonsense, his title tied into a knotty thread on your tongue.
“Daddy, Daddy, DaddyDaddyDaddy,”
“You’re doing so well, princess,” he murmurs, attention straying from his book for a moment to nose along your jaw. “Keep riding Daddy’s cock like that.”
You nod, stupid and giddy and so, so warm, drawing a deep inhale as if you’re attempting to breathe him in, to suck him down, to store him in your lungs forever—cedarwood and mint with just a hint of smoke—copious amounts of saliva gathering beneath your tongue.
Pulling back slightly, you lick at his skin, dragging your tongue up the curve of his neck in long, wide strokes, gathering him in your mouth. A delicate shiver jolts through his body as your breath hits the trails of gleaming spit left in your tongue’s wake, and you giggle a little, kittenishly licking at his skin again, watching through glassy eyes as chills erupt across his flesh.
Clearing his throat roughly, he gargles the beginnings of a curse, the hand on your hip flexing, blunt nails sowing his name into your skin.
“Does that feel good, Daddy?”
“You always feel good,” he responds steadily, but his voice is husky, the edges of his words raspy and ragged with lust.
Another giggle pries its way past your lips, burrowing back into his shoulder as the rocking of your hips becomes more vigorous, vengeful, almost, relishing in his resulting smothered gasp.
Oh, how you love it when he gets like this, when he engages in this game with you, puzzles and challenges back on again after establishing some new ground rules. Because you know he gets off on this, too; on pretending to ignore you, pretending to be unaffected. But you can feel it, the micro-movements of his hips as they rut against you, or the gentle catch of his breath on his sternum, or the occasional soft grunt that manages to slip off his tongue.
He loves it just as much as you do.
It procures little sparks in your belly, sprouts tiny flames across your flesh nourished by every tiny yet colossal reaction you manage to elicit from him. They blaze brighter, brilliant, with each swipe of your slick clit on his pubic bone, a string of airy moans leaking from your mouth.
“That’s it, baby,” he encourages, a touch of patronization imbuing his tone. “Use Daddy’s cock to get yourself off.”
Your hips speed up with his encouragement, gyrating in fast, tight little circles, fingers readjusting their grip on his neck and nails taking root in his flesh, carving tiny constellations into him.
That book is still in his hand, pages crinkling under the strength of his grip, but he is no longer looking at it, oceanic gaze enraptured by you.
He’s so fucking pretty, tufts of silver hair clumped with salt, tips wet and sticking to his sheen temples and neck. Azure eyes practically glow as they devour you—all of your precious little expressions; the crumple of your brow and the dancing of your lashes and the quiver of your mouth—pupils gaping and gluttonous. His breath wafts over your skin in quick, harsh, hard little pants, but his voice stays relatively steady.
“Look at my baby, so good for her Daddy,”
A whimper spills from your throat, forehead knocking against his own as slippery hands readjust their position, twining together behind his neck. Those tiny blazes have bloomed into a single inferno, flames licking at the walls of your insides, cinders seeping through your flesh and bubbling your blood, chased by another collection of sparks sent searing through your body with each bounce on his cock.
“You gonna cum?” he asks, breathless words tapering off into a whine, his nose nudging against yours, sweet, soft. “Daddy wants you to cum for him, baby,”
“But I—ah—I want your cum, too, Daddy!” you cry, pulling back to look at him with beseeching eyes, searching his face in an almost frantic manner. “Please, Daddy, please stuff me full of your cum, please, Daddy, I—I wanna be so full that I can’t take it anymore, until it’s too much for my little cunt and it starts leaking out and—”
“Fuck,” he groans, the word deep and dark as his book falls from his hands, clattering to the floor.
Large hands curl around your waist, eager and urgent as they halt your movements, his own hips snapping up half a second later as they begin to jackhammer into you, cockhead pounding against your sore cervix.
It jostles your entire body, limp and pliable and weightless between his palms as he fucks you.
He’s ruthless in his pursuit to give you what you want, grip so tight it’s a marvel he doesn’t crush your bones beneath his fingers, blotches of grey and violet flowering across your skin, planted by blood vessels as they break.
The pain only works to complement the pleasure, head falling forward again as you mewl out his name, eyes roiling in your skull, shrouded by a thick haze of passion.
“There you go, baby, there you go,” he pants out, forcing your hips to move faster, harder, practically bouncing you in his lap. “Don’t stop, you got it,”
The illusion of choice has another moan barreling up your throat—you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to, Alhaitham now entirely in control—but you nod your head anyway, playing along, thighs burning as the muscles strain, trying to aid him.
He’s close, you can tell, gorgeous little grunts streaming from his lips, steadily pushed from deep in his chest with every buck into you and peppered with gasps. His brow is drawn, unblinking eyes intent on your face, that well-worn mask of passivity completely evaporated, features tinged with smoldering desire.
It’s all so incredible, that inferno raging inside of you furling into a tight ball of fire, a seed in the beginning stages of florescence, nurtured by one, two, three slams of his cock before it blossoms in the most beautiful way; a brilliant blaze, a carnivorous thing that swallows you whole, engulfs you in its flames and draws you into its center, sweet little cunt clenching around him as it gushes torrents of heat, making a mess all over his thighs.
“Christ,” he nearly whines, the fingers splayed on your hips gouging into flesh, forcing you to fuck yourself on his cock twice more before he’s cumming, too, with a soft gasp of your name, breath shattering on his tongue.
Thick cum stuffs you to the hilt as his cock throbs violently, warm and comforting as it fills your insides, and you sigh dreamily, body melting between his hands, slumped against his heaving chest.
“Feeling better now?” he murmurs softly, knuckles stroking your hair, your responding hum and lethargic nodding causing him to chuckle, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “Good.”
He leans down to pick up his forgotten novel, one strong arm wrapped around your waist keeping you clung to him as he does, and a few dollops of cooling cum ooze from your raw cunt, whining a little at the loss. You can feel them, dribbling out of you at a slow but steady pace, down your Daddy’s balls and onto the couch. Kaveh is going to kill you for that.
“Now rest, baby,” Alhaitham’s instructing as he sits back up, planting a kiss on the crown of your head before flipping through the pages in an attempt to find his previous spot. “Daddy has one more chapter he wants to finish before dinner.”
❧ ; SYNOPSIS. he’s loyal and you play games, he loves you and you’re too afraid. you’re polar opposites and yet neither of you can stay away.
❧ ; cpu characters. chifuyu matsuno x fem!reader.
❧ ; word count. 4.4k.
❧ ; genre + rating. fwb!au, angst, smut, 18+, minors do not interact !!
❧ ; game warnings. - proceed with caution !! characters are in their twenties, heavy smut, angst, toxic relationships, mentions of weed, mentions of blood, high sex, unprotected sex, oral sex ( fem!receiving ) fingering, choking, marking, spanking.
❧ ; streamer commentary. waa this is super late but this is my contribution to @keizos / @ineuii ‘s scorpio season collab. i hope i managed to do it justice and i had a lot of fun writing fuyu !! <3 m.list. + tip jar.
there’s a song on the radio that you seem to know, ruby lined lips wrapped around a rolled joint hum along to the slow roll of R&B that purrs through the speakers of chifuyu’s bmw— he doesn’t know it, the song, nor does he care to, hyper fixated on the heat of your presence by his side and the softness of your voice as you exhale lyrics intertwined with smoke into his car.
the bass vibrates against his spine through expensive leather seats and he can’t tell if it’s the cause of his heart rattling around in the cavity of his chest or if it’s you you and the slow drags you take whatever it is you smoke and the o-shape of your lips as a puffy cloud fills the air. chifuyu doesn’t know the song, but it’s what you like and it’s always about what you like.
never him. never him and what he likes.
tongue running over your lips, you hold the joint out to the dark haired man— amused. chifuyu almost wishes he never took it, but he needs something to take his mind off of you, letting his body tingle with his first hit, letting the drugs or whatever’s laced into your cheap weed, pocket the memories of you and scramble him up till he’s dizzy. he leans his head against the steering wheel, not daring to look at you, knowing he’ll fall apart if he does.
it’s raining outside, the haze of the drugs in his system making the shine from street lamps and and tail lights blur with the droplets of water running down the car windows— chifuyu had parked behind the house you were staying in, the one belonging to whichever rich man you’d decided to mooch off of in your time apart and fuck just the idea of it makes him feel sick. rolling his head across the steering will, he wants to shake image of you sleeping with someone else from his mind, the image of you crying out for another lover— taking them the way he makes you take him.
it’s not fair.
how you bend the poor man at his will, take away his freedom and choices and make him trail after you like a lost fucking dog. chifuyu had been warned; his heart gets wrapped up and he gets in too deep. he’s loyal, he’d go to the ends of the earth for the people he cares about and you just so happen to be at the top of the list. you don’t deserve it, his friends, even takemichi tells him—the way he loves you like you’re the only woman to have ever walked the earth. the way he chases you in circles trying to get an ounce of feeling back from you— you’re toxic and it’s breaking him, drowning him in black tar and choking chifuyu from the inside out. you don’t deserve him.
“so... i can’t get a text back?” matsuno asks keeping his voice steady despite the thick black in his lungs and the sides of his throat that stop him from talking to you like you’re not breaking his heart. aquamarine eyes stay following a trail of raindrops on the mirror on the driver's side, two fat drops racing— the man beside you waiting with baited breath until they stop fighting each other and become one.
“do you need one?”
your laughter is light, airy and evil as you turn in your seat to set your prowling gaze on him. everything about you, your relaxed demeanour— shoulders back, head tilted upwards and the latest drag of your joint blown in his direction— it tells chifuyu that you don’t care, that you’re ready to tug at the yarn ball strings wrapped around his heart and play another game of cat and mouse.
he doesn’t look at you, sucking in a gentle breath before his next words, tasting your perfume poison on his tongue. “no.” he says shortly. he does, chifuyu needs to hear from you so badly, like a man needs air and fish need water and the leaves on trees need sun. he needs you. he wants the ‘good morning,’ texts and ‘hope you get home safe,’ calls—craves the ‘stop getting into fights, or i’ll fucking leave you...but not really,’ moments in the bathroom at your apartment, where you tenderly wipe the blood from his brow and chifuyu’s head tilts up to press his lips against yours even though his own are bruised and battered from taking a fist to the face.
chifuyu matsuno wants so much from you but you’re the type of girl who gives so little, without a care in the world and it fucking sucks to have you throw it back in his face and laugh.
laugh at how goddamn whipped you have him.
“do you deserve one?” the question on your weed tainted lips confuses him, brows furrowed and lips pursed as chifuyu shifts his aqua lined gaze towards you; the unspoken words of ‘tell me what i did.’ dancing between their darkened flecks. “keep fuckin’ around with bitches on the street ‘n see where it gets you, fuyu. you know i don’t like that,”
he doesn’t get you. you’re an enigma, a puzzle with a piece that went missing a long time ago that no ones ever found— one that he’s determined to look for. you cause yourself pain, believe the whispers on the streets even though you know with just one look at the black haired male, you’ll come to realise they’re not true. you’re broken and matsuno still doesn’t get it, even when he picks up shards of your glass, reflecting a scared little girl— a girl who’s scared of losing it all so tosses it away before it has the chance to destroy her— he doesn’t understand, he only has eyes for you. you’re the one he wants. why can’t you just see that?
maybe it’s the lies that you believe that keep the poor guy tied down to you, some righteous will inside of him burning bright to make you see that you’re more than just a cheap fuck to him. that you’ve got every square inch of chifuyu matsuno’s body signed under your name. he’s too good for this fight, to prove to himself to you ( a girl who doesn’t give him the time of day )— but maybe like the devil’s green on your tongue he’s addicted. just maybe it’s that. “i wasn’t—“ he starts to say, feeling the words fizzle out on the tip of his tongue as you bat your eyelashes up at him, eyeliner and mascara smudged from the rain before you curl a finger in the raven locks flopped over his eyes— blowing smoke into his face and chifuyu is reminded, you’ll always have him playing this game and he’ll always beg you to keep him by your side until the next round. “let me make it up to you.”
a beat of silence echoes between two doped up lovers with sober and aching hearts. you raise a brow. “how?”
