𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾..

Dabi's tired, too. He's always tired, although he's not sure anybody really notices since he's gotten pretty good at moving around like it doesn't matter, like the charred, stapled wreck of him isn't held together by sheer spite and willpower, the unbreakable spirit he'd inherited from his father — but somehow wrong, just like his flames and then he burned himself alive as a kid and survived it worse than wrong.

Everything after that has just been him pretending, forcing his body to work long enough till he could make himself into something his father could no longer ignore. His gaze slips away from Tomura, settling somewhere past his shoulder, toward the sad little counter with the abandoned mug of shit coffee sitting on it.

He thinks of the League now. Not just Tomura and not just because he wants to. It just happens... His mind wanders to Toga's bright, nearly feline smile. Twice's fractured voice tripping over itself. Spinner's steadfast conviction, Compress's theatrics... And, yeah, Tomura who is standing here in pyjama pants at nearly four in the morning. Tomura, who had been worrying about him, about where he was and what he was doing. He'd laugh if it didn't pull at something weird inside him. Something small and hurt that wanted it so much it was no longer absurd or annoying.

They don't bug each other much, he and Tomura. That's always been a strange comfort — no prying, no fingers clumsily poking around at old wounds. They exist beside each other like two live wires nobody sane would grab, close enough to spark and careful enough not to ask what kind of power source keeps the other running. Everyone in the League has that same current in them. Different voltages, different damage, of course, but it was all the same, all rooted from the same place, the weight of the same polished boot.

All of them looked at Hero Society and saw the rot under all the carefully curated glamour. All of them wanted to change it — or break it — or burn enough of it down that maybe, finally, someone would have to admit it was nothing but fucking trash, which was the only other option any of them had. He thinks about Toga again, about the time Twice and Compress had talked to her about aliases.... But she didn't want one. She just wanted to be Himiko Toga. Just Himiko Toga, a normal girl.

He remembers how he'd looked at her at first: some psycho schoolgirl with a knife and a crush on bloodshed. He'd thought she didn't belong with them, thought she was more like Muscular — some senseless bastard who hurt people because hurting people was the whole damn point. No cause, no convictions, no real goals, but he'd been wrong.

Toga wasn't any kind of freak or monster. She really was just a girl. A normal girl, a girl who wanted to be herself, the self everyone else called wrong, dangerous, disgusting and unacceptable, like she had a choice in what quirk she had and how it worked for her. He'd thought about that conversation more often than he'd ever admit. He'd thought about Toga's response, her reasoning, and he realized there was something truly radical about that, something so brave, something so liberating.

Toga was not letting the world rename her into some mask, some gimmick, something that made her easier to condemn, some supervillain out to cause senseless damage, someone who is bad because the world said so, and nothing more was ever thought about it.

❝ Yeah,❞ he says at last, his voice filtered through gravelled sarcasm that this time doesn't have that defensive, sarcastic bite he usually spoke with; this time it's purely playful — exhausted, but good natured. ❝ I mean, Dabis a cool as hell name, my parents could never. ❞ his gaze trails away from the coffee on the table, away to nothing in particular as he speaks again, and for a second, he wonders again if saying it will change something.

Would any of them look at him differently? Maybe Tomura would laugh. Maybe he'll get pissed that it was kept from him given its kind of a big thing. Maybe he'll connect the dots too fast and realise just how pathetic it all is — that the big bad arsonist, the walking corpse with blue fire and a death wish, has spent years haunting a family that buried him before he was even dead.

Maybe he'll stop mattering.... Maybe they'll feel betrayed, the son of a famous hero, the hell would he know about being an outcast, being a nothing that the world looked down on, and who was to say he wasn't secretly informing on them or some shit. These are all thoughts that enter his head as he stands here on the edge of this precipice, knowing he's about to step off it.

Fuck it, it's not like he's announcing it to the world, not yet. He's only telling Tomura, so he speaks again before the flickering flame of his courage goes out. ❝ My name is Toya.❞

A pause came after he'd said it. There was no going back now and then, because apparently he's gone completely insane and because Tomura waited up and threatened to drag him out of a burning building, and Dabi's chest still hasn’t figured out why it made him feel the way it did, he gives him the rest. ❝ Toya Todoroki. ❞

And there... He'd said it, and he doesn't know if he feels relieved or if he just wants to shove the words back into his mouth and pretend he'd never spoken them. He forces himself to look at Tomura, his blue eyes bright and sharp and watchful as he waits for the flinch — the anger — the realisation — for whatever shape the consequences of his decisions tonight might take.

