today i am thinking about how badly shigaraki wants you to sit on his face. he’d bring it up constantly and at the most inappropriate moments before you agreed to do it. and when you’re finally hovering over him, a bit apprehensive to put any of your weight on him, he takes it as a challenge. he spits out something like what? you think i can’t handle it? before he wraps his two gloved hands around your thighs, dragging you down until you’re practically smothering him. he wastes no time diving in. he eats you out with an overwhelming sort of enthusiasm. he’s nosing at your clit and tongue fucking you with no mercy. and god he makes the most embarrassing noises. groans straight into your cunt and obnoxiously slurps at the arousal that’s practically dripping out of you. it’s all nearly too much and sends you hurtling towards your orgasm far too fast and you’re cumming on his face within minutes. but it takes you all of two seconds to realize he hasn’t stopped, he hasn’t even slowed down. you can beg and whine and squirm all you want but he only pauses for a moment. a too smug smile on his face as he says where do you think you’re going? i’m just getting started
elaborate on the mahito being knuckles deep in you please 🥺?
mahito just strikes me as the type to be constantly playing with your pussy. you could be cooking dinner and he'd drape himself over your back saying something like smells good, cutie all the while his fingers are skirting the waistband of your pants before dipping in. one lithe finger tracing the rapidly increasing damp spot on your panties before pushing it to the side and dipping in. maybe he'll make you come so fast it'll leave your head spinning....or maybe he'll edge you until the soups ready to be taken off the stove. either way his fingers are inside you, winding you up and up and up embarrassingly fast.
or maybe you two are watching a movie on the couch. a movie he forced you to rent because he saw a commercial for it on TV while you were off at work and he hasn't stopped bugging you about it since. but now you're between his spread legs, your back to his chest, and his fingers knuckle deep inside you. the movie is long forgotten, his eyes glued to your face, drinking in every little expression and moan as he draws a fifth orgasm out of you. and he has no plans of stopping anytime soon. you're squirming in his lap, whining into his neck that it’s too much, too much. mahito only giggles, a too-big smile on his face. i'll make a deal with you cutie, he says, if you can sit still and quit whining until the movie is over i'll stop! if you can't, well...his smile widens, i don't really know yet. but we'll have all night to find out!
mahito just can't keep his hands to himself when it comes to you. he likes the warmth of your cunt, likes all the cute little noises you make when he gives you too much or too little. likes having you beg for him, likes watching you turn into a limp little puddle of pleasure. all because of just his fingers! it's all so fascinating to him.
thinking about boys with praise kinks…boys who desperately try to get you off as many times as they possibly can bc they want to make you feel good and they want you to tell them how good they’re making you feel. boys who need to hear how much you love them, how pretty they look for you, how handsome. that they’re so good for you. that they’re so good for you always.
thinking about riding nanami’s thigh <3 feeling the ropes of muscle flexing just right against your clit <3 as the minutes stretch on you grow more and more desperate, pleas and whines falling from your lips the closer you get to your high <3 you should be embarrassed, you probably would be if not for all the sweet praises coming from nanami <3 about how good you are for him, how pretty you are, how perfect you’ll look cumming on his thigh <3 once is never enough for him either, he wants to see it again and again and again <3 you don’t have to worry about getting tired, not with nanami’s large hands on your hips so willing to guide you through just one more <3
yeah <3 natsuo is obsessed with putting you in a mating press. he’s so sweet about it too. peppering your face with kisses as he pushes your thighs to your chest. he’s just so big, all heavy muscle, and it’s all right on top of you, pressing you deep into the mattress and closing you in. and god, when he finally starts moving he steals the breath right out of your lungs. but he moves so slowly, torturously slow. and no matter how much you beg him, beg him to go just a little faster, just a little harder, all he’ll do is shush you. coo down at you all sweetly that he’ll take care of you. just relax, he’ll say, and he promises he’ll take such good care of you.
ONE DAY WE’LL REVEAL THE TRUTH (THAT ONE WILL DIE BEFORE HE GETS THERE)
title: youth by daughter
pairing: dabi x f!reader
words: 1.7k
excerpt: But what is rage, you’d ask him, if not one of the many faces of grief?
a/n: dabi my beloved (derogatory). this fic is my love letter to parentheses.
tags: angst, toxic relationships, explicit s*xual content, light choking, dabi is a bastard but he is a needy bastard
in case you’d rather read it on ao3!
