hello, my name is Lex. This is my first time writing so if you read any of my fanfictions, please keep in mind that english is not my mother tongue.
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If you dont like my content, scroll or block, its that easy
Some Infos, please read if you consider staying on my blog ➛
➳ I write smut, angst and fluff.
➳ All of my fanfictions are fem!reader or gn!reader!
➳ None of my x reader's have any specific appearance except from the sex and maybe height/outfit. If reader has a specific appearance other than from what I've mentioned, I'm putting it in the warnings!
➳[REQUESTS ARE OPEN]
➳ if you post my work somewhere else, please ask & let me know first, then give me the credits to it. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK WITHOUT PERMISSION ON ANY PLATFORM!!
➳ multifandom!
➳ What I dont write about:
-ageplay
-pisskink (and anything else like that)
-anal (I have my reasons😭)
-male reader
I write for:
• Touya Todoroki (Dabi)
-the will to heal (fluff, angst, smut)
-baby, just let me in (fluff, angst, suggestive but no smut)
-positions (smut)
-dry humping (smut)
•Satoru Gojo
-curious (suggestive, fluff)
-bound by portals pt.1 (series, fluff, smut & angst)
-bound by portals pt.2
-bound by portals pt.3 (new chapters on ao3 only!)
-clingy!satoru (smut)
-taking him for the first time (smut)
-pull the damn hair (smut)
-brat taming gone wrong! (smut)
•Ryomen Sukuna
-to love is to invite death masterlist (smut, angst, fluff)
-cuddler ft. yuuji (fluff)
-to have found you was the world's regret, not mine (smut, angst, fluff)
-freedom belongs to me, it brings me cruelty and love (angst, fluff, smuttish content?)
•Natasha Romanoff
-missed you (smut)
-black cat (story, smut + angst)
-Not yours (story, smut + angst + fluff)
-distraction (smut)
•Wanda Maximoff
-party (smut)
•Daisy Johnson
-dinner with the family (smut)
•Hobie Brown
(click on his name for his masterlist, I wrote too much about him to fit it in here)
hello!! i came across your blog reading “baby, just let me in” and “the will to heal” which are just absolute masterpieces by the way 💗 i love the way you write touya so so much and i wanted to request something hehe 😼😼
its a small thought thats always been in my mind and id really love if you could just work your magic because i think your writing is just mwahh and would fit the story so well‼️🤞🏻
i know it might come off as a bit meh but i lovee AUs where touya goes to UA and he just absolutely serves there 🛐🛐 soo i was thinking, maybe reader could be a childhood bestfriend who touyas alwaysss been hopelessly in love with (whether hes aware of it or is in denial is up to you!) and they go to UA together where reader starts gaining attention (from guys and girls alike). and they also have the dorm system so touyas always sneaking over after curfew. but then reader and some guy (could be anyone really, but one snarky enough to annoy touya) start talking a bit and readers always making plans with him instead of touya and hes just tired of the lack of attention and gets soo jealous about everything. and it ends up in some dramatic love confession and desperate desperate smut (breeding🫠) 😫🙏🏻
(side request: functional todoroki family. touya and reader’s families are close, hence the friendship since childhood)
totally okay if youre not up for it though 🤍 looking forward to other touya/dabi works in general 😽😽 thank youuu 💗
I’ve been working on this for months now and I gave up mid fic gir I’m so sorry I’m telling u I’m trying😭😭I genuinely loved ur request and went straight to work and I rlly wanted it done within a week but here we are.. i fear it might turn out longer than i planned to make it.. be patient with me, I hope you’re still up for this request!! :(
I’ve begun a new story instead given I didn’t like the storyline I used on bound by portals. It’s on ao3, but that too is on hiatus for now.. im SO sorry😭😭 I wish I could continue writing it but as for now all I’m fixated on is (shamefully) mha. I rlly want to get back to jjk but I did read the manga but I haven’t even watched s3 to gain any kind of motivation and I’m so lazy to. I’ll try to catch up soon and if that’s the case then I’ll pick the story right back u
Hii! I come to make a request of you (only if you feel comfortable doing so)
I'm really looking forward to knowing how Dabi would behave, When we met some time after his identity came out. Before that, he had a sort of relationship with you (sexual) and sometimes protected you (though not from him 🤭)
You are a heroine with very grey morals, you are not interested in the world but you are interested in protecting the people who are important to you.
After Dabi's revelation (you didn't know) you separate but meet again before the last war.
I think Dabi would fuck us like crazy as a goodbye. After all, he may have feelings for us, but he'll never give up his revenge...
HIII MLLL!! Im so sorry I’m answering like.. haha.. 4 months later.. BUT I HAVE MY REASONS. Apart from being a lazy bum, I AM writing around 3 other stories rn and I’ve GENUINELY lost the ability to write something under 4k words. As I was writing once again another dabi fic and ran out of plot ideas, I, damsel in distress, decided to take another look into my inbox and there I found this gem. I thought okay, if I can’t finish my other stories which im planning to write over 10k words on, I’ll start this, short little thing then!
It did not turn out short.
But I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you’ll have a lot of fun reading it, even if I’m a few months too late..
-> all the times Dabi fucks you, and the one time Touya does.
warning/s: extreme smut, pure filth for the whole fic, breeding, dub con (? not sure adding this just in case), angst, possessive touya, filthy touya, cum eating, cream pie, overstimulation, drugging (only at the start), pierced cock, belly bulge, mean dabi, rough sex, fluff, hello i kno this looks too smutty to be angsty but don’t underestimate me, ANGST
word count: 8.5k
a/n: enjoy u sluts
Dabi is a vile, sadistic man.
That is the only way you could describe him. It’s hard not to, when he’s got you drugged and high on his sorry excuse of a bed— a futon that harshly smells like him amongst other repellent scents— and he’s pounding harshly into you.
You’re not truly against it. If you were, you wouldn’t be here. The only thing you’re against is Dabi‘s atrocious behavior and his fucking habit of doing things behind your back.
Such as drugging you before pounding your brains out. Not because you wouldn’t consent— you always do when it comes to him— but because he wants you pliant, wanton, obedient during sex. You’re not exactly one to give him the upper hand, and you have a foul mouth, too, and the burnt idiot loves nothing more than to— and you quote— ‘remind you of your fucking place‘.
Limp. Overstimulated. High off his stupidly perfect cock that just fills you in ways nothing else ever has. That’s what stokes his ego and brings him joy the most.
“S-slow dow— ngh- D-dabi—!”
Not to mention the way you beg him. He’s nothing but utterly thrilled each time he has you like this, which isn’t often given your attitude, but it happens— when he takes all his frustrations out on you and goes a little too hard, or maybe when he uses his quirk on you to give you a little scare. Now, that he’s found out he can simply slip a pill into your mouth while fucking with you, he’s overjoyed. You can’t resist his kisses, after all.
He snorts, listening to your whines and cries, but does nothing to slow down. His pelvis smacks harshly against your ass, and he grunts as he doubles over to make sure you feel just every inch of his pierced cock.
You shriek, crying out as you try and fail to escape his grasp. He holds you tightly by your hips, fingers digging into your skin, and he almost fucking growls when you squirm to the point his dick slips out of your abused hole.
That earns you a spank, and him a loud squeal from you, which basically is all you can do in a state of haze.
“Fuckin’ drugged ya and you’re still a dumb bitch— stay- the- fuck- still-! Shit!” He emphasizes on each word with a spank to your ass, the pain spreading all the way down to your thighs and you nearly give out. He holds you tightly, sloppy dick thrusting into you over and over again as slick drips down on both of you.
Dabi licks his lips at the sight, the way each time he pulls back your slick pulls with him, the way there’s a near white ring around your hole, his pre-cum having done the job of getting you wet prior. Your clit is puffy and neglected and he has no intention of touching it until you’re begging like the whore you’re supposed to be, and his fingers glide through your folds to spread you as much as possible.
He’s vile. Cruel. Loves to make you feel vulnerable and weak beneath him.
It’s not long until he realizes your face is tear-stained, and he laughs at that too, bending over so his front comes in contact with your back and his face is near yours.
The flat of his tongue drags all the way up your cheek, licking the salty substance away from your skin— and you huff, furiously craning your neck so you’re turned away from him.
He doesn’t like that.
“What do I have to do to get you to comply, princess? Why can’t you just—“ he groans, burying himself inside of you and completely stopping his cruel abuse to your hole.
That, more than anything, is even worse. You whine as his weight overtakes you, and your thighs finally give out as you collapse flat into the bed, Dabi laying comfortably on you with his dick all the way up your cunt.
You swear you feel his tip poking your cervix.
Reflexively, you clench down on him— (and gosh does it feel good— partly because his girth stimulates you and partly because he moans out, obviously weak for pussy).
Nevertheless, he laughs almost breathlessly, nuzzling his nose into your neck.
“Why’re you bein’ a bad girl, hm?”
Because you fucking drugged me.
Because you’re a fucking asshole.
Because you’re a villain and I’m a hero and you’re ravishing in the thought of humiliating me.
Because I keep coming back to you.
“Don’t you want to be my good girl? C’mon, I’ll even eat your pussy afterwards, how’s that sound?”
You’ll do that anyway.
“Fuck you, Dabi.”
He huffs, already having expected that answer. Honestly, it thrills him even more. He enjoys to be mean anyway, in bed and in general.
“Fine. That’s on you, then. Don’t blame me if you have to take a few days off.”
Your greedy cunt— traitor that she is— welcomes his mean thrusts with loud squelches as he sits up, dragging your hips with him and your weak knees plant into the sheets again. He makes sure to still within you each time he bottoms out, moaning and letting pleasure overcome him as he tries to go beyond any limits and bury himself even further into the warmth of your walls. His cock twitches, his piercings barely noticeable with the amount of slick that’s between you and him.
You regain just the right amount of feeling in your fingers to fist them into the sheets, a high shriek erupting from you.
Dabi’s merciless— you’ve known that from the very beginning, from the first time he talked to you because he claimed he was curious about you. You knew back then, too, that he was a crude, cold-blooded villain, one who had no problem with blood on his hands, but somewhere in the very back of your mind curiousity spiked despite yourself, and you found yourself wondering if said villain had a heart big enough to actually feel something.
(And you found out; he could feel, alright.)
He flirted even back then, even when you were supposed to be hero and villain, when there shouldn’t have been any interactions between the two of you except for fighting, for making sure neither would block the others way ever again. And Dabi was quite charming when he truly wanted to be, when he let that lazy smirk curl just right and his voice dip low enough to make you forget what he was.
And you, with your hope long lost in hero society— because recently, all you’d been doing was fighting to save the few people you loved, and hero society had long since collapsed, if it had ever truly existed at all— had seen no real wrong in letting one of the most dangerous villains fuck you from time to time.
With a mean snap of his hips, you’re brought back to the current.
“Stay with me, doll. ‘Boutta fill you up— you want that? W-want me to ruin ya so the next bastard who lays his hands on you only finds me inside of you? Keh—“
He barks out his usual mean laugh, and tears slowly emerge from your eyes. You feel so fucking helpless, so weak and vulnerable and just like he loves it.
And you’re so, so desperate.
You do want him to fill you up. You need it.
His hips stutter as he continues his assault, dick pushing in and out your soft cunt— he thinks it’s beautiful, the way you take him and reject him at the same time. Squirming away like you don’t want his dick to be the only presence up your fucking pussy.
“My sweet little cumdump. Why’re you bein’ so difficult— someone piss you off earlier so now you gotta be a little whore?”
You mewl, shaking your head as you thrust your ass back, earning you his chuckle that easily causes your heart to skip a beat. He pulls out, and you almost, almost thrash out at the loss of contact, but the second his tip pokes at your folds, you calm down, despite it not being inside you like it should be.
He spreads your folds once more, dragging his leaking tip all over your labia before circling your fluttering hole, snickering at the way you’re trying desperately to spread yourself more— to invite him within your snuggly, warm insides.
When his cum is spread perfectly, all over your clit and folds, he goes back to pounding you meanly.
This time, you’re already embarrassingly close, as if your pussy is taking the opportunity to release before he changes his mind and pulls out, edging you for god knows how long.
“Feel ya gettin’ tighter. Gonna cum?”
You nod, because you know it’s always best to answer Dabi.
The consequences if you don’t are something you’re truly not up to deal with today, “Please— D-dabi- w’na cum-!”
He laughs, speeding up his pace until you feel the familiar coil in your abdomen. It heats up similar like the rest of Dabi, and you have a hard time focusing on it when his hands grip into the flesh of your hips and warmth spreads all through your body.
“F-fuck, gonna fill you up s-so good- shit— cum goddamnit— fuckin’ cum-!”
With his demand, you release, thighs and hands and every other part of your body you can practically feel despite the drugs trembles as your pussy gushes all over him, and he buries himself all the way inside of you, grinding in a way to stimulate friction without having to pull out even at the base.
You think it’s cute. Somehow, that he wants to be all inside of you and cuddled into you while unloading his hot, sticky cum and painting your walls white.
He grinds against your ass, riding out his and your orgasm at the same time, though it’s you who gives in first and you feel the hints of your overstimulated pussy begging him to stop.
He doesn’t, though, ‘cause Dabi’s too busy making sure his cum is all the way deep inside of you while his dick is still hard, and he throbs painfully against your velvety walls— to the point, you’re worried he didn’t even soften and he’s up for another round.
Luckily, he does soften eventually, after your cunt milked every bit of him and he’s tired grinding and circling his hips into you to get bits of friction.
He pulls out slightly and you hiss at the emptiness, all the while he dislikes the way his cock feels too bare and lonely without your perfect pussy.
“S-stay- Dabi, inside- please.” You cry, because you physically can’t straddle him and get him riled up to keep his cock inside. You’re still mad at him, for that, for forcing you into a role where you’re only able to beg to get what you want and what you don’t.
Fortunately, and very luckily, Dabi actually listens to you— (and gosh, if you’re not surprised by his tip poking your hole again— he laughs, “Wasn’t that what you wanted, sweetheart?” you quickly nod— “Uh-huh!”)
He pulls out rather quickly again, changing his decision and turning you around so you’re laying on your back. He sheathes himself inside of you just then, his own face coming down to lick and nuzzle into the crook of your neck.
If you didn’t know Dabi, you’d think this was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you.
But you know him, and you know he’s shameless and blunt and sees no deeper meaning in doing this apart from the pleasure he receives one way or another.
Dabi does as he pleases, and never bothers to put a label on any of these things. Not that you mind, he is a villain, and you’re simply here for a good fuck.
Though, you’d be lying if you said the aftercare wasn’t good (which more often than not is just weird, close intimacy where you usually end up cockwarming him or taking a shower together).
Your hand— now finally having fully regained your feelings there— comes to cradle his hair, fingers sinking into his soft black tufts as your other arm embraces him.
You don’t want to know what the two of you look like. Some lovesick fools, probably— him still buried inside of you, grinding faintly against you and sending shocks of pleasure up your body, your hand in his hair as he sucks and nibbles at your neck, his whole weight and— dare you say— affection swallowing you whole.
But you know better by now, that some things should be left alone, that not everything needs a confrontation and a label to keep you somewhat afloat and content.
“Still mad at you, by the way. Don’t drug me again or I promise your dick won’t be able to stand hard for a long time.”
He licks all the way up to your jaw, planting rotten kisses all over you and you feel yourself getting sick with something you don’t want to acknowledge. It’s worse than any nauseating feeling, crushing and yearning and wanting more— but you don’t voice it, even when everything he does makes you feel like a giddy little teenage girl again.
