𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑡 — that one post I made about Osamu being "mean", so you sit on Suna's lap instead. yuuuuh, hype me up! enjoy~
tw: language, humiliation, mentions of oral, use of the term brat, mainly just suggestive
++ When Osamu is upset, he has no problem expressing himself, especially when his old teammates are present so he can show the perfect demonstration.
He's not petty enough to humiliate you in front of the others by spanking you or some shit, though he has thought about it on multiple occasions. He likes to think of himself as a lenient guy. He has more subtle ways of humiliating you. For instance, ignoring you while you're showing him affection or giving you a look that makes you feel dumb; it's all about giving you a chance to behave yourself and think about what you've done.
And he thinks the time has truly presented himself because of the day's events. It was supposed to be a nice day, just him and the guys with you in his arms. Unfortunately, your attitude the entire day has been bratty, to say the least. Yes, the term brat is cringey and overused, but how else could he describe you taking up Suna's offer to sit in his lap when he refused to let you sit in his? Maybe disrespectful is another good description because every time he looks over at you in his best friend's lap, that's all he can see— a disrespectful brat.
Furthermore, he's not the only one that notices; everyone else in the room does too, and he's not too keen on it. He doesn't like the way all of his old teammates and friends get a first row seat to your distasteful little display. He's not fond of how his own brother is telling him how awkward it must be to see you on another man's lap. He's most definitely not happy with how you're laughing along with Suna at some dumb joke he just made. He feels as if his tactics to fix your behavior have been too lenient; probably why you're still showing your ass.
That's when he decides to clear up the air and beckons you over, telling you he wants to talk to you about something. You expected him to tell you to behave like he usually did, but what you didn't expect was him to bring you down between his thighs and nudge your face towards the apparent tent straining against his pants.
You were confused. This wasn't how your Samu handled things. He's patient and discreet when dealing your tantrums, but this wasn't patient nor discreet. You would've asked him about it if it weren't for the grip he had on the back of your head. He was pushing your face so close to his bulge that your nose was practically touching it.
"If yer gonna show out, might as well give 'em a good show."
Once he sees you gulp and reach to undo his pants, he knows the crisis is averted.
See? He didn't yank his cock out and shove it down your throat.
Warnings: horror, manga spoilers, strong language, blood
Summary: The past never dies. Get it yet?
A/N: Happy Halloweenie!! Brush your teeth after eating candy pls & thank you 🧡 also debut post yaaayyy
Despite his confident, seemingly conceited personality, looking at his reflection was one thing Dabi hated. Especially looking at the mirror. One would presume that he was probably ashamed or disgusted by the patches of purple skip littered across his face and body, but the real reason was much deeper than that. He hated looking at his reflection because he didn't like what he saw, and it wasn't because of his scars, but rather at the man looking right back at him. Albeit his reflection, he looked nothing like Dabi.
Instead of gnarled, wrinkled skin, his reflection's complexion was clear and pristine, almost like what his own complexion would be like had he been spared from that freak accident many years ago. In place of the black, messy nest of hair on his head, his counterpart's hair was fiery red with a few snow-white strands at the root. The only thing they had in common was the color of their eyes– turquoise orbs that held the same amount of intensity in its heavily lidded gaze.
Every time Dabi looked in the mirror, he didn't see himself. Instead, he saw Touya.
Touya was supposed to be dead, however, Touya was very much alive and hunted Dabi like a predator and haunted him like a ghost– cockily smiling at him from the mirror as if he were silently mocking him for ending up the way he did. Sometimes, he talked, too, and he would call him nasty names when he did.
Worthless.
Failure.
Stupid.
"Shut the fuck up!" Dabi would sometimes yell at his reflection, his voice booming through the empty bathroom and bouncing of the tile walls. Once, in a fit of frustration, punched and broke the bathroom mirror into a million pieces in an attempt to wipe the grin off that smug bastard's face, but it didn't help; all that got him was a bloody fist and an earful from Shigaraki about a replacement mirror.
On worse days, Dabi wouldn't see just Touya, but he'd feel watched by Touya. Every time he'd pass by a newspaper kiosk and see Endeavor on the front page, he could almost see Touya mockingly pouting and chiding him for being such a burden that his own father was able to rise to the top without him. The kiosk's owner wasn't too pleased about Dabi ripping the front page off of every newspaper he had on display, but thankfully, it wasn't anything money couldn't calm down.
The worst, however, was when he could hear Touya. This often happened during late night smoke breaks when Dabi was alone with his thoughts, and during those times, every wall that Dabi built to spare himself from heartache would break down and he could feel his heart clench every time Touya would beg and cry to be let out.
It's not too late.
Please, we'll make it work.
I forgive you.
Learn how to forgive me, too.
Go home.
I miss Natsuo.
You can still change.
"What a load of bullcrap." he'd mumble, flicking the ashes out the window before lifting the cigarette to his lips for another drag, masking the pain he felt for his inner child with nonchalance.
𝑞'𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 — Angst. Male character, no direct character specified. I wrote this when I was in 10th grade, and I did not go back and check for grammatical errors. Sorry if you run into any. ♡
tw: self-loathing, depression, language, a sprinkle of salt
chi·me·ra: something that is hoped or wished for but in fact is illusory or impossible to achieve
Hello, you've reached my–
Sharing is caring, babe!
You've reached our voicemail. Say your message after the beep, please.
Another person?
Beep.
They had moved on so fast, yet he can't seem to believe they had left.
"Another person," he repeatedly thought.