MDNI
He’s just outside the door. He hasn’t made a sound, but you know he’s there. You can feel it; in your blood, in your bones, in your marrow.
(You’ve always been able to feel him, monstrous and cruel beneath your skin. An itch. An awful taunting itch. You’ve wanted him out since he first stuck his claws in you and buried himself deep, but he’s near impossible to shake. He won’t leave until he’s hollowed you out, until your flesh is no longer your own, until all that’s left of you is him. Until all that’s there, is what he believes there should be.
He’s a self-important bastard like that.)
When he finally decides to open the door, he does so with a slam. It would’ve made you jump if you hadn’t been so focused on the skyline. Tracing the buildings, looking for stars you know you won’t be able to see. They get swallowed up, this deep in the city. Drowned out by light.
(When you were a child, you didn’t quite understand how stars could vanish in the night. Weren’t they the brightest things in the universe? Burning and brilliant, even light years away?
You understand it better now. How mankind has this nasty habit of ruining, of polluting, of blotting out things of wonder and then desperately trying to remake it in our own image.
It’s never as beautiful as what was, but it’s far too late for us to admit defeat now.)
He’s mad, burning up with fury. You can feel the heat of it, cutting straight through the heavy chill of the night air. It’s stifling, your balcony so small that he’s practically breathing down your neck with how close he is. Accompanying his presence, always, is the faint smell of burnt flesh he can never quite mask, no matter the amount of cheap aftershave he tries to drown himself in.
He’d texted you, and you’d ignored him. For a week, you’ve ignored him and if there’s one thing Dabi hates, it’s when he gets ignored.
He’s the one that ignores you, it should never be the other way around.
You know that, of course. You know all his little unwritten rules.
(Don’t ignore him is at the top of the list. Except, of course, during those nights when he thinks you’re asleep and he clings to you like a child, his tears burning where they touch your skin. Even his grief, you can’t help but think, is scorching.
On those nights, you’ve found it’s best to stay quiet. He wields his grief like rage and you’d rather not be caught in the crossfire.)
He’s waiting for you to talk, to stumble over your words, make some sort of vague attempt at an apology. It’s what you would usually do after you’ve broken one of his rules.
But you say nothing, content to sit in the too-heavy silence. You’re tired. Of him. Of whatever it is you two have been doing. It’s the same stupid story, the same vicious cycle. A snake cursed to eat its own tail.
He’s using you. He has been for a long while now. If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, he most likely has been since the beginning. And God, it’s exhausting work, being used.
Although, really, you’re not all that much better than he is. In the beginning, you were with him purely because he fascinated you. All his grief laid bare, and so vulnerable. So obvious and painful. Undeniable in its brutality.
(Rage, he’d say, it’s righteous rage, not grief.
But what is rage, you’d ask him, if not one of the many faces of grief?)
It didn’t take long for you to realize he’s chasing something. And it took you even less time to realize that whatever he’s after, is probably going to kill him one day.
(You wonder if he knows he’s chasing his own death. You wonder if he’d care at all.
He reminds you of Eve, eating the forbidden fruit. You think she’d take a bite of the apple, again and again and again if ever given the choice, even knowing the consequences. Even with intimate knowledge of the suffering to come. How could she not? How could any of us hold our fate in the palm of our hands and choose not to sink our teeth into it?)
He’s growing impatient beside you, burning up with it. If he touched you, you’re sure he’d melt your flesh straight to the hollow bone.
But you don’t break. Just once, you want him to fall apart first. Just once, you want him desperate.
(He’s always been so good at making you desperate, with a hand around your neck, just tight enough to leave you gasping for air, your back to his chest and his staples drawing blood, as he pounds into you so hard all you could do is dig your nails into his arm.
His lips are right by your ear, you’re mine, he says. You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine.
And God, with his cock hitting all the right spots in your cunt you’d believe it. You’d believe anything he’d said to you as long he just kept going.
Say it, he hisses, say you’re mine.
You don’t answer him right away, mostly because you can’t, not with the way he’s fucking you. You can’t catch your breath enough to form a sound, you can’t get your bearings enough to collect a single thought that isn’t Dabi Dabi Dabi.