Warm puffs of breath hit your skin as he chuckles, “I’ll hold you to it.”
You wish, somewhere in the heart you claim to be nonchalant and independent, that he’d stay in more ways than just physically inside of you.
He doesnt know when or why he started talking to you about his missions, but other than a misbehaving thug here and there, his life was pretty fucking boring.
He also doesn’t know when your casual hook ups turned into hang outs— but he refuses to address that as much as you refuse to look him in the eye every time he stays.
There’s times you end up cooking for him, telling him about things he‘d personally consider a topic sensitive to most, but you’re not one to back out, he knows that.
“—like I said, I don’t care about any ranks or other heroes, Dabi.”
He scoffs. Everyone cares about their rank— everyone strives to be the best, and you in particular seem to be just that type.
“Bullshit. I don’t tolerate liars, princess.” He rasps, and you know he’s trying to lure you into a trap that ends with him punishing you in bed. His voice is a dead giveaway, and so are the thighs he spreads shamelessly— it doesn’t take you long to realize he’s already half hard, turned on by simply talking— or by imagining the nasty things he wants to do to you.
You sigh, reciting your earlier words because apparently he’s having a hard time hearing (intentionally, you assume), “I never said I don’t want to be strong. I do, but I don’t care about ranks. Or how many villains I’ve caught and left to rot in prison. I care about protecting those close to me—“ the plate in your hands is warm, a freshly made dish that has Dabi’s stomach churning, and you bring it to him, slyly tapping his nose before retreating again, “eat up, I made too much.”
Of course.
You always conveniently make too much.
He doesn’t waste any time digging in, it’s not exactly easy getting food on the streets and he’s pretty fucking tired of eating the same garbage shit. Your cooking’s much better, obviously.
“What about me?”
He’s a messy eater.
You perk up, closing the tap water in order to understand him better.
Much to your surprise, he stands up, long legs allowing him to move quickly and efficiently— and before you know it, he’s behind you, heated hands placed on your hips as his head dips down until his breath hits the back of your neck.
You don’t freeze, in fact— you do the opposite, eagerly leaning into his touch and sighing at the warmth he emits by the second. You can practically feel his smirk etched into his face.
“Do you care about protecting me?”
He clarifies, his chest rumbling against your back and he’s met with reality when you turn around, facing him boldly and tilting your head with a tight grin.
“Do you need protection?”
Slipping under his slender arms, you escape the human cage, only to be met with the sight of a clean plate, realization dawning on you that he’s eaten everything within less than a minute.
Your heart hurts, even if only for a second.
When you look back over your shoulder, Dabi’s still there, grinning at you like you’re not riding an emotional roller coaster— like you’re not struggling and trying to find out what it is you feel about this man. He’s not a kid. He’s not weak— emotionally or physically— but for some reason..
“I care.” You hum, “I care. I’d protect you.”
And just like that, his grin slips off his face and you’re met with silence you know all too well. You don’t dwell on it though, letting Dabi do as he pleases— he reminds you of a stray cat, more often than not, coming and leaving whenever he wants to.
Except this time it’s not him fleeing your apartment.
It’s you.
The next time Dabi spots you, he’s met with a clustering pang to his heart instead of the usual excitement, and his jaw clicks as he drags his tongue over the metal stapled into his skin, because he fucking hates that he even has a reaction like that in the first place.
You’re outside, wearing your torn hero costume, and there’s a rip that exposes just about too much collarbone and your cleavage. And it doesn’t look pretty given the blood and the dirt covering your skin, smeared across you and he thinks it should make you look ruined and ugly— but somehow it just makes you look more tempting and vulnerable and his, and it’s enough to have any man keeling over for you and Dabi‘s very well aware of that.
But it’s not the injury that’s causing his emotions to feel all weird and wired up, it’s the fact that there’s another fucking male next to you, walking just a little too close, and Dabi thinks that alone is a valid reason to kill him. His eyes are glued to your chest, practically eye fucking you without even trying to hide it.
You don’t seem too bothered, probably too idiotically innocent to realize your hero friend might not be too much of a hero himself, too wrapped up in your own bleeding knuckles and the praise he’s feeding you to notice the way his gaze burns into you.
Dabi wants to burn him.
He wants to watch him scream and curl in on himself and beg, wants to see that stupid wannabe pro hero facade melt right off his face until there’s nothing left but the smell of cooked flesh.
Dabi wants to burn you, too, just to teach you a lesson about standing around like that, just to see how you’d look under his flames, writhing and gasping and still looking at him like he’s the only one you’d ever follow, but that’s something he still debates on doing for reasons he refuses to voice.
He shifts uncomfortably, and before he can think too hard about why the sight of you like that makes him feel like he’s choking, he flicks his hand and sends a sharp burst of blue fire slamming into a dumpster at the end of the street.
You both turn, startled, and Dabi doesn’t miss the way the hero beside you immediately stiffens and reaches for you like he’s going to play the protector.
The fire spreads just enough, and Dabi steps back deeper into the alley’s darkness, letting the smoke draw you in like moths, because he knows you’ll follow his flames and he knows that idiot won’t let you go alone.
Sure enough, you rush towards the alley to assess the problem, dragging your little hero friend with you, and the moment you step past the veil of smoke he lets the flames die down— and then, he steps out.
“Well isn’t that cute. A little duo.“ Dabi drawls, eyes raking over you first before sliding lazily to the guy at your side, “You two here to fight me?”
The wannabe’s bravado cracks almost instantly, because everyone knows who Dabi is, everyone knows what he’s done, and the guy wonders just why he followed the blue flames without even thinking who they might’ve belonged to.
A sound escapes your throat that’s more akin to a hurt animal, and you almost seem irritated by the whole thing (good. Dabi hopes he ruined your little date or whatever that was), “No—“
Dabi tilts his head, flames flickering in his palm, and the light kisses your exposed skin. He smirks when he sees the other man flinch (and feels weirdly proud when you don’t).
“I’ll burn you both to ash right here,” he begins, and watches as you roll your eyes because you already know what he wants, “so unless you want to watch her scream while her pretty skin melts off, I suggest you run.”
It’s not even a real threat to you and you both know it, because even as he says it he’s angling his body just slightly so the flames are closer to the other man, but the hero doesn’t catch that, too busy swallowing hard and backing up like the coward he is.
“Y-you’re D- you’re Dabi—,” the guy chokes, already stepping away.
Dabi wants to kill him just for being this pathetic, truly, it’s embarrassing to be here on his behalf, “You- you- you— better fucking leave now or I’ll burn your limbs one after the other.”
As much as Dabi truly wants to kill that guy, he doesn’t need some fucking department tailing after him for that, much less the attention he’d bring now if he’d do so. He doubts the degenerate would be quiet while he made it hurt.
It doesn’t take much more than that for the wannabe to bolt.
His gaze slides back to you, and he clicks his tongue in a disapproving manner.
“Got real friendly with that hero back there,” he speaks as he wanders to you, fingers hooking into the torn edge of your costume, tugging it and it’s enough to remind you how exposed you are, how easy it would be for him to ruin you further, “lettin’ him stare at you like that.”
It isn’t a question, and he doesn’t wait for an answer anyway, because Dabi’s never needed permission from you before— he’s never been gentle or soft or anything like that, and seeing how he’s not scared you off yet, he can only assume you must be just as a sick as he is.
His thumb drags over your collarbone where it lays exposed, smearing a streak of soot across your skin, causing you to cringe at the mess that’s covering your body.
“Can’t have you forgettin’ who you crawl back to,” he murmurs, and before you can roll your eyes or snap something smart back at him, he’s stuffing his dirty fingers into your mouth, twirling your tongue between his thumb and pointer, watching as you shriek in surprise. He snorts, “Dirty girl. Forgot whose cumdump you are?”
The sounds of your gagging is enough for him to pull his fingers out and replace them with his mouth, teeth clashing as his tongue darts out to poison you with his intoxicating presence. His fingers grope harshly all over your body as you mewl and hold into him, enjoying this far more than you should.
He pulls back only when he’s satisfied, eyes hooded and filled with pride.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, though it’s unclear whether he’s talking about you, the degenerate hero, or himself.
And then, he finally does shrug off his coat, but instead of immediately handing it to you, he drapes it over your shoulders slowly.
It’s obvious when you regain yourself, shock melting away as you flash a toothy grin, “What was that all about?”
It’s only then Dabi finds himself in a situation where he can’t possibly think.
What was it about?
“You jealous, Dabi?”
Jealous?
Jealous?
Of fucking course he’s not jealous.
He’s got no reason to be, not when that idiot punk couldn’t even lay a hand on you, not when Dabi’s done that a hundred times before and plans to do it a hundred times more, not when he knows exactly how you sound and how you look when you’re under him instead of standing there smirking like this.
“I don’t get jealous, doll.”
It’s simple— he’s fucked you, kissed you, spent days rotting in your apartment and eating your food— you’ve let him cum in you— him.
You’re his. Just like that.
While he’s already marked you up more than once, while you’ve already got his bite marks fading into yellow and purple beneath your hero costume, while you’ve already carried his seed and fragments and god fucking knows what else inside you without complaint, it’s safe to say that you belong to him and he doesn’t want someone else’s spunk anywhere near you.
You’re his to ruin.
His to hurt and his to poke at whenever he feels like it.
“Then why’d you scare him off? He was supposed to help me to the agency.”
Dabi scoffs. You don’t need any fucking help. And if you do, then you certainly can take care of your own ass. He’s seen you in worse positions and you’ve crawled out of them just fine.
“He assisted me on my mission.”
No the fuck he didn’t. If he had done that, you wouldn’t look like someone let their wolves loose on you.
“He did a really good job back there—“
Again, no he fucking didn’t. And why are you praising him so much? What are you doing?
Are you trying to rile him up on purpose?
“You’re right. We could be a good duo.”
And something in Dabi snaps so fast it makes his vision blur at the edges, because he knows you’re playing with him, knows you’re poking at the ugliest parts of him just to see how he’ll react, and he hates that it works.
What could he do, though? You’re a manipulative little shit and somehow always two steps ahead, and for a split second he genuinely thinks you’ve put some kind of curse on him, wiggled your fingers and shwoops—! suddenly he’s moving before he can stop himself.
His fingers dig into the soft skin of your arms, his stance almost trembling with wide eyes that makes him look like a feral animal. His mouth is twitching, the sharp of his teeth revealing under all the fury.
“You’re mine,” he spits, and it’s enough to make you take him seriously, “only mine, got it? Get that through your thick fucking skull.”
He remembers that day perfectly. It plays in his head over and over again, when he’s sleeping, eating, or doing fuck knows what, looping over and over against his will.
He remembers just how humiliated and— dare he say— vulnerable he felt when you’d spoken, much less frustrated than he’d expected you to be, much less angry than he’d prepared himself for after basically snarling ownership at you.
You laughed at him. And he really wanted to set you on fire right then and there, wanted to watch the alley light up just to drown out the sound, all the while knowing he would rather burn himself a hundred times over than never hear you laugh like that again.
You’d been amused, head tilted slightly— the stance that always makes him just a tiny bit weak for you, and you told him that yes, he’s right, and if that’s how he sees it then fine— you’re his.
You weren’t mocking him, (though, he wished you were. It would make being mad at you easier), and you weren’t acting like a clingy, lovesick idiot either, (fuck, if you were, he’s pretty sure it would’ve made him recoil right away). You seemed entertained, almost like he was a kid and you were indulging into his childish fantasies.
“If I’m yours,” you’d spoke, calm in his hold, “then act like it properly, Dabi.”
You looked too much in control, and it pissed Dabi off to no end.
He remembers the way his throat went dry, how for a split second he genuinely didn’t know what to do with himself.
He’d left after that, because that’s all Dabi knows how to do.
He’s no longer Dabi. He’s Touya now and everyone knows it.
It doesn’t feel good, this tightness under his ribs, this awareness that you’ve seen the worst of him broadcasted to the entire country, and Touya— Dabi either avoids or destroys the things that nearly bother him.
He’s thought about the latter a few times. He’s thought about killing you— because all you are is just a measly hookup he prioritized a bit too much, especially on the days he was assigned to a mission, and once, Compress even ended up having to fight some thugs himself while Dabi fucked the shit out of you in your apartment, not even bothering to answer his comm, and he doesn’t regret it, even if Shigaraki swears he’ll dust his ass one day for it.
He’s tried it, too. The killing.
While you slept beneath him, warm and pliant and trusting (and shit, it made something sour twist in his gut), he’d let his mind wander to darker places, imagining what it would be like to press you down harder, to let his weight crush the air from your lungs, to listen to your choking breaths and broken little cries as you realized too late who you’d let into your bed.
A dead man.
But every time the fantasy shifted wrong.
All he could find pleasure in was imagining you suffocating in him. Just him. Not his weight or hands or whatever would actually bring you pain, just you clinging and gasping because you couldn’t get enough of him, because he was too much and you still wanted more.
It ruined the whole thing.
He blamed his dislike for the idea of your death because it just seemed too pathetic. That suffocating to death was not nearly as painful and exciting as he had died.
You, and he’ll admit as much, deserve enough respect to die in a battle, not naked and tangled in sheets with him hovering over you like some common creep.
That’s just about how he finds himself standing outside of your apartment, hands nestled into his pockets with not a care in the world.
The lock to your door gives in easily, as it’s always done, and Dabi wonders if it’s because all the times he’s snuck into your privacy. It’s ridiculous, all the damn pay you get and you still choose to live in an apartment with lousy neighbors.
The scent that lingers in your apartment— your scent— fills his sense immediately, and the nervousity subdues almost instantly.
It’s late— and just like the thousand other times Dabi’s found you, he finds you in the kitchen, leaned over the counter, scrolling mindlessly on your phone.
And just like always, there’s a half full glass of wine, hinting that you’ve been drinking once again.
The scenery looks like one from a movie as you look over your shoulder, spotting him closing your door abruptly.
“Miss me?” He drawls, stalking towards you. You turn around fully, hands supporting your weight by the counters as you face him.
His hair is white now.
“Dabi,” you say, even though you know that’s not his name.
His eye twitches.
“It’s Touya.” He corrects you, pathetically eager to hear his name in your tongue, “You call me Touya.”
He crowds your space, heat radiating and making you lean into him almost immediately.
He finds it fascinating, that with each time— no matter what he does— you’ll always lean into his warmth. His fingers hook into your waistband as he urges you to say his name.
It comes off easy on your tongue, though you still tense slightly and he feels it, “Touya.”
You try, really, to soften in his grasp, to stay relaxed and purr into him like the cat he wants you to be. You want to, but it’s hard and you barely even know why. He feels like a whole new person.
“Hm?” He hums, tilting his head down at you, tone almost mocking, “nervous now that you know my name?”
He can tell you’re trying to be a comforting presence but you’re failing miserably, and he soothes his thumb along your hip as he snorts, “Or are you trying to see if I’ll go easy on you?”
“Maybe.” You mutter, your hands trailing to cradle his white hair.
But he laughs cruelly, leaning down until his mouth is just shy of your ear, “Too bad, sweetheart.” His tongue travels up the shell of your ear, and you shiver at the ticklish feeling, “I was never planning to.”
Your hands end up around his neck, his hungry mouth assaulting your neck.
And despite his burns, and the fact that he can’t feel anything on them, you leave a trail of kisses along his neck.