He slumped on the floor, choking on the air lodged in his throat. The closing up of his airway to refrain from sobbing didn't help his case at all. He wondered how they could love someone simply because the person they loved weren't him.
He gathered the strength to force a coherent word out of his mouth. Tears stung his eyes, waiting to tip over the brim of his lower lash line.
He inhaled sharply, almost being strangled by the wild thump of his heart.
"I-"
This was his chance to tell them how much he missed them. The room spun as his heart rate inclined even more. Thoughts of how he'd explain how much he'd do anything to have them back ran through his mind.
If you are satisfied with your message, please hang-
He leaned his head backwards to rest it upon the wall behind him. He missed them. He wanted to know what they were doing. He wanted to know where they were. He needed to hold them in his arms again, to make contact with them. He needed to feel it.
He needed to feel loved.
"I can't remember the last time I felt good about what we have."
"What do you mean? We love each other."
"We? You love me. It's not like I tried to stray away from loving you. It just seemed to happen that way."
He jolted, finding himself in the same spot he was in the night before. His spine still alined vertically against the cold, cracked wall. There was a static sensation in his legs due to the position he had been in all night. He saw the dimness of the sky's glow penetrating through his livingroom window. The sun was just starting to rise.
Placing his palms against the fuzzy carpet, he pushed downwards to lift himself from the floor. The stiff tiredness of his legs made his knees buckle and awkwardly stumble to his feet. He set his journey off to his bedroom.
The ebony door creaked, ajaring as he pushed it to reveal the room. Hesitantly, he made his way over to the neatly tidied resting place. He plopped on his bed and traced the stitching of the duvet with his fingers. It seemed that it had been centuries before he decided to touch it again. He didn't like to sleep in his bedroom now. It often reminded him of the love of his life.
The room made him lonely.
He still felt weak. He was definitely not up for going to the office today. He'd probably call into work with an excuse for him to stay home, again.
He slowly rolled over on his side to pick up the phone. He tapped the phone icon and dialed the number of his work place.
After explaining why he wouldn't be attending work once again this week, the assistant just sighed, gave him a sympathetic "it's fine," and hung up.
He hated that. He hated pity. He hated all the whispers and stares he attracted once he stepped into a room. Most of all, he hated himself.
"You're saying that... that you don't love me anymore?"
"Honestly, I never did. I tried. I really did, but you're so dull. I could never love such a dull person."
"I'm so sorry. Wh- what can I do to make you love me? Please, please tell me."
"Nothing. I will never love you the same way you love me."
9:30 PM
"Damn..."
He slowly sat up, looking around his room that felt unfamiliar. He came to an agreement with himself that it wasn't his fault that he had ended up alone. However, he could never forgive himself for letting a precious jewel slip out of his grasp so easily.
He'll never let that happen again.
After being in such deep thought, he decided to take a shower. Oh boy, did he need one. He rose up from the bed, made his way towards his closet, and grabbed the things he needed for the process of showering.
Once he stepped in the bathroom, he looked in the mirror. His eyes were puffy and swollen from crying, but also sunken in from the lack of sleep he had gotten. All of the sorrow, doubt, and hate was carved onto his face. He looked weak. He was drained.
Repulsed by his own face, he turned away and walked over to the shower. He turned the knob to the hottest setting. If he wasn't able to achieve his hopes of dying, this man is about to feel the second hottest thing to hell.
The steam from the water was visible, yet he stuck his arm in the water to test it. His nerves hadn't received the heat of the nearly boiling water until a few seconds afterwards. As soon as his receptors indicated pain, sense knocked the hell out of his brain.
He quickly retracted his arm.
"What the fuck am I doing?"
He turned the knob back a few notches and tested the water again. This time, it was just right. He hopped in and tried to put some liquid soap in his hand.
"You can't be serious," the liquid base didn't come out of its bottle.
Unscrewing the cap from its coil, he looked inside to see the soap gunked to the bottom of the bottle.
"How long has it been since I've taken a fucking shower?"
He sighed in defeat. He didn't have any other option than to pour a little water in the bottle to loosen the base's particles up. When the liquid finally dispensed from the plastic bottle into his palm, he rubbed it into his matted, untamed locks.
Still cleansing his body, he closed his eyes and relaxed under the soothing warmth of the water. The thought that it was not his fault reapproached his mind. He couldn't force someone love him for who he was. Dull. He hated the word and how well it described his personality.
As he stepped out of the shower, he grabbed one of the towels that hung on the hanging rack. He took the cloth and ruffled his hair briefly before tying it around his waist. Maybe he was just the problem.
"I don't mean that I hate you, though."
"What do you mean then?"
"What I meant to say was, you aren't fit to be in a loving relationship."
"Relationships suck anyway," he mumbled while he roamed through the various shows Netflix has to offer.
He heard a soft grumble emanate from his stomach. How long has it been since he'd eaten a proper meal? Ten days? With an exasperated sigh, he headed over to the refrigerator. The door of the refrigerator only revealed a half eaten container of peanut butter and a jar of mayonnaise.
"Un-fucking-believable," he scoffed, "I guess I'm going to have to go grocery shopping."
He shut the refrigerator. Walking to the sink and filling up a glass with water, he looked over at the clock on the stove.
11:23 PM
He shrugged, grabbing the remote to resume the hunt for something to watch on Netflix. Each recommendation being something he had already watched, he finally decided on a psychological thriller. His stomach complained once again, but he knew it was too late to go to the store or order takeout. Sipping on his water, he sat there contemplating what he was going to do. Suddenly, he remembered that he had a box of cereal in the cupboard.