Dabi looks tired, but not like he craves sleep, much rather, he looks like he tired with everything that surrounds them. The world, people, society. Where usually Tomura sees fiery anger, he sees discontent now. It makes something unfamiliar and still rather new bloom in his chest. Something he is still learning to handle, something he's learned, so far, is mostly tied to Dabi. Concern, but not the kind spawned by his tightly strung nerves, not the irritation pricking at his bones when a mission goes awry, no, this feeling is undignified of a man with the responsibilities he has, it's soft and fragile, and it flickers in his heart weakly, like a candle he is struggling to keep alive. 



And yet it's not a struggle, it comes naturally, as if he is meant to worry like this, to fret over another adult who's more than capable of handling himself, an adult who matches him in power, if he doesn't entirely outdo him. Dabi is stronger than anyone Tomura has ever known, and it's very much not limited to his quirk. It's impressive, yes, but it's Dabi's spirit Tomura sees even more power in. He is unbreakable, determined, and somehow, amidst it all, he's loyal. Amongst the crowds they frequent, it's a rare treasure, and one Tomura values above all.

He knows better than to demand it or expect it, but it had sparked between them mutually, quickly, and it had taken a leap of faith on Tomura's side, a reckless kind of decision, according to nearly everyone else, to hand such a formidable villain an even more formidable weapon to use. Tomura didn't know why he'd agreed to it, to giving Dabi a Nomu- one he'd made after Dabi's very own specifications, it had been somewhat of a gut feeling. 



Dabi was not an oversharer, he never had been, in fact, in all the time they'd spent in the League together, he had barely shared anything at all. Tomura could behind the mentality, with his own past bubbling up from beneath the surface he had kept still for so long. He'd kept it quiet, not telling anyone much of anything.

Toga asked, sometimes. Who had named him Tomura, his mom or his dad? Did something happen to his house? How had he gotten to be Kurogiri's ward, taking All For One's orders? He answered vaguely, if ever. He told Himiko his father had named him, and in a way, he'd internalised that idea enough for it to feel kind of true. His master had become more than just a teacher, a guiding hand, long ago. There was plenty of times, in his youth, as a teenager, where a slip of the tongue turned the formal title into something simple, affectionate, hopeful. But Tomura was aware that accidents or not, his father All For One was not. 

He told Himiko he didn't remember the rest, and for a long time, that wasn't a lie. It was recent, the feeling of strange awareness, the reality of who he was fighting with what he needed to believe was true to bear it.

When Tomura steps a bit closer, it's no longer for any logical reason- he simply wants to see Dabi from up close, to be before him, not a few paces away. Something very weak and painful stirrs in him at the thought of coming any closer, of leaning in and wrapping his arms around Dabi the way he so frequently sees Toga do with Compress, or Jin, or even Dabi himself. He gets far fewer hugs, mostly, he presumes, because he doesn't advertise his comfort with the idea of being touched.

Tomura doesn't hate to be touched- he hates having to touch. It's always been his own hands to destroy any kindness he touched, not the opposite. He doesn't voice it, and he doesn't need to, but it stings bitterly in him when Dabi looks away, growing silent, and Tomura's hand twitches at his side, rising a little as he almost gives in to the urge to reach for Dabi- for his hand, his arm, his shoulder, something.

He lowers it again, giving Dabi more than the emotional space to say whatever the hell it is that has him, Dabi, of all people, hesitating, slowing down, looking away. Dabi, who will stare anyone down and say whatever he wants to. Tomura would walk backwards and grab his coffee to fill the silence with a sip, but he doesn't hate himself enough for that. 


And when the words do come, Tomura is glad he didn't, because he would have dropped the mug and ruined the wooden floors. Toya- at first, he thinks nothing of it, truly. It's a good name, for someone who was destined to reach heights he could not imagine climbing to, a name for someone exactly like Dabi. And then the rest comes as well, and Tomura is silenced, truly silenced, for the first time in a long time.



A lot suddenly makes a lot of sense. Dabi's passionate determination, his fiery temper, those sharp blue eyes, but most of all, the scars, and the faint smell of hair dye, every few weeks. Tomura swallows the shock dryly, nodding slowly, because yeah, this seems right.

❝ Toya. ❞ Tomura says quietly. It's a tone he didn't think himself to be capable of, his voice tinted in some kind of warmth he can't place, careful, but not fearful. He meets Dabi's- or rather, no, Toya's gaze, crimson clashing with shimmering cyan, and he brushes a strand of hair behind an ear. There's something new nagging at him, demanding acknowledgement, demanding his attention, and Tomura has always figured that an eye for an eye was a good way to show trust. 