“like this,” he breathes, lips against yours in a heartbeat, thumping along to the bass of the song sounding through the speakers. chifuyu can taste the smoke in your mouth, earthy and setting alight his lungs as if everything will crash and burn and turn to ash when you lock lips like this. your mouths slot together hotly, tongues freckled with weed and lust swiping over one another in wet motions while you breathe more smoke into him, breathe life and lust and pain into him as you shotgun the hit from your joint.
these days, fucking in fuyu’s expensive cars comes easy to you both— tongue down your throat you’re leaning over the gears and pushing off clothes like they’re worth nothing, discarding layers until you’re bare to the bone and whenever his hands move they’re brushing the softness of your tummy and the warmth of your flesh and for a second your eyes speak vulnerability— fear even...but the rest of you stays sultry calm and collected.
somehow you end up in matsuno’s lap, chair reeled back and legs either side of his— spread open for his fingers to play with the innocent blossom between your thighs as the rough pads of said fingers draw lazy patterns into your sticky clit and your teeth sink into his fleshy bottom lip enough to draw blood. “you’re crazy,” he says dazed, blue eyes turned cherry red under street lamps as they search your sweaty face— both of you swaying and under the influence.
“y’ like me like that,” you try to sound assertive, dominate him like you always do, to boss him around as you usually would without any care in the world but you can’t— not when chifuyu plays with you like you’re malleable clay and moulds you into the woman that he wishes you were, one that loves him and doesn’t toss him aside as his finger tips brush the sensitive spots along your essence soaked walls. the crown of your head pushes into the man’s shoulder— his free hand digging into the fat of your ass to keep you spread open for him, letting you ooze wetness over his custom leather seats each time he hits that gummy spot deep inside of you. “l-like that!”
a knowing smirk curls against his lips, fingers working their magic and sending you into a fit of trembles. knees weak and breath hot against his milky skin— chifuyu man spreads and laughs airily when you stumble over his lap, running away from fingers jackhammering inside of you. “like that, huh?” you can hear the smile in his voice as he takes over you, strong feelings of his lust and appreciation for you lapping at you like waves on a shore— drowning you in the gold that you don’t deserve. at least not from him. “just like that baby, you like it when i’m touching you like this. doin’ so good for me,”
the gentle praise matsuno gives you shouldn’t make you feel like this, good inside and warm like you’re loved— because that's not what this is. it’s just sex. it’s just sex is what you tell yourself despite your body saying otherwise, for with every drag of his fingers against your plush, sticky insides your hole flutters and the rest of you gushes. “you’re so good baby, fuck, so pretty. you good for me baby?” cooed into your ear, his words are so sweet they make you feel sick, licking at the wounds of your broken heart as you do your best not to fall apart.
you fight the wobble in your voice but not the shake in your thighs as chifuyu’s fingers twist deep within your leaky hole. “n-no,” you say, determined but on the verge of tears as knot builds tightly in your lower tummy and your pelvis burns as you keep yourself up in your lover’s lap. “‘m not...n-not for you!”
“no?” chifuyu frowns but he’s still being soft with you, no matter how much you fight him off. fingers pull from between your sloppy folds— decorated by your inner need for him, shining under the yellow street lamps against his skin. “but this pussy says otherwise, baby. you don’t want me? don’t want me making you feel like this?” condescending and still so sweet, you can't help the wet whimper that bubbles on your lips— a sob of his name, matsuno, like a sin falling from your mouth. you’re like a broken angel on top of him, a mess on his fingers with blackened wings as if you’ve fallen straight from heaven. chifuyu wants to break you more, in different ways to the men that shattered your hopeful shimmering vase before...so he shows you his slicked up fingers, the string of your arousal that connects them together and makes you watch as he sucks them clean.
you don’t want to want him. you don’t want to need him— but god, does he pull you in. maybe it’s the drugs or maybe it’s the pretty shimmer to his aqua eyes as they read deep into your soul, knowing that behind the brave girl facade you put on, there’s someone that craves real love.
so when he manhandles you the way he wants— turning you around and forcing you to lean over the dashboard, all you can do is drunkenly whine his name. fuyu. you say this time, drunk on the heat of his body against yours, black hair tickling your back as the man sucks dark bruises against your sweat and salt licked shoulder blades— you’re high as a kite on the sparks of pleasure he ignites against your skin while his hands act as a flint and stone— you don’t want to need chifuyu but as always your body gives it away that you really do. “s’too bad princess, was willin’ to give you everything,” chifuyu sighs, breath laced with the smoke of the devil’s lair warm as it trickles down your bare back. he takes your fleshy ass between large hands, smacking your cheeks and grunting in amusement as they bounce for him. “always give you everythin’ and this is how you repay me,”
“fuyu,” your mind is too fucked up, too hazy to register the sound of a belt clanking and a zipper being undone— it doesn’t help that chifuyu’s lips graze the scars and freckles and marks along your shoulders. you don’t even register his hot and heavy cock between the pillows of your thighs until his dribbling tip is pushing its way into your barely-used cunt. “please, ‘m not ready— h-haven’t cum yet! too big—!” it seems you’re the one begging for him this time, pathetically calling his name as the burn of his dick makes your body hotter than the blazing sun, the air tremors with the scent of sex and weed and taints your skin. “won’t fit!”
you feel pathetic like this, vulnerable where you can’t see his face and the trusting look he always gives you when you’re spread open on his dick like this— but matsuno will always think you look beautiful, until the day he dies he can only ever think highly of you and hopes one day he can make you see that. he shifts, cock pushing deeper into your sensitive hole, squelching sounds filling the car as you flutter and struggle to take just his tip despite how much precum oozes from it to help him along.
“yeah it will. you can take it, can’t you princess?” chifuyu whines and mouths wetly at your shoulder— hips not even slowing to give you time to adjust, desperate to fill you up. “don’t need to cum to take this cock, you’ve done it before. c’mon baby, be a good girl f’me…”
but you’re not good, you never have been— at least not to him. you don’t treat chifuyu the way he deserves, you take the flame in his heart and his cock in your tight cunt and ruin a good man, letting him bully his way into your lush, soaked insides—the weight of his girth stretching you open as it’s forked and blue-purple vein pushes right up against pleasure spots only he’s marked out and discovered inside of you.
if he shifts, moves so much as an inch— chifuyu would be nicely nestled against your g-spot and he knows that, stilling his hips with just under half of his cock to go before he’s fully sheathed inside of you, keeping you right in the edge of blinding euphoria. he dangles the feeling of bliss right in front of you— taunting you like you do him during your games of cat and mouse, smiling cruelly against the constellations on your back as you let out weak pleads of ‘m-more! need all of it!’ and ‘fuyu, don’t stop!’
“do you deserve it?” matsuno mocks, using your words from earlier as his skilled fingers snake towards the front of your body, pressing down on your clit once between your thighs to hear your salacious moans as you lose your cool. you sniff and he loses it, hips jumping up on their own and thick dick breaching your drooling you entrance, you cry from both ends— tears hot on your face from being teased by the man you run circles around. “oh baby don’t cry, it’s not so nice when it’s the other way around, is it?”
he bottoms out before you can say another word, fucking up into you with a pace that barely gives you time to adjust while his free hand sits comfortably around the base of your throat to pull you back onto his thrusts. you’re so full, in every way that you can think— mind full of him and heavy fog of weed, cunt raw and ravished by his fat sticky dick as it grows creamier and creamier the more your skin slaps together. chifuyu fucks you like he hates you, ramming his hips so hard into your body that you jolt up the dashboard and the car begins to shake from the force of his thrusts. but he praises you like he loves you, words written into the blossoming bruises between your shoulder blades or his tongue against yours while he pulls your head back to kiss you.
your bodies are so close you can feel the flame of his heart burning against you— branding you. you feel chifuyu’s love and affecting seeping from his pores and lapping over your skin like soft waves which are a sharp contrast to his hips brutally cantering into yours from behind, his balls that are heavy with cum slap hard against your swollen and sore clit— sticky sounds echoing through the hotboxed car as your sexes froth and slick up every time they meet.
“chifuyu! f-fuyu...o-oh my fucking god, please!” you babble brainlessly— barely able to think with the way his dick jams up against your cervix, shaping you into the perfect sleeve for his cock and ruining you for all the other men trying to flag you down. “please, please...f-fucking please! fuyu!”
the man scoffs, slowing the roll of his hips to torture you— dick pulsing within your creamy pussy, white frothing at the base of his cock. “fuyu, fuyu...fuyu!” matsuno mocks you, moans the words huskily before he grips your throat tightly and pounds you harder from behind. “it’s getting old sweetheart, all this begging...all these pleases but you haven’t even told me whatcha want yet...shit baby, tell me what i can do to fix that?” tell me what i can do to fix you. is what chifuyu really thinks while your sweet hole and it’s ridges cling to the veins on his cock as they drag against your insides. i can fix her. he believes— i can put her heart back together, make her the girl she once was. even when his own heart bleeds and tears into unmendable pieces. but at matsuno’s words, you clench down around him, making his thrusts stutter and breath hitch. “f-fuck baby, c’mon, c’mon...tell me what’cha need.”
you’re both beyond repair, two barely together people fucking away the cruel reality of their world. you suck him down eagerly, barely breathing and eyes rolling back while you throw your ass back down on chifuyu’s cock— becoming a drooling mess, wetness running down your thighs and ruining the rough material of his pants as they brush against the backs of your doughy thighs. “p-please lemme cum, i need’ta cum! please matsuno!” you slur over the saliva heavy on your tongue, clawing at the dashboard desperately as your body jolts further up the car from the pace of his thrusts brutally snapping into yours. “g-god! your dick is s’good, s’fucking good! makes m-me feel it s-so much!”
“yeah? it’s the only one going inside you. c’mon baby, tell me i'm the only one, t-then i’ll fuckin’ let you cum,” chifuyu rasps, cock slipping and sliding through your tight hole, pleasure tingling at the tips of your fingers and right down to your toes. he knows you’ll try not to say it, you practically can’t— choking on pleading moans with your mind racing a mile a minute, thoughts laced with weed. his dick is toxic, you’re both toxic and somehow still addicted. “f-fuckin’ say it!”
a hand comes down on your fleshy ass that trembles with the rapid pace of chifuyu’s cantering hips, cock plunging in and out of you wetly. “i—“ you bleat weakly, overcome with desire as tears spill from your eyes. “i-i c-can’t! please! wanna cum!”
you can’t? more like you won’t. because if you say those words, for once in your life you’ll have to commit to something bigger than yourself— and your heart is too weak, too torn to do that for you and for matsuno chifuyu.
“say it.” chifuyu repeats, ramming into you at a speed so fast you can no longer tell what’s up or down, he throws his hips forward into you— continually pressing down on your g-spot and you’re so close, so fucking close that you can taste the mind blowing orgasm you’re about to have, intertwined with the salt from your tears weighty on your tongue.
you can’t help but sob, out of the pleasure shocking your every nerve ending or the pain you feel for breaking fuyu’s heart— you don’t know. “y-you’re the only one!”
that’s all it takes to send him over the edge, his cock ripped from the warmth of your cunt as matsuno jerks himself off over your ass— the dam built up in his lower tummy finally bursts, thick ropes of his hot and potent seed landing against your back and adding flames to your skin. “f-fuck! sweetheart, damn,” he shudders above you, a wrecked and ruined man who watches you writhe and listens to you whimper while he cums and cums and cums all for fucking you and never for anyone else. chifuyu sees new colours he’s never seen before— shades he’s name after you, as his orgasm tears through him, hips only gently bucking forward as he thumbs his tip and milks his cock for all its worth— squeezing it and tapping it against your ass until it dribbles pathetically, strings of his seed dripping down between your cheeks and over your swollen, fluttering mound. “turn over, now.”
he’s not done with you yet, your body shakily following your command as you sit on the edge of your own high. you sit with your back to the dashboard while chifuyu hikes your legs up over his shoulders and the back of the seat, large hands settled on your waist before he leans forward to bury his face into your puffy, wet cunt. “f-fuyu, chi...do i get to cum now?” the way you ask him is so sweet, tender like you’re too shy to ask him now that you both can see each other— aqua eyes locked on yours and reading deep into your now timid soul. you’re soaked with arousal, marked up with his cum and still the most beautiful think he’s ever seen— no matter how bad for him you are, he can’t help but think of you highly.
“always with me, baby,” he whispers the words against your swollen folds, nose nudging your clit which makes you gasp and tangle your fingers into the sweaty mop of his black hair, matted to his forehead. chifuyu glistens between your legs, illuminated by street lights like an angel, not even deterred by your darkness. his tongue languidly slides through your sex, collecting your juices mixed with his cum and slurps at them before they’re waisted on the flooring of his car— moving against you until your hips are twitching forward on their own for more.
matsuno eats his cum from your pussy until you’re twitching and seeing the high gates of heaven even though you’ve spent your life in your own personal hell. he bites at your clit, thrusts his tongue in and out of your puckered hole and curls it against your plush insides— anything to make you feel good, to make you cling onto him for dear life and make sure you know that he’s all you’ll ever need.
“‘m there! right there!” you squeal over the sloppy sounds of chifuyu making out with your sinful, sticky pussy— not wasting a drop of your mixed arousals and working you with his tongue until you’re chanting his name throughout the car, to the point where no one can tell where the prayer ends and the prayer begins. “f-fuckin’ cummin’!” you’d been close before, but the spank to your clit as he swirls his tongue inside you is what sends you over the edge, body shaking and thighs locking around chifyu’s head as you reach your high— release flooding the black haired man’s mouth, making him groan into your cunt as you cum in waves, white flashing behind your eyes.
“did so good for me baby, always so fuckin’ good. always for me. only me.” a trail of spit and slick connects matsuno’s mouth to you after he guides you through your high and pulls away, gulping down your essence as he smiles up at you. you’re passed ruined, destroyed even as he lets you fall back into his lap, both of you a hot and high mess. you barely respond, already reaching into your bag for another joint, to calm the butterflies he gives you, to stop yourself from falling for him.
chifuyu finds a lighter in the glovebox, leaning forward until your eyes meet so he can set the roll alight and you only look away, drawing a heart shape in the fogged up mirror before taking a hit and blowing the smoke back into his smirking face to hide it from you.
you’re a wreck on the inside, no longer the sly fox you were at the start of the night— for chifuyu is the calm one, the collected one, the one who really has all the control in this toxic, fucked up game you have going on.
no matter what you say, no matter how bad you try to hurt matsuno chifuyu to push him away— your cunt will always betray you and you’ll always be loyal to him.
JO not to interrupt baby talk lmao but I just saw a tiktok where a singer confessed to her guy best friend by playing a song she wrote for him and he kissed her when he figured it out and it was very cute BUT THATS NOT WHAT THIS IS ABOUT
My first thought was “aww 🥰 but this is why The Straights(tm) think all guy-girl best friends are secretly in love with each other”
My second thought was picturing best friend Bakugo hearing me say that and being thoroughly offended 💀 “The fuck d’ya mean ya aren’t secretly in love with me??”
Oh my GOD! But imagine Bakugou hearing you say that, being personally offended and then doing anything and everything in his power to break you both up so he can have you all for himself.
I’m taking doctored social media posts, spreading fake rumours online, creating fake accounts pretending to be women, telling you directly that he doesn’t trust this guy and he only wants what’s best for you.
Who else are you going to cry to except your best friend Bakugou, right?
I just got a shock thanks to Instagram putting the toxic friend I cut ties with a year ago in my suggestions for who to follow.
She uses a different nickname now but her narcissistic behavior keeps her posting selfies en mass so it was easy to recognize her. The strange thing is it proved me right about how much she lied to me all those years after I clicked on the latest pictures to see when and from where they were posted.
After it confirmed what I already thought I blocked her and searched her new nickname on other social media to see if I have to block her there as well. Thankfully it turned out a little bit paranoid but yeah, you never can't be sure.
What really angers me is that I reacted with a panic attack to see her in my Instagram suggestions. There is still a long road ahead of me to get over it.
you told me that you love me, that’s not easy to do
character: todoroki touya | dabi
genre: smut with a hint of fluff and the tiniest sprinkle of angst
notes: aaaah okay!!! this has been a highly requested piece ever since i first posted my touya-nii series, and i am so glad to finally be sharing it with you!!! set in my touya-nii AU in november of part one, please heed the warnings below and stay safe! | title credit: girls by lil peep
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, stepcest, dubcon, size kink/size difference, dacryphilia, inexperienced reader (but NOT a virgin), toxic relationship, dumbification/degradation, fingering, minimal prep, multiple orgasms, rough sex, praise, painful sex, a hint of blood, slight mindbreak
words: 7.7k
synopsis:
“Make it up to you?” your head tilts, tear-clumped lashes sticking together as you blink twice, curious.
“Of course,” he smirks, and that malicious glint is back in his eyes, dyed with excitement. “I was gonna wait, you know, for the right time, or whatever, but since you’re not actually a virgin…”
“The right time?” you question, a hopeful, hesitant little smile crawling across your lips. “Were you…Were you planning something special?”
Touya rolls his eyes—something he sometimes does when he doesn’t want to meet your stare, you’ve come to learn—a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck, his words mumbled out and slightly defensive. “Well, yeah, I wasn’t just gonna steal your first time like some asshole. I was gonna try and make it—well, you know—” he flounders slightly, molars grinding together as he uncharacteristically searches for the right words.
“Niichan—”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he’s saying dismissively as he wraps a large hand around your wrist. “Because you aren’t, which means I’ve been waiting for nothing, and I’m not going to wait another second longer.”
“Niichan,” you whine a little, eyes shutting as you burrow into his shoulder, the Halloween theme song murmuring quietly to itself as it seeps through the basement, Michael Myers busy stalking his first victim of the film. “Do we have to watch this?”
“Yes, we have to watch this,” he retorts, mocking as nimble fingers dig into your ribs, eliciting a squeal from your throat. “Classic slasher horror is my favourite.”
“Yeah, but…” you trail off, lips set in a deep pout. “But it’s like, almost the middle of November. Shouldn’t the networks be playing like, Christmas movies now?”
“I’m sure they are,” Touya says nonchalantly, shrugging a shoulder. “But not on this channel. Besides,” his voice drops an octave, lips murmuring against your temple, the word caressing your ear. “I just love watching you squirm.”
“Niichan!” you cry as his teeth sink into your shoulder, a dark little chuckle vibrating against you, seeping through your skin. “Stop!”
Your voice, pitched high, is infused with giggles, wiggling in his lap as you halfheartedly attempt to free yourself.
“Hey, look,” he says suddenly, chin hooked over your shoulder as he forcefully redirects your gaze to the television, thumb and forefinger gripping your chin. “These guys are about to die.”
“Touya-nii,” you whimper, head jerking a little in his grasp.
“No, no, look! Did you know that everyone who has sex in slasher films always die?”
“Duh,” you roll your eyes, Randy’s monologue from Scream echoing through your mind—another film that Touya had forced you to watch with him and one you had, begrudgingly, enjoyed, even if it was only because Billy reminds you of your big brother.
“God,” he breathes, face nuzzling against your neck, nosing up the curve enticingly. “I can’t wait to take your virginity.”
The words ring high and tinny in your ears, blood draining from your face as your expression thaws into true horror, steeped in panic and alarm, body gone stiff and still in his arms.
“Don’t worry,” he laughs, squeezing you to his chest. “I’ll be gentle, okay? Promise.”
“No, I—That’s not it,” you whisper, words trembling. “I—Niichan,” you stop, head shaking a little, eyes shutting firmly as you force the confession from your tongue. “I’m not a virgin.”
“What?” he pulls back from you, large hands wrapped around your biceps, tightening as he forces you to face him. He laughs a bit—a sharp, mean, incredulous little thing, as if he doesn’t believe a word flowing out of your mouth. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, baby.”
Thorns of terror run through your veins, sprouting chills across your flesh, breath exhaled in short little puffs through parted lips as your head shakes harder, almost frantic in its movements.
“No, niichan, I swear I—I’m not lying—I’d never lie to you.”
The smile on Touya’s face, stretched wide with warning and tinged with a sick sort of amusement, slowly dissipates as sapphire searches your face.
His eyes narrow into slits and he leans back a little, as if he has to look at the whole picture, regarding you with hyper-vigilant apprehension, the fingers on your arms flexing, digging into your muscles.
You stare back at him with wide, honest eyes, ready to bear your whole heart and soul to him—whatever he wants, anytime, always—breath evaporating to ghosts in your throat as you wait.
You know you have nothing to be worried about. You know that Touya can already read you like you’re his favourite storybook, inside out, backwards, can tell your true thoughts and emotions from your expressions alone, can decipher any falsities staining your features with a singular look, a feat he’s been able to achieve in the mere two months he’s known you.
His ability to interpret you so perfectly, to take you and unravel you, unknotting all of your countenances and intonations and getting to your core using one tool in one motion should frighten you.
But it doesn’t.
Finally, he finishes his assessment with one slow nod of his head, gaze performing one last sweep across your face—a precaution of sorts, to ensure he hasn’t missed anything as you begin to relax in his arms—but his features stay wound tight in anger: eyebrows drawn, squint sharp, corners of his mouth pulled down in a small, taut, tense frown.
He pulls you to his chest then, gathers you up between his palms and squeezes you close despite the barely contained fury vibrating in his expression, his jaw methodically clenching and unclenching against your temple as his mind shuffles through his thoughts, determining which should be spoken and in what order they should be voiced.
With calm and even breath, he fires off question after question, each inquiry a razor slicing through the dense atmosphere: Who was it? How was it? When did it happen? Where did it happen? How many times did it happen?
And with each answer that slips from your lips (some frat guy; not good—he didn’t even make you cum; during the summer before you moved in with your niichan; at some beach house; twice), he tugs you tighter to his body, fingers pressing superficial bruises into your flesh as they knead—small oval prints of lilac that’ll fade in an hours time, small marks of ownership that never last as long as he wishes they would.
Your words tremble with sincerity as you respond readily to each and every one of his questions, dutiful as always, fat tears glittering with pure veracity steadily streaming down your face, leaving the prettiest trails of authenticity gleaming on your cheeks.
And yet, despite his actions, his voice is fuming, steam rising off his words as he spits them from his lips, half-stifled sobs stuttering your own answers in return, but you persevere nonetheless.
Eventually, after his curiosity has been sated and there’s nothing else to investigate, he falls silent, but you can still feel it, the anger wavering in the air around him, cracking like flames of sapphire fire that lick at your skin, sending spikes of heat searing through your flesh.
“I’m sorry, niichan,” you nearly wail into his neck, face smushed against his skin as hot tears leak from your eyes, harsh sniffles shuddering through your body. “I—I—I didn’t know; I wouldn’t have—”
Your regret seems to douse the flames, suffocating them to mere cinders as his rigid form relaxes against your own, arms firm around you as he rocks you slightly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he coos, endearment oozing with sugary condescension. “I know, baby, I know. I know you would’ve waited for niichan, saved it for niichan, had you known.”
Pulling back, a calloused palm cups your cheek, rough thumb rhythmically stroking your salt-sticky skin.
“It’s not your fault, princess, and I’m not mad at you.”
A stunned hiccup catches in your throat and you blink rapidly, a futile attempt to void the bleariness vacillating in your vision. “You—You’re not?”
“Of course not,” he laughs a little, head titling and eyes shining with mirth, looking at you like you’re adorably stupid. “Silly little girl,” he murmurs, insult soaked in wicked admiration. “How could you have known? Hmm?”
Sputtering, you shake your head, more tears escaping from your eyes, dislodged by your rippling lashes as you choke on your words.
“I just—But you—You look so…so angry.”
“Oh, I am angry,” he responds, eyes turned to boiling concrete, framed by heavy brows. “Make no mistake; I’m fucking furious. Your virginity belonged to me, should’ve been mine, and I can’t believe it was wasted on some fucker who couldn’t even satisfy you properly. It’s laughable, it’s pathetic,” he spits. “But I’m not mad at you.”
“You—You promise, niichan?”
Staring at you, his features melt into something softer, something sweeter, something tinged with sincerity, and he kisses you—nothing more than a chaste peck that leaves you licking your lips with a desperate type of voracity, ravenous for more of his taste—sweet hickory and spicy marlboros vibrant on your skin.
“I promise, princess,” he murmurs, nudging his nose against yours. “Besides, now you’re going to make it up to me.”
“Make it up to you?” your head tilts, tear-clumped lashes sticking together as you blink twice, curious.
“Of course,” he smirks, and that malicious glint is back in his eyes, dyed with excitement. “I was gonna wait, you know, for the right time, or whatever, but since you’re not actually a virgin…”
“The right time?” you question, a hopeful, hesitant little smile crawling across your lips. “Were you…Were you planning something special?”
Touya rolls his eyes—something he sometimes does when he doesn’t want to meet your stare, you’ve come to learn—a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck, his words mumbled out and slightly defensive. “Well, yeah, I wasn’t just gonna steal your first time like some asshole. I was gonna try and make it—well, you know—” he flounders slightly, molars grinding together as he uncharacteristically searches for the right words.
“Niichan—”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he’s saying dismissively as he wraps a large hand around your wrist. “Because you aren’t, which means I’ve been waiting for nothing, and I’m not going to wait another second longer.”
“N-Now?” you squeak, eyes wide and body gone rigid.
“Yeah, why not?“ he shrugs, demeanour nonchalant, though there’s mischief glittering in his eyes.
“Our parents,” you whisper, as if they’ll be able to hear you from the living room above.
Touya laughs, shaking his head a little. “So?” he questions, grin only growing in response to your concern. “When has that ever stopped us before?”
You suppose he has a point.
With his fingers tightly laced through your own, he pulls you from the couch and towards the basement exit, and God, he’s so fucking gorgeous with that pure, genuine excitement saturating his features, sparkling in his smile and shimmering in his gaze.
It’s always such a treat to see him like this—an expression of authentic delight that you don’t experience incredibly often, though it’s beginning to creep into his daily features more and more; whenever you do something he deems cute, or whenever you say something dumb, something that makes him laugh or roll his eyes with a smirk, or whenever you’re as obedient as ever, pretty and perfect and good for him.
It’s a look you’ve never seen him give anyone or anything else, in any other situation—a softening of his edges—and that makes you feel special, important, influential.
Such a look knocks the breath from your chest, his own exhilarated joy seeping into your lungs, sinking into your heart and procuring a sweet little smile of your own, one the fights through the anxiety weighting your ribs and muffles the thoughts rattling around in your head.
But then you’re climbing the stairs to the main floor, and Touya’s murmuring to himself about how he’s dreamt of this so many times, and it all comes rushing back, trepidation turning to stone in your tissues.
It has Touya instantly looking back, having felt your hand go rock hard and stiff in his own, his brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong?”
You can’t ever get anything past him; can’t ever hide a damn thing from him. It’s hopeless to even try.
“Touya-nii, I want to, you know, I want to so bad, but I—I’m scared,” you admit, pathetically shy, expression teetering on a wince, as if you’re expecting to be reprimanded for your feelings.
“Scared?” he questions, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. Taking your face gently between his rough palms, he cradles your jaw, tilting your face up to look at him. Sapphire sears into your eyes, so bright it’s nearly painful, but you’re unable to look away, even if you wanted to, captivated by his commanding essence. “What is there to be scared of, princess?”
And, oh, his voice is so sweet, so soft, a startling concern shining in his eyes as they sweep across yours. Your body begins to melt into his touch; giving over, giving in, giving up, instant putty for him to mold and meld as he sees fit.
“There’s nothing to be scared of, baby, I promise,” he continues, a calloused thumb running across your cheekbone. “You’ll be with niichan the whole time, okay? He’ll make sure you have a good time; it’s gonna feel better than it ever has before, trust me.”
And you do! You do trust him, but...
“But what if I’m—What if I’m not good at it?”
He laughs—just a short, tender thing, dripping with syrupy condescension. “I’m not expecting you to be good at it, baby,” he tells you in a murmur, that playful smile still twitching on his lips, notes of laughter still infused in his tone, as if you’re so adorable, so stupid.
But it makes you feel better nonetheless, Touya’s patronizing reassurance relieving your chest of the pressure that had begun to build.
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding a little, a dithering smile tugging at your lips.
“Okay,” he echoes quietly, eyes practically glowing as they gaze down at you for another moment, almost as if they’re looking for something. When they don’t find it, he gifts you a singular satisfied nod, turning to haul you up the rest of the stairs.
It’s impossible to snuff out that delicious little spark that flares to life as you creep up from the opening of the basement and sneak past your oblivious parents, ascending the stairs to the top floor—both of you sure to avoid that step that always creaks—and allowing Touya to lead you down the hall.
To your surprise, he bypasses his own bedroom door entirely, opting to stop in front of yours. Your feet stumble a little as he reaches the destination, giving a slight, shy tug on his hand. Touya casts your a curious glance over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised in question.
“I—My bedroom? I thought—”
He cuts your off with an unexpectedly gentle laugh, turning towards you to trace rough fingertips down the smooth curve of your cheek. “No,” he says softly, inexplicable mirth shining in his eyes, as if he finds this all so precious, so amusing, a subtle smile playing with the corners of his lips. “I want to fuck you in your room.”
You don’t understand it—not really, anyway. Most of the sexual encounters the two of you have had have always been within his bedroom, but you have no time to question his logic, because then he’s turning the knob and tugging you forward, speaking as he does so.
“What position did he fuck you in?”
“Missionary.”
He looks over at you again. “Both times?”
“Uh-huh,” you nod.
“Alright,” he murmurs, nodding to himself, as if he’s just confirmed some sort of plan you are not privileged to be privy to. “I’m gonna have you ride me, then. I don’t normally enjoy being ridden, but I’d like to own at least one of your firsts—two, if you count the fact that you’re gonna cum on a cock for the first time in your life,”
His words are self-assured, concrete in their decisions, and they send a whoosh of excitement plunging through your stomach, alighting your insides with tingling cinders.
A tentative little smile molds itself to your lips and you nod in agreement—as if you ever had a say in the matter, anyway—prompting Touya to gift you with another one of those odd, unfamiliar grins of encouragement; something softer, smoother, sweeter than his usual sharp smirks, something that makes you feel calm, secure, safe.
Large hands cradle your face between calloused palms, tilting your eyes up to his own, his gaze searching your features with intent. That shimmering mirth is still present in his irises, nearly strong enough to cloak that malicious glint that sparkles just beneath the surface.
“You want this, right?”
Of course you do—you always do; you only ever want what he wants, invariably, unfailingly, faithfully.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, the pad of his thumb caressing your cheekbone. That shard of malice dulls a little as he watches you melt into him, so pliant, so obedient, so willing to serve.
“That’s all I ever want to be,” you admit dreamily, words floating on the sweetest little gasp of breath, masking the true vulnerability imbued in them, the raw honesty roiling at their core.
“I know,” he whispers, head dropping forward, forehead knocking against your own. He nudges your nose, nuzzling into your face a little. “I know, and you are,”
It’s unexpected, the intense bout of emotion those few, tiny words inspire within you, a sudden burst of thick appreciation, admiration, love, infusing your blood, but there isn’t a moment to dwell on it.
Because then his lips are on yours, and your fingers are tangling in inky tufts, and his hands are gripping, pulling, scratching—your ass, your hips, your thighs—before he’s hoisting you up, cradling you to his chest as your legs lock around his waist, ankles hooked, heels digging into the dimples cushioning the base of his spine, and laying you back on your pretty peppermint-pink bed, sapphire eyes practically alight with yearning as he crawls atop of you.
Sharp hips slot perfectly between your plush thighs, strong hands sliding up the smooth skin and underneath the hem of your dress, index finger tracing the silk roses embroidered in pink lace, his gentle touch igniting a dull, desperate fire in your gut.
“These are cute, but I want them off of you,” he’s breathing into your mouth, the tip of his tongue punctuating his words with little laps against your own. “I want them off of you, now,”
“Do it, do it, get rid of them, niichan,” you’re begging, hips lifting eagerly, pressing further into his own. Slender fingers tear through the dainty material like flames melding through spiderwebs, and he rips the garment from your body in one swift yank.
Coarse denim grinds against your bare cunt, rough material instantly chafing the sensitive skin, but you don’t care, back arching as you push your hips towards his again, rutting up against his hard, throbbing cock.
Because even though it hurts, it feels good, one of your legs hooking around his thigh in a desperate attempt to get closer, to get more.
It’s pathetically endearing, how needy you are for him, copious amounts of slick seeping through his jeans telling him as much, how ready you are for him after nothing more than a little bit of humping.
“You’re a little whore, y’know that? A dirty, nasty, naughty little whore, getting this fuckin’ wet at the mere thought of your big brother’s cock,” he moans, two fingers snaking between your bodies to delve into your cunt. “Fuck,” the curse cracks in his throat, shattering his voice, his eyes shutting tightly as two knuckles curl inside of you, your responding gasp of his honorific snapping his eyes open again.
“Yeah? Good?”
“Uh—Uh-huh,” you breathe out, lids already gone languid as they obscure half of your bleary irises, head nodding in slow, dumb motions.
“God, you’re such good little slut for me, aren’t you?” The words fade into a growl, the vicious contracting of his fingers, knuckles pressing into plush silken flesh, prohibiting you from forming any semblance of a coherent answer. “So wet for your niichan, so perfect and willing and ready for your niichan, huh?”
A responding tangle of words gurgles in your throat, and the coo that slips from Touya’s mouth, accompanied by the mocking worry creasing his brow and the exaggerated jutting of his bottom lip, is drenched with sugary condescension, glowing azure eyes wide, clear, alert as they catalogue every fleeting expression that glazes your features: the scrunching of your nose as you try to glue a response together, the knitting of your brows that keep going lax, loose, every time his knuckles brush that spot, the wobbling of your mouth as your sluggish tongue attempts to form transient words through pools of sticky sweet saliva.
“I don’t even need to fucking do anything, do I?” And although the words are breathy, the tone is sharp, accompanied by a smug smirk and a quirked brow. “You’re so fucking easy for your niichan, aren’t you? So fucking sexy for your niichan, how hot you get for him, his naughty little sister, his best little sister,”
The sentiment cuts through your heated flesh like a sugar-encrusted razor, stinging yet sweet, only working to heighten the pumping of his fingers, each curl of his knuckles compounded by his smooth voice, hazy as it wafts across your face.
You can feel how wet you are, slick and slippery as crystal drops roll down your thighs; can hear how wet you are, obscene squelching accompanying each of Touya’s movements, every breath Touya puffs against your skin inspiring another gushing bout of heat, drenching his fingers and staining the lines of his palm, swollen clit throbbing for his attention.
But it’s downright embarrassing, how right he truly is, humiliated tears flooding your vision, clinging to your lashes as you try to blink them away. “Y-You’re right, niichan,” you hiccup, staring up at him through a shield of sparkling water with such pure devotion it scathes him. “I don’t want your fingers, they’re not enough! I want your pretty cock inside me, please, please, I—I want it!”
“Christ,” he nearly whines, the sharpness of his tone just a moment ago dulled to a needy whimper. “Alright, baby, alright, shh, niichan’s gonna give you want you want,”
His promise pacifies your sniffled pleads, lashes fluttering as you blink those shameful tears from your eyes, vision misty and shimmering. Those massive hands are on your hips again, tacky fingers gripping you close to his body as he swiftly flips the both of you, his back pressed firmly to your mattress as you straddle his lap. Prominent hipbones pierce the supple flesh of your thighs as his hips buck up again, eager and expectant.
“Get my cock out, princess,” he instructs with another shallow thrust, sapphire glittering as he gazes up at you, raw ruby lips shining in the dim light of your bedroom as his tongue laves over them again.
Shuffling back onto his thighs, your delicate fingers find the button of his jeans, popping it open. Scalding heat floods your cheeks as your gaze lands on the puddle of wetness that has soaked into the denim, slicking the zipper.
“Yeah, look at the fucking mess you made, sweetheart,”
It’s supposed to be admonishing, but it comes out full of admiration, almost as if he’s proud of you instead of reprimanding you.
“Nah, nah, nah, don’t stop,” he chastises your now frozen hands, notes of smug satisfaction sewn into his voice at the potent embarrassment trembling in the air around you. “Do as niichan said and get his cock out.”
Nodding to yourself, you resume your ministrations, mortification diluted by his resulting praise as you obey.
His cock feels heavy in your palm, flushed pink to the tip and smoother than the most luxurious velvet, perfectly straight and garnished with a singular dewdrop of pre-cum.
And he swears to God, he’ll never tire of that look you get, every single time you pull his cock from his pants, whole expression encrusted with awe, as if you can’t believe it’s real, a pitiful insatiability glittering in your unblinking eyes, like you’re starved for him, jagged little huffs of breath exhaled through parted lips, mouth watering for him.
You’re so fucking beautiful, so fucking obedient for him, thighs tensing as your lift your body the moment he instructs you to, void of any hesitance—dedicated, diligent, desperate to please.
He keeps a secure grip on your hips as you grasp the base of his cock, holding it straight as you begin to sink down on it, a loud, stammered gasp hitching in your chest at the sudden stretch.
It’s so much bigger, so much thicker than his fingers, larger and girthier than anything you’ve ever taken before, and you swear you can feel your delicate flesh tearing with each inch further, splitting into little fissures as it yields to accommodate him.
The whine that slices your throat as he continues to push up into you is nothing short of gorgeous, strong fingers flexing on your hips while he keeps his pace steady and controlled.
“O-Oh, oh niichan, niichan, it—ah!”
A cry cuts you off as he bottoms out, the head of his cock pressed snugly to your sensitive cervix, your nails piercing through the thin cotton of his t-shirt as they scrabble against his chest, looking for any sort of stability.
“It’s so big, Touya-nii,” you whine, eyelids shutting tightly against the sting of tears, a half-hiccuped sob catching in your throat.
And you’re so cute, with the way your nose scrunches and your mouth twists as your cunt struggles to take him, pathetic little noises of pain catching in your throat as you try to swallow them down, quiet mewls and cracked whimpers that spill from your lips no matter how vigorously you try to silence them.
“Shh,” he hushes you gently, hands giving a singular firm squeeze in comfort. “You’re doing so good, baby, so good for me,”
Gritting your teeth, you nod jerkily, exhaling harshly to quell the twitching of your nose.
“I want you to start moving now,” Touya instructs, voice soothing and serene. “Can you keep being good for niichan and do that?”
Of course. Of course you can.
And you do—or, any least, you try.
But it burns, each wooden rock of your hips sending cinders searing through your gut to simmer in the pit of your stomach, every bump of his cock against your cervix procuring a dull ache that contracts at the very core of your body, a strong cramp that sends sharp pain radiating up your spine and down your thighs and straight through your heart.
It’s too painful, agony churning in your belly, bubbling up your throat, pushed higher and higher with each uneven thrust until you’re sure it’s going to spill out your mouth, the stench of blood stinging your nose, poor little cunt ripping itself wider and wider for him, avid in its mission to please.
Little hiccups—poorly suppressed sobs that manage to crawl up your throat and past your tongue—fall from your lips with each of your movements, pretty tears dripping down your cheeks, face screwed up in excruciating determination.
You think you might be getting the hang of it, but then he rolls his hips—a shallow movement, a singular thrust upward, just once—and a pained mewl fragments in your throat, coughing around the shards. Your motions stutter to a halt as the stinging at the apex of your thighs becomes too much to handle, sucking in a sharp hiss through your teeth as your head shakes.
“I can’t Touya-nii, I can’t, I can’t!”
“Oh, baby,” he coos, and despite the condescension drenching the word, his touch is tender, calloused thumbs rubbing small circles into the flesh of your waist. “You can, niichan knows you can.”
“I-I can’t!” you wail, whole body shuddering as a humiliated sob tears through it, face falling forward to be cradled by your palms. “You’re in my tummy, niichan, I swear I can—I can feel you there, it’s too—too deep, too much!”
“Alright, alright, come here,” Touya sighs resignedly, large hands wrapping around your biceps and pulling you toward his chest. You fall forward in a crumpled heap, bawling against his collarbone and he laughs—nothing mean, just a gentle soft little thing—hands petting your back, his cock twitching from the tears. “It’s okay, niichan’s got you, my little crybaby,”
His sweet insult only makes you cry harder, little fingers tangling in the cotton of his shirt, face burrowing in his strong chest as smouldering pins prick your flesh. His voice vibrates against your cheek as he hushes you, hands trailing up and down your spine in pacification.
Such uncharacteristic kindness—no fury for being unable to do what you’ve been told to do, no frustration for your whiny crying as you sob against him—is so unusual, so unlike him, that it instils a thick, dense fear at the core of your chest, cold and sticky as it encases your heart and sludges up your vertebrae.
“Why are you—Why are you being so nice to me?” you whisper, eyes reflexively closing as your body tenses in anticipation of his answer, his anger.
“Because you’re nothing more than a stupid little baby, aren’t you?” he responds easily, the question genuine, hands never stilling their ministrations. “I knew you were gonna suck at this, princess. This is pretty much exactly what I expected. I mean, fuck,” he breathes out a little chuckle, nudging your face with his shoulder. “It’s almost like you’ve never had sex at all. It’s almost as good as it would be if you were a real virgin.”
A hiccup shivers your ribs, that icy dread melting instantly in the heat of his confession, ignominy quickly taking its place again.
“So stop crying, baby,” he whispers, lips moving against your scalp. “This makes niichan very happy.”
“But I—I’m sorry, niichan,” you weep into his body, head shaking again, salt water staining your cheeks and leaking into your mouth, words garbled with spit and shame. “I can’t be good!”
“Hey,” Touya murmurs softly, the sheer concern in his voice startling you. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, you pull your head from his body, lifting it just enough to peek at him through your lashes.
And, oh, aren’t you a fucking sight, flesh streaked with salt, hair messy and sodden with sweat, chin trembling incessantly. A palm cups your jaw, rough thumb swiping across your cheekbone, catching tears mid-stream and smearing them across your skin.
“You haven’t failed me, princess,” his eyes are burning, bright and blue and clear, void of the hazy cloud the drugs usually cast. “You hear me? You can still be good—you are still good,” he pauses, allowing his words a moment to settle in your mind. “Niichan is going to help you, okay? Will you let him do that?”
Your nodding before he’s even finished speaking, and he can’t help but murmur out praises at your pure eagerness; such a good girl for him, so keen and wanting to please, isn’t that right?
“Woah, no, no, not yet,” he chuckles as you begin to sit up again, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand. “The further you sit up, the deeper my cock goes,” he explains, expert hands stilling your body. “See?”
Slow and precise, he inches your body up, up, up, until a gasp lacerates the atmosphere, your whole face scrunching in pain.
“Mhmm,” you breathe with a nod, a palm instinctively pressed between your hipbones to soothe the pang, lowering yourself back to his chest, the pain ebbing away.
“So we’re going to go slow, yeah?” his palms find their designated spot on your hips again, guiding them forward. “Just small little rolls, just like that,” he grunts a little, shifting beneath you. “There you go, baby, perfect,”
The praise reinvigorates you, a ferocious determination blazing to life in your chest, reignited by your everlasting craving for his approval and admiration.
Because you want nothing more than to make him proud, residual sniffles catching in your chest as you follow his lead, hips slow and steady as you begin to ride him again. It still hurts, fat dewdrops of tears streaming down your face, but you persevere for him, forcing your body to sit up, movements never halting.
His eyes shine with a peculiar little glimmer as he stares up at you, something soft and pretty swirling in the lust-tinged cobalt, something you’ve never seen before.
It’s something close to admiration, but not quite, something that murmurs about how pathetically precious you are, clueless and terrible and hurting, yet you endure it; you endure it all, just for him, only for him.
“You’re so…beautiful,” he breathes, calloused thumb swiping through your tears, gathering the salt on his fingertip before sticking it in his mouth. “You’re so fucking hot,”
His hands stay put on your body, continuing to mentor you, subtly readjusting the angle of your hips as you work at building up a rhythm until he finds whatever he’s looking for, indicated by a loud gasp and sweet little shudder, hips jerking a little.
A smirk crawls across his face, full of knowledge. “That feel good, baby?”
Yes, your nodding in quick little motions, eyes rolling back as the head of his cock brushes over that spot again. Yes, yes, yes, it feels so good.
“C’mon, use your words, niichan wants to hear it.”
“Yes, niichan, yes, it—it feels really good, it’s—” a moan cuts you off, movements beginning to speed up on their own accord, yearning for more of that intense pleasure.
It feels better than anything you’ve ever felt before—better than his fingers, better than his tongue, better than his thigh, better than any of it, than all of it combined, each stroke of his cock sending intoxicating sparks zipping through your veins, alighting your entire body.
It’s the same spot that he always seems to find with his fingers, you think, but this feels immensely better, compounded by the stretch of his cock and the grinding of your clit against his pubic bone.
“Ah, there you go,” Touya says, and his voice is warm, almost as if he’s happy you’re feeling good. “That’s it, you’re doing it, yeah, make yourself feel good, make yourself feel good for niichan,”
You’re nodding to yourself, sweet little whimpers falling from your lips as you push your hips to move faster, starting to really bounce on his cock. The tears staining your face have dried into crusted trails of salt, eyes glistening with lingering pain, kept safe behind your lashes, sobs diminished to the occasional sniffle, peppered artfully throughout your sounds of pleasure.
It’s Touya’s favourite sound in the whole fucking world.
“Look at my beautiful baby riding my cock, such a good little whore for me, doing so well,” he grunts, the grip on your hips tightening infinitesimally.
Because while you may be on top, his hands never leave your hips, never fully allowing you to take control, always keeping the reigns safe and secure in his palms.
“There you go, all you needed was someone to help you, yeah? Someone to bring out that inherent slut buried deep within you, huh? Fuckin’ Christ,” he groans. “Bet that fucking frat boy didn’t even know what a perfect slut he had on his hands. Because you’re only a perfect little slut for your big brother, isn’t that right?”
“For you, for you, only for you, niichan,” you’re babbling out, head nodding in loose little motions.
“You’re goddamn right, only for me.”
And he looks absolutely breathtaking beneath you, sapphire eyes lidded and shining in the dim light, pupils blown and voracious as they devour you, breathy words pouring from saliva-soaked lips, strands of soft ink strewn across your lace trimmed pillows, framing his head like a spiky halo of onyx.
It doesn’t take long after he finds your g-spot before you’re cumming pathetically hard, pathetically loud, pathetically quickly.
“Oh, oh niichan, I—It’s—ah!”
“Gonna cream all over my cock, baby?” he asks, and his eyes are wide, glittering with anticipation.
“Uh—Uh-huh,”
“Do it, then,” he orders, somehow both harsh and sweet, words spit from his mouth, impatient and eager as strong hands force your hips to speed up. “Fucking cum all over me, show me how gorgeous you look, gushing on a cock,”
His voice drips with authority, has your cunt submitting to it’s master in two seconds flat, whole body convulsing as you make a mess all over his cock, pussy clenching with such vigour it’s almost painful.
It forces the most glorious sound from Touya’s throat, though—a sound you’ve never heard him make before, a sound that has your entire stomach fluttering—as his head tilts back and his neck arches, Adam’s apple bobbing, prominent collarbone coated in intricate ink heaving with the moan.
Everything feels hazy, dreamy, as a special type of bliss rushes through your veins, so hot it burns, melting your bones and you collapse against his chest, body gone pliant.
You’re still grinding against him, rubbing the head of his cock against that spot over and over again even as it sends vicious judders of overstimulation rippling through your entire body, and he murmurs something into your hair, something about how fucking greedy you are, a large hand smoothing down your damp back.
You want to tell Touya how unbelievably incredible that was, how good it felt, how you want to do that every single day with him for the rest of your lives, but your tongue doesn’t seem to want to cooperate, turned heavy and sluggish in your mouth, stunned into silence by such immense pleasure.
Exhaustion tugs at the corners of your consciousness, weighting your eyelids as they begin to droop, face nuzzling into Touya’s chest.
But he rips you from serenity’s grasp half a moment later, suddenly shifting beneath you, a low whine sounding in your throat as his cock—still hard and throbbing—slips out of you, no longer acting as that warm, comforting plug that kept some of your juices safely inside, slick leaking out of you in cold little dollops.
Chills skitter across your skin, shivering at the loss of Touya’s heat, but then his hands are on you again, flipping you over, face pressed into your pillow.
He’s saying something as those rough hands curl around your hips and yank them up, a knee shoving at your own to widen your thighs, but it all sounds muddled, ears tuning in and out of his frequency, only catching bits of his sentences.
“…Fucked dumb…Fucking stupid from my…That’s all it takes, huh?”
Shutting your eyes tightly, you force yourself to concentrate, to focus, focus on niichan’s voice and decipher what he’s saying, be good for him and listen.
“Aw, that’s cute,” he says, but his voice is harsh, mean, razored by condescension, all of that abnormal kindness from earlier incinerated to ash in an instant. “You’re already so fucked out! So good for me, so easy,” his hands roam your ass, kneading the flesh as they go. “But we’re just getting started, baby,” a flat palm collides with your skin, the resounding slap echoing throughout the room, Touya speaking over it. “Wake up.”
The spank sends jolts searing through your veins, buzzing little sparks of pain that eat up any fatigue, stunning you awake.
Your arms tremble as you push yourself up just enough to glance back at him, sleep-tinged confusion written into your pretty features.
“It’s niichan’s turn now.”
The smile on his face is terrifying, stretched sharp and wide across his cheeks, but it doesn’t stop your stomach from squeezing in anticipation, in desperation, forever starved for him.
He must see something in your eyes, must read something in your expression, because he pauses, an odd little gleam shining in his gaze again, body blanketing yours as he leans forward to catch your chin and smash your lips together.
It’s nothing more than a brutal little peck, and you nearly strain your neck trying to follow his mouth, but then he’s pushing on the space between your shoulder blades again, shoving you back into the mattress.
“I want you to be a good girl and keep your head down and hips up,” he’s instructing as the head of his cock bumps against your hole. “Y’think you can do that for me?”
“Yes, niichan,” you’re responding instantly, words muffled by the pillow, head nodding frantically to accentuate your point.
He laughs again—something short, something soft and just for him—before he buries his cock in your cute little cunt in one swift thrust.
A yelp shatters in your throat, tangled in threads of saliva as it oozes into the fabric of your pillow, eyes snapping open.
This—This is so much deeper.
The pain is unimaginable, little hole stinging as it splits open for him again, but Touya doesn’t allow you a moment to meditate on it, a moment to voice your concerns at all, hips setting a ruthless pace right from the start.
Broken little cries, fragmented by the constant pumping of his hips, pour from your mouth, a steady stream of sweet agony drooled out into your mattress as his cockhead slams against your sore cervix.
The pain is unimaginable, but it’s also so fucking good, Touya having expertly angled his hips to ensure that his cock strokes that spot with each pound into you, sending thorns of pain-tinged pleasure shooting through your flesh. It’s impressive; he knows your own body better than you do, already, a fact that should frighten you, a fact that doesn’t.
You don’t even realize you’re crying until a sob claws at your chest, too lost in the sensations of it all—his bruising fingers writing his name all across your body in brilliant hues of blue; and his slamming hips, so harsh, so brutal they have your fingers tangling tightly in the sheets, every muscle in your body quivering as you try your best not to be jostled up the mattress; and his sharp teeth, sinking into your shoulder hard enough to slice through the flesh—drowning in the overstimulation, intoxicated by the exhilaration of pain and pleasure melding together and becoming one, brain turned to delightful mush.
“Yeah,” Touya breathes, and he sounds so beautiful, your chest aching at the thought of not being able to see him. “That’s it, take my cock. Take my cock like the good little slut you are.”
You whine, high and needy as your head nods lethargically. Anything for you, niichan.
Your orgasm hits you suddenly, unexpectedly, a burst of flames that lick through your veins and coil around your organs, embracing them in suffocating heat and pulsing in time with your pussy.
Everything feels hazy, body gone numb, vision blurring at the edges as you struggle to stay alert, desperate to hear him cum, to feel him cum.
It only takes another three sharp pistons of his hips before he’s spilling himself into you, stuffing you full of thick, burning cream, cock throbbing with the weak stuttering of his hips, a vicious shudder coursing through his flesh as a cracked whimper of your name sounds in deep his throat.
And oh, it feels fucking incredible, feels better than you could’ve ever imagined, the way he crams you so full of cum that it must be overflowing—into your tummy and down your thighs and all over the sheets.
It’s not enough, you want more, hips wiggling back against him in a pitiful attempt, a hiss spit from between his teeth.
“Christ, princess,” he pants out, though you can hear it, the notes of amusement, of adoration, infused in his tone. “You’ve already milked niichan for all the cum he’s got.”
“Want more, niichan,” you mumble into the puddle of drool saturating your sheets, cheeks and chin shining.
He chuckles a little—just a soft sound that dances on his tongue full of fondness and laced with disbelief—as he pulls out of you, a bratty whine falling from your lips.
“Listen,” he tells you as he turns you over slowly, gently, more gentle than he’s ever been before, more gentle than you ever thought him capable of. “Niichan will give you more very soon, okay? I promise.”
“Pinky promise?”
“Yeah, baby,” he says, thumb brushing sweat-soaked hair from your temple. “Pinky promise.”
A sigh escapes your lips, whole chest deflating with the weight of it as your eyes slip shut, a pleasant little smile melded to your mouth. “Good,” you murmur out, words garbled and thick with spit. “B’cause that—that was s’yummy.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he responds as he pulls your quivering body against his own, an arm wrapped tightly around your waist as the other hoists your comforter over your entwined forms.
A content little hum vibrates in your throat as you snuggle into him, a thigh hitched over his waist, a leg hooked around him, lips dropping a few sloppy kisses along his collarbone.
“Love you, niichan.”
It’s nothing more than a huff of warm breath wafting over his skin, so soft he would’ve missed it had he not been so close to you, and his blood turns to shards of ice in his veins, whole body frozen, stiff and rigid.
You don’t notice, already drifted into the clutches of sweet unconsciousness, the confession having slipped from your lips just as sleep took hold.
His heart rattles his rib cage, thumping hard and uneven against the bone, blood rushing in his ears, breath stagnating in his lungs.
Love him?
Panic alights every nerve in his body, cackling with sharp sparks of electricity, an urgent buzz zipping through the ice that had been coating his blood.
Love him?
No. This was never supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to fall for him, not this hard, not this real. You were only supposed to be a toy to be won, a piece of prey to be captured, a prize to be attained, played with, tarnished, then thrown away.
You are, aren’t you?
But you love him.
Echoes of the sentiment stick in his throat, but he can’t say it back—can’t even pretend it’s said in a familial sense, because he knows it isn’t—not yet, not even as the thought births a ball of pure sunshine in his chest; warm, true, right.
Too warm, too true, too right, too real, unfamiliar letters sharp as they claw up his throat and at the back of his tongue, tearing him apart from the inside out.
He should get up and leave. He should put some distance between the two of you, put some powder up his nose and pills down his throat as he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on here.
Except weak fingers are knotted in his t-shirt, an iron grasp that he’s hopeless of breaking, even if he wanted to.
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.
“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.
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.
notes: aaaaah my first (finished) genshin piece!!! i had such a blast writing this hehehe i just love this dynamic so! much! reader is female, and this is mostly written from thoma’s point of view. in my mind, this is absolutely a crime family AU, but you’re welcome to think of it in terms of canon if you’d like! please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title cred: mine by bazzi | this piece was originally posted on my main blog.
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, dubcon, manipulation/coercion, daddy kink, toxic relationships, size kink/size difference, belly bulge, cuckolding kinda (ayato watches thoma fuck his girlfriend), praise, reader is quite flexible, a hint of dumbification/degradation, rough sex, overstimulation + mentioned orgasm denial as punishment, dacryphilia, power play/power dynamics, thoma is a sub-leaning switch in this, interchangeable use of the words my lord/master
words: 5.7k
synopsis:
Everything feels raw, exposed, Thoma’s nails scraping against the thin material of his pants, fingers scrabbling for something to do under such an intense stare. That glitter in Ayato’s eyes seems to shine bright and burning as Thoma squirms beneath it, the ghost of a smirk brushing against his lips.
It’s as though his master’s gaze is stripping him bare—stripping the clothes from his skin and the flesh from his bones, prying open his rib cage and peering into his very soul itself. It’s all so invasive, yet Thoma bares it all to him anyway, almost voluntarily, begging his lord for some instruction, some guidance, some rules to follow and obey and be praised for, eliminating any room for error or overstepping of boundaries, desperate to be told what to do and how to do it so he can satisfy everyone and do it well, do it right, do it the very best.
The walls of the Kamisato Estate are intentionally thick, tasked with concealing centuries of secrets within their wooden embrace. Many important words—deals, negotiations, threats—are spoken throughout these halls, many promises made within these rooms, and such precious, confidential sentiments must be protected at all costs.
So, of course, when Thoma hears the distinct murmuring of that low baritone vibrating through the hardwood floor from below Ayato’s home office, he thinks nothing of it. This isn’t out of the ordinary—Ayato often works late, after all, and it isn’t uncommon for him to be busy sifting through documents and conducting phone calls long after Thoma has turned in for the night.
It’s common courtesy for Thoma to let his superiors know when he’s done for the day, and common respect to bid them a good night before he finally retreats back to his own quarters, the action so ingrained in his daily routine it’s become almost instinctual at this point.
Those dense manilla walls keep Ayato’s words muffled and unintelligible, even as Thoma nears the room they’re being spoken from, and he thinks nothing of sliding that heavy wooden door open just enough for his slim body to slip through the crack, as he’s done a million times before.
But the scene he’s met tonight with is unlike anything he’s ever stumbled upon, tongue gone heavy and sluggish in his mouth, saliva gathering in suffocating pools at the back of his throat, so much so that it gurgles with his sharp gasp of surprise and he chokes, coughing around the stinging breath tangled in threads of spit.
Various documents and expensive paperweights litter the floor, evidently knocked to the ground by your writhing limbs, naked body sprawled across the surface of Ayato’s long, low desk, one hand curled around the sharp edge of the dark mahogany wood, the other fisted in Ayato’s expensive dress shirt.
Kneeling between your spread legs, a fully clothed Ayato leans over your body, murmuring out a condescending croon as one strong hand catches the trembling ankle hitched on his shoulder, mindlessly readjusting it.
“Poor thing,” he sighs out with a touch of indifference embedded in his tone. “You’ve completely lost control of your body, haven’t you?”
You’re babbling out a string of unintelligible words, letters welded together with spit on your tongue, head nodding in slow, sluggish, stupid movements.
“Well, that’s okay,” Ayato coos, voice silk and syrup. “You don’t need to do anything when Daddy’s here do to it for you, do you?”
You aren’t afforded a moment to answer, though, the hand buried between your thighs twisting, pumping, curling, two—or three, Thoma can’t really tell from this angle—fingers deep in your glistening cunt, motions yanking a cracked whine from your throat.
“You don’t need to talk,” he grunts in time with the thrusting of his hand. “You don’t need to move,” another grunt, another thrust. “You don’t even need to think at all, isn’t that right, princess?”
You don’t answer, and Thoma isn’t sure if it’s because you’re not supposed to, or if it’s because you can’t, fragmented mewls being torn to shreds by hitched little gasps.
“Thus,” Ayato continues, calmly, coldly, serenely, as if he is completely unfazed by the current situation. “Next time, when Daddy tells you to not talk to a client and to stay put during his meeting, you will obey, correct?”
A moan vaguely reminiscent of an affirmation falls from your lips, head nodding in quicker motions now, short and sharp.
Thoma should leave. This isn’t right, staying to watch something so intimate, hiding in the shadows like a fucking pervert; this is—this is morally reprehensible, this is disgusting, this is a very private matter he should’ve never been privy to.
Yes, Thoma should most definitely leave. Anyone with common sense, with half a mind, with any sort of respect for their superiors at all, would’ve already left.
And yet, his heavy legs won’t fucking move, feet filled with concrete and weighted to the floor, hard cock throbbing, begging, him to stay just a little longer.
But then your misty eyes, half-lidded and unfocused and lolling around in your head like a pair of loosely secured marbles, graze over Thoma’s shrouded figure, and your gaze snaps to his face, shock and terror eradicating that drowsy, dopey haze in an instant.
“Daddy—”
“Hmm?” Ayato hums, the curling of his fingers turned vicious. “Didn’t Daddy just tell you that you don’t need to speak?”
“No—” you gasp, the word trembling, wide eyes stuck to Thoma’s face.
“No?” he seems surprised, a touch of amusement in his tone, and Thoma can practically hear him raising an eyebrow—a question, a challenge. “You’re telling Daddy no, after all of that punishment you just endured?”
“Wa-Wait, Da—”
“Oh,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a pity, and Thoma doesn’t need to see his expression to know his forehead’s crinkling and mouth’s tugging downward, features saturated with mocking disappointment. “And you were doing so well.”
“I just—”
“I was going to allow you to cum, too,” he continues in that solemn tone, mourning your lost orgasm that Thoma’s sure you worked so hard to achieve. “Shame.”
“Daddy!” you squeal, the honorific practically fucked out of you by Ayato’s fingers, face contorting as you force the second name from your mouth. “Thoma!”
And, for a moment, everything stops, your whines gone silent, Ayato’s voracious fingers halting their ministrations. Thoma’s blood turns to sharp ice in his veins, his heart freezing in his chest, his breath gone frigid in his lungs.
“Oh,” Ayato says after a moment of realization, following your watery gaze over his shoulder and staring up at his subordinate. “Thoma, hello.”
Shuffling a little on his knees, Ayato turns to face Thoma fully, a pleasant little smile plastered across his face.
“I—I—” Thoma begins, head shaking in jerky, rigid movements, body thawing enough for him to start backing up, spine whacking painfully against the corner of the wall. “I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry, my lord—This was—I really just—” his lungs shrivel in his chest as he runs out of air, inhaling harshly to revive them only to choke on his own breath as his eyes involuntarily scan his master’s body, focusing on the shimmering patch of slick staining his trousers, massive cock outlined by the wet fabric clinging to it as it strains against the material.
You’ve soaked him all the way through.
The whimper that sounds at the back of Thoma’s throat as he arrives at such a realization is downright mortifying—automatic, animalistic, pathetic—and he presses his lips together firmly in a futile attempt to silence it.
“Please, relax,” Ayato instructs, calm voice drawing Thoma’s attention back to his face. “You are not in trouble, Thoma,”
And although his voice is ridden with concern, Thoma can see it, that special little twinkle glittering in those periwinkle eyes, the one Thoma’s witnessed a million times before during deals and threats and negotiations, the one Ayato gets just before he strikes.
“I’m so sorry,” Thoma says again, the apology nothing more than a rush of breath from his mouth, elbows bumping against the wall as he raises his hands in surrender. “I was only—”
“Would you like to stay a while?”
Thoma stops.
Stay?
His cock twitches eagerly in his trousers at the prospect, his throat going dry, gummy walls sticking together as he attempts to swallow.
“Uh—Wh-What?”
“You’re welcome to continue watching, if you’d like to,” Ayato continues without a hitch, pleasant and cordial.
“I—” Yes. Yes, he would very much like to. “No, I really should be going. I’m sorry, my lord, I really shouldn’t have stayed—that was so gross of me—please forgive me for such disrespect, I’ll take my leave now—”
“Nonsense,” Ayato dismisses, eyes traveling down Thoma’s quivering body, halting their trajectory at his erection and pausing for a moment before trailing back up. “You are more than welcome to stay if you’d like to. And,” violet eyes flick down to his crotch again, a smug smirk molding to Ayato’s lips. “It seems like you’d like to.”
Of course he’d like to, Thoma’s features crinkle a little in self-deprecating confusion. Who wouldn’t like to?
From behind Ayato’s broad shoulder, you peak out, arms wrapped loosely around your torso, shoulders curved inward in a poor imitation of a shield. You look unsure—unsettled, almost—and Thoma feels that thick, tarry guilt unfurl in the pit of his stomach, spreading to engulf his surrounding organs in its sticky, suffocating embrace, snuffing out his spark of hope in an instant.
What a fucking sicko he is for even considering it, for even deriving the smallest amount of perverse pleasure from such voyeuristic endeavours, for memorizing your expressions and sounds, burning them into the tissues of his brain for later use.
He should’ve never invaded on something so personal, so precious, in the first place.
“I’m not sure she’d like me to.”
He doesn’t mean for it to come out as utterly disappointed as it does, whole face crumpling with bitter embarrassment. Eyes scrunched shut tightly, he attempts to clarify himself.
“I just mean—I don’t want to upset—offend—her any further,”
“There are no such worries to be had,” Ayato reassures lightly as he turns back to look at you, a hand reaching out to cup your jaw, long fingers tracing the curve of your cheek, the bow of your lips. “Right, sweetheart? You don’t mind if Thoma stays to watch, do you? Wouldn’t you like to show him how pretty you look when you cum on Daddy’s cock?”
Another one of those sinful whimpers claws at the back of Thoma’s tongue, but your eyes have gone glassy, glittery, glazed over with sheer want, lips parting a little as you nod.
“See?” Ayato says, but his eyes do not stray from yours, his head quirking slightly, voice gone soft. “She doesn’t mind one bit.”
Microscopic shards of ice prick through his skin, and Thoma shivers.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, wincing with the words.
“Absolutely positive,” Ayato responds with an amicable smile, finally moving to face him again. “But the choice is yours, Thoma.”
Swallowing thickly, Thoma’s eyes shift from Ayato’s face to yours, and then back again, tongue running along this top teeth and sucking as he contemplates. He wants to, of course he wants to, god does he ever want to, but—
“Stay,” you offer quietly, chin tucked cutely to your chest, gazing at him through your lashes. “Please, stay.”
And so, he does.
There’s something so taboo about it all, something so wrong, so bad about watching his boss fuck his most precious treasure, cinders of desire flickering in Thoma’s tummy as he settles down on the floor only a few feet away from your tangled bodies, legs tucked beneath him.
The hunger in Ayato’s eyes is fierce enough to swallow you whole, pupils blown and insatiable as they glide over your body, soaking up every expression, sucking down every sound, his face a heady blend of admiration and ardor.
But Thoma can’t blame him; you look breathtakingly beautiful. Skin sweat-drenched and sparkling, lips bitten raw and puffy, tiny crystal teardrops still clinging stubbornly to your clumped lashes, the devotion in your stare so strong it’s nearly crushing. Paired with the symphony of your soft mewls and sweet whimpers, you’re a living, breathing masterpiece all on your own.
He isn’t sure what, exactly, he was expecting Ayato’s style of fucking to consist of, but the healthy mix of slow, hard, sensual thrusts—filled with murmured out teases and lots of biting, licking, kissing—followed by bouts of fast, rough pistons of his hips—filled with sharp, mocking sentiments and cruel little laughs, all still managing to sound elegant in Ayato’s dignified lilt despite their callous nature—is really fucking hot.
Blunt nails carve crescents into his flesh as his fists clench tighter, thin skin stretched taut over his knuckles.
His cock is aching, but he’s unsure if he’s allowed to touch it. Would rubbing the heal of his palm against it be considered rude, or would Ayato see it as silly constraint? What if he took it out? Does he even want to take it out? Is it weird if he does? Is it weird if he doesn’t?
“Thoma,” his lord calls out in a singsong scold, stilling his hips and snapping Thoma from his thread of thoughts. “I can hear you thinking.”
“Sorry, my lord,” he responds immediately, hands uncurling and palms laid flat against his tensed thighs. “I just, uh, I...I don’t really know what to do.”
Heat scalds his cheeks at the mumbled confession, and he resists the urge to shut his eyes against the mirth his humiliation has painted across his boss’s face.
“You can do whatever you’d like,” Ayato responds, as if it’s that easy, that obvious. Amethyst eyes seach his face, and Thoma forces his spine to straighten, avoiding the temptation to hunch in on himself in a futile attempt to protect himself from his lord’s vying, prying gaze.
Everything feels raw, exposed, Thoma’s nails scraping against the thin material of his pants, fingers scrabbling for something to do under such an intense stare. That glitter in Ayato’s eyes seems to shine bright and burning as Thoma squirms beneath it, the ghost of a smirk brushing against his lips.
It’s as though his master’s gaze is stripping him bare—stripping the clothes from his skin and the flesh from his bones, prying open his rib cage and peering into his very soul itself. It’s all so invasive, yet Thoma bares it all to him anyway, almost voluntarily, begging his lord for some instruction, some guidance, some rules to follow and obey and be praised for, eliminating any room for error or overstepping of boundaries, desperate to be told what to do and how to do it so he can satisfy everyone and do it well, do it right, do it the very best.
“My,” Ayato finally says. “I’ve hardly begun, yet you’re so hard you’re leaking through your pants. It’s...incredible.”
Thoma’s eyebrows knit in confusion, head shaking a little to indicate that he doesn’t understand. Incredible? It’s ignominious, is what it is.
But Ayato’s still observing him with that inquisitive gaze, eyes darting to your heaving body for a moment, still impaled by his cock and trying your best to keep from wiggling impatiently, before returning to Thoma’s face.
“Thoma,” he begins conversationally, and Thoma’s heart begins to pound, ribs rattling with the force. “Would you like a turn? I think it’s awfully selfish of me to keep her all to myself tonight, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’m sorry?” Thoma sputters as the question tangles on his tongue, eyes blinking rapidly with incredulity, head nudged forward as if he’s sure he’s just misheard his lord.
“I’m asking if you’d like to fuck her,” Ayato chuckles—a patronizing little sound that plays at the back of his throat, as if Thoma’s uncertainty is so cute—and Thoma flinches. It’s always so jarring to hear such a vile curse fall from the lips of such an elegant man.
“I—No, no, my lord, I could never, she—she’s yours, and—”
“You are, by all accounts, our guest this evening. I have invited you to stay, and I think it’d be rude of me not to offer you a turn,” he explains. “You don’t have to if you aren’t comfortable with it,” Ayato adds at Thoma’s hesitance. “I am merely extending the invitation, should you wish to take it. But if you are content with just watching, that is perfectly fine, too.”
“I...Want to,” he slowly exhales the confession from his mouth after a stretch of ringing silence, eyes finding yours. “But...I—Is it alright?”
Mutely, you look towards your Daddy, something akin to distress saturating your features. Ayato frowns, shaking his head a little, and your lips mimic his own, eyebrows raising with incentive.
“Show her your cock,” Ayato demands after a moment of unspoken conversation.
The order startles Thoma, and he coughs around his response. “I, um—”
“Go on,” Ayato urges gently, violet eyes kind and trusting, disarming, that terrifying twinkle Ayato had never dared to turn on Thoma before tonight now replaced with that comforting familiarity his direct commands bring. “Show her your cock, and I promise you, she’ll say yes.”
It’s an odd request, and Thoma doesn’t fully understand it’s implications, but he obeys anyway.
Nodding to himself, Thoma shuffles closer to you, trembling hands fumbling with the waistband of his pants, gracelessly shoving at it until it yields, allowing his cock to spring free.
It glistens in the dim glow of the lamplight, head smeared with precum and steadily drooling out pearlets, shaft pretty and pink and oh-so-perfect. You murmur something, soft and awe-stricken, and Thoma’s gaze snaps to your face.
“Hmm?”
“I said it’s really pretty,” you repeat, seemingly captivated, fingers flexing, as if you wish to touch. “It’s almost as pretty as Daddy’s.”
“Oh! Uh,” heat crawls up the back of his neck and he resists the urge to scratch at it, forcing his eyes to stay trained on your profile. “Thanks,”
“You like it, baby?” Ayato coos, brushing back a few strands of sweat-soaked hair from your temple. “You want it?”
“Yes,” you breathe, gazing up at Ayato before shifting your stare to Thoma, head nodding in dreamy little movements. “Yes, please.”
“Are you sure?” Thoma asks for what seems like the umpteenth time tonight, powerless to keep the question from leaving his mouth, urgently requiring that explicit confirmation that this is real, that this is happening.
“Yeah,” you stare up at him with shimmering eyes, tongue sucking your bottom lip between your teeth and speaking around it. “Please, can I have it?”
Thoma’s body is moving the moment the bashful request tumbles from your lips, body gracefully replacing Ayato’s—who resigns himself to sitting near your head—and hips finding a snug place between your spread thighs, his cock bobbing with enthusiasm.
“So polite, my darling,” Ayato murmurs, and while the timbre in his voice is mocking, his eyes are soft, the pads of his fingertips trailing along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.
A quiet noise of contentment vibrates at the back of your throat, and you lean into your Daddy’s touch, gaze filled to the brim with adoration, begging for more of his sugary approval.
The moment feels too intimate, and Thoma averts his eyes. The head of his cock bumps against your cute little hole a second later, selfishly drawing your attention back to him, and you whine a little, hips twitching downward in desperation.
“She hasn’t been allowed to cum on a cock in a while,” Ayato explains, still gazing at you with melted affection in his eyes, palm stroking your damp forehead. “I’m quite sure she’s exceptionally excited to have you inside her,”
For a moment, such a thought instils in Thoma a bold confidence, sparks of it zipping up his spine, straightening each vertebra as they pass.
But they fizzle just as fast as they ignited, leaving behind a special type of terror, an icy dread that seeps into his bones and submerges his brain.
What if he isn’t good enough?
While his cock is considerably thick—possibly slightly thicker than what you’re used to—he definitely isn’t as big as Ayato. Will he even be able to satisfy you at all, or will he only leave you with the sourness of disappointment and regret? Is he merely here to make an utter fool of himself by cumming so hard, so fast it’s piteous? It’s been an embarrassingly long time since the last time he’s had sex, what if—
“Thoma? What are you waiting for?”
Ayato’s voice yanks him from the snare of his own thoughts once again, his eyes flashing to his superior, worry written into the creases of his forehead. Frowning, Ayato blinks twice, imploring him to speak what’s currently infecting his mind.