“You watch the broadcast?” He asks, and you nod, “Whole thing. Do you.. want to talk about it?”
Gosh.
He does.
He really does.
But he’s not here to tell you about his sob story, he’s not here to hear you validating him and lovingly cradling his head as you always do, he’s not here to feel the comforting sound of your voice.
He’s here to take you, to ruin you to his liking.
He wants to hurt you. So badly. He wants to squeeze you until you moan in pain and beg him to stop, wants to fuck you until you’re crying and speaking of him like he’s the only person to have ever existed.
“No.” He scoffs, thumb dragging under the hem of your shirt, “can’t believe you’re still letting me fuck you after that.”
“Well, you’re lucky I’ve got a high libido, then.”
It’s meant to be a joke, but Dabi— Touya growls nonetheless, roughly lifting you to set you on the counter. He pulls your pajama pants down in a swift motion, your panties following, his body slotting between your thighs as his fingers harshly assault your clit. You shiver, moaning his name.
He freezes, blue eyes locking into yours.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, finger dragging down in between your folds and circling your hole, “C’mon. Use it.”
You oblige, “Touya.”
A shudder runs through his body at the mention of his name, and there’s an obvious sign that he won’t be able to wait anymore as he pulls away, tugging his pants low enough until his cock springs out, muttering under his breath just what a good girl you are.
It’s your turn to freeze, and you gasp as you realize what’s wrong.
You’re not prepped enough to take him like this, and while you’ve had tons of times where Touya— no, Dabi fucked you like a cockdesprate slut, or mainly just for his pleasure, he’s never done anything without properly prepping you. After you’d voiced your displeasure about his pierced cock hurting too much without enough arousal to lessen the friction, he’s always made sure to make you cum once or twice before taking you. Not that it takes long with his skilled fingers and tongue— and even the thigh you ride from time to time— hell, as far as you can tell, he even enjoys having you writhing beneath him like that.
“Wait, wait Dabi!”
“Hush. You’ll take it, won’t you?”
Pre-cum is leaking from his tip and you can tell he’s been horny for a long time, unlike you, who hadn’t even expected his visit. He’d been off and gone for a few weeks, and you truly, truly didn’t expect him to visit you a few hours after he’d revealed his identity to the entire world, and amongst all of that, almost massacred his own family.
He spreads his cum over his dick, pumping it a few times to reach a thin sheet of gloss all over his length, and eventually (much to your relief) he even spreads you one more time, wetness coating your folds and your hole as he assesses whether you’re wet enough or not.
It’s truly not all up to his liking, and if it weren’t for the animalistic urge to fuck you almost immediately, he’d spend a few more rounds getting you all wet and bothered.
You whine and there’s not much of a warning when he spreads your legs, sinking his cock into you without much resistance. His piercings graze your walls— a mix of pain and pleasure ringing through your body, but all of it gets overtaken when Touya leans down to lovingly kiss your cheek.
It confuses you. So much.
You don’t know what this man wants. You don’t know what he earns and what his motives are now— why he seems to be in such a rush to fuck you desperately and lovingly through the whole night.
Nevertheless, you’re grateful for the kind gesture, even if the un-kinder gesture is almost ripping you open.
“I told you to call me Touya,” he mumbles, having at least the decency of letting you adjust to his size and girth. You moan, hands gripping into his biceps for some kind of anchor, sighing, “Ah, Touya…”
It makes him calmer, you notice, the sound of your sweet voice calling out his name, his birth name, the one he resented and dropped when he realized he’d been forged into a monster.
It’s still beyond him, that you, sweet girl, are willing to get fucked by someone like him, a man made of patchwork skin and burnt bits.
He works diligently into you, his dick raw against your walls, metal sitting uncomfortably inside of you with the lack of foreplay. He hisses when he bottoms out, and you trap him between your thighs, clenching them as hard as you can around him. It hurts.
But you try so hard to be good for him. You want to. You want to hear his praise and make him feel good as he buries himself inside of you. You want to be the shelter he seeks, even if you’re not the shelter he’ll keep— because Touya— (or Dabi, as you’ve known him) doesn’t settle.
Amongst the pleasure and pain and the ache in your heart from his soft kisses along your neck, you feel an unfamiliar dread brewing in your abdomen.
Having had this much fun with Dabi over the past few months, you’ve forgotten what a bad gut feeling felt like.
That’s why, even as he pounds into you and the pain fades until you’re moaning for him to give you more, more, more! you’re trying hard to keep the nauseating feeling from rising any further.
it’s horrible, the way it sets in your body and waits to come out in overflowing words, building up and up until you’re spewing disgusting shit that’ll guarantee Dabi leaving you right here and now.
Please, don’t leave me.
Stay. Please, Touya.
Instead, you spread yourself even more, giving him more access because you can tell the way you’re clenching your thighs is slowing his movements and he’s already aggravated as it is.
His brows are furrowed and you’re tempted to soothe the folds out with your thumb, just to remind him that you’re here, that you’re not leaving.
In the end, you settle against it, because he’s mouthing harshly at you now, his fingers digging into your hips and thighs until you’re sure you’ll bruise by the end of this. He’s fucking you with such furiousity that you know he’s fucking you not for your pleasure but for something far deeper.
It’s not even about his pleasure, either. You’re sure, because in that case, he’d bend you over and lube you up with his cum or yours until you’re overstimulated, and only then would he give you his dick.
He loves making messes. Loves when both of you are thrashed and disgusting with cum.
“My girl. You’re my girl, fuck— right? Tell me, baby. C’mon use your mouth— shit!”
You don’t know what it is he wants you to sate, you have no clue, because Dabi’s not one for possessiveness over his sluts, and nor did he ever need any kind of affirmation of love during sex, but you can’t exactly debate whether to obey him or not when he’s growling and dragging his finger down your slit, rimming dangerously around the hole he’s stretching so good.
The threat is clear, and you’re very sure you wouldn’t be able to take a fucking finger while he’s got you dumb on his cock already, you panic instantly, whimpering out his name.
“Yours, Touya! I’m yours!”
“Promise me. Go ahead and promise me— you’re my cocksleeve, my cumdump, no one gets to touch this cunt ‘xcept for me!”
The pleasures building up within you, and it’s turning you into the usual cockdrunk bitch as always, the words not quite slipping past your lips. The most you can do is form coherent thoughts when his dick throbs intensively, his tip nudging the same spongy spot over and over again, and his piercings applying pressures all over you.
But he makes sure to remind you with the threatening finger near your hole, slipping the first few bits and it has you crying out, thrashing with your hands as you hit him weakly.
“Touya! Touya— ahh, I promise Touya! I promise!! ‘m yours! All yours!”
Even as the finger leaves your abused hole, and even as he keeps pounding you with his painfully hard cock, you find yourself still sobbing like a mess, tapping more than hitting his biceps as you try to squirm away from his assaulting dick.
When he realizes his strokes aren’t quite as deep as they used to go, he becomes aware of the way you’re attempting to get him off, being petty as you are, and he lets out a sound akin to a growl as he uses an ounce of strength by grasping your thighs and pulling your pelvis’ together until he’s flush against you and your jaw drops at the feeling.
To reassure you won’t pull this bullshit again (and to make this all a bit more pleasurable), he places one large hand on your ass, the other under your thigh as he picks you up.
He drags you all the way to your room, and you can’t help but clench around him with the way his cock sits still inside of you, throbbing, and he winces before grinding you against him.
It’s a pleasure you’ve never felt before. A ticklish kind of feeling, small bits of joy tingling all over you as the familiar warm bubble builds up in your abdomen.
He’s gentle as he sets you on the soft sheets, but rough when he lifts your thighs until you’re folded in half and he’s roughing you up. His heavy balls smack against your rear, a loud slapping noise joining the ongoing squelching and moaning.
His pace increased, and soon he’s panting with the way he’s fucking into you. You’re bucking your hips up desperately, trying to meet him halfway even if you do it every two strokes because you simply don’t have that much fight in you.
He fucks like a man starved, and it’s not long until the throbbing and the heat of his dick intensifies and you’re screaming his name. “Fuck baby, can feel ya cumming, sweet girl. G-go ahead- make a mess-!”
And as if to make matters worse (better), he presses his large, warm hand down on your abdomen, where he can feel his own cock impaling you by the second, and you scream.
The pressure from getting pounded and your abdomen clutched tight is too much, and you cum with a harsh shudder of your body, Touya following a second after.
He doesn’t slow, though, he always makes sure to stuff you full of his cum and man sure it’s deep and engraved within you, even as his flaccid cock barely has any fight left.
He pulls out when you start twitching a bit too much, trying to regain his own breath while prodding at your pussy.
He loves the sight. Loves it so much, he goes all the way down on his stomach, soft dick comfortably against the softness of your mattress (and very much soaking your sheets), and he uses his tongue to scoop whatever’s escaped back into your hole.
It’s nasty, and it makes you whine as you tug on his hair and shove your cunt into his face.
And as always, it’s not long until Touya hardens, not with the way his cum is leaking out of you, the way you’re soft and swollen and fuck— it’s almost like your pussy is begging for him to fuck you again— and who is he to deny you? He’s been grinding his dick against your mattress, speeding up the process of getting all hard again.
He clicks his tongue when he catches your tears, wondering just why it is you’re sobbing.
(And he knows. Fuck, he knows. He knows you’re hurting and holding back, and it’s not because the sex was a tad more painful than usual. You’re a smart thing, after all.)
“Hey,” he calls out, tapping your hip to catch your attention. He does, his own heart clenching when you tilt your head to look at him with those sad, sad eyes.
“Ride me, baby. Let me make you forget.”
Forget that this is the last time.
You both know it, but none of you speaks up on it. Instead, he lifts your body until he can sprawl across the bed with you hovering over his dick.
You’re overstimulated, and you almost beg him to wait, but Touya’s brain barely catches the fact that you look more panicked than aroused. He sinks into you slowly, a shrill cry escaping your lips. He fully sheathes himself inside you, the room filled with your foul sounds.
There’s so much cum.
So much, trailing out of your hole and wetting him, too. So much, that it has its own sound as you shakily raise your hips and attempt to bounce on him.
So much, but not enough.
Touya wants you overflowing with his cum. He’s not leaving until you’ve milked every drop of him and he’s milked every of yours. He wants to ruin you in ways that’ll remain permanent, that’ll carry his scent and soul and everything you can possibly think of.
And so, he makes you bounce on his dick until you’re out of it and he’s forced to pound his shit up to you, all while guiding your hips to take his length.
He fills you like this, too, and after lightly tapping your cheek and waking you up from your haze (“Not done with ya, princess. Wake up.”), he takes you in countless other positions.
You don’t truly know how long he’s been at this, but by the striking pain in your cunt and the non-stopping shudder of your body, you can only assume it’s been hours.
Hours of him fucking you, filling you, you passing out every two to three orgasms, and him waking you to repeat the cycle.
And each time, he tells you that you can take more. That you will take more.
(Though, your body’s numb and so is your mind.)
By the time he’s done with you, his dick has long passed any limits within your cave. He’s panting, and so are you, your recent orgasm having felt more like a force of pleasure you tried to hold down. When you look into Touya’s eyes, you see he’s already looking at you with an unusual grin.
No, not a grin.
It’s a smile. He’s smiling at you, even if it looks strained and inhumane with the way the corners of his mouth split just slightly, and if it weren’t for your body being literally shut down, you would’ve soothed your fingers down his lips.
His smile turns into a toothy grin when he thrusts his flaccid cock into you, more of a nudge than anything you could consider pleasurable, and you cry out. “T-Touya-.. no- no more..”
“Relax, crybaby. Look.”
You follow the line of his gaze, landing straight to where the two of you remain connected.
There’s so much slick and cum all over the two of you, you could consider bathing in it.
But that’s not what he wants you to look at when he slightly pulls out only to bury himself inside again and suddenly—
Fuck.
Your eyes widen as you sputter— a clear outline of his dick right in your abdomen. And you wish you could control your body— but it acts upon its own when your cunt clenches down on him at the sight and you whine loudly.
You’re not quite sure, but you think you came alone from this.
He laughs, rubbing and grinding his pelvis for a bit of friction.
“You cum from this, doll?”
Dignity is something you’ve lost along the way. You nod, using your last bits of strength to wrap your arms around his neck.
He leans down to you, chest to chest, settling on top of you and weighing you down.
You sigh, the feeling comforting after hours of rough fucking and claiming. He lazily grinds into you, and you think, if that’s how he wants to put an end to this, then you’re not against it.
The slightest spread of your legs gives him more access, and he takes it as he breaths heavily against your neck, kissing and biting with pants that get heavier on each thrust.
It’s your lips he goes for when he empties himself inside of you, rubbing out his orgasm before finally, finally going limp.
You don’t question the drops of liquid that slide down his face and into the hollow of your neck, and nor do you particularly care about the dark red stain they leave behind.
Instead, you linger on the last words you heard before the world went black beneath you.
“Watch me when I’m out there, doll. Let me show you just who you let into your life.”
You wanted to, gosh, you wanted to correct him. The words scraped the back of your throat. Maybe somewhere in the haze of your dreams, you whispered them, a soft, trembling sound he couldn’t catch. Maybe he didn’t hear them at all. Or maybe he did, and it didn’t matter.
You wish you could’ve corrected him, that he not only carved himself into your life, but into your heart, too.
And the same heart he destroys when you wake alone, the only thing left from him are the cum stains all over your body.
a/n: this was supposed to be like 3k words. I got lost somewhere along the way.
I got a few dabi fic requests and I started one and I’m like 6k words in and I feel like the plots ASS and I don’t even know how to continue but I’m in love with the plot but I have this very annoying habit of building each character deeply within the story which puts me in a state where I write TOO many words and I’m trying to write LESS but it’s impossible because I want to voice out each fucking emotion of every character help me I’m losing it
Omg, I relate so much to that feeling. Like we study so hard n all, then get the worst grade, its like in the next text u dont get the motivation AT ALL. Cuz its like whats the use if u gon fail anyway kinda feeling. And expectations from others are even worse, im feeling shitty rn and they be trying to comfort me but I can see the disappointment in them(im talking abt parents). Ughhh, I hate that so much, and then u ask why I hide marks. Like they think its only cuz of hiding from scolding but its actually from their disappointment, my fragile heart cant handle that much, im a crybaby and I hate it.
But in a recent Science test I did good tho I studied for one day, I think the tips is that start with the hardest ones first but not detailly, study like whats most important by seeing the previous years questions and then at last see the easiest chaps. If u studying one page do that thoroughly, im not telling detail cuz that wastes a lot of time, if u wanted to do that kinda detail u should have started weeks back not day before, so more like just the important stuffs in it memorize like the names n units or n what its for like that, dont half ass, and make sticky notes to like remember stuff for next time. Dont study too hard, like that just makes u go mental, try the pomodoro sessions. And thats it.
YOU GET IT DUDE😭😭 the disappointment of getting a bad grade after wasting so much TIME on studying.. like I could’ve done sm more during that, and don’t even get me started on the whole disappointment thing.
Thank you for your advice, though, I’ll definitely try it. Have a test in 2 weeks and it’s my first one this semester, if I get at least this right for once I might get my motivation up again.. besides winters fading and so is my winter depression 🙂↕️ I believe in u anon, u can do it🩷 academic comeback for the both of us
Im failing school (not rlly but it’s the worst I’ve ever been) does anyone have tips I genuinely been learning so hard all week and still got the worst grade. help pls I’m crying
Tired Touya will find a way to fuck you— even if his dick isn’t filling you to the brim!