❝ Tenko. ❞ He adds, growing a bit quieter, and his hand rises then, gesturing to himself briefly with an unsure nod. ❝ It's nice to meet you. ❞

He can't pretend to know the story that must come with Toya's name, and his imagination can only conjure the worst pictures and theories. Nothing good could possibly have happened, for Dabi to take Toya's place, here, of all places. And yet- somehow, maybe Tomura is grateful for it. No, not maybe- whatever the horrors of Dabi's story are, in the end, they brought him here. 

❝ My... condolences. Can't be easy. I'm- ❞ What does he say? What's right to say? What is proper? Tomura considers the questions for a little while, and it becomes absurd, all of a sudden, that he is trying to be somehow socially correct about this.

❝ I'm glad you're here. ❞ It sounds too much like he's congratulating Dabi on remaining alive. It's odd. Tomura figures there's only so much he can say to correct it. 



❝ I mean, I'm.. glad you're here, with me. As Toya, or as Dabi. I.. trust you. Always have. ❞

He feels the weight of the chain before Tomura even touches it, a phantom pull that made something weird inside of him flutter and flicker ━  it wasn't quite a flame, not exactly, it's not really that hot ━ nah, this was something different, something soft and fizzy that he wasn't sure he'd ever felt before.

The collar wasn't just leather now, was it? It was an intention, an expectation, it was the physical manifestation of Tomura's voice telling him to shut up in that way that wasn't really a command so much as an invitation to keep pushing, keep testing, keep being exactly the kind of feral, unhousebroken creature he'd just warned about.

And Tomura knows it. Of course, he knows it. That's the best part, isn't it? The way those red eyes, half-hidden behind the curtain of that ghostly pale hair, saw right through the sarcasm and the stoic deflection to the thing Dabi didn't know how to say out loud: That he likes him, for all his bratty chaos, Dabi likes Tomura, he admires him, he's been watching him evolve in real time from creepy gamer nerd to Japan's symbol of fear, the guy who was gonna lay waste to their wretched, hero-worshipping society and Dabi? Dabi for all his unruly posturing, was going to help him ━ by god he was going to help him ━ what else where his flames for if not to make ashes out of the rubble Tomura would leave in his wake? If not to cleanse it all, if not to burn away everything his corrupt father and the ignorant, broken world around them held dear?

The dress shirt came off, and he tracked the movement with the lazy yet interested focus of a cat watching a new movement, one who hasn't yet decided to pounce. Tomura was pale and surprisingly well-built, that month and a half of fighting gigantomachia clearly doing a lot for his physique, and though Dabi never claimed to have great taste, he knew Tomura wasn't hard to look at.

Nothing had felt truly right in this place, in this role he'd been molded to play. The food was expensive, and though he happily provided for his friends, his family, it didn't feel right. The honorifics attached to his last name didn't feel right, the way he was no longer just Tomura. The rooms he was staying in- multiple. Like an expensive penthouse- didn't feel right. It's why he'd asked Dabi to stay, to occupy the same space, why he'd kept the arsonist around even through the nights, why he insisted on sharing a bed, one so much larger than what they were both used to. 

Dabi was all that was right, all Tomura had left to remind him of a time that felt normal, the only 'right' Tomura had ever known. This feels right, the intimacy of it, the breathlessness and the quickened heartrate of it. Dabi's eyes staring up at him in the way he always did, not like he was looking at a weapon of mass distruction, but at something good, something trustworthy, and it almost made Tomura believe he was.

Dabi had a way of making him feel many things, most of them unique to their bond, and all of them new. Tomura had never felt wanted before Dabi, not as a person, not as a companion, a friend, an equal. It was always about his power, his affiliation, but here, between him and the arsonist, those things disappeared. 

And yet one thing remains ever unchanged, this little game of theirs, the pushing and pulling, the fight for control, one Tomura had almost always won, not out of superiority, but out of simplicity: This worked, for both of them, and it worked well. Tomura had always been glad to give orders, and with time, he'd learned how to do so effectively. He'd learned to stay composed through his frustrations, how to come out on top without being the loudest in the room.

And Dabi had not made it easy on him, not ever, not once, he had always put up a fight, with remarks, little comments, a snarky grin, reprimands, attitude. And somehow, miraculously, it had helped, and Tomura had very quickly come to enjoy it, the struggle Dabi put up, and his relentlessness, only dampened by Tomura's response, and even then, not entirely. 

Dabi was not an untrained dog. He'd trained himself to be resilient, mercyless, when needed, dangerous. It made him more than just a reliable asset. It made him impressive, a kind of unbendable force, one to be reckoned with, and the weight of being able to hold such a force in his hands is not lost on Tomura.

✦ a collection of prompts that can be considered nsfw, with a lot of teasing and tension driven prompts. adjust as needed ; send ‘ + reverse ‘ for sender and receiver to switch spots. Combