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dykeomania · 5 months

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PLS write smut for Hazel from bottoms..I need her so bad I fear..maybe like subtop!hazel..is her having a strap too far..I need her..

this is not. a full fledged fic. but this is the first time in a sec that ive let myself be inspired by an ask. this is weirdly switcher and just pure gay-sexier than it is subby!hazel. lmk if you want things to get subbier, bc i can probably do that. but for rn i have.. this image.. and i want you to walk with me on this but also hold my hand because i'm #supershy,

(minors [including 17 year olds 🙏🏽] dni fr, under the cut: not that proofread. strap lol (r!r), foul language, breeding... language... (my bad) (hazel has a strap tho), subtop!hazel except i could've made this shit so much worse so i guess switch!hazel but like, switch!reader, idk everyone's just a whore. there's an "i love you" (or.. multiple, i guess). there's a mirror. there's a vibrator. purely stream of consciousness, i don't even think the position they're fucking in makes physical sense fr. i was bored and i was thinking, so i wrote a lot. this whole thing is not realistic btw. i have very little confidence that hazel's blowing anyone's back out, but. it's my first day out in a min so i'm rusty. all respect to the community. next time when i pull up, i'll offer something a little more tame and saccharine as opposed to [exaggerated p*rnstar moans!!!]. reblogs and whatnot appreciated.)

so, i have this .. picture.

of you putting a bullet vibe in the pocket of hazel's strap before she fucks you from behind for the first time.

she eventually finds the confidence to blow your back out, and tbh, you think it's gonna end with you seeing stars because you can already hear the fucking lottery machines going off in your head. she's fucking you so well, and hazel's problem is that you're letting her know.

at first she thinks she's going crazy. but those fucking mewls into the pillow over how deep she is, how she's making you feel so good, how you've missed her so much, are sending shocks through her clit that the vibe keeps amplifying, everytime her pelvis hits your ass.

if she thrusts hard enough, which god knows she does, it almost makes her buckle over.

you're left clenching the sheets, and gasping against the linen while she fucks you, taking you in a way that's so uncharacteristically perverse that you don't even have the brain capacity to ask yourself why you didn't ask her to take you like this, sooner. her thrusts are quick and shallow, her words breathy and a little sharp. with every jolt of your body forwards as she experimentally blows your back out, it's like you feel yourself becoming more and more removed from this fucking planet. you can't help but cry -- sob, even -- as she makes you into a mess of limbs, leaving you tugging at your tits in one split second, and gripping at the sheets the next.

something happens, though.

where her hips rut into yours in deep, hard thrusts, spaced out by what feels like eternities, you can hear her. she's moaning now, breath quickening and chest rippling everytime her crotch hits yours at a particular angle. she's mewling, and unless you're hallucinating from how fucked up you are, you can hear her --

"fuck... f--uuh--ck, fuck, fuckfuck..."

-- silently beginning to whimper.

the girl goes from bullying your cunt to burying her strap deep enough in it to make the apex of its curve nudge against your g-spot, in a way that leaves your mouth hanging wide open with nothing spilling out of it maybe other than drool, but...

it's the slick warmth of hazel's back pressed nearly flush against yours and the heat of her breath against your shoulder that makes your eyes flutter open, facing your reflection in the floor-length mirror stationed across from hazel's bed.

hazel's in it so deep, you can't even see the strap anymore. and by no exaggeration, it's like an earthquake pulses through her body everytime she nudges her hips into your ass, making your vision blurry. she's rutting into you. greedily grinding her strap into your cunt in the effort of chasing her own high.

it wasn't a secret that hazel was sensitive. more often than not, the poor girl writhed against your mouth whenever she let you put it on her ("let you" is a loose sentence -- she begs for it, sometimes). you don't even know why you're surprised that your girlfriend is getting this close over having a bullet vibe pressed against her clit, hardly protected by fabric. "b--babe--"

what sounds like a plea, amongst the feeling of hazel's thighs trembling against the back of yours, inspires something sinister inside you.

you wind your hips against her, pressing back against the strap and the toy. the sight of your ass rolling against hazel's pelvis, combined with how good it feels is gonna actually, like, make hazel fucking--

"don't cum."

she loses her breath, entirely, and her rhythm, apparently. she slows, as if that was her body's instinct to obey your orders, despite the string of breaths that tumbles out of her mouth. "n-- wha-- fuck, no, nonono--"

you wind your hips deeper into hers, extracting a moan from your own throat -- fuck, maybe your gut, since that's how deep you could feel her. you press your ass into her until you feel the buzz of the vibe against folds, the frequency of it changing and humming as you press it further into her clit. "y--es," you grit. "don't fucking cum yet, hazel."

the dull, rolling vibrations through the fabric of the strap draw hazel's eyes into the back of her head, and then closed. she's grunting now -- or all of the above -- and she tries her best to unchap her lips, fruitlessly dragging over them. the little breaths she takes through them only brings them back to being puffy, pink, and a gateway of noise that gives evidence to struggle.

"gonna let me count you down?" you puff out your sentence in one breath, and hazel can fucking hear the grin in your still-fucked-out tone and it makes her whine louder.

"yeah? gonna fuckin' let me count you down so you can cum in me, haze?"

cum.. in you. three words that you'd never even fucking uttered to her before this, and that she never fucking thought she would ever hear and.. it looks like she can't complain, because her eyes roll into the back of her head and hazel swears that she -- at least, briefly -- meets jesus christ, "oh my god--," hazel slurs, hips rolling impossibly deeper into yours, it's a miracle she hasn't swabbed your cervix yet -- "ohmygod, oh my god--"

"three..."

ohfuck. ohfuck,ohfuck,ohfuck,ohfuck. it's the soft chorus that she whispers to herself as she starts to fuck herself into you, again, opting for thrusts as a means of trying to regain control with no consideration for your demise. the vision of her blurs in the mirror, and you feel your fists grasping at her sheets again.

"fuck--" you croak. "t--two.."

she pulls you further into her, and at this point, hazel's okay with being written off as a lost cause, 'cause fuck, it's not like she has a choice. the strap brief is soaked and it's entirely your fault, and god, she throws her head back. a mess of words, a mess of sensations, hazel just blurts, "oh my g--od--i love you--"

you burst out laughing at the random proclamation, admist everything.

she forces her head down to watch you, jaw hung open. and at this point, she's just speaking. rambling and slurring and gasping, tears-in-eyes-in-awe-and-all, as she watches you throw your ass back against her.

"iloveyou so much, you're so f--ucking hot, whatthefuck?--"

there's something weirdly sweet about it. something that makes your cunt clench around the strap in a way that hollows you out shortly thereafter, and lets hazel hit that fucking spot just right. before you know it, you're wherever hazel is, cunt fully creaming around the silicon.

"i love you--" you dumbly spit out a giggle, a gasp causing a steam of spit to cascade off your bottom lip and onto hazel's navy sheets. "babe," you warn. "ohfuck, ohmyfuckinggod, you're gonna make me cu---"

"fuckingsayone," hazel, unbelievably pleads while she unbelievably spears her strap into your cunt. "oh my fucking god, say one, please, please, pleaseplease--"

she starts begging. unprompted. "it's s-so good, it's so, so good, feels so fucking good, wanna c--um in you--" and she probably repeats it. probably repeats that she wants to cum in you until she's blue in the face and,

"o-one--"

until you let her.

the noise that's ripped from hazel's throat is .. embarrassing. virginal, almost. fully reverberates off the walls, and she trembles. her clit convulses against the vibe, twitching with every short stream of her release and she folds. poor girl was holding your hips for something -- for reassurance, to get a grip, dear life, perhaps? as her hips languidly fuck and press into the surface of your ass., rocking your near limp-frame after you've pretty much creamed all over her strap.

hazel hangs over you for god knows how long, dark hair shaggy and some strands stuck to her forehead in wavy wisps. cheeks flushed, and lower lip bitten to hell. the bullet vibe fucking dies, thank god almighty, because god knows she was not in any shape to reach down and turn it off.

she stays like that for a while, until she you feel her again. this time, only gentler, and much more like herself. soft hands caressing the skin of your back, her breath warm and shaky as she peppers a splay of kisses across your skin.

as you come from the surface of your own high, you feel yourself hum. still full of her, and dizzy with it. despite it, you manage -- slurring, slightly.

"haze?"

there's a hum, somewhere.

"did that really feel that good?"

hazel distantly nods, brown locks brushing against your back.

"uh.." hazel frowns, letting out a weak laugh. "y-yeah, honestly."

the mental note gets filed away somewhere deep in the haze of your brain and you grin, when you press your ass one against her just for shits and giggles and hear her gasp, from the sensitivity of it alone.

"that's my girl."

#hazel callahan x reader #hazel callahan #lesbian #wlw #lgbt #bottoms 2023 #merry fuckin christmas #i am logging out see you in like 12-15-35 hours

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soundbulb · 23 days

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inexplicably all this is reminding me of that james baldwin quote that seered itself into my brain when I was like 18, and it's when he said something along the lines of america's soul is grappled between these two impulses: there is the world of the deep subterranean sensuality manifested in blues (I think he specifically says ray charles) and there's the world of doris day and gary cooper, america's grotesque appeal to innocence. and that phrase "grotesque appeal to innocence" became immediately recognizable to me as something I'd tried to observe to myself before, but couldn't find the words for it. it is the thing immolated in cadillac flambe when they're all having their little party on the perfect lawn. but mostly it's the appearance of america's propaganda in the forms of the wholesome family, the nuclear family, the saccharine, the fun whimsical world of america catasterized by the movies and the music of a vapid mass of artists willing to create an image of america with no substantive tension in american life; just a lot of art that was not willing to touch or be near or get even risk getting a bit of the stink of life on it. I think at one point he even writes that it's the byproduct of this national cowardice, that life holds and beholds nothing that creates bitterness, that bitterness is a miscalculation that crops up in people that can be corrected. all of this is heavily paraphrased to the point where I might be way off base, I need to rewatch this documentary. but the description of duende reminds me of what james baldwin was describing in the blues, the version of life imbued with the darkness, what james baldwin describes as sensuality, and what is called black sounds and blue notes in the article on duende. I'm getting the book next week but as I'm reading it just on wikipedia I can just hear that portion of the doc in my head. I can so vividly remember how he uses the words subterranean and sensuality, because in his novels this particular thing pops up over and over, where sensuality describes this mysterious power imbued within humans from an unknown place. the fact that lorca even says you battle the duende "on the rim of the well" so the threshold between here and the subterranean clinches it for me. baldwin was specifically talking about the disavowal of black life and white violence through art, but so much of his writing is trying to describe the black sounds and blue notes of duende -- the entirety of just above my head is kind of a perfect example of this but now I've got all these things I have to reread and I've got these things I've gotta read for the first time :/ anyway if I could I'd make everyone do a book club with me and we could all read in search of duende because it's coming on wednesday :p

#t #ht #htl #supa

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mypoisonedvine · 3 years

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𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙡𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙧𝙮 || niki lauda x reader x james hunt

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 : flirting with james shouldn’t have been a problem, because you and niki weren’t even that serious anyways, right? well, it turns out you are serious, but it also turns out not to be quite the problem you expected.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 : 2.8k

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 : smut (threesome, dubcon (slight), oral f and m receiving, dp/anal, spitroasting, slight degradation/dumbification, overstimulation, spanking), touch of angst, possessiveness, niki being mean (guys, it’s niki), pwp

based on a request by @creme-bruhlee which was based on a thing I told him I was working on which I wasn’t actually working on yet but then I casually wrote in one sitting when I was supposed to be doing my sleepover gah

You certainly didn’t like James Hunt. After all, you were all but contractually obligated to hate him in solidarity with your boyfriend and his biggest rival, Niki.

But you did appreciate James— for his undeniable talent as a driver, and for what he brought out in your boyfriend. Not just on the track, but at times like this as well.

It started rather innocently, at least as innocent as any press event could be. Niki wore you proudly on his arm, for most of the interviews: you knew that a lot of this for him was simply a publicity ploy to improve his image, but it honestly didn’t bother you that much since it was partially for publicity on your part as well (you had your own career to advance, after all).

What bothered him, though, was when James started to suddenly chat you up, undeniably flirty but just to the level that it could almost be construed as polite.

He waited until Niki was pulled away for an interview and stood just behind the camera, asking you a million questions and finding dumb excuses to touch you: first it was something in your hair, then admiring your bracelet (Niki gave it to me, you told him; Twice now he’s shown that he has fine taste, James winked in reply) until he finally stepped closer and rested his hand on your lower back.

“Let me show you what a real driver can do, sweetheart,” he offered lowly, leaning in so close that his lips brushed against your temple, and you caught Niki leaving the interview suddenly in the corner of your eye.

“And let me show you what happens when you can’t keep your hands to yourself,” Niki interrupted, shoving James back off of you before hitting him square in the jaw. You gasped, as did the many reporters and drivers watching, but soon Niki’s attention was turned back to you, fire in his glare.

“Hey, I was just trying to be personable—” James defended as he held his face in his hand, but Niki ignored him, grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you behind him out of the press tent.

“Looks like the infamous Hunt/Lauda rivalry has come to a bit of a head, possibly over Lauda’s girlfriend—” you heard one of the reporters explain to a camera, but soon the buzz faded to silence as Niki took you further away.

“Where are we going, Niki?” you asked nervously, trailing behind him as best you could.

“Somewhere private where you can learn your lesson,” Niki answered, making you swallow dryly. He wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to be in trouble with.

He found an empty garage and all but tossed you inside, pinning you to the wall at each shoulder.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, letting Hunt put his hands on you like that?” he hissed.

“I didn’t let him, he just did it!” you defended.

“Then you tell him to stop!” Niki explained, exasperated. “Instead of standing right there, right in front of my face and doing nothing! You can’t imagine how it feels to see another man put his hands on you— and that man...”

You hadn’t realized he cared about that sort of thing; you hadn’t realized he cared about you that much. “I’m sorry, Niki, it won’t happen again.”

“You’re right about that,” he hissed, “it won’t happen again because you’re going to bend over that toolbox and learn not to test me."

You opened your mouth to protest and yet you were already doing it, feeling your cheeks burn as he pulled your dress up and rubbed his calloused hands over your ass and thighs.

A yelp jumped from your mouth when he hit you, but your thighs clenched together, too. "Now would be a good time to start apologizing," he suggested coldly.

"Niki, baby, I'm so so sorr— ah!" you whined again when he hit you even harder, the sound of his skin on yours echoing around the garage.

"Do you want to flirt with him? Would you rather be his flavor of the week?" Niki interrogated.

"No! Just want you, I swear," you promised, biting your lip to hold back a moan when he hit you twice in a row.

"You'll have me," he promised. "You need to remember who you belong to."

If you weren't so desperate you would've probably protested to that language, but your panties were soaked from almost nothing at all and you were in no position to debate with him.

The sound of his uniform unzipping was like music to your ears, and you purred a little when he pulled your panties down your thighs slowly. "Are you enjoying this?" he realized. "It's supposed to be a punishment and still you're soaking wet. Is that for him or me?"

"You, Niki, fuck me, please," you whined, the sound shifting into a gasp as he pushed inside you roughly, a little too deep and a little too fast for how little you'd been prepared. It was usually some level of struggle to take him but this was a very new circumstance: now he was fucking you with a point to make, with a message to send. And you got that message loud and clear as he mercilessly pounded into you, nearly knocking over the toolkit you were bent onto. "Fffuck," you stammered, holding onto the aluminum for dear life while he grunted behind you.

"You can moan louder than that, no need to suppress yourself," he encouraged.

"They could hear us, they're not too far away—"

He spanked you again and you cried out, realizing he likely wanted them to hear you; he wanted those reporters to make sure everyone knew that you were his. "Tell them who's fucking you so good, hm? Tell them who you belong to."

"Niki," you sobbed, "yours, baby, I'm yours..."

Just then, the door to the garage swung open and you gasped at the sight of James Hunt. You tried to kick Niki away and cover yourself but he didn't budge— he didn't even stop fucking you, much to your humiliation.

"I'm a little busy here, James," Niki explained with a smug grin.

"I can tell— listen, if you're gonna make us all hear this, could you at least do it right?" James frowned. "Your girl has many talents but acting is not one of them."

"Are you saying this is a performance?" Niki realized.

"You'd be able to tell the difference if you'd ever heard a woman actually finish but with you, that's impossible," James laughed. "Smart move going from behind, though, spare her from having to look at—" James motioned to his face broadly— "this whole situation you have going on."

"If you think you can do better, Hunt, I'd love to see you try."

You started about a thousand questions but didn't finish any of them, and James grinned as he shut the door behind himself. "I told you I'd show you what a real driver can do, didn't I?" he addressed you, crossing the room to where Niki had you pinned down.

Before you could say anything (not that you knew what to say), James grabbed your hair and kissed you, not quite rough yet but completely dominating as his tongue slid over yours and tickled the roof of your mouth.

"You wouldn't be doing that if you knew where her mouth had been, James," Niki chuckled.

"That sort of shit doesn't bother me, Lauda," James explained once he'd broken his lips away from yours. "It's called confidence in my masculinity, look it up sometime. I know exactly what's been in her cunt, too, and I'm still gonna show her how a real man eats pussy."

You got a little nervous at the sound of that, but wetter as well.

Niki circled to face you, clutching your jaw and examining your expression carefully as James hungrily licked and sucked at your cunt.

"If you're going to eat her cunt then let me fill it with my come first, give you a little taste of victory, eh?" Niki joked, but James pushed him away and you whined slightly when your boyfriend's cock slipped out of you... but it was only a moment before James knelt behind you, swiping his tongue over your swollen bud and drenched opening as you purred.

"I hope your jaw isn't too sore, Hunt," Niki sneered.

"It's not," James assured with saccharine faux-sweetness before diving back in to taste you further.

James stopped to lean his head out to the side. "Think she likes the sound of that, Niki— she clenched down on my tongue real tight."

"If you come for him, you won't like what I'll do to you," Niki warned you harshly. "You won't sit right for a week, at least."

"Oh, I see," Niki smirked. "You want me to tear up that little ass... should've known, you have that look about you: the kind of girl who acts innocent in public but turns into a whore when the lights go out."

Yet again James caught you reacting to what Niki said, though this time he didn't need to announce it since your own moan gave you away.

"Go ahead and fuck her then, Hunt, and get her ass ready for me," Niki instructed. You were surprised when James obeyed, standing up and unzipping his uniform as well to start rubbing his cock over your dripping pussy.

"You want it, sweetheart?" James taunted. "Ask very nicely."

"Fuck me, James, please," you sighed, and he was much more gentle than Niki had been as he filled you, letting you savor every inch of his length.

"Sounds so lovely when you say my name like that, do it again," James demanded, slowly beginning to rock into you.

"James," you breathed, gasping when Niki pushed his cock against your lips; you could taste yourself on him and it turned you on even more.

"I think we can find a better use for your mouth than boosting James' ego, yes?" Niki groaned as he started to fuck your mouth, holding your head steady. "Certainly he doesn't need any more of that."

You moaned loudly around Niki's cock when James circled his finger around your tighter rim. The first knuckle pushed in and you felt your knees wobble. Then back out again, then to the second knuckle-- each twist of his finger he went a little deeper, he even went so far as to spit on your hole which made you choke from more than just Niki's cock down your throat.

"Your girl's gotta sweet little cunt, Niki," James groaned as he fucked you faster. "You should let your pit crew use her, too, give 'em a morale boost."

"Maybe I will if she doesn't behave for us today," Niki considered, weaving his fingers into your hair to start fucking your face more roughly.

Your legs threatened to give out with the way James was fucking you; your eyes rolled back in your head with a suppressed moan as Niki kept using your mouth.

Around the same time Niki pulled his cock out to rub it over your face, James pulled out to slap his swollen head on your clit.

Another finger pushed into your ass and you made a sound that you hardly recognized as your own. "If I had known you liked it up the ass so much, you would've never taken it anywhere else," Niki promised with a growl.

Once James decided both your holes were ready, they seemed to have no trouble at all manhandling you into the position they needed— surely it was the first time you'd ever seen them work together— and soon you found yourself balanced on James' lap while Niki found his place behind you.

"Do you think you can take us both, sweetheart?" James taunted as you felt both of them teasing your holes.

"Well, I've never been fucked by two massive dicks before," you admitted, "and you have big cocks, so..."

"I'll miss that wit of yours when you become a mindless, drooling fuckdoll in the next two minutes," Niki stated plainly.

It only took ten seconds.

Your hands weakly held onto James' shoulders as you bounced on top of him, moaning lowly as you were filled beyond what you thought possible. Niki had to hold your waist to help guide you, occasionally thrusting forward to fill your ass with every inch of him.

"Ah, fuck," you moaned, reaching beside you to grab Niki's forearm in an attempt to stabilize yourself.

James tore your dress down the front and latched onto your tits, sucking hard and even letting his teeth graze one nipple while Niki used his free hand to pinch the other.

Even when your eyes fell shut and your brain was totally empty, you could tell them apart just by touch. It was Niki sucking a mark on the side of your neck, but James grabbing a rough handful of your ass. It was Niki that reached around to rub your clit, but James that nibbled and sucked on your earlobe while whispering things so dirty that your face burned hot.

"We can both feel it when you come, do it again," Niki demanded just before your third hit you.

"Give us a good squeeze, sweetheart, wanna feel that cunt milk me," James agreed.

"I-I'm coming," you gasped as your head fell back, both of them laughing and cooing proudly.

"There she goes."

"Good fucking girl."

"Gets tighter every time."

You only regained your ability to tell who said what when you felt Niki's lips against your ear, his voice soothing your aching, quivering body. "You want to be full of come, don't you?" he presumed, and you nodded sleepily. "We'll fill you as deep as we can, and you need to keep it in you for the rest of the day."

"Yes, Niki," you agreed softly.

They picked up their pace and you felt like a ragdoll as they thrust into your limp body, chasing their highs as recklessly as always until you lost your voice from moaning so loud.

James finished first, though you imagined this was one race he would’ve preferred not to win. He bit down on your shoulder as he filled you, hard enough to leave a mark which you knew would anger Niki when he realized it.

"Tell me who you belong to," Niki pleaded one last time, coming inside you the moment you answered "you, Niki."

And then it was just the three of you, standing there in a sweaty jumble of limbs, catching your breath and trying to process what had just occurred.

“Do you think we can get out of here without too many reporters seeing?” Niki asked James.

“I’m going to worry about getting out of the girl first, then the building,” James decided, and the two of them helped lift you onto your numb legs, your body slow to recover from the onslaught of sensations that had been forced on you this long. If anything was more jarring than being filled by both of them, it was both of them pulling out at once. Come leaked out of you from more places than you cared to admit, and since James had torn your dress, Niki gave you his uniform to wear which left him in only the undershirt and boxers he wore beneath.

“I can’t believe I’m getting your spunk on my uniform right now, Hunt,” Niki grimaced, making James laugh as he zipped himself back up. Funny enough, he looked the most normal after all this of the three of you; maybe because he always had that ‘just had some freaky sex’ look about him. You and Niki were a bit newer to the game, so you didn’t wear it as well, but honestly you thought he looked pretty cute with his curls all messed up from when you’d run your fingers through them.

“Well,” James announced with a puffed chest and proud smile, “next time you two are having a lover’s spat, give me a call and I’ll lend a hand or cock as needed. But I think I’ll take my leave now.”

What do you say after something like that? Apparently the answer is nothing, considering you just nodded slightly and Niki gave him an awkward wave as he disappeared out the door with the nonchalance as his arrival.

Plunged into silence, you glanced over at Niki who was already staring at you. “So?” he asked. “Was he better?”

“No,” you answered right away.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Relief washed over you when he pulled you into an embrace and kissed your forehead; you couldn’t think of the last time he was so affectionate. “Let’s get back to the track and find you a new dress, hm?” he suggested. “One that James Hunt absolutely won’t get his hands on.”

#niki lauda x reader #james hunt x reader

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cryptiql · 3 years

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smoke signals

pairing: dabi/m!reader

warnings: smoking, mentions of anxiety and abuse, but otherwise okay. please do not read forward if any of the listed warnings might trigger you in any way, and stay safe <3

words: 6.5k

a/n: this is my first ever mha fic and the fact that i decided to do dabi first shows i have some massive balls but i'm giving it a try! if he seems ooc at all or i get some facts wrong, please lmk and i'll fix them. (heavily inspired by smoke signals by phoebe bridgers—would recommend listening to it or any of her other songs while reading)

dabi found the meaning of life in a simple strum of chords; a melody twisted by melancholy tunes that resonated deep within the gates of his mind. they haunt him—either by breaking his conscious from a much needed rest to bring him tossing and turning in the damp air of the loft, or making sure that he stayed wide awake during the late hours of the night and well into the creeping day. the lyrics are so surreal that he has to sit down and contemplate their meaning like an english teacher would to the color red, but they're painted saccharine and drip with honey flowing from the mouth that sings them and he hates it. he hates that he's wasted moments better spent wrecking havoc just to understand that stupid little ditty that clings to his heart like a leech. but this song did not come from his own craft—no.

dabi had known the putrid stench of sweat and vermillion blood when the flames licked at his skin, breaching the coarse flesh of his palms to rain hellfire upon all those who dared oppress him. he could weave lies with knots that would take years to unravel, and set whole cities ablaze with a mere finger. clawing oneself from a well built to drown them in their trauma does tend to leave scars on ones hands, and dabi's body was practically a canvas for mutilation, so he could consider himself an expert on the matter. he could attempt to make such a song by strapping in with his many hours of free time and diligent persona, but his hands were not made for music; neither delicate, sonorous tunes or dark, grating strains. they were made for war.

so if anyone had asks, "no" is his answer. "i don't play." and yes, it is while he's drumming a rhythmic beat that he claims this to be true, but the last thing he thinks about is donning a set of drums during his free time. he's far too distracted by the image of your taper fingers curled around the neck of your guitar to consider anything else.

the gentle but keen plucking of chords startles him from yet another ridiculously long-winded spiel by shigaraki, and dabi swallows a strangled groan behind his grinding teeth. it's in his head, now, and so far the only thing that has succeeded in reaping it from his memory—if only for a few minutes—is the blood stained battlefield that he's found himself fighting on far too many times this month alone.

what's he complaining about, though? it's not as though he minds getting down in the dirt. in fact, he's ecstatic to dig his claws into any gruesome ordeal so long as it benefits him in some way, so why is he so invested in this little to and fro game of twenty questions with the likes of you; someone as significant in the world as a paperclip without paper to hold? why come back, despite there being nothing in it for him besides a series of migraines?

not from you, a voice answers from inside. you're an absolute pleasure.

dabi nearly snarls at the confirmation that his own mind is turning against him, and as he does this, a plume of smoke erupts from his lips, billowing and curving to create intricate patters before dissipating into the atmosphere. a second time. a third. a fourth drag from the cigarette has completely obscured his face from anyone's view, and he relishes in the instant of privacy it gives him. however, it has also blocked him from seeing everyone else in the room, and while he normally would have considered that a blessing, it appears tomura has had enough of it.

you get headaches because you smoke too much, comes a second voice; yours, scolding in a way he'd only expect from a worried mother. dabi only has a split second to register it before shigaraki's head pokes through the fumes, red eyes alight with rage and lips pulled back into a snarl.

"would you quit doing that inside? it's fogging up my brain and i can't think straight." he grates.

"strange—i assumed there wasn't a brain in there to fog up in the first place." tomura's nostrils flare and dabi's pride spikes.

"besides, you came in here and looked directly at me as i was smoking—why didn't you ask me to stop then?"

"i was telling you with my eyes, idiot. you should know when it's time to either take it outside or put the damn thing out. there are ashtrays for a reason, and not everyone here wants to inhale that shit." he interrupts their intense staring contest only to wave his hand to clear the smog. now he can see the rest of the league clearly (oh joy, he thinks) and gives an indignant grunt when spotting toga at the bar table, covering her mouth and nose as a pitiful aim to block her lungs from the smoke. twice, who had unfortunately used up the last pack of his own cigarettes that morning, leans forward to take a whiff, exhaling soon after with satisfaction.

kurogiri stands at his usual spot behind the bar, seemingly unaffected as he idly scrubs away at grime infested glasses, while sako lounges at the opposite end of the room. his mask is on, leaving dabi to wonder if it's been like that all day, or if he just recently put it on to better fend off the fumes. he doesn't really care, whatever the case.

after a beat of silence, dabi wets his lips to respond, a lopsided smirk growing on his features.

"oh, i'm sorry your frail body hasn't adapted to a bit of vapor in the air. and with that flakey skin of yours, it's no wonder you're extra sensitive—"

shigaraki's hands come flying through the next waft to slam against the tabletop where dabi's feet lie, causing it to wobble and creak in protest. the ravenette doesn't even flinch as the harsh, raspy words are spat in his face.

"if you're not going to pay attention, then leave. actually, i'd prefer you do that either way."

and dabi would have happily disregarded his request if not for the faint ringing in his ears, rising higher and higher before receding back into his skull like the tide. a scowl morphs its way onto his once vacant expression as he puts pressure on his temple, rubbing softly where his eyebrows knit together. just for today, he'll indulge his so-called boss's whims. the piercing screech that emits from below when he pushes his chair back does nothing to help with the ever-growing headache, but it hardly matters now that he's headed out the exit. he's able to catch the last fragments of shigaraki's raving before the door closes, leaving him to stand amid the tumult of the city in all of its glory.

the alleyway is dark with looming shadows, but people are still milling about, so dabi considers himself lucky for already being dressed in his disguise. he flips his hood up, pulls the surgical mask over his nose and quickly slides on his sunglasses for good measure before slipping out into the traffic, sometimes going with the flow and then weaving past those moving too slow for his liking.

right now, his patience is a mere thread; hair thin and on the edge of snapping whenever someone bumps his shoulder. their negligence is infuriating, and he's tempted to roast them into a charred, mangled mess then and there—the consequences of blowing his cover be damned—but by some miracle, he manages to refrain from doing so. it takes about five minutes for his temper to shorten to the length of a matchstick, and he knows that one more shove will be what strikes it. dabi pauses for a moment to crane his neck, allowing the sea of people to flow around him like a stream to a rock as he searches for an alternative route. it appears as though he'll have to take his chances with the crowd until he hears the repetitive ringing of a bell and a man's voice calling for passengers to board. public transport was risky, what with him being a menace to society, but he can't possibly be the single most shady dressing person on the train, right?

he wouldn't bother answering his own question when daylight was burning, so dabi pushes himself from the swarm and leaps for the streetcar just as it begins pulling away from the stop. there's a shuddering jolt before the passengers settle in for their departure, and as his palms squeeze the metal railing in response, he notices the peeling red paint clinging to the car's exterior and finds himself staring at it for a ludicrous amount of time, not thinking about anything in particular.

the rickety trolley is semi-packed with civilians, none of whom regard his presence with anything more than a noncommittal glance. good—that makes his job ten times easier. to his chagrin, it runs over more than a few opposing train tracks or crudely paved bumps in the road, and this causes the whole cart to jostle before stilling completely, the process repeating itself over and over.

the knowledge that his trip to the outskirts of town is a short one is the only thing that calms his nerves.

when dabi finally arrives at his destination, the sun is gradually descending from its peak in the sky, and the clouds are more like wispy tufts than the luscious, cotton candy lumps they were just hours earlier. overhead, the baby blue hues turn to shades of opal; a forewarning of rain. the feelings of irritation and malice from earlier are still bound to him like chains that threaten to snap him in half when drawn too tight. the crippling weight causes his feet to drag along the gravel path at a sluggish pace, his own hot breaths fanning against his face from behind the mask. if anyone actually lived out here and they were to see him, their first impression would be that a living corpse had just waltzed onto their property. it was just his luck, then, that you were the only person out here, and by extent, the only one not deterred by his appearance.

even so, dabi's mind kicks into gear. was this a good idea? he doesn't even know why he came here—he just needed a place to blow off steam and his body had already made the choice on its own. this isn't any different from all the other times, though, and he can't ignore the fact when it sits in the pit of his stomach like an anchor. you're always the first person he goes to at times like these (dabi subconsciously rules out the man working at the local 7/11 who sells his liquor cheap, though he's still appreciative of the bottle to numb his thoughts). that tells him more than he wants to know.

your house is quaint, like those old country cottages he sometimes sees pictures of, and squats on a large, grassy mound of earth surrounded by heaps of rocks and sand from the neighboring beach. it merges with a towering lighthouse, and dabi notes that there must not be any sailors due to make port yet, otherwise the light would be on. the second thing he takes in are the flowerbeds sitting under your two front windows, and how they look withered and close to death.

"i wanted to add some color, but i can't keep plants alive for shit." you had said, huffing in amusement to yourself as you tended to the weeping alliums. "succulents are the only exception."

a small pot of them sits on the windowsill, but they seem to have gotten to big for it; the rubbery leaves spilling over the cracked rim. he hardly registers how much of a stalker he must look like until he stands on your welcome mat, peering through the dirty glass panes to find you nowhere in sight. the lights aren't on, so he can only see the outlines of furniture when bands of light stream in to reveal them.

sitting back on the balls of his feet, dabi curses under his breath. it's not like he was expecting anything. how was he supposed to know whether or not you were home when you had no way of telling him?

"jesus, patch!" a shout startles him from his brooding, but he doesn't let it show as he looks towards to ocean. you're hauling yourself over a large rock to wave him over, wearing a familiar grin. so that's why he couldn't see you. dabi makes careful work of leaping over jagged stones and threatening to bake any nosy seagulls as he makes his way to where you sit, with your favored instrument slung over your shoulder. the ghost of a smile graces his lips when he recalls how you would have scolded him for being mean to the birds, but that was before last week.

"pesky fucking bastards—they keep shitting on my music sheets!" another seagull waddles into your vicinity, only to squawk in distress as you shoo it away with your foot. "i wonder if this is natures way of telling me to quit while i'm behind. . ."

after breaching the treacherous terrain and nearly scraping himself in the process, dabi squats on the stone beside yours, looking up at you with hooded eyes. you meet his gaze with nothing short of merriment and a shake of your head.

"if someone had seen you, you would have been arrested on the spot for being a peeping tom." you chuckle, combing a hand through your hair with a smirk. "what? you lookin' you catch me in the nude or something?"

dabi scowls, choosing to ignore the question rather than give into the bait. as if i would be satisfied by looking at anyone but you in that state. he swats the air as if it would drive the notion from his mind like a bothersome fly.

"in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere? i'd never get caught."

"aw, don't be like that. if you really wanted a peek you could've just asked." the mocking tone in your voice spurs him to smack your thigh, which earns a hearty laugh in reply.

"ooh, don't treat me so roughly, or i might begin to like it!"

dabi has had more than enough experience with your flirtatious tendencies, and he feels he should have gotten used to it by now, but his heart still clenches every damn time. the worse part? he can't say that he minds. you don't give him a chance to respond, but dabi hasn't a clue what he would have said, so he lets you continue, watching intently as you rifle through your bag to fish out a guitar pick. shifting into a crisscross position, you perch the guitar on your lap and begin tuning the strings, idly talking about how uneventful the past days have been. dabi pretends not to have heard that it was because he wasn't there to visit, and instead gives his attention to the lighthouse in hopes that you won't see the faintest of reds dusting his ears.

five minutes pass before you actually start playing, and even then, it's only a few experimental notes here and there that help you build towards the perfected melody.

it's too sweet for his taste; dabi swears that's why his stomach turns so ferociously and prompts him to lean against the boulder to his right for some sort of stability. he won't even humor the idea that it's because of the way your lips twitch into a near half-smile before melding back into a concentrated frown the moment you strike a wrong cord. an embarrassed flush captures your cheeks as you study the music sheets, briefly pressing down on them when a sudden breeze flutters the pages. the pencil that was once tucked behind your ear now sticks out from one corner of your mouth, a flash of pink and orange melding together when you go to absentmindedly gnaw on the wood.

many more minutes fly by, and you've long since abandoned the new tune just to pick up an old one. dabi's back straightens at the first set of strings you pluck, and he recognizes them as the same ones that have been playing on repeat in his head since the day you met.

dabi's heart hammers in tune with every footfall that slaps against the pavement, tearing through the small pools of water that grow with every second. it hasn't stopped raining since the chase began, and there isn't an inch of him that hasn't been soaked through. still, something good must come from this little dilemma—the burning sensation that clings to his arms has almost settled down. the silhouettes of trees merge with inky blackness when he blinks, and he reaches with trembling hands to wipe the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes.

a yellow square of what assumes to be light shines in the distance, contrasting wildly adverse to the darkness that sweeps him up from under his feet and pushes him forward. the sound of police sirens has been reduced to a mere memory in the time that was running, but he isn't about to risk going back to the league's base in fear of a stakeout waiting to get the jump on them. besides, why stop there when the possibility of shelter awaits him?

the bottoms of dabi's shoes are slick with mud, and blades of grass have snuck their way under the cuffs of his jeans to scratch at his skin. the sensations paired with the numbing cold are beyond uncomfortable, but he won't have to worry about that once he gets inside—that being if the person inside doesn't put up a fight.

he'd expect them to be mad if they did anything except that, no matter how welcoming the house looked. dabi's instincts tell him that someone out this far from the city doesn't a have a lot of connections, and thus killing them wouldn't cause an uprising if it were needed, but the minute he grips the doorknob, a thought occurs. if they have a quirk, its power could level my own or even surpass it. . . he grits his teeth. but like hell i'm going to let them win.

the hesitation vanishes in an instant as dabi turns the knob and thrusts himself inside, wielding a blue flame in his dominant hand to further illuminate the room. the wind is so fierce that it pulls the door shut for him, and the villain finds himself staring down the unperturbed figure of another man, perhaps around his age, hunched over a stove and glaring at a steaming kettle. they lock gazes, and almost immediately, the kettle gives a high pitched whistle. you look away first, lifting the pot and turning the burner off whilst opening the cupboard overhead to pull out two mugs, both of which adorn ugly christmas-themed patterns that dabi wishes he could forget ever seeing.

his glare hardens when you move to the table in the far corner and begin pouring what he assumes to be tea, taking one cup into your own grasp and leaving the other at his own disposal. your one mistake is grabbing your phone from the counter, but when dabi's flame enlarges, you hold your arms up in defense. then, before he can even formulate a proper threat, you toss the phone to him. he catches it easily and observes the dark screen, masking his astonishment with a more sinister expression.

the only other move you make is to drape yourself across a cushion on the window seat with an acoustic guitar in hand. you look more relaxed by the second despite being cornered by a dangerous criminal, and dabi has to refrain from voicing his shock when you address him with an almost bored tone.

"if the tea isn't to your taste, there's more in the cabinet. shower is down the hall to your left, and there's a spare bedroom upstairs to the right. do whatever the hell you want, just don't burn the place down or touch my freddie mercury records."

dabi is stuck to the spot for one of three reasons, he determines. one, your attitude has surprised him into a stupor that not even hiw own will can break. two, his refusal to believe that you're handling this situation in a calm manner is really just his defense mechanism kicking in, and he won't move until proven that you won't do anything when his back is turned. and three, you're quirk is similar to that of madusa's and you've successfully turned him into a fleshy mannequin.

"if you're worried about me calling the cops, what you're holding is the only working phone here. the power is out due to the storm, so my landline is dead, and the nearest form of help is a crippled old widow five miles west. i'm not going to risk running when i'm up against someone with a quirk."

dabi considers everything said, but never once allows his fire to dim. he took the surrounding area into account while making his escape, and he can see the landline is in fact out of service, so the male's assurances checked out. hell, the light source that guided him here was nothing but an old-timey oil lamp. the fact that you're quirkless does him a great amount of good as well.

with cautious steps, dabi makes a beeline for the bathroom, but he stops halfway to stare at you again. you respond by quirking a brow and kicking your feet up, something akin to mischief in your guise.

"i can take the shower with you since you're so afraid i'll make a break for it." you drawl, and dabi snarls, a fowl cuss bubbling in his throat as heat crawls its way up his neck.

"why, with a blush like that you might not need any drying off~."

dabi decides that he's had enough and storms down the hall, already peeling off his dripping clothes and and silently promising that he'll burn the guy to a crisp if he so much as tries to catch a peek. he can hear you calling out in hilarity even as he slinks into the shower and attempts to drown you out with the static-filled haze that captures his senses.

"the name's, y/n, by the way!"

try as he might, dabi had never been able to keep from coming back. now the reason why has been revealed to him on a silver platter, and he won't even spare it a glance.

your soft singing snaps him from his reminiscing as he stretches his legs, stifling a groan when something pops as not to disturb you. while digging through his pockets for a cigarette, he stops momentarily for fear of forgetting how to breathe when he lays his sights on you. you're in your own little world; everything else—him included— seems to have disappeared as you play from the heart. you need no standing ovation, no adoring fans or fantastic lightshows. you've said it once, that fame and glory mean nothing to you, and that you have all you could ever want or need right here, nestled in the beachside view of what you call home.

"and i have you." a cool breeze ruffles your dirt stained overalls as you reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead. the sun beats down on you, never shining half as bright as your smile, and the shore kisses the boulders with waxing and waning waves of aquamarine; frothy, foamy masses washing up with it to carry lone strands of seaweed. "otherwise i'd go mad without your company."

okay, that was lie. the truth is right there, practically spitting in his face how much of an idiot he is for trying to deny it, and dabi is glaring right back at it. he feels like an impatient kid on christmas eve, sneaking glimpses of gifts under the tree and feeling like he's committed a felony after getting caught. and you do catch him.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" there it is—that stupid nickname. it's always been laced with mirth when you call him as such, but now it's replaced by genuine curiosity. and is that a hit of concern he hears? you study him with pursed lips and stony features that gradually morphs into that of concern when the silence stretches on. dabi forces himself to sneer at you, and something stirs inside his chest when you don't flinch.

he hates it. he hates you.

dabi nods to the sky, a guarded noise building in the back of his throat as he tugs on his earlobe.

"s'gonna rain." your jaw visibly clenches, but you humor his evasive habits just like you always have, looking to the clouds, which have darkened considerably in the last hour or so. it's around this time that the weather patterns become more unpredictable, but you've noticed the distinct lack of rainfall in spite of the gathering storm brewing overhead. you could sit out here for a while longer without much activity in the sky, and it would take more than a little shower to drive you inside, especially when you finally had the chance to enjoy some quality time with dabi. you notice the way his shoulders droop and the tension from his facial muscles all but disappears when he sits amidst the smell of fresh salt water and unpolluted air—the weight of his past slowly but surely ebbing away. you'd like to hope you have some part in that. oh god, do you ever hope.

you plead to whatever omnipresent being above that he's not just here to hit a blunt without getting reprimanded for it, or that he's making these daily visits out of pity.

"nah. it's been like this for a little while—looks like a storm will hit, but then it passes before it even begins." you sling the guitar back over your shoulder and gather up your music sheets, eyeing dabi from your perch. you're challenging him now, and normally you would never dare force him to speak if he didn't want to, but something about his aura is off. you can sense it in his words; the very air he breathes; and it compels you to hold him close, if only he would let you.

"so, you gonna tell me why you're avoiding the ques—" a deep rumble interrupts you, and dabi lets out a sigh of relief that you're thankfully too distracted to hear. a single drop of water hits your nose, followed by another, and another, and—

"you were saying?"

"oh shut it." you don't get to finish speaking, for a crack of lightning strikes the far end of the beach, scattering sand in every direction. you just barely manage to scoop up your belongings before sliding from the rock, but your footing betrays you and send you stumbling to the ground. dabi is there to catch you, wasting no more time in hauling you to your feet and rushing you as carefully as possible through the jagged maze. he can't refrain from smiling when you splutter a string of profanities pass poorly hidden laughter, an unmistakable "FUCK ME!" spilling into the cold evening when you accidentally stub your toe on a particularly sharp stone. it's pouring within seconds, and no sooner do you reach the doorstep do you both realize how sopping wet you are.

the last thing you think of is your chattering teeth, however, when you see dabi's spiky tufts of hair dripping with residue and his electric blue eyes gazing into yours. what you do think is that for the first time in your painfully ordinary life; your twenty three years of mediocrity and progressive isolation from the world around you; you have found the single person who understands your struggles and has chosen—for some unfathomable reason—not to abandon you. you wish you could say your parents were the same, but you also have scars from a distant childhood that brought you to this place.

this old lighthouse is your home, yes, but dabi is your sanctuary. he might as well be a god by how often you worship him from afar, wondering if ever you'd be so lucky; so eternally blessed; as to call him yours.

you don't register that he's opened the door to let you both inside until a cozy warmth envelopes you. no, wait, that's dabi's fire. it should terrify you that the same man who threatened you with those flames is now at arms length, but you trust him not to hurt you in any way, and so you lean into the gentle licking of heat on your skin, humming in content as your shivering comes to a halt.

dabi's fear of burning you diminishes when you flash him a grateful smile, a whisper of thanks echoing across the walls and pummeling his heart without resistance. he averts his eyes with a curt nod, a feeling like molasses weighing down his tongue and drowning the words he wants to say.

"you're welcome." is all he can muster.

half an hour later, your guitar is drying by the hearth and the two of you are huddled on the window seat, nursing cups of coffee and watching the storm in a comfortable silence. you haven't blinked in a while, meaning you've wandered off the tracks of consciousness as suspected, and pretty soon, you start singing quietly to yourself; the deep crooning used as background noise to your aimless meditation. dabi nudges your calf with his foot and is rewarded with a brief quirk of your lips and a nudge back. he doesn't have the patience nor the brain power to decipher how long this goes on for, but it doesn't matter.

this is fine. the image of red hair and a tall, intimidating figure invades his train of thought, and dabi curls inwards on himself. this is fine.

but it's not.

trembling, he places his mug on the table before retracting back into his seat, clasping his hands together. he tries visualizing the ties of his life coming together to form a rope. the fingers on his left—memories from his past—linking together with those from his right—memories made with you. his palms connect, bringing instant relief with the knowledge that he's here now, practically nestled between your legs, out of harms way. you're both fine.

dabi takes the swelling anxiety and pretends to crush it within his fist; clenching and unclenching it until his peace of mind returns.

"penny for your thoughts, patch?" you ask again, still in somewhat of a trance. this time, dabi answers.

"why do you call me that?"

you're caught of guard, half expecting him to ask why you haven't turned him in to the authorities. you've seen him without his disguise, you know his name, and for the past eight months you've been socializing with him like normal human beings do. that's more than both of you could have said in the past. of all the burning questions, he chose that one? "i've heard 'patchwork' and 'staples' and just about everything in between. why shorten it to patch?"

you gape at him, opening your mouth, then closing it, and so on. the pitter patter of rain against the window has ascended into relentless pelting. it sounds like gunfire to dabi; assaulting his ears in floods; but to you, it's nothing more than a waterfall hindering your view of the ocean. the deep breath you take seems to put more suspense in the atmosphere than needed, and it makes dabi's heartrate quicken for an entirely different reason, yet he makes no sign of stopping you.

"because my first thought whenever i see you is how much you remind me of a doll." oh. what?

you can tell by dabi's reaction that that wasn't what he was expecting, so you gesture for him to wait. he isn't sure he likes the forlorn expression you're wearing.

"typically, when kids first get a doll, they treat it like glass and make sure to tend to it with love. other times, doll owners are reckless and tear them apart just to stitch them back together like nothing happened. you use that camouflaged to blend in with the public, and i'm lucky enough to see what's under it. . .but sometimes i wish you'd keep the mask on so i don't have to see you upset."

upset? a fizzing sound erupts from his palms that he struggles to put out. he's not upset.

"don't try to hide it. you're always scowling when you think i'm not looking, or when you forget i'm even here, and i know it's because someone broke you without the intent of fixing you up."

once more, red clouds dabi's vision, and he moves to stand up.

"you had to clean up after their mistakes because no one else would, but instead of reusing the bits and pieces of your old self, you burned them. you destroyed any and all evidence of who you used to be and now you're patching yourself together with parts that aren't your own, because you don't want to hold onto what happened. though, something tells me you still haven't let go, otherwise you wouldn't be so angry."

"you don't know that!" he snaps, but he knows it's not true.

your hand closes around his wrist, and dabi recoils with such strength that it yanks you from your seat. dabi doesn't want you to let go, no matter how much he thrashes in place, because the sensation of your skin on his grounds him. somehow you know this, and you give a comforting squeeze to his pulse.

"but that's not all i see. because dolls are beautiful, and it's the ones who still love them after they're broken that they need the most. no one's told you they think you're beautiful, have they?"

dabi shakes his head, refusing to meet your gaze even when you cup his cheek with your free hand tilt it towards you. every touch is filled with hesitancy; feather light and more intimate than anything dabi has ever witnessed, let alone experienced personally. with the way you hold him like he's water in your hands, your eyes overflowing with a love he hasn't known in forever, dabi knows he won't find another feeling like it. you're not the embodiment of good—at least not by society's strict standards—but at least you can sit there and say you've committed a crime. you've never bloodied your hands by hurting others, much less gotten a thrill from doing so, and that's why he pulls away. he has to, because dabi is a harbinger of war, and if he holds you any closer it will only be to kill you.

he says something; a snarl mixed with a broken plea that he prays will make you stop; and you do. his silent victory doesn't last for long, though, because then you're using both hands to cradle his face and fuck, the pads of your thumbs grazing his scars feel like heaven. "won't you let me be the first?" how could he say no? how, when the taste of honey and whiskey is so addictive that he's already drooling into the kiss and willing to beg for more; when your mouth slots perfectly with his and dabi begins to wonder if he's stumbled right into the scene of a cliché wattpad story. the idea causes him to huff out a growl, and although neither of you can talk, he can imagine how strongly you must want to poke fun at him for the action. he can feel you smirking—the smug little bastard you are—and dabi ponders how long it will take to reduce that attitude of yours until you're submitting to him.

not yet. he chastises himself, completely unaware that you're currently thinking the same thing. dabi kneads the flesh of your hips through your jeans while you comb your fingers through his hair, gasping sharply between bruising, wet kisses and keening when he leans down to nurse your lips with soft pecks afterword. you're still trying to process the fact that you've coerced this devious criminal into making out with you in the pale glow of your seaside residence, but for the moment, you need not concern yourself with the details. you've forgotten all about dabi's ego and how this whole situation is no doubt feeding its flames. his grip on your waist is making you too delirious to care.

"fuck." dabi's breath is staggering when you finally pull back, an aura of clarity and desire hanging between the two of you.

"y-yeah. . .that was. . ." you can't produce a word, or even a paragraph to describe it. you know you're going to hit yourself later for admitting such a banal phrase in the midst of what could be classified as your very first kiss, but that is neither here nor there, and you would rather suffer an agonizing death than let dabi find out that he stole your first. you're too preoccupied envisioning all the other firsts to come, so you don't notice the way he stares at you like some precious jewel, but his fingertips brushing your bottom lip succeed in snapping you out of it.

"hm?"

dabi goes quiet, contemplating what to say as the thunder moves abroad and the rain comes to an end, leaving the house in a numbing state of tranquility.

"why not call me doll, then? it'd be easier."

you chuckle in response, playing with the hairs at the base of dabi's neck and making sure not to miss the way he melts into the affection. "i thought that'd be moving too fast." and dabi; still drugged from your kiss and what he can only hope is love; rasps out a genuine laugh, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

"you offered to take a shower with me the night we met, and you think a nickname is moving too fast?"

you stick your tongue out at him, and dabi resists the urge to grab it, even if it's just a bluff.

"would you have let me call you that anyways?" you ask, something hopeful ridden in your tone. dabi feigns consideration as he looks to the ceiling, snickering when you smack his chest. eventually, he murmurs what you audibly hear as "brat" before resting his forehead on yours, an impish glint in his gaze.

"no."

you turn your chin up at him, giggling when he nips at the skin. dabi knows just as well that your attempts at escaping him are halfhearted, so he encircles his arms around your waist tighter, delighting in the flush that paints your cheeks.

"then i think i'll settle for my love, or darling, if that's alright with you."

dabi can't fend off the blush for his life, but he's not afraid if you acknowledge it. he can get you back easily, and he plans to. "fine by me, doll."

#⛓.dabi #dabi x male reader #dabi x reader #anime x male reader #mha x male reader #touya todoroki x male reader #my hero x reader #my hero x y/n #boku no hero x reader #x male reader #bnha x you #dabi fluff #dabi angst #dabi imagine

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shini--chan · 4 years

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1p allies and axis react to that the reader gave birth to they're child. When they ask here she wants the hold the baby? , her answer is like "I don't want hold that thing!"

Alright. So, before I start off I need to give a fair warning that as to why it would even come to that point … let’s just say that it is pretty dark. Warning for implied non-con, manipulation & coercion. You’re reading this at your own risk.

Yandere Allies

America

“What do you mean you don’t want it?”, Alfred would ask, completely dumbfounded by your vindictive reaction to your very own child. Lovingly, he stared down at the bundle in his arms. The reddened face covered with wax was just too adorable to be true.

“We’re finally going to be a family; it is the most wonderful thing I can think off. And you have to react like this.”

The malice in those sky-blue eyes was clear as he took in your exhausted state.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? This is your child as well as mine and you have to go on and reject the best thing that has ever happened to you? Your lack of compassion is shocking. So, either put your big girl panties on and act like an adult or we’re going to have a serious talk!”

Let’s just say that Alfred wouldn’t take it well at all that you have such an aversion to your very own child. He would see it as grounds as to have a serious talk with you. If you’re lucky, it would be something akin to a psychotherapy section that he would do with you, only with a lot of condensation. Then, if he is in a very bad mood, it would be far more macabre.

Of course, the things he would do to you would be wrong, except in his mind where everyone of his actions would be justified. Through rejecting your child, you would have tarnished his image of you. Alfred would have thought that you had gotten used to idea of spending the rest of your days by his side. Those vile words of yours would have served to confirm the latter. And villainize you in his eyes.

You would have a lot of apologizing to do. Just keep in mind that if he would sense anything fake in your buttering up to him, the trust he would have established would crumble to ashes. And he is good at disconcerting true from false. However, if you’d hide any lies you’d have behind extreme emotions, then you could succeed.

Canada

“But, she/he is your child”, Matthew would protest. The way you’d firmly shake your head would make his heart drop to your gut.

“A child I never wanted”, you would whisper, sweat glistening on your brow and making it seem as through you were submerged in a fever dream. “Only you wanted a child, I didn’t. How can you be so blind to not see that?”, you would murmur, too lost to evade the hole you were digging yourself into.

Your captor’s lips would thin as he was reminded about the darker aspects of your relationship.

Talk about popping a balloon with a needle, there goes all that happiness and excitement, blown away by a few cruel realisations. Of course, due to your relationship not being of an overly violent nature the fall-out wouldn’t be harsh in the direct, tangible sense. Needless to say, Canada would be pissed that you just had to go on and ruin the whole show and his dreams of a saccharine future.

He’ll skilfully dismissed that you would have been coerced into bearing a child (if not by the worst way you can get pregnant) and tell everybody that would even catch wind that there was something sinister buried deep, that you were just hysterical because of all the residue hormones from the delivery and the exhaustion. That is, if he has too.

China

A fine, pencil thin eyebrow would rise as he condescendingly regarded your disarrayed constitution. Calmly, he would turn to the midwife he had order and take the new-born expertly out of their arms while stating:

“We thank you sincerely for your services. Please, leave now that I may calm my wife down.”

They would nod and quickly scurry out of the room.

Snake-yellow eyes would stare fondly at the infant weakly kicking at the blankets and thin lips stretched to an endearing smile as a tiny, waxy hand was extended up to his face. Gently, he would shift his arms so one hand was free. The baby would snatch the outstretched index finger as soon as they would have the chance, clumsily stuffing it in their mouth and sucking.

Yao wouldn’t even glance your way as he would seat himself on the edge of the mattress, however, his scolding words said with such calmness would add a crude shadow to the picturesque image:

“All your tantrums are growing increasing petty. You should restrain your emotions before you go completely out of control.”

You wanted to gap at him, at his patronizing words. But more than anything else, you wanted to cry for help. Not that any would come. You were stationed in the guest room of his estate and the midwife that had been summoned was the only other person anywhere near you.

She wouldn’t aid you, not that she could. Your “lover” had a way with words – his violence wasn’t physical; it was an intangible knife that made wounds that would never heal.

Instead, you would stammer shakily: “But you said we would give it up for adoption.”

“I said I would consider it. There is a big difference there. Besides, you shouldn’t torture yourself by denying your own nature.”

At those words you would find yourself trembling. Rage would simmer like a pool of magma in your stomach and combined with exhaustion it would make you shake – a brittle leaf in the autumn wind. Your voice would crack as you seethed: “Do you have to start with this sexist nonsense out me being a woman…”

A glare would be enough to silence you.

“It is not because you’re a woman. It is because you’re a human and humans care for their kin.”

To China, it would be barbaric for you to so callously reject your very own child, the fruit of your womb, a testament of the love you two have for each other. To him, family is infinitely precious and for you to smash that vision there would be severe consequences. Whether you would like it or not, you’re going to keep the child and you’re going to love him/her. Although, you might do all that out of your own “volition”, as in China would manipulate you to extent that you’d think those thought would be yours.

England

“Shut up!”, would be his immediate response and the waspishness of his tone would be enough to make the nurse raise their eyebrows in suspicion. However, the rage upon porcelain feature and the harshly snapped instructions of “Leave” and “Not you bloody dare tell anybody about this” would be enough to make your only gate way to freedom vanish.

Money would also help seal the deal.

The baby would be in the cradle at the foot of your bed, luckily, because the expression of malevolent fury on his face told you that he would’ve broken anything in his hands in fit of rage. It was the expression of hot passion and chilled anger that one would normally attribute to a general.

Still you summoned your courage to make your case: “I never wanted this, not any of this so not give me that look. You knew I never wanted a baby, you knew that didn’t want to…“, you would yell and choke on those last words because of the memories they’d evoke.

And that window of opportunity would be what Arthur would use to crush your case to dust:

“It is funny, really, because half of the time you don’t know what you want from life”, he would say, voice dangerous soft as he approached you, the fairy fire in his green irises making your skin itch as if there was something contagious directly underneath the first few layers.

“But that doesn’t matter anyhow because your feelings are irrelevant.”

You would open your mouth to protest but only a croak your come out.

“No matter what you say, your emotions are not accurate assessments of reality. What is reality is that you don’t know what is best for you. I do, better than anybody else and that is why you need me. Face it, you’re nothing without me.

“So, except your new role of mother. I promise, you’ll grow to love it.”

As the man himself just now stated, your wants and desires are meaningless to him in the grand scheme of things, or at least, he’ll convince you of that. If you would believe that yourself, then thing would be much easier for him. Arthur would see it as another chance to degrade your identity while putting his on a pedestal.

However, if you wouldn’t fall soon for his manipulations, then he would let you feel his anger in controlled bursts. The spite would surface over your time of recovery and he would purposefully leave you alone with the child so that you would be forced to take care of them.

France

“You will”, he’d state firmly.

Your jaw would hit the floor. Him not getting sentimental would shock you.

“It pains me to see you like this, to see you so cruel, so take those words back. What happened to my (y/n)? What happened that her morals decayed to this point? Where is her heart? Where is her compassion?”, he would sorrowfully lament, like a heart broken poet.

His touching little serenade would be enough to make the fussing baby fall silent, not to mention you.

Guilt would rise up in your gut, toxic and hot. Just what had come out of your mouth?

This would be one of the matters where he’d leave no room for his delusions, where he would even go as far as to revive all the memories of your countless grievances for the sole purpose of teaching you a lesson. It would be needed, and he would be lucid enough to recognize you as a potential threat to your own offspring.

To say the least, he would be weary of you during the next few years, least you try to get rid of the child somehow, be it through cold blooded murder or by giving them away for adoption. With the outburst you would have displayed, nothing would be off the plate in his eyes.

Russia

Violet-blue eyes would be harsh as the high north when they met yours, the warning glare enough to silence you and make something shrivel up in you. Defeated, you would press yourself back into the mattress hoping the accursed thing would swallow you whole because that would be better than all the damnation that the hardset features of your captor promised.

Therefore, it would be all the more petrifying when Russia would elect to ignore in order to turn his attention to the squirming infant in his arms, cooing lovingly and smiling.

Ivan wouldn’t take any nonsense on your part and if you hadn’t learned it at that point then you would be in double trouble. It might even descend into slaps. Although that would be a last resort, if he would feel his control slipping and resort to drastic measures in order to regain it.

He wouldn’t lose a word over your unforgivable behaviour, not the next day, not the next week, not the next year. If you would bring the topic up, then he would be quick to shut it down. However, just because he would verbalise the problem doesn’t mean there wouldn’t be any consequences for it. It would take for in the nuances of your life together – him not help you with the post-delivery recovery, often having a patronizing and degrading undertone in his voice when speaking with you, generally acting more spiteful towards you…

Those would just be a few examples. And he wouldn’t take written or spoken apologises either. Ivan wouldn’t care for lip-service, you would have to prove yourself to be a worthy and loving mother in order to get in his good books again.

#yandere allies #yandere hetalia #yandere America #yandere england #yandere china #yandere Russia #yandere canada #yandere france #yandere hetalia x reader #x reader

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