Touya is as shameless as he can get.
He’s got no problem coming home, plopping down on the bed with his head on your lap and his face conveniently facing your crotch. He grins like an idiot as you gasp, putting your phone to the side to properly look at him.
There he is, his perfect white hair and his ragged scars that feel familiarly comforting to your bare skin, given your pajamas shorts. He’s fully clothed, so you know it must’ve been a hard day, because in any other circumstances he would’ve wasted no time getting naked to lay next to you.
He must be exhausted, with the way his eyes are droopy and he’s groaning as your hands work in his hair.
Though, apparently he’s got enough energy to nuzzle his face into your crotch, sniffing and causing you to pull him by his hair.
“Touya!” You squeak as you attempt to crawl away from him. He brushes you off, tugging you back by his hold on your thighs as he sighs in relief against you.
“Y’know you’re the highlight of my day, right, sweetheart?” The rasp of his voice coaxes you to relax, because lord does he sound sexy.
You nod, and he grins smugly, scooting up so he can settle his face into the crook of your neck. His breath hits your skin in warm puffs as your arms embrace his neck, his rough tongue licking a stripe along your sensitive skin. He goes all the way up to your jaw, until his lips ghost over your ear and the sound of his breath is blocking every other noise in the room. He licks his lips, teeth nibbling on your lobe.
“So do me a favor and stop complaining, ‘kay?”
You barely have the time to process his words before you feel the hard bulge of his cock dragging against your clothed cunt, the ridge of his jeans pushing up against your clit. You jerk up, the stimulation unfamiliar but not unwelcoming.
“Touya!” You call out again, burying your face into his neck, nails digging into his coat. His scent hits you hard, a mix of bonfire and smoke, and you drown yourself in the comfort of it.
He cackles, “Calm down, crybaby. Never humped a dick before?“
The question goes unanswered as he drags his boner over your pelvis, causing you to mewl out and buck your hips in return. He cooes, pleased by your reaction, “Feels great, doesn’t it? Go on, pretty, a-ah- mhmm, fuck—!”
Grunting, he continues grinding down on you, his heavy weight keeping you from crawling away. He’s sucking hickeys into your skin, all the while rutting into you like a horny teenager. You can’t help but laugh at the thought, given Touya’s most favourite thing to do is bury his cock deep within you—
Hell, he’s a sadistic freak, even. More often than not, he makes you bounce on his dick until you can’t anymore— he’ll keep it in, for the night or so, because that’s what he likes, having you cockwarming him until your holes carved in the shape of his fucking dick.
Sex with him always ends up messy. Cum, sweat and spit is something you’ve grown accustomed to. So having this, him rutting into you dryly all while overstimulating your untouched bud, is new to you.
You can’t say you hate it.
Not really, and he knows that too, by the frantic way you chase to feel his bulge piston into your cunt.
He grinds against you until he needs to take a break from marking you, panting instead as he licks into your mouth. You moan loudly, spreading your legs farther as you feel your panties drenching with arousal.
He’s painfully hard against you, and if it weren’t for his two full layers of clothing, he’d be slipping right in between your folds, and you clench at the thought of his tip nudging your hole.
“Touya- Tou’ please need you- need you inside!” You cry, but it has no use. If Touya has set his mind into something, then he won’t let go of it. He cackles at your pathetic words, “Keep begging, see if that’ll g-get you somewhere- ah- shit mhh-“
He humps into you quickly, your whole body moving with each thrust, the bed frame creaking as usual. Tears of frustration collect on the verge of your eyes as you thrust up to him, your wetness seeping through your clothes.
He growls, needing more, way more of you—
His hands grasp into your thighs harshly, and you yelp as he shoves them apart so he can fully fit between you. With his hands beneath your knees, he wastes no time rolling his hips into you, grunting and panting as his cockhead nudges into your warm cunt. Your own clit twitches, neglected, and you whine in frustration.
He huffs, changing his movement so his clothed, painfully hard cock grinds all over you, stimulating your clit. You become putty in his presence, and he knows he’s got you exactly where he wants you.
You mewl, positive your arousal has stained his jeans by now, but he doesn’t care as he continues pumping into you like he’s actually fucking you.
It’s pathetic, but you feel the way your abdomen warms and you’re close, oh so close—
“You like t-that, don’t ya? Fuck— my p-pretty baby loves to get dry fucked like this, right? Mh- go ahead and cum, cum in your pants doll. Fuckin’ cum already!”
With a few more hard rolls of his hips, he stutters, reaching his peak and groaning loudly as he creams his pants shamelessly.
The mere thought, much more the feeling of his thick white cum staining his jeans is enough to push you over the edge, and you release with a scream of his name. He doesn’t stop until you’re squirming away from the ridge of his jeans overstimulating your wet cunt.
He collapses on top of you, face back in your neck as he pants.
It’s foolish of you to think he’s tired enough to fall asleep, to think this alone was enough for him—
Just a minute after, his fingers creep into your waistband, and he shines his pearly whites at you,
i just wanna say i love how u write touya. only a certain amount of people can write him as perfectly as u do and it’s just MWAH.
STOP😭 IM SO GLAD YOU LIKE IT!! I try hard to keep him accurate, even include a lot of red flags he’d have, it’s how he should be portrayed 🫡 THANK YOU, SMOOCHES
summary: your boyfriends a fucking maniac, insanely dangerous and reckless— but god, you can’t help yourself, and neither can he.
warning/s: angst, fluff, non sexual nudity, intimacy, ALOT OF INTIMACY, in like, everything, bathing together, arguments, dabis an asshole but so is reader, dadzawa, emotional dabi (eventually), happy ending, oh boy, readers a hero, obsessive behavior, references to depression, stalking,
words: ~13k
notes: !requested! the starts a bit rough, I promise it gets better at the end :(
“But lately, his thoughts haven’t been about Endeavour at all. They’ve been about you. About the future. About what he’s actually chasing. He’s not sure if simple revenge will be enough to fill the rest of his miserable, probably short life. Which is strange, because revenge has been his only motivation ever since he crawled back from the dead. Lately, Dabi’s been having dreams. Dreams where he wakes up beside you again— but this time, neither of you is in danger. In those dreams, he isn’t a villain.”
It feels like the perfect summer, the kind you only ever see in teenage movies. He’s like a summer fling— one that lasts far too long. All the fooling around, the kind you know is going to get you in trouble.
But you just don’t know when to stop, do you?
He is bad. That much is obvious. Raven-black hair, scarred skin held together with staples. His face is decorated with piercings— ears, nose, chin. Yet it’s not his appearance that scares you most. It’s his spite. His anger. The way it simmers deep within and threatens to break out every time something remotely triggers him.
Dabi is an enigma. You’ve known him for a long time, perhaps too long. Long enough that the change in your relationship felt inevitable. Like it had been waiting to happen. Being ‘just friends’ would’ve never worked out. Not with you standing between his legs, gloves on, helping him dye his hair black.
White roots peek through messily, and you can’t help but imagine how he’d look if he actually let it grow out. He never does. And you never ask why.
It’s a mess, dyeing his hair. The smell is awful, sharp and chemical, and it makes your nose scrunch up immediately. You’ve already told him twice that he’s sleeping on the couch tonight. That no, you are not dealing with this smell all night.
But as always, you’re just met with a shit eating smirk, one that says that he knows you’re bluffing.
(You both know sleeping separately won’t happen. He’ll sneak into the bed eventually— or you’ll wake up halfway through the night curled up on top of him on the couch.)
His hands rest on your hips, warm and grounding, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you that he’s not fully grown soft. “Why do you even need me to do this?” you complain, “You know I h-hate—” The smell hits harder, and you sneeze into your elbow.
His hands tighten as he snickers. “—hate the smell of this stuff!”
“Aw, c’mon,” he drawls, “you’re doin’ great.”
You shoot him a glare he can’t see, given he’s too focused on his hands groping and poking into you. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Obviously.” He purrs, “Love havin’ you this close.”
Dabi is cheeky. An asshole. And nothing like the boy he once was— the scared, trembling thing you met all that time ago. Now he’s got that charm that can woo your heart and make you cling to him like a lost puppy.
“Love when you take care of me like this, doll.”
There it is. His words that can make your heart stutter and your resolve melt on the spot.
You squirm, biting back a smile as you get back to work. His hair is split neatly, the brush fully coated in black dye, your gloved fingertips stained dark. One hand stays close to his forehead, careful not to let anything drip into his eyes.
“You mess this up,” he murmurs lazily, “and I’m never lettin’ you live it down.”
You huff. “Hold still.”
“Bossy,” he murmurs, but listens nevertheless.
If it weren’t for the mess, you’d lean down and kiss him. Instead, you settle for leaning further into his hands, letting yourself sink into the warmth he offers so easily.
Softly, carefully, something Dabi had to learn from you, he presses a kiss just above your navel.
You squeak, body jolting. “Stop—! That tickles!”
Of course, he doesn’t. He chuckles lowly. “Cute.”
You pout, tightening your grip on his hair, subconsciously causing his grin to widen.“Unless you think me dyeing your forehead black is cute, I suggest you stop.”
To your surprise, he actually stills. Lets you hold him there. His fingers trail slowly over your skin, down to your waistband, hooking there like he belongs.
Silence settles comfortably. You hum quietly as you focus.
When you finally step back, it’s done. The white strands are gone, swallowed by black once more.
He looks the same. And somehow, entirely different.
You wish you could know more about him. His story. Who he truly is beneath the smoke and heat and stitched skin. But you know better than to ask.
You’re fine, you tell yourself. You’re more than fine. You’ve built something together, something you never thought was possible. You stick together, glued by the hip. He makes your heart warm, makes you feel like a silly schoolgirl crushing on the popular boy— giddy and stupid and far too hopeful.
He’s sketchy. That much hasn’t changed.
You’ve watched him shift over time. Grow sharper and louder and bolder. The spite simmering inside him was always there, even back when he was quiet and awkward, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. Now he leaves without much warning, going places he tells you are none of your concern. He’s not angry when he tells you off, just secretive.
“Just keepin’ my baby safe,” he says, brushing it off like it’s nothing.
He tells you he loves you. Says he loves his life. That he’s happy the way things are.
You believe him. Or maybe you just want to.
But the summer keeps getting hotter, thicker, and you know, deep down, you’ll suffocate by the time it ends.
He’s always warm. Unnaturally so. It’s a curse during the summer. Sleeping without holding each other is out of the question. One of you always ends up draped over the other. He doesn’t mind it— doesn’t sweat (given his condition), doesn’t complain, doesn’t even seem affected by the heat.
You, on the other hand, wake up sticky and restless, his warmth bleeding into you, mixing with the suffocating air until it feels like too much. Like you can’t breathe.
You’ve told him before to stop holding you.
He never listens.
“C’mon,” he murmurs sleepily when you squirm, “you’re fine.”
Sweat doesn’t bother him. At least not yours, as cliché as that sounds. His arm tightens around you anyway, possessive without meaning to be, chin tucked against your shoulder like that’s where he belongs.
The nights are a suffering desert— long and dry and relentless. But the aftermath always makes up for it.
Cold showers, shared in silence. His hands steady on you, the steam curling around scarred skin and bare shoulders. The heat finally breaking, even if only for a moment.
He makes it all look so easy. All the secrets he keeps and deems irrelevant, all the differences between the two of you that he brushes off like they don’t matter— Dabi is no saint, and you know that. His anger scares you, even if it’s never aimed at you. He’s spiteful and dangerous and you’ve always known that, but your foolish heart thought that maybe a different perspective on the world would help him calm the anger, calm his heart, and maybe change the way he handles it.
And maybe it would’ve— if you at least knew as much as his real name.
It’s fine, though. At least that’s what you tell yourself. He’s still your favourite person, and it would take a lot for you to stop loving him, if that’s even possible at all, and you’re positive you know more about him than anyone else ever could.
You don’t know his real name. Or anything about his past. Or anything about his family.
But you know that he loves soba, that he keeps an entire stock of them at home yet refuses to eat them every day, partly because you scold him for it and partly because he’s scared he’ll get sick of it eventually.
You know that he’s good at deflecting, so good that sometimes you don’t even realize he’s doing it until hours later. You know that he hates fish. You know that his hair needs a new dyeing session every month or so, that his piercings and staples need to be disinfected and cleaned regularly— lord forbid he ever gets an infection.
You know that he struggles to express himself properly, that words fail him more often than not, and you know about his strange, deep-rooted hatred towards Endeavour, even if you don’t know where it truly stems from.
You know that after a hard day he likes to smoke by the fireplace after taking a shower with you, and that he loves seeing you in his clothes so much that you make a habit of wearing them at home whenever you’re not out training.
You also know that he doesn’t like your training. Doesn’t like heroes at all.
Still, you’re determined, just as stubborn as he is, and while you love him more than anything, you have a passion you refuse to break for the sake of his nerves. That, more often than not, is what leads to your arguments.
Sometimes they’re quiet, filled with snarky remarks and sharp words that turn venomous even when you don’t mean them to. Sometimes they’re outright loud and nasty, voices raised and tempers flaring, and he leaves with veins visible beneath scarred skin, nerves on edge, going for a walk with nothing but a pack of cigarettes.
He always comes home to you.
And if you’re the meaner one in the argument, he doesn’t let you leave. He can’t. He holds you even when you scream at him, tells you it’s okay to be mad at him but that you can do it while you’re with him. He interlaces your fingers and pulls you into bed, keeping you there, letting your rage simmer and burn itself out in silence.
In any other circumstances, with any other man, you would’ve lost your cool completely. You would’ve screamed louder, maybe even used your quirk just to get his filthy hands off of you— but not with Dabi.
When this happens, he seems more afraid than mad. Of course he hides it well, because he’s good at deflecting, but you’ve already figured it out on your own.
He has attachment issues, and he’s terrified that one day, you’ll leave him too.
Still, arguments come and ago.
You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him before you finally speak.
He’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom, shirt half-unbuttoned, the smell of smoke still clinging to him, and there’s something wrong in the way he won’t quite meet your eyes. Guilt, probably, because he already knows you’re going to hate what comes next and he’s bracing for it.
“You’re bleeding,” you say eventually, because it’s easier than asking the real question.
He glances down at his knuckle and shrugs. “Not mine.”
Your stomach drops.
“You said you were just going out,” you continue, voice eerily calm, “you said you’d be back before midnight.”
“Plans changed.”
“Whose plans?”
That gets his attention. He looks at you now, snarl on display and irritated and it spikes your heart painfully.
“Don’t start interrogating me,” he mutters, “I’m tired.”
“Tired from what?” you ask, taking a step closer. “From hurting people?”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it to me,” you snap. “because I’m standing here looking at dried blood on your hands and you expect me to just— what— pretend this is normal?”
He scoffs. “You live with me. Nothing about me is normal.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until finally he exhales through his nose like he’s lost patience with the entire conversation.
“I did a job,” he says. “it paid well, and for your information it fuckin‘ mattered. I don’t do useless jobs.“
I don’t kill unless I need to, is what he means and you know it.
“Mattered to who?”
“To people who actually want shit to change.”
Your chest tightens. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
“You hurt people,” your voice croaks, “you hurt them and you don’t see anything wrong with that?”
“Heroes,” he corrects flatly.
Your fist clenches, your own anger rising, “They’re still people— you- you attacked them?”