Annoyed at your lack of answer, he brings a searing thumb down to your overstimulated clit. You keen, arching, desperately trying to get away from the sensation that at this point is more pain than pleasure.
Say it, he says again, there’s a strange sort of edge to it. Looking back you think it might’ve been desperation. Say it.
When he presses down just a little harder, you finally crack.
Yours, you gasp. I’m yours. Yours. Yours. Yours.
He laughs, so deep in his chest that you feel it in your own.
It echoes in your head for weeks afterward.)
“What,” he grounds out, low and furious, “the fuck.”
It’s not a question.
You turn towards him, at last. Though you can hardly see him, surrounded by shadows. There are glints of his piercings in the polluted light, a gleaming flash as he runs his tongue along with his teeth. But it’s his eyes that you lock on. Bright and a brilliant blue. Glowing and monstrous in the dark.
(You’re reminded, once again, of the stars. Burning and burning and burning.)
With no preamble, you say, “I think I love you.”
The air around you quiets. Like the city itself is holding it’s breath.
It’s not a sweet confession under the moonlight. In the week since you came to the realization, it’s already started to fester, to rot straight through your bones.
It’s a curse more than anything. You love a man whose chasing his own death. You love a ghost. Or, you suppose, a ghost in the making.
Before you can say anything else (though really, what else is there to say) he cuts in sharply, meanly, “No, you don’t.”
You can’t help but tilt your head at that. You don’t really know what to say. You don’t know if you’re supposed to say anything. His lips are pulled back, teeth bared, he’s gleaming and sharp, pulled so taught with tension you wonder how he’s even breathing. He reminds you, vividly, of a cornered animal. A scared one. Though he’s trying to mask it with annoyance, with a type of anger that toes the line of fury.
He’s always doing that. Masking his fear with rage. Masking his grief with rage. Hiding any part of himself that might be perceived as weak, as soft, as vulnerable, under the guise of rage.
You can’t imagine that it’s anything less than exhausting.
Though you have to admit, you didn’t expect this response. You didn’t expect fear. You thought he’d be unbearably smug about it. Proud of himself for finally sinking his teeth into your heart. Ready to chew you up and spit you back out. You were ready for him to move on.
You didn’t expect him to deny it.
(He could be right, though you doubt he is.
You wonder what it means to love, you wonder how you’re supposed to love. You wonder if you can only love someone if you’ve seen the cruelest parts of them first.
You suppose if that’s the case, then he might be right.
You’ve never actually been able to force yourself to look up what exactly he’s wanted for. What exactly it is he’s done.
Mostly because you’re afraid that even if you knew every last gory detail, it wouldn’t be enough to make you walk away. And how would you be able to look at yourself in the mirror, after that? Knowing exactly who you let share your bed? who cried scorching hot tears into your shoulder?
Ignorance is bliss, they say. In your case, it could very well be your only hope for salvation.
But, you don’t really think there’s a set way a person is supposed to love. It’s what makes it so terrifying. It’s an unknown. And it’s so hard to not fear the unknown.)
“Dabi-” you start.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he spits out. Eyes flashing, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
You want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, of him trying to tell you what you do and do not feel, but you think he’d turn you to ashes for the slight. His pride has always been so easily shaken.
“Dabi-” you try again.
But he’s two steps ahead of you. He always is.
He’s already turned around, hiding his face from view, opening the door. And you don’t stop him. You don’t see why you should.
You can’t shake him from the path he’s on. You don’t think anyone can, really.
Grief is all he has, it’s all he’s let himself have. It’s fundamental to him now. It’s all he is. And you’re sure he believes whatever he’s chasing is going to fill the hollow void it’s made of him.
It won’t. You’re sure of that, at least, because even if he does succeed, what will he be left with then?
You don’t say any of that to him, because you’re not his fucking therapist. And because you’re not so sure he wouldn’t kill you for it.
It’s anticlimactic, watching him disappear into your darkened apartment.
But all you can think about when you hear the click of the front door closing behind him is how honest his fear was, almost childlike. Remnants of a poor, grief-stricken boy.
What a monster it’s made of him.
a/n part two:
thinking about adrianne kalfopoulou’s ‘grief will keep you reaching back / for what is not there.’
i could not tell you why this took me over two weeks to write. i had a lot of fun with it though. dabi my beloved. go to therapy please. also i know dabi can’t cry but....let me have this.