“What’s wrong?”
And, oh, it’s so fucking embarrassing to have to say it aloud, to admit to all of his timorous thoughts of being wholly inadequate, eyes downcast as he mumbles out his concerns.
Unsurprisingly, Ayato laughs—something that isn’t quite nice, but isn’t quite mean, either, like candied condescension—and leans forward to clap a reassuring hand on Thoma’s shoulder.
“That is entirely okay,” he says, and Thoma’s brow furrows. “She doesn’t have to cum. You can just use her, if you’d like; she’d be happy with that, too,” he pauses, violet eyes flitting to your own and eliciting an obedient nod, as if to prove his point. “And then I’ll take care of the rest. Just enjoy yourself, Thoma.”
”But...But I—” Thoma’s nose wrinkles in distaste, and Ayato’s frown deepens. Reaching out, he takes the younger man’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it up to face him and holding it firmly in place.
Outwardly, Ayato appears as calm as the smooth, cool surface of an ice-glazed lake, but Thoma knows better. Thoma can see the impatience, the irritation, beginning to simmer just beneath that layer of polished frost; the blazing periwinkle that demands Thoma spit it out already, the infinitesimal flexing of his jaw, methodically pulsing in time with his even breaths; one, two, three, tense, hold, relax, one, two, three.
Clearing his throat, Thoma continues, ignoring the slight tremor sewn into his voice. “But I want to satisfy her, my lord.”
It’s hard not to grimace as the confession hangs thickly in the air between them, Ayato’s eyes clouding over with something undecipherable, something Thoma’s never experienced before. The look makes his skin crawl, little spikes of sweat erupting from his pores as he’s forced to hold his superior’s scalding gaze.
“Alright,” Ayato says after a moment of consideration, finally releasing Thoma’s chin. “I’ll show you how, briefly, and then we can get on with this. Sound reasonable?”
Thoma’s head is nodding, but Ayato doesn’t wait for an answer, moving towards the slighter man and taking Thoma’s hand between his large one, palm molding to the back as he pushes two of Thoma’s fingers down.
“It doesn’t take much,” Ayato’s saying, voice turned professional as he wraps his own fingers over Thoma’s folded ones, bringing their mess of hands to your fluttering cunt and beginning to insert them.
“Daddy!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as your delicate flesh yields to the four fingers.
Ignoring you, Ayato continues in the same matter-of-fact lilt. “Her favourite spot is right here,” he curls his fingers, forcing Thoma’s to curl in conjunction, pressing their knuckles into a rough, swollen patch of tissue.
A loud, sharp cry rips itself from your chest, eyes springing open only to fall shut again as Ayato massages the spot, your hips instinctually grinding downward, desperate for more.
“If you can, try to rub your cock against it, like this,” Ayato folds their fingers halfway, forcing them to dig into your silky walls and move in long, slow strokes, each pass over that spot sending a borderline violent shudder rippling through your body.
“It’s very sensitive.” Ayato nudges the spot once more—a demonstration of sorts—before gently removing their fingers. “I trust that now that you know it’s location, you’ll have no trouble angling your hips to ensure your cockhead hits it, yes?”
If he doesn’t cum in the first ten seconds, maybe.
He has several additional questions—what type of thrusts do you enjoy most? Is there a particular pace you like the best?—but Ayato is done teaching.
You seem to be getting restless, too, Thoma’s name falling from your lips in the sweetest little whimpers. “Thoma, Thoma, please, give me your cock, please,”
You sound so fucking needy, almost bordering on bratty as you reach for him, hips wiggling, thighs straining as they spread wider. Cavernous pupils shine in the low light, eyes glazed over with sugared desire and half-lidded with lust.
And finally, finally, Thoma snaps.
His body’s moving before he’s even made the conscious decision to, primal instinct surging through his blood, overwhelming his body and overriding his mind, and he growls, using his sharp hips to keep your thighs spread wide.
It’s all automatic impulse now, rational thought drowned by animalistic urges and sheer desire, that burning need he had been so desperately attempting to suppress, to control, finally erupting, flames of it burning through his veins, incinerating all previous trepidation.
And then he’s shoving his cock into you, moaning at the way your flesh yields to him, submits to him, opens up for him, stretching and splitting to accommodate his girth.
Just one swift, sharp thrust is all it takes to have him buried to the hilt, cockhead pressed snugly against your sensitive cervix. His hips shove forward further, knocking a gasp from your throat, cockhead grinding in slow, hard circles against the mound of tissue.
“Th-Thoma!” you nearly wheeze, little fingers tangling in the cotton of his t-shirt, nails piercing through the thin material and leaving fine, ragged lines of red in the muscles of his back. “Hurts!”
“Oh, you can take it,” Ayato chastises lightly, speaking over the deep growl rumbling in Thoma’s chest. It’s incredible, how calm his lord sounds, how entirely unaffected he seems to be, tone kept conversational, as if none of this matters in the slightest.
But Thoma’s barely listening; Thoma barely cares at this point, ears buzzing and vision blurred by pure lust, this insatiable craving he had tried so hard to deny, to erase, to restrain, so fierce it has dulled all of his senses to anything other than you.
Leaning back slightly, he hooks a hand under each of your knees and pushes up, up, up until your knees nudge your shoulders, legs folded up on either side of your body.
“Be a—Be a good girl and hold yourself open for me, yeah?”
It’s supposed to be an instruction, a demand, but it comes out whiny and full of yearning, voice already wrecked and mangled in his throat. If he were in his right mind, he’d be horrified by how eager, how utterly desperate he sounds. Yet he doesn’t pay it any mind at all, the breathy plead that practically dribbled from his lips like dollops of thick honey, too focused on fucking you for it to be of any importance.
With a singular, shaky exhale, his hips draw back, slow and steady, the smooth sculpted muscles in his arms flexing with the strain as he hovers above you, stilling for just a moment before he’s fucking back into you, his thrust harsh enough to send your entire body skidding against the wood beneath you, setting a ruthless pace from the start.
Each pound of his hips is more brutal than the last, each ramming fractured sobs and pitched mewls of his name from your chest, each forceful enough to shove Ayato’s heavy desk a few inches forward with every plunge into you, mahogany wood scraping against the floorboards.
It must be hurtful for you, each slam of his cockhead against your cervix, each drag of his shaft against that spot, your features twisted in the perfect mix of pain and pleasure; eyebrows scrunched and eyes squeezed shut, mouth lolling open and tongue flopping about, lips slicked sheen with spit, drool oozing from the corners of your mouth to drip in viscous beads along your jaw.
It’s fucking beautiful, the most immaculate piece of art Thoma has ever witnessed, experienced, had a hand in creating.
“You like that, huh?” he’s nearly spitting at you, words sandwiched between ragged pants. “It’s good?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re chanting, head nodding in quick little motions as your eyes drift back, eyelashes fluttering prettily.
“Tell me,” he keens, voice shattered by his razored breaths. “Tell me how much you like my cock,”
And although his tone borders on begging, his eyes are sharp and blazing with ardor, his chest heaving with exertion, strands of golden hair saturated in sweat and clinging to his forehead, his temples, his neck.
“Your cock is so good, Thoma,” you nearly wail. “I love it—I-I love it s’much!”
A groan vibrates in his chest, his eyes shutting tightly before springing open again, shuddering out a breathy little, “Yeah?” in time with the next drive forward of his hips.
“Uh—Uh-huh, so big, fills me up so good, can feel you in my tummy, Thoma,”
The resulting whine that catches in his throat, pitched high and desperate, is absolutely pathetic—though you don’t seem to think so, cute little cunt pulsing around his cock in response.
“Lemme feel, baby—ah, fuck—lemme feel,”
A large hand splays itself on your gut, his hips never once faltering as he presses down, a loud cry falling from his lips as the tip of his cock nudges his palm through your flesh.
“God,” he breathes. “That’s so fucking hot.”
Your dainty hand lays itself atop of his, soft palm pressing down harder, forcing him to feel the bulge of his cock buried inside of you again, a choked moan strangling itself in his throat as the arm supporting his weight begins to quiver.
He can tell that you’re getting close now, whole body beginning to tremble beneath his own, little fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as you force yourself open wider for him.
Ayato can tell, too.
“Are you going to cum, sweetheart?” he asks, the pet name drenched in saccharine condescension. “Are you going to show Thoma how very pretty you look, creaming all over his cock?”
You can barely speak, too fucked out to manage anything other than the stammered stream of Yes, Daddy’s and Can I, please Daddy?’s flowing steadily from your mouth.
Ayato gives you his murmured permission—a gentle Go ahead, princess—and then you’re complying, convulsing cunt gushing all over Thoma’s cock, a tangle of his name and your Daddy’s jumbled on your tongue, a mess of letters so intertwined that they’ve become one unintelligible word.
“Good girl,” Ayato breathes, and that’s the first time Thoma has heard him sound affected by anything all night.
Thoma’s thrusts are getting sloppy now, devolved into frantic and uneven jackhammering that gains more speed with each snap forward, the aftershocks of your orgasm still coursing through your veins, vibrations spiking with each pump of his hips.
He can feel his own orgasm simmering in the pit of his stomach, rising higher and higher with every weak throb of your over-sensitive cunt, growing hotter and hotter with every noise he manages to fuck out of you until it’s finally boiling over, up his throat and out his mouth and—
“Oh, oh god, oh, Aya—my lord, I—I’m gonna—Can I—Can I—” And, truthfully, Thoma isn’t sure whether he’s asking if he can cum, or if he can cum inside his master’s favourite plaything.
But he doesn’t have to decide; Ayato does that for him.
Humming in contemplation, amethyst eyes shift from Thoma to you, Ayato’s head tilting slightly. “Would you like his cum, princess?”
Your response is immediate, bleary eyes snapping to Ayato’s face, head nodding enthusiastically. “Oh gosh, Daddy, yes, yes, I want his cum, yes!”
“F-Fuck,” Thoma whimpers, hips stuttering with the shudder of his breath.
“You can cum inside, Thoma,” Ayato grants him permission, voice soft as a silk blanket that envelopes him, caressing his cheek as it drapes itself across his shoulders—a warm, familiar embrace of encouragement, of praise, of approval.
“Th-Thank you, my lord,”
“I want it, Thoma,” you’re whimpering beneath him, blinking up at him with filmy eyes, words drowning in muddled pools of spit collecting in the dips and crevices of your mouth. “I want it, I-I want it, give it to me,”
“Greedy girl,” Ayato scolds with a disapproving click of his tongue, demeanour changed in an instant. “Ask nicely,”
Turning your glassy gaze back on Thoma, you stare up at him like he’s some sort of fucking god, eyes glistening with potent want, an indescribable craving that manifests as pleads spilling from your mouth.
“Thoma, Thoma, please give me your cum, please, fill me up with it, stuff me full of it, I want it so bad, Thoma, pretty please!” you practically cough out, the sentiment fractured by hiccups and gurgled together at the back of your throat, words flowing in one continuous sob.
It’s so fucking hot, so fucking wrong, so fucking delicious, and the whine that claws it’s way past his lips and rips through his gasping breaths is nothing short of gorgeous, pitched high and cracked with pleasure, with desire.
“Give my princess what she wants, Thoma,” Ayato says, and although it’s phrased as a statement, it’s clearly an order, and Thoma’s good at following those.
Three more pistons of his hips and he’s obeying his master. It’s vicious, the shudder that tears through Thoma’s body as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with scalding, thick cum, so much so that it’s begun to leak out of your cunt, smeared all over Thoma’s cock and your inner thighs, pearly glops of it drooling down your ass to collect in a puddle on Ayato’s desk.
Black darkens the edges of his vision, a pair of strong hands catching him just before he collapses on top of you, Ayato leaning Thoma against his chest, his cheek snug against the crook of his lord’s neck, exhaling uneven little pants of breath against his skin.
Everything feels hazy, like time has slowed, seconds dripping by as if they were hours, the gentle, repetitive rhythm of Ayato’s fingers through Thoma’s hair keeping him grounded in this reality.
“Come here, baby,” Ayato murmurs, holding his free arm out towards you and inviting you to crawl sluggishly towards him. You allow yourself to be wrapped up in your Daddy’s embrace, head finding purchase on Thoma’s damp chest, clinging to the both of them.
“You did so well,” Ayato whispers, punctuating his praise with chaste kisses to the crown of your head. “You both did so well, I’m so proud of you. You were both so good for me.”
And, well, all either of you ever want to be is good for him.