“They attacked first. Don’t act like they didn’t deserve it just because you want to be one.“
“That’s not— Dabi, that’s not how this fucking works!”
“That’s exactly how it works.” he snaps, temper flaring, “They wear fancy costumes and suddenly they’re allowed to burn cities to the ground as long as the news calls it collateral damage.”
“And killing them, what does that make you?” you shout, “Better?”
His jaw clenches and he pushes past you, seemingly done with the argument. “At least I don’t pretend I’m doing it for the public! Now quit it. I didn’t come home for you to yowl around like an idiot. Go to sleep and get over it.”
Home. He calls this place his home.
You share a home with a murderer.
A shiver runs down your spine as you hold back tears, sniffling quietly instead.
Dabi’s not a murderer. He’s your boyfriend.
But he kills on occasion and calls it a small step into changing the world.
“You’re planning to be a villain,” you mutter, eyes following his form, “you’re really choosing this.”
“Yes,” shamelessly, he changes his clothing, throwing on something clean and maybe the sight would’ve made you blush, but the shake of your body makes it hard. “I am.”
Your eyebrows furrow, heart racing harshly as you walk towards him, “I’m going to UA,” you fire back. “I’m going to teach. I’m going to help kids learn control, responsibility, compassion—”
“Compassion,” he laughs bitterly. “That’s rich.”
“You think this is funny?” you scream. “You think turning into everything you hate is funny? You- you told me you once wanted to be a hero—!”
“Once.” He spits with so much venom you think you have to step back.
“And I don’t hate villains,” he growls, “I hate liars.”
“And heroes are liars now?” you snarl. “Every single one of them?”
“Enough of them.”
Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts. “That doesn’t excuse anything Dabi and you know it.” He sends you a look, but you bare your teeth and glare at him. “You hide behind that hatred as if it explains everything. As if it excuses everything you do and will do.”
His expression darkens. “Careful.”
“No,” you say venomously, the words spilling out before you can stop them, “I’m tired of being careful around that name you won’t even explain. Endeavour this, Endeavour that, like he’s the devil himself and you’re the only one who sees it.”
The room goes very, very still, and you know you’ve strung a nerve. Gone too far, maybe. But so has he.
“The fuck did you jus’ say?” he asks quietly.
“You heard me,” you press on, voice shaking because there’s something building up in your throat, but you force yourself to keep talking, because if you don’t get the words out now, you might as well never do so, “you spit his name like it’s a sin, but you won’t tell me why. You won’t tell me what he did to you, or if he even did anything at all, and yet you expect me to just accept that he’s the reason the entire hero system deserves to burn.”
His breathing turns uneven.
“Watch your fucking tongue.” he warns.
You ignore him. “Is it because it hurts too much to admit you’re projecting? Because it’s easier to hate him than face the fact that you’re choosing violence?”
He says your name in a warning, puffing his chest as his eyes widen and his pupils stick to you like a predator to a prey.
You don’t back down.
“You want to tear everything down and you can’t even tell me why!” you continue, tears streaming now, anger overriding fear, “And instead of dealing with it, letting me or anyone else help you, you’re becoming exactly what you claim ruined you—“ you choke on your own voice, but spite fuels beneath you,
“—A dirty fucking liar.”
That’s what sets him off.
There’s no warning when he approaches you quickly, slams his fist into the wall beside your head, heat flaring instinctively, the plaster blackening instantly, and you flinch despite yourself.
“Don’t you ever,” he roars, and you feel yourself becoming small under his gaze,“compare me to a liar, or talk about him like you know anything of what he’s actually done!”
“You won’t tell me!” you scream back. “You shut me out and then punish me for not understanding!”
“You wouldn’t.” he spits, “You couldn’t.”
“Try me!”
“You’d look at me differently,” he snaps.
“You’re already giving me plenty of reasons to,” you sob.
He freezes, chest heaving, eyes wide like he’s just realized how close he is to losing you.
“You don’t mean that,” he says hoarsely.
“I don’t know what I mean anymore,” you admit through tears. “I don’t know how to love someone who wants to destroy the world I’m trying to protect.”
“I’m not asking you to protect it,” his voice is desperate, maybe even scared, “I’m asking you to stay with me.”
“And do what?” you cry. “Stand by while you hurt people? While you become a villain I’ll have to teach my students about someday?”
He grabs you then, hands shaking, pulling you against him hard enough that it hurts, like if he loosens his grip you’ll disappear.
“Don’t leave,” he pleads, voice cracking despite himself, “you can hate what I do. You can scream at me. Just don’t leave.”
You pound weakly against his chest, tears soaking through his shirt. “This isn’t fair, Dabi.”
“I know,” he admits, holding you tighter.
I know, he said, but he forces you down onto the bed, not rough but insistent, caging you in with his body, arms wrapped around you as you cry and shake and rethink everything you thought you knew.
He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t promise to stop. And he doesn’t let you go.
And somewhere between your sobs and his desperate grip, you realize this argument didn’t change anything at all— that in the morning you’ll be back to kissing and cuddling and smoking together, and soon enough you’ll just argue again, over and over.
The summer heat is getting worse, and it’s already suffocating you as it is, still, you’re too afraid to let go.
It’s not like he’s a bad guy. To you, at least. He’s a gentleman like he claims to be, sometimes he does things that resemble scenes straight out of a movie, and you have to hold back a giggle as you kiss down his throat.
“There’s a beach,” he says, casually as he sits on the couch, “nobody goes there.”
You glance at him. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “Too empty. People don’t like abandoned places.”
You don’t say the obvious— that people also don’t like staring at scars, or staples, or the way strangers tend to flinch when his form comes to view. You just nod, grab a towel, and let him drive.
The road stretches out endlessly, windows down, salt already clinging to the air by the time you arrive. The beach really is empty, pale sand untouched except for wind-swept patterns and some trash lying here and there.
He kicks off his boots, rolls his pants up carelessly, scars fully visible and unhidden, and smirks at you to follow him.
You do.
The waters cold on your bare skin— you’re both equally undressed, you in your bikini and him with his rolled up pants and shirtless, still, he’s got the advantage of his quirk by his side. You shiver, teeth clacking as you glare at him.
He grins.
You know what he wants. He wants to hear you ask him in that meek voice of yours, if you can cuddle into him for some warmth.
But you’ve already decided that the second you step a foot into the water, you’re declaring war on him.
You mean to just splash him, just a little, just enough to wipe that grin off his face, but the second the cold hits his chest, spills up to his neck and brushes against his jawline, he flinches, eyes widening before narrowing with that familiar, dangerous glint, you know you’ve made a mistake.
“Oh, you’re fucked,” he says, already moving.
“Don’t you dare,” you warn, backing up, feet slipping slightly in the sand beneath the shallow water.
He doesn’t listen. He never does.
He lunges, water exploding around you as you shriek, laughing and screaming when his hands grab your waist and you nearly choke on a mouthful of seawater.
“Dabi—! fuck— stop—!” you cough, spluttering as he hauls you closer, your arms flailing uselessly as you try to push him away.
“Language,” he mocks, even as he’s laughing himself, breathless and loud and unrestrained, nothing like the man who came home angry and bloodied.
“You started it!” you yell, kicking water at him, successfully soaking his face this time.
He sputters, scrunching his nose and you resist to kiss him.
Before you can react, he lifts you clean off the ground, arms locked around your thighs, and you scream bloody murder, clutching at his shoulders as the water drips off you both.
“Put me down, you absolute asshole!” you shout, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “I swear to—“
“What?” he grins up at you, teeth on display, “You gonna arrest me, hero?”
“S-shut up,” you wheeze, pounding weakly against his shoulders as he spins you slightly just to make you yelp louder.
“You love me,” he corrects.
“Right now? Debatable!”
He dumps you back into the water without warning, and you go under with a surprised scream, resurfacing coughing and sputtering, hair plastered to your face as you flip him off instinctively.
“Fuck you!”
He laughs, snorting and looking too proud of himself, “There she is.”
You don’t even think before launching yourself at him, both of you going down in a tangle of limbs and seawater, laughing and swearing and trying to get leverage on wet sand that refuses to cooperate.
“Stop- being- an- asshole!” you gasp, coughing as another wave hits you in the face.
“Where’s the fun in that?” He chuckles, “Y-you look ridiculous—!”
“Oh, you’re one to talk—” You grab into his shoulders and yank him down, kissing him hard and sudden, salt and teeth and laughter mixing together.
He freezes for half a second, surprised, before kissing you back just as fiercely, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if grounding himself there.
You pull back only long enough to breathe.
“Shut up,” he murmurs before you can think of a teasing remark, kissing you again, softer this time but just as needy, tongue prodding at your lips for permission.
Another wave crashes into you both and you break apart coughing, groaning, laughing all over again.
“Ceasefire?” you smile innocently, pressing a kiss on his cheek.
You should’ve known better though. Dabi is one to hold a grudge.
“Nope,” he sing-songs, hauling over his shoulder.
“Dabi!” you shriek, slapping his back. “Put me down right now!”
“Nope.” He repeats, like the asshole he is.
“I will bite you!”
“Threatening me with a good time?”
You squirm uselessly as he carries you further up the shore, both of you soaked and breathless, sand sticking to your skin, your laughter echoing embarrassingly loud in the empty space around you.
He finally sets you down, but only so he can pull you back in immediately, arms wrapping around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder as you try— and fail— to catch your breath.
“Idiot,” you mutter, leaning back into him despite yourself.
“Takes one to love one,” he replies, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your neck, then another, then one just below your ear that makes you shiver.
“Hey,” you warn weakly, though you tilt your head to give him better access anyway.
He hums, satisfied, spinning you around so you’re facing him again, hands still warm and steady on your waist. He looks flushed, hair a mess, scars stark against damp skin, and for a moment you think you could forget about everything else.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, just for you.
You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”
He shrugs, then leans in to press his forehead against yours. “Better.”
You kiss him again, slower this time, lingering and affectionate, fingers threading into his hair as he sighs into your mouth like he’s been holding his breath all day.
He steals another kiss. And another. And another, laughing softly between each one when he chases you shamelessly, refusing to let you pull away for long.
“You’re clingy,” you tease.
“Don’t care.”
The wind picks up slightly, cool against your damp skin, and he pulls you closer.
You wish— quietly, selfishly— that the world would let you stay like this. Loud and idiotic and young in love. Laughing too hard and kissing too much and swearing at each other over nothing at all. You wish you could love him without fear, without conditions, without having to choose who you are when the tide eventually pulls you back to shore.
But the summers almost over, and you’ve already made your decision.
It’s not easy. Leaving him isn’t easy. Physically and mentally and emotionally and in every other fucking sense.
Letting go of him is painful. If he actually was a summer fling— one that lasted way too many years, way too many summers, then he was addictive. An obsession, maybe.
You didn’t want to do it. You wished there had been another way— really. But the mere thought of loving a man who killed and was the opposite of all of your morals was sickening. He was sickening.
He’s sick in the head. You’ve known that, you were just too foolish to believe you could change him.
You don’t even know his name.
You always knew he would never let you leave.
Just the way he held you when you tried to step outside during an argument, arms wrapped tight around your waist, chin pressed into your shoulder, voice low and coaxing as he murmured that you could be mad at him here, that you didn’t have to go anywhere, that whatever you were feeling would pass faster if you stayed.
And it always worked.
You’d go limp against him eventually, breath syncing with his, anger dissolving into exhaustion, because being held was easier than being strong, and because some part of you understood— without ever saying it out loud— that if you pushed harder, if you really tried to leave, he wouldn’t know how to survive it. Nor would you.
So you stopped trying.
Until you couldn’t.
You don’t tell him about UA when the email comes in.
You don’t tell him when you accept.
You don’t tell him when you pack a bag and hide it at the back of the closet, or when you call the car hours in advance and memorize the way the confirmation screen looks so you won’t have to check it again.
You don’t tell him because you love him, and because you know that love is the very thing he would use to keep you.
The night you leave, you make dinner like nothing is wrong.
You laugh when he moans about the food, lean across the table to steal his cigarette just to make him scowl, kiss the corner of his mouth when he pretends you’re being clingy. You are careful, soft, gentle in a way he’s never been treated, because you know this will be the last time you’re allowed to touch him without resistance.
Later, when you push him down onto the mattress, your stomach coils and you push the nauseating feeling down.
You don’t want to do this.
He blinks up at you, surprised, amused, suspicion dulled by familiarity, “Oh? What’s this?” he murmurs, hands already settling at your hips like muscle memory.
“Shh,” you whisper, smiling softly as you straddle him, palms warm against his chest, skin scarred and solid and achingly familiar beneath your hands. “Just let me.”
He lets you.
That’s the thing that nearly ruins everything— that he trusts you enough to go still beneath your weight, to tilt his head back and close his eyes as you kiss along his jaw, his throat, your mouth lingering like you’re memorizing him.
It makes you sick.
Misusing his trust like this.
It makes you want to kick yourself. You should be ashamed, you are, for what you’re doing in order to rid of him. For coaxing him and making it so fucking difficult.
You don’t want to do this.
You love him. You love him so much it fucking hurts. It’s not fair. You shouldn’t do this, maybe, maybe you’ll survive a few more arguments then and there, maybe it’s okay.
But then you remember, that you’re a hero and he’s a villain and he hurts those you try to save, and suddenly you’re thrown back into reality.
You want to puke. Say what you want, you’re just as sick as he is, simply alone for doing this.
You kiss him slowly, staggering back your breath because it fucking hurts.
You don’t want to do this.
You don’t want to do this like it’s the last time you ever will— because it is.
But you do it anyway, because you want to steal as much as you want from him. You want to be selfish and bury your tongue into his throat, and you do. He moans, kissing you back just as hard, fingers digging into your skin as you part from him and kiss all over him instead. He chokes back a laugh, because you’re desperate, and quick and passionate at the same time.
Your quirk stirs before you consciously tell it to.
The windows slide open one by one, curtains lifting as the night air pours in, cool and harsh, wrapping around your skin. He notices then, eyes opening, brow furrowing slightly.
“You didn’t tell me you could do that,” he says.
You smile again, thumb brushing over the staple lines at his collarbone. “I know.”
You kiss him once more, letting one, pathetic little sob escape before you rest your forehead against his.
“I’m leaving,” you whisper.
He stills.
It takes a while, like he’s processing what you just said. He stares at you, completely overtaken by shock to notice your quirk working on him. Air and pressure sneaking on his form.
“..What,” he says finally.
“I got accepted into UA,” you continue, voice trembling despite everything, “I’m leaving tonight.”
The silence that follows is violent.
His hands tighten at your hips. “You’re not funny,” he says. “Get off me.”
You don’t.
Instead, you inhale— and push.
The air shifts, pressure blooming outward and then downward, invisible but undeniable, pinning him into the mattress with a weight that makes his breath hitch. His eyes snap wide open, confusion giving way to something sharp and dangerous.
“What the fuck are you doing,” he snarls, flames flickering weakly along his hands before sputtering out under the force.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and you mean it more than anything you’ve ever said. “I knew you’d never let me go.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” he growls, trying to sit up, muscles straining uselessly against the wind pressing him down. “You think this is it? You think this fixes anything—? Hey, don’t you fuckin’ dare—“
You stand, stepping back, the pressure increasing just enough to keep him where he is. Your hands shake as you grab your bag from the corner, the one he’s never seen before.
“You planned this.” he realizes, horror bleeding into his fury, “You planned this behind my back.”
“I had to,” you say. “You don’t listen when I say I need space. You don’t listen when I say I’m leaving. You hold me tighter.”
“That’s because you belong with me,” he snaps. “You think some school’s gonna keep you safer than I do?”
“I don’t want to be safe like this!” you cry. “I don’t want to be loved like I’m something you’re afraid to lose control of.”
He laughs then, and the sound pangs against your heart, makes your insides run cold, “So you’re just gonna pin me down and run? That’s who you are now?”
You shoulder the bag, tears blurring your vision as you snarl, “I’m choosing who I was before you.”
He roars your name, fire flaring uselessly as the air crushes it out, veins standing out in his neck as he struggles against something he can’t see or fight.
“You walk out that door,” he spits, “and don’t ever come back.”
“I won’t,” you say softly.
His heart sinks then, because he didn’t think you would actually go along with it.
And Dabi feels something he never thought would feel again.
He feels the need to beg. Beg and apologize and cry and tell you to stay here because he doesn’t want you gone.
But Dabi’s a coward, and he won’t beg. Or at least, he doesn’t in the moment when he stares at you, separating yourself from him. His jaw hangs open and there’s a pressure on his eyeducts and he realizes if he could cry, he would right now.
You leave, and he weakly, pathetically croaks out your name. But it’s too late.
You release the pressure only once you’re at the door— just enough to run.
The night air hits you like freedom and grief all at once.
The car is already there.
And behind you, inside the apartment, something shatters loudly.
Fuck.
You don’t look back.
You can’t.
The change had felt like the end of the world.
Which, in some ways, it was. For you, at least.
You live in the dorms now.
After the USJ incident, it stopped being optional— students, teachers, substitutes, anyone even remotely connected to hero education were ordered to stay on campus, because UA was fortified, guarded, constantly monitored in ways no apartment building could ever be. Before that, you’d been staying in a small apartment you bought on a whim, furnished poorly and lived in worse, but even then you’d known it wasn’t permanent. Dabi could have found you if he wanted to.
Not that he would have hurt you.
That was the cruelest part— knowing, even now, that he never would have.
Still, distance mattered.
And even with all that logic stacked neatly in your head, you still spent too many nights crying over him.
Ugly, body-wracking sobs that left your chest sore and your throat raw, face buried in your pillow so no one in the neighboring rooms would hear you fall apart over a man you were never supposed to love in the first place. You cried over the way he laughed when you annoyed him, the weight of his arm draped over your waist when he slept, the way he always knew when you were about to bolt and held you just tightly enough to keep you there.
You cried because you missed him.
Because you were just as fucking obsessed, just as dependent, and no amount of self-awareness or reframing or internal lectures about morality could change the fact that he had been your home for years. You cried because you hated yourself for missing someone who represented everything you were now actively fighting against.
Some nights, the grief turned into anger.
Anger at him— for never letting you breathe, for loving you like possession, for making you choose between yourself and him. Anger at yourself— for not leaving sooner, for loving him so deeply it still hurt like this. Anger at UA, at heroes, at the world for being so sharply divided that there was no space where both of you could exist.
Other nights, it turned into nothing at all.
Just emptiness.
You stopped eating properly for a while. Stopped answering messages unless they were work-related. You went to class, taught, nodded when spoken to, smiled when expected, and then went back to your room and lay on the floor staring at the ceiling until exhaustion took you. Depression settled over you like a fog that refused to leave.
You felt like you were mourning someone who wasn’t dead, which somehow made it worse. Day by day, the nausea returned, and the feeling of having done something bad was as persistent as ever.
By the time you were officially brought on as a substitute for the hero course, you were drained.
Before USJ, you’d mostly substituted general education classes such as ethics, quirk theory, safety regulations— but after Aizawa was injured, you were suddenly pulled into something much closer to the core of hero work. Assisting, observing, stepping in when he physically couldn’t.
Aizawa hadn’t been happy about an assistant, or a substitute. He’d told you, flatly, that he was very much capable of teaching his class on his own.
You’d wanted to point out that he now had a scar that made the use of his quirk a lot harder, and that between grading tests and making sure his students suffered, he also had to catch up on his sleep.
You’d made it a habit of asking him if you should take over the last few hours of the day so he could get some rest, and surprisingly, after about a month of working alongside him, he’d stopped refusing.
So you got the evening shift.
By then, the kids were exhausted anyway, nerves fried and bodies sore, so you tried to make it lighter for them, something they could breathe through rather than endure.
You guess that’s why they liked you— well, everyone except the angry blonde and the nonchalant candy cone.
Still, the latter always caught your attention more than any amount of yelling ever could.
Todoroki Shoto is quiet. His posture is always straight, his expression neutral, but his eyes miss very little. His hair is split neatly, white on his right, red on his left, like a clean line drawn through his existence. Aizawa had mentioned, once, offhandedly, that Todoroki refused to use his left side for personal reasons.
But it’s his eyes that linger with you. Or rather— his eye.
The stark teal blue of his right eye feels too familiar when it meets yours. Too precise and unsettling.
You care about him, even if he barely speaks.
After lessons end, he usually retreats to the dorms immediately. Some students linger in the common areas, watching movies or talking gossip. Sometimes Todoroki is there. Sometimes he isn’t.
Tonight, though, it’s not you finding him.
It’s him who finds you— standing just outside the main gate, cigarette between your fingers, breaking at least three rules you signed on your contract.
You don’t ask what a first-year is doing past curfew outside the main gate, just let him slowly join you as the wind’s breeze hits your skin.
He watches you smoke.
“It’s not healthy for you,” he says.
You snort softly. No shit.
But there’s no judgment in his voice. Just an observation, stated the same way he’d comment on fighting techniques.
You hum in response and glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you.
“If I’m unwelcome,” he says after a moment, “tell me. I just.. wanted to ask you something.”
That alone is enough to surprise you. Todoroki doesn’t seek people out. He doesn’t ask questions unless they matter.
“You’re not,” you say, “go ahead.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re always looking at me. Why?”
The question hits harder than you expect.
Your eyes widen slightly, heat rushing to your cheeks before you can stop it. You hadn’t realized it was obvious. You hadn’t realized you were doing it at all.
A nervous laugh escapes you. He doesn’t look offended, rather curious.
“I— sorry,” you admit. “You just remind me of someone. It’s strange.”
He nods once, accepting that answer without pushing, and turns his gaze forward, toward the empty street beyond the gate. You take another drag from your cigarette, lungs burning and you think it’s fully deserved.
“Why do you smoke?” he asks.
You blink. “You’re full of questions tonight.”
You’re met with silence as he waits for the answer. Ah, ever the conversationist.
“I picked it up a while ago,” you reply finally, “bad habit.”
“From that someone?”
Your eyebrows furrow. “Huh?”
“That someone you mentioned,” he clarifies. “did you pick it up from them?”
A breathy laugh escapes you as you nod, trying to ignore the small shatter in your heart.
Silence settles comfortably, and it’s finally your turn to start a conversation.
“You don’t like going home, do you?”
Of course, you couldn’t forget the fact that Todoroki was Endeavor’s son. The very man your lover despised with all the hate in his body.
It’s weird— having this connection with him now, when just a few months ago you’d stroked Dabi’s inky black hair, kissed his forehead as you listened to him ramble about how he wanted to destroy that man. You had nodded, told him to go on, coaxed him into letting you in—
You never found out where that hatred stemmed from.
Now, you can’t help the concern creeping up. Dabi wanted to hurt him. And he was Todoroki’s father. You couldn’t let Dabi do such a thing—
“I don’t,” Todoroki says quietly,
“I hate my father.”
Your breath catches.
“Oh,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say.
He grunts, the same way Dabi used to when he got sick of talking about Endeavor. Once again, memories and feelings mix together, and a pang of recognition hits your heart.
“He’s a monster,” Todoroki says flatly. “He’s not nice— to me or to my siblings. I prefer being away. Now that we have dorms, he won’t stop calling me. He constantly wants to see me using my left side.”
His left side resembles Endeavor’s quirk, and he refuses to use it in spite of.. him?
Once again, another thing unites Todoroki and Dabi— their hatred towards Endeavor.
“I prefer being here,” he adds. “Now that we have dorms, I don’t have to see him as much. But he calls. A lot.”
Your chest tightens.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “But you shouldn’t limit yourself just to oppose him. That still gives him control.”
“But that’s what he wants,” Todoroki replies. “Me at my full power.”
“Yes.” You don’t deny it, you wouldn’t want to lie to him, “but what do you want?” you ask gently. “Do you want to be a hero to spite him— or because you want to save people?”
He inhales sharply, like the thought hadn’t fully formed until now.
“..Midoriya said me something similar.”
You smile faintly. “He does that.”
After a long moment, Todoroki nods. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.”
You hesitate, “Would it be okay if I called you Shoto?” It is his hero name, after all. Still, you think it might be better than calling him the name that connects him to his father.
He blinks, surprised, yet not displeased.
“..I’d like that,” he says.
Your cigarette crumbles in peace, and you take one last drag before letting it fall to the ground and stomping it out.
“Y’know, Shoto,” you hum, the name new on your tongue, “that someone I mentioned could gladly be your brother if I think about it. He may look different, but he wasn’t that fond of Endeavor, either.”
“I do have a brother,” Shoto nods. “I used to have two, though.”
Your head perks up, a frown evident on your face.
He takes it as a sign to continue. “He.. died. I barely talked to him. I don’t even know his favorite food.” His expression hardens, “He died when he was thirteen. I blame my father for his death. We all do—“ he gulps, composing his posture as if that could hide the croak of his voice, “If he hadn’t— hadn’t pushed this far— Touya would’ve— he would’ve been here and—”
Your frown deepens as Shoto’s breathing picks up. His hand comes up to wipe over his eyes, and you can’t help the pain that shoots through your heart. Before you know it, you’re pulling him toward you into a hug.
He stiffens at first, startled, then, as if giving in, he rests his forehead against your shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Shoto,” you whisper.
He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t pull away either.
The name Touya echoes in your head for the rest of the night, and instinctively, you hug your pillow closer, wishing a certain someone would be here to warm you up.
Eraserhead (or Aizawa, as he’d already demanded you to call him in private) is a strict man. Honestly, you’re lucky he wasn’t the one who caught you smoking.
Still, just like Shoto, it’s Aizawa who follows you once again.
Seriously, what is it with people following you?
The teachers lounge is huge, and definitely a comfortable space to loiter in, but Aizawa wouldn’t step foot in here if he had the option to sleep instead of grade tests. That’s why it surprises you to see him there in the middle of the night, standing a few feet behind you, watching silently as you scroll through recent reports on villain activity.
You’re relieved when you confirm there haven’t been any burn victims in the past few weeks.
“You searching for something specific?”
Someone specific, is what he truly means but refuses to voice it.
You startle at his grumble, glancing over your shoulder to find him already looking at your screen. You bite your lip before sighing.
“No.”
You scroll through a few more tabs aimlessly, nothing catching your interest. You’re painfully aware that he doesn’t believe you, but he also isn’t the type to force an answer out of someone unless it’s absolutely necessary.
“Whoever’s on your mind, I hope they’re not a distraction. Or dangerous.”
Or he is. Whatever.
“What— ?!” You spin slightly in your chair. “I— I don’t have anyone on my mind, and they certainly wouldn’t be a distraction to my job!”
He notes the way you completely ignore the dangerous part. His eyes narrow just a fraction and you notice your own slip up, pursing your lips and shrinking back towards the screen.
“I’m.. sorry, Aizawa..” you mutter, then clear your throat. “Why— um— why would you think I’d have someone?”
“Just a hunch,” he replies, “seems I wasn’t wrong.”
You roll your eyes, resting your chin on your propped-up arm.
“Dick move, bro.”
“Language.”
You snort despite yourself, the tension easing just a bit. You’re not obligated to tell him anything unless it involves illegal activity or something that could endanger the students.
….Which, in your case, technically applies to both, but still— that’s between you and your conscience.
“Don’t get into any trouble,” the man continues, “The students like you. I don’t want to deal with them whining if you accidentally do something stupid.”
You smile softly, even if the wording stings and part of you would really like to punch him in the face. You know this is the closest thing to I’m worried about you you’ll ever get from him.
“I won’t, Eras— Aizawa.”
He hums in acknowledgment, already turning away.
“And you should start being stricter,” he adds, “You’re too soft on them. It’ll go to their heads.”
“They’ll need it if they’ve got you as a teacher.”
A pause.
“..Goodnight.”
He’s not meant to be watching you, that’s for sure. Breaking things off only works if you actually try to break them off, and he’s doing anything but that.
He’s long stopped denying it— that he doesn’t care about you and that he’s only watching to witness your downfall, to find you lying dead in some alleyway and spit on your disgusting, half-dead self. It wouldn’t even be new of him to think like this. You’ve already seen glimpses of his mind before, when he talked about people he didn’t like, when he gave you painfully detailed descriptions of how he’d burn someone’s flesh and make them suffer. He’s always wondered if you were just as insane, simply for staying with him.
Still, the simple imagination of you being in any kind of pain makes something in his chest clench painfully, and he finds himself forcing the thought away instead of leaning into it.
He watches you walk with that stupid fucking frown on your face, groceries hanging off your shoulder. He thinks you look ridiculous, nothing like the woman who used to seduce him into bed almost daily. You look like a mess, and worse, you look vulnerable, and he bets you don’t even notice the men eyeing you, probably imagining getting into your pants.
Well, get this, idiots— he’s been there. And it’s probably the best place he’s ever been in. He won’t ever admit that second part, obviously. Still, he feels a twisted sort of pride watching them deflate when you ignore them completely.
You walk like you’re carrying the world’s problems on your shoulders.
He thinks it’s stupid. You don’t have shit to worry about— not like him, who has to constantly stalk your pitiful ass because he doesn’t want to find you dead in an alleyway.
He wants to catch you himself and make you suffer for what you did.
(But deep down, he knows he wouldn’t. And it pisses him off to no end, because it’s you who softened him into a fucking idiot.)
He doesn’t have much to do these days. Just a few days ago, a man came and offered him a place in a newly formed league. He’s thought about joining— because having allies is smarter than being alone, even with Dabi’s ego. He’ll play it carefully. There’s no way he stands a real chance against Endeavour on his own anymore.
But lately, his thoughts haven’t been about Endeavour at all.
They’ve been about you. About the future. About what he’s actually chasing.
He’s not sure if simple revenge will be enough to fill the rest of his miserable, probably short life.
Which is strange, because revenge has been his only motivation ever since he crawled back from the dead.
Lately, Dabi’s been having dreams.
Dreams where he wakes up beside you again— but this time, neither of you is in danger. In those dreams, he isn’t a villain. He realizes it the moment he pulls you closer and chuckles at your soft snores. Sometimes you make him coffee and kiss all over his skin, and he promises to marry you and do nasty, nasty things to you that he only ever allows himself to dream about.
He thinks he could live with that.
He was never made to be domesticated or some stay-at-home man— he still needs action, still needs fire— but beyond that, he longs for what he keeps seeing when he sleeps.
He watches you and feels something snap in his nerves when he sees you talking to other people. It should’ve been him. But he ruined it.
He finds himself imagining killing these so-called teachers instead, because there’s no reason to be smiling and laughing that fucking much when they talk to you. You’re not even that funny. You’re only funny to him— and that’s because he knew you long before they ever did.
He accepts the offer to the league nevertheless.
You’re not here to stop him, and he can’t truly get you back. He realizes that when you move into the dorms and he’s forced to see you even less now.
(He still watches you nevertheless. The windows of the UA building will do, and luckily you’re often out for a smoke aswell).
The camping trip was sudden. A surprise, really, and a strangely pleasant one at that.
You weren’t supposed to come. You were just the evening teacher, Aizawa’s substitute, the extra adult who stepped in when he physically couldn’t. But the kids insisted, loud and stubborn and too fucking good at convincing. Nezu had agreed, he’d meant your quirk would benefit from open space, from air that wasn’t cramped in the buildings of the school. Wind needed room to move. Forests were better than cities for that.
He wasn’t wrong.
Unfortunately for you, you were a city person through and through. You liked noise. Structure. People around you. Still, even you had to admit that a change of environment every now and then was necessary. Healthy, even.
During the bus ride, you tried to stay awake, but somewhere between all the exhaustion and yelling about snacks and Mineta being escorted three seats away from the girls, your eyes closed. You only realize where you leaned when you wake up to fabric and warmth instead of glass.
Aizawa’s shoulder.
You stiffen for half a second, then decide you don’t have the energy to deal with it and let yourself stay there. The man is a chronic insomniac, permanently exhausted, and yet somehow he doesn’t move. He just sits there, arms crossed, glaring at anyone who dares speak above a whisper.
Anyone who teases him gets shut down immediately.
You wake when the bus halts, your neck stiff and your brain slow to catch up.
“You and Aizawa, huh?”
Sero’s voice cuts through the haze immediately.
You barely have time to process it before Aizawa shoots him a look that even manages to shiver you, and you look away uncomfortably.
The kids are ushered off the bus and made to walk the rest of the way, complaining loudly. You and the other teachers get driven in, and by the time you arrive at camp, everything smells like dirt and pine and impending chaos.
The first evening is surprisingly normal.
Bakugo is cooking.
Well. ‘Cooking.’
He’s standing aggressively over a pot, sleeves rolled up, surprisingly decent at making food but also at screaming.
“I swear to god if you touch this—”
“It smells good!” Kirishima chirps, and Bakugo softens slightly. Over the time, you’ve learned that the blonde had managed to get himself some friends, well, allies as he calls them, and Kirishima was one of the few people he actually respected to a certain extent.
Said angry boy pauses, scowling, “..It’s supposed to.”
You watch from a distance, feeling mildly amused by his change in attitude.
“He’s gonna be a househusband one day,”
Aizawa hums noncommittally beside you, and you take that as a hum of agreement.
The sudden attack, or rather, the kidnapping, throws the entire camp into chaos.
Before you can even process it, two students are in danger of being taken, the clearing reduced to a battlefield crawling with the so-called League.
As a hero (and more than that, their teacher, their caretaker) you don’t hesitate. You move on instinct alone. Somewhere behind you, Aizawa is shouting your name, barking orders for you to stay back, to think, reminding you that your quirk is built for destruction, not defense, that it leaves you wide open.
You ignore him.
You don’t play around when it comes to your kids.
Midoriya, shaken and barely steady on his feet, manages to choke out that Tokoyami and Bakugo were marbled, taken by the masked man calling himself Compress. You don’t waste time responding. You just nod and go, your quirk already roaring to life.
It’s ugly. Violent. The ground tears itself apart beneath you, dirt and debris exploding outward in a blinding wave that forces villains to shield their eyes. You snarl—
—and hands grab you. Portals bloom around you, warped and dark, purple-black edges snapping open midair. You grit your teeth, pour everything into your quirk, and blast yourself free, launching straight at the masked man.
“—?!”
Compress yelps as you reach for the marbles.
He lunges for you, fingers stretching out— trying to marble you too, but you twist away, sweep his legs out from under him, and send him crashing down.
His mask slips, clattering to the ground, and a marble spills free from his mouth.
Your breath catches. Oh.
You scoop up every marble you can see and shove them into the hands of the nearest ally just as Compress recovers. Too fast. He slams you down hard—
Hands everywhere. Voices overlapping. Shouting, swearing, someone screaming your name. You’re grabbed, yanked, dragged in opposite directions, overwhelmed and outnumbered. Your chest tightens. You bare your teeth, power surging—
—sudden warmth.
Hands close around you, solid and burning hot, and your body locks up.
You know these hands. You know this heat.
You’re ripped free from the crowd and pulled back, hard, until your spine hits a chest far too warm to be anyone else’s. The chaos fades behind you. It’s just him— real and anchoring you to the place.
His breath ghosts over your neck.
“What the hell are you thinking?” he snarls. “You got a death wish now?”
You thrash, kick back on instinct, tears stinging your eyes as everything crashes in at once. He hisses when your foot clips his shin.
“Knock it off,” he snaps, grip tightening. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I don’t need—” you choke, voice breaking, “—your help!”
A low scoff vibrates against your back. “Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”
You sniff hard, furious, hurt. “Fuck off—!”
He glances up and locks eyes with the now unmasked man. Something unspoken passes between them, and you shiver at the way his eyes hold a certain glint.
Your stomach drops.
A marble comes flying straight at you.
And there’s nothing more you want to do than kick Dabi where the sun doesn’t shine.
You’ve never had high dreams. In a world full of evil and villains in hero capes, so much as peace would never exist. To a certain degree, you did understand Dabi.
What actually drove you away from him had to be the fact that he was ready and willing to kill those he claims are suffering under fake hero influence, when he could do so much more. It never sat right to you, and still, you stayed for him. You stayed with him.
Your mother had always said you were a stubborn one, and got attached easily.
Well look at where that got you.
If she were to know you’d hooked up with a villain, much less Dabi— a pierced, burnt freak that quite literally screamed ‘danger’, she’d take your ass to a psychiatrist and pay them to keep you there for the rest of your miserable life.
Luckily, the life of a pro hero and a teacher meant less contact with your loved ones.
Also, the fact that you were tied up in some kind of hideout, wrists bound behind a chair and your ankles secured to the legs.
“You try anything and I’ll decay you to a crisp.”
A rough, raspy voice filled your ears, and you grunt in acknowledgment.
Dangerous quirk. Dust guy threatening you. Okay, you could work with that.
“So. You’re the reason we lost the UA brat. But I guess that’s fine, your quirk’s powerful too.”
Memories overlapped each other as you processed his words, groaning because a headache had crawled up and devoured your brain. Just what had happened?
You’d been at the camp— an attack, right. Two students.. Bakugo. He’d been marbled but you—
“—apparently you’re aware of the false hero society, so there’s a higher chance you’ll understand us.”
Seriously?
“Dih..whut..”
“What?”
“It seems like she’s trying to say something,” another voice says, amused, “let me sober her up.”
A sudden cold splash to your face made you cough out, eyes wide as the ice ran down your collarbone. The smell of damp air hits you right after.
“You dickwads!”
“Ah.”
“Aw, don’t toy with the little thing,” a sing-song voice coos from somewhere to your side. “She’s exhausted.”
Your head snaps toward the sound despite the ropes. You’re much too exhausted to curse and threaten, but you hope your glare does you right.
You can hear chuckling, a girlish giggle as well, some mumbling and indirect talking about you which you chose to ignore.
“Ah. Great. Another fucking brat,” the raspy hand guy drawls, but your heads too fogged to think of his name. Though, you’re pretty sure you know— he lead the USJ attack, didn’t he?
You lean back, throat at full view as your head does a full 180 in order to ease the cramps.
Though, leaning back you catch a figure staring a you. He’s upside down, and you should be way out of it to even recognize him, but your heart does you wrong and you freeze.
Burns. Staples. Black hair.
He looks smug. You want to kill him.
A fury shoots up as you jerk in the ropes, hopeless to actually escape.
“Feels familiar, doll?”
“You two know each other?” the raspy voice asks.
“Something like that.”
“Is that what it is?” you snap, “—you trynna get back at me?!”
“No,” he-who-shall-not-be-named says easily, “but it’s definitely one hell of a nice bonus.”
Yeah. You’re lucky your mother had no idea about him, or the situation you’re in right now.
You might just become a villain yourself, less than hesitant to blow this place up.
“I take it she won’t cooperate, then?” The masked man, Compress, chimes in. The silence that follows is an answer itself, and he continues, “Well, that does make keeping her rather pointless, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t say that like you’re willing to kill her, Compress. Look at that beautiful face!” It’s the redhead from earlier, the charming voice that had stood to your defense.
You scoff, you don’t need someone babying you down.
“Don’ talk about me like ‘m not here you shits..” you slur, nose twitching as you lean forward.
The pale haired man stops pacing like a distressed father, yet his hand continues scratching his abused neck, “You’re not in the position to talk.” he spits, “We want you alive. That doesn’t mean we have to keep you comfortable, though.”
“I’m. not. joining.” You repeat slower, in hopes the toddler antic might get to his head.
Maybe it angered him further, which honestly hadn’t been your goal but it’s satisfying to see nevertheless.
A sudden mist you hadn’t noticed, the accomplice at the USJ incident, speaks calmly, “Then we cannot keep you long-term.”
Even though you knew it was coming, your stomach drops. Just a little. Death is never something anyone could take with little to no panic.
“That’s fine. Kill me, then.”
“That’s boring.” A blonde girl giggles, looking far too young to be here, “And wasteful.”
There’s a moment where you blackout, a loud ringing in your ears as you groan, squirming as if it could get rid of the issue. Movement happens in the background, voices overlap and you can’t tell if everyone’s staring at you or you’re hallucinating.
He stops in front of you, eyes dull with boredom as he tilts your chin up.
“Still doing this?” He mumbles, low enough to make you shiver. With this, you can only assume he means the whole resisting-his-ideology thing. You can only roll your eyes, given you’re too faded for anything else.
“Stubborn as always. Guess I should’ve expected this, even if you’re held at gunpoint.” He snickers, “Literally.”
His thumb settles at the corner of your mouth, and you take the opportunity to deliver a harsh, well-deserved bite.
The pain strikes, but he doesn’t pull away. He barely flinches, smiling stupidly as his thumb rests between your lips and blood suckers into your tongue. You sneer as the tables turn, realizing he’s more enjoying this than you are.
“That’s the face, baby.” He muses, “There’s my girl. How about we take this outside, yeah? Afterall, it’s gonna get hot in here.”
He tells the blonde, Toga, to cut your bindings, which she does happily. You whine as he grips the back of your neck, hauling you up and dragging your nearly limp body toward the exit.
The last thing you hear is the lizard warning him not to go too far.
Dabi never listens to anyone.
Once out the door, you expect the worst.
You expect him to push you up against it and scream at you. To humiliate you and mock you for what you’ve done, to tell you that this was coming for you.
But none of that happens.
In fact, he doesn’t even stop. He just keeps walking, dragging you behind him.
But you’re tired, and your legs refuse to cooperate. You try so hard to follow him, try to please him in such pathetic ways because as much as you try to deny it, you still want his praise and love and all the warmth he can offer.
Your steps stutter, and with a slight acceleration, you fall into his back, yelping. He stops, looks over his shoulder with his cold, blue eyes, the ones that strike you and leave you frozen every damn time.
For a moment, you’re wildly overtaken by guilt. You’re nothing but a mess, so vulnerable to death and pain. You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut at the thought of how he must’ve felt the night you held him down, leaving him all vulnerable as you escaped.
You’re a disgusting person. A bad person. An asshole.
He grunts, turning around to pick you up. You latch onto his neck instinctively, his arms beneath your knees. His warmth seeps into you, and you can’t help but shudder, having missed this more than anything.
You missed him. So much.
It’s too much. You’re not sure what’s going on, much less what he’s up to, whether he’s ready to kill or run. You can feel the cold air hit your skin, meaning you must be outside. And he’s running, speed walking—
He’s protecting you.
You missed him.
There’s something that wants to escape you, and it can’t be your tears because you’re already crying. His soft pants are comforting and grounding, anchoring you to reality.
But you’re fogged up, and you’re sure you’ll pass out any second— you’re scared out of your mind, and you want it out.
You need it out— You can’t— can’t hold it back—
“I-I love you—!..”
And the world fades.
You wake up again, but this time you’re not uncomfortably chained to a chair or sprawled on the floor. Instead, you’re in.. water?
You realize you’re not drowning, much less being tortured. The water is warm and comforting, and you moan as you feel your muscles relax. Your dirty skin is getting washed off, the soot and sweat collected from God knows when finally rinsed away.
You feel better, but it might have something to do with the fact that you’re also in no danger, not fighting for your life.
You’re ripped out of your thoughts when what you can only assume is a shower head nearly drowns you. Your hair blocks your line of sight until a hand wipes it out of your face.
His staples are in no way unfamiliar to you, yet you still find yourself surprised at the ragged change in texture. (You lean into him anyway.)
“What..?”
“Shut it, alright, princess? Save your energy for something more useful.”
You huff, rolling your eyes.
You realize the water’s clear now, so he must’ve refilled it after properly washing you. He’s seen you naked before, has seen you in states worse than anyone else, so you don’t feel ashamed when you catch him taking a peek or two. Still, he’s more focused on getting all the shampoo out of your hair.
“They wanted to keep you as a hostage. Either that, or they’d force you into joining them.” Shamefully, you don’t really process his words. Sure, you’re more present now, but you find yourself craving the sound of his voice more than the meaning behind it. “That’s what they wanted me to do to you. So I dragged you out and— oi—!”
He flicks your forehead, finally making you look at him instead of the clear water where your bare body rests. “You listenin’?”
Sheepishly, you grin, and that’s more than enough of an answer for him.
“Dabi?” you whisper, and his hands tighten slightly in your hair.
“What.”
“Am I dreaming?”
He probably expected something more poetic, because his fingers soften and he groans in annoyance.
“No.”
You hum in response, leaning into him as the last bits of shampoo leave your hair.
“Dabi?”
“What now.”
He’s no longer crouching, now drying his hands on a crumpled towel. It’s only then you notice you’re in a motel— not an expensive one, either. It’s dark, the light flickers, there’s no rug to stand on once you get out of the water, and the soap dispenser is nearly empty.
“Am I dreaming?”
He huffs in irritation, “You hit your head or somethin’?”
It’s only when you look up at him, eyes wide and empty of thought, that he realizes— that yeah, you’re still out of it.
“Dabi?”
“No, you’re not fuckin’ dreaming. Quit askin’ that—”
“Can you join me?”
“…”
He clicks his tongue, and you think he’s attempting to sound annoyed.
“Christ,” he mutters, before shrugging off whatever would get in the way, such as in his huge coat, boots already long gone, and steps into the tub fully clothed. The water sloshes, warm spilling over the edges, soaking dark fabric instantly.
“Move,” he says, low, nudging your thigh with his knee.
You try, but your body’s sluggish, heavy, and you end up tipping back instead. Your balance gives out, and you fall back into him, a soft sound leaving you as your spine meets his shin.
He sighs, dragging you up by your armpits and setting you into his lap, nudeness not being a problem.
You practically purr into him, warmth welcoming as you tip your head back against his shoulder. He hums, his nose burying into your neck as his hands hold into your waist.
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“I know.” You seem to slowly regain your mind, talking more confident, and for a second Dabi thinks you’ve all but tricked him into thinking you were a damsel in distress.
“Don’t try anything. This ain’t some fuckin’ spa day, and I’m not your personal heater.”
“You are, though.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
“Are t— ouch! You—!!” You cry out as he pinches your thigh, squirming on top of him.
“I’ve long stopped being anything for you when you left me behind, doll. Think it’s too late to be playin’ around like kids, no?”
Reality overtakes you, and you frown. It was selfish, thinking he could all forget about it, and thinking you could just shove the whole thing to the side. You still in his hold, and he notices the brashness on your face as it tips forward, hiding from his sight.
Truth be told, he’s enjoying this.
It’s no secret that he’s evil, and even a bit sadistic, but he’s nowhere near to actually not wanting to be yours. It’s just so he can stoke his ego, watch you break silently because truly, that’s what you deserve for your pussy move.
He grins as you suddenly feel a bit too exposed, watching your arms hug around yourself in order to hide what he’s already seen a thousand times.
And yet, he still craves to see it another day.
Clicking his tongue, he removes your arms, nuzzling his face into your neck, “Now, doll, want to explain to me what you did and why you did it? Since you seem to be finally back in the right state of mind?”
The childish antics he uses on you flares your humiliation even more, and your cheeks heat, feeling far more vulnerable than ever. Shit.
“Cat got your tongue?” He bites your neck, causing you to yelp, “Talk. You better fuckin’ explain why you left me half naked in the middle of the night, not even giving me an opportunity to—“
“What is there to explain, Dabi?!” You strike, huffing pathetically because that’s all you can do on his lap, “You’re a villain, I’m a hero, we simply didn’t work—“
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare finish that sentence.”
His warning is no joke, his hands gripping so hard into your flesh you’re sure it’ll bruise.
“We worked perfectly fine, and you know that. No one else knows or deals with me as much as you do—“
“And how much longer was I supposed to deal with that?! You kept leaving mid arguments or- or you didn’t even let me leave! And I don’t even know your fucking name!”
“Watch your mouth—“
“See? You’re doing it again! Go ahead, Dabi, shush me and go out for a smoke or something. Let me rot here while you’re at it—“
“Touya.”
You still, spine raggedly straight as you refuse to meet his eye.
It’s obvious as to what he’s just told you. His name, idiot. Still, you find yourself at loss for words, because the name itself rings up like an alarm, because it’s familiar and it’s been haunting you, because—
“Touya.. Todoroki?”
It’s his turn to be silent. His chest is the only giveaway that he’s not dropped dead behind you, rising softly and meeting your back.
“Smart girl.”
He’s—
“I- I thought Touya had— you-“
He sneers, “Do I look dead to you?”
Matter of fact, yeah. You do.
“No. Guess not.”
“..”
“…so that explains why you hate Endeavor so much?”
“And what do you know about him, smartass?”
You sulk, “I’ve talked to- um, your brother? He, um, told me that Endeavors not a good father so I just assumed—“
“Yeah. Should’ve known that brat would just tell anyone that.” Dabi— no, Touya seems just about too exhausted to even talk about his.. brother.
You’re not sure if you should take offense at being called ‘anyone’, given you had been one of the most loved and understanding teachers (not to forget the culprits girlfriend herself, but hey, whatever).
Silence settles in, and you lean back, your head turned enough to nuzzle your nose into his collarbone.
“Touya?”
It’s the first time he hears you directly call him that, and he feels his heart spike a beat. No one’s used that name in a long, long time, and you’re as special as it gets for a man like him, so the effect doubles and he feels like keeling over. It’s pathetic, the unease he feels in his abdomen, it’s making him nervous, maybe even a bit excited.
He speaks your name in a murmur, letting you know that he’s listening.
“I’m sorry.”
He thinks he could laugh. What is there to be sorry about?— well, apart from leaving him, that is. But the matters already been resolved, and your apology’s empty as it can be to him.
“What’re you sorry for, sweetheart?”
“For everything. I can’t.. imagine what you’ve went through. Touya.”
He purses his lips at your use of his name once again, and this time, you notice.
“You didn’t deserve any of it. Everything that happened and everything I’ve inflected on you, as well. Touya, I—“
You gulp, and his hands tighten on your waist, “Give me a chance. Please, Touya. Let me make it up to you, and let me—“
You croak, turning in his hold so you can straddle him. His face, the healthy part of his skin is stained with a slight blush, and his eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes are squinted and he looks so incredibly lost that all you can do is cup his face and kiss all over it. His breath hitches with each kiss, and your thumb goes to ease the wrinkles between his brows.
“Touya. Let me help you. Please, Touya. I want– I want you to have a happy life and- and if you as much as allow me to be selfish I want to be apart of that and- and I— I..”
Touya realizes that the wetness on your cheeks isn’t from the water— nothing has splashed up to your face, and the water from earlier would’ve all dried out all by now.
You’re crying.
You’re crying on his behalf. But you’re not pitying him, he knows that by the desperate sound of your voice.
You’re being selfish. Incredibly, incredibly selfish because you want him, want him to stay and accept you as a part of his life.
He thinks he wants that, too.
“I love you.”
Touya can’t cry. Couldn’t, ever since he burnt his tear ducts to bits. Yet, he’s always been quite the emotional boy. He’s had tantrums, breakdowns and whatsnot. He’s cried out of sadness, anger and happiness.
So, it’s no surprise when instead of tears, blood suckers through his eye because that’s all he can do when he gets emotional.
You don’t reel back, nor does your expression change. You choke back a sob, thumb going over to wipe the blood away, changing the colour of the water for a moment.
He growls, not out of anger but desperation, and pushes his lips against yours.
Teeth clash and he’s a starving man, eating and devouring your mouth like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do— until slowly he grows more passionate and slow than desperate, because he realizes you’ll stay— you want him, want to help him.
You kiss him back, accommodate as he wants, letting him do as he wants.
By the end of it, your spit is the only thing holding your kiss together. It breaks, dripping into the water between you.
“I love you.”
He cries, and kisses over your face, too.
“Touya,” you pant, playing with the short hair on his nape, traveling up to fist into his spikes.
He makes a sound nearing a howl, you think, as he places more kisses over you, “Fuck. Fuckin’ love hearing my name roll off your tongue, princess—“
You laugh breathlessly, spoiling him with further calls of his name, drowning in the moment.
It’s all you could wish for. It’s all you want.
Time passes, and Touya’s hair is no longer the black you’d been forced to dye monthly. Now, it’s the white you’d always secretly admired.
He’s left the League behind— for now, as he calls it. He’s got no business with them, not when he’s trying to get better, trying to sort his life out. After all, it’s not easy to wash away the sins he’s committed as a villain. The public doesn’t forget, and therefore neither will he. But he thinks it’s not too bad, because you’ve promised to stay at his side no matter what.
He’s told you all about Endeavor. About Rei and his siblings, how he got replaced by Shoto and then set himself on fire on Sekoto Peak.
You’ve comforted him through it, and he’s still building up the courage to actually talk to his family, to get back at them in a way other than actively killing his father.
Your job as a teacher is on timeout. After being kidnapped and not showing up for months— because Touya had been your priority, because you’d wanted nothing but his absolute well-being— they’d questioned you. You weren’t quite sure how to describe to them that your lover of years was Dabi himself, and that he’d saved you from the League, and that you’d finally resolved your fight to the point where Dabi— no, Touya, son of Enji Todoroki, supposedly dead— was willing to change.
You told them Dabi had rescued you for no apparent reason, leaving out the whole Touya part, because that’s something he should reveal himself. After the rescue, he’d stayed to tend to you, because you were just oh so injured.
It was enough to buy time.
Now, you’re lying in bed with Touya sprawled against your chest, his head tucked just beneath your chin. The room is dim, curtains drawn— a small apartment you two rent, paying only in cash so no one can truly track you. His breathing’s slow and comforting, enough to warm your heart.
Your fingers thread through his hair slowly, absentmindedly, feeling the soft white strands slide between them. He lets out a low hum at that, barely conscious, surprisingly heavy weight sinking into you.
“Don’t stop,” he mutters, voice rough in a way that makes you blush like a teenage girl.
You smile softly, continuing, tracing small patterns at his scalp the way you used to after especially bad nights. He practically purrs into you, your other hand traveling on his back to press into the knots, causing him to moan.
He mutters something about godly hands, and you chuckle, digging your fingers into his hair and tug his face up to yours. He groans, but there’s a smirk on his face, one you can only mimic. A soft kiss is shared before you gently drop his head back on your collarbone, nose breathing in your scent.
You’ve heard this summer is going to be a hell of a worse one, hotter and more suffocating than ever.
Yet you’ve never felt so excited to fall asleep in a bed with your personal heater during the worst of August.
Would u consider writing..... shiggy...... with an extreeeeeeme creampie/breeding kink.......... pls....... and also thank u if u do I owe u my life........ but if u don't thats OK too ilu
ask and ye shall receive🫡 (eventually).
tomura likes to observe before getting to the real deal.
sex, of course, isn’t excluded from that.
tomura, despite his denseness and lack of actual experience, has half the heart to make you feel less like an experiment when he pokes and plays with your fucking pussy.
you’d think that this man would go for a quick, messy fuck, maybe even leave you all pent up to yourself, but no. no, tomura‘s quite the opposite.
he’s smug. that much is clear when he’s got you on all fours, naked with your ass in the air. his fingers tease your hole, spreading your folds and going in between them. his fingers circle your hole before dipping into it again, cruelly harsh and deep to get as many reactions out of you as possible.
you know that he enjoys this. or whatever comes close to the term enjoyment when it’s about tomura shigaraki— hence, the only reason you haven’t yet crashed out and jumped his bones yourself. you’re impossibly wet simply from his stupid, destructive fingers.
and while you’re having a fight with yourself, tomura’s just as much as enjoying himself. his fingers dip in you, accompanied by a ton of wetness— the result of endless teasing. it’s dripping down his fingers, and he snickers, dry lips curling into a smirk.
you’re perfect. he knows that from the amount of times he’s fucked you (nearly not enough, in his opinion, but just enough to know some of your weak spots), yet, each time he does so, he’s got that untenable urge to do so much more.
it’s enough to itch.
and tomura doesn’t like any itches.
so, he’s come to the conclusion that he has to go for whatever he longs for. he’s not sure what it is, yet, but you’ve already told him that you’ll have him any way.
his cock is hard and leaking pre-cum. he’s painfully aware, yet he doesn’t want to simply fuck you.
it’s not right.
he watches as his fingers, two of them now, disappear into you and your moans follow immediately. he curls them, and his abdomen heats at your reaction, a whimper of his name and your hips wriggling for more.
his dick twitches at the thought of giving you more.
what exactly is more? a simple fuck? cumming all over your ass or your stomach? having you overstimulated and messy by the end of all this?
no, no it’s not quite that.
“tomura. tomu— baby I love y-you but if you don’t fuck me right now I swear I’ll fucking lose it—“
he hums, snugly adjusting his fingers to go as deep as possible, causing your jaw to slack and your face to fall into the pillows.
“so impatient. you want to cum on my cock, is that it?”
he huffs, pulling his wet fingers out and having absolutely no shame as he stuffs them into his mouth.
thats the thing.
tomura’s rarely ashamed, and it always has you begging for more.
his cock is freed from his boxers, the ones he’s managed to stain like a fucking virgin, but again, tomura rarely feels any shame. why should he, when he’s got all he wants placed on a silver platter right in front of him?
“that’s fine. I’ll get you to cum on my cock, alright?” he snickers, dry voice cracking.
you moan, feeling his tip nudge at your hole, his pre-cum dripping at your entrance.
your eyes snap shut as he fills you, your soft, velvety walls encasing him perfectly. he groans, too, never too shy to be vocal.
“n-no-“
he’s fucking you by the time you manage to spew the word out. each stroke deep and filling, making you crave for more. still, your voice makes him slow down, steadily pumping into you instead.
“no?”
you shake your head, gripping the sheets as you pant.
“no. n-no, tomu, want you to—“
you press up against him, and a grunt of surprise spills from him as his tip nudges against the spongy spot inside of you.
“w-want you to— ngh- want you to cum inside, p-please tomu-“
his heart skips a beat. suddenly, his hips move a bit faster, his hands grasping into yours with his pinky lifted out of security. it’s automatic, he realizes, because he’s pretty fucking sure he barely has any control over himself as he moans over your words.
and they don’t cease either.
he wishes they would. wishes he could shut you the fuck up, because his body goes slack as instinct takes over.
“please tomu- f-fill me up!”
oh.
oh.
that does it.
he ruts into you like a fucking beast. his hips slam slam slam into your ass and he’s pulsating inside of you. you feel it, gasping from both the sudden overstimulation and the weird sensation of his dick growing tenfold harder than before.
moans and grunts overlap, to the point where you’re not quite sure who is making what sound. not like it matters when he’s drilling you open like a machine.
you clench around him— it’s eery, the way he went quiet immediately. it’s like all his life force drained out of him and went right into his cock, whereas his tip assaults your cervix and makes you see stars over and over again.
you’re shaking, and so is he, but it’s far less easy to tell when it comes to him. he’s fucking into you, dragging his cock all the way out only to slam back in, but his hands give away secrets.
he’s fuming. overheating. whatever one would like to call it.
he’s gone feral.
“you f-feel me, don’t you? so needy..“ he coos, pressing his hands down on your abdomen, making you gasp out. he groans at the feeling, and if he could get any harder, he would.
“f-fuck, how are you this tight? you want this that bad, huh- ngh- want me to fill you up, right?” he grunts out, pressing open mouth kisses on your shoulder blades as he continues his assault on you.
“needy girl, I’ll let you have my cum, don’t worry.”
you whimper, pressing up against him, trying to match his rhythm.
“gonna breed you- f-fuck gonna make sure you’re all filled up- that’s what you want- hngh- right?!”
you nod, because that’s quite literally the only thing you can do in this position. he makes it hard to breathe, much less complain, but gosh you’d be lying if you’d said you wanted it any different.
he pants heavily, and you realize he’s nearing his orgasm- excitement bursts through you, and you clench down hard, because fuck you do want to be filled.
and he’s more than ready to comply.
“gonna- shitshitshitshit- fuck!”
he ruts into you harder, faster, hard cock tugging at your walls enough to know you’ll be sore for a week. his moans get louder, and there’s not a single thought in his mind other than to breed you.
he wants you full of his cum. wants you leaking and overflowing with it.
“take it- fucking take it! take my cum-!”
and you do.
when he cums, you feel it. hot, sticky spurts of his release that paint your walls white, the friction causing you to cum as well with a loud scream of his name.
he doesn’t stop. he’s plunging into you with the will of a soldier, his cum leaking out of your narrow hole and coating his own dick.
the sight makes him choke.
he wants to choke on this moment. he’s whipped, done, overstimulated, and all simply because he got to fill you up.
it’s not until your whines turn rather desperate for a breather that he calms down, pulls his dick out of your abused hole to watch how he leaks out of you.
you jump when you feel his fingers prod you again, scolding him to stop- but he just hums, and stuffs his fingers back into your hole.
you yelp- already overstimulated, sore and in need of a pause. all it takes is one look over your shoulder for you to know to keep quiet though.
he’s grinning.
and he’s hard again.
“going to have to make sure it stays in while we calm down for round two, right?”
and while surprise is pained across your wide eyed expression, he chuckles.
the itch is gone.
and he’s found the cure for it.
masterlist
A/n: I fear this is sloppy. I’m publishing this as of now at almost 2 am, I’m tired and I had a whole ass fight with my functions & keyboard in the notes app because I was just THAT desperate to write everything in lowercase. Also fuck you, autocorrect, for trying to misspell Tomura to “to much” five times in a row. Good night to whoever actually just read this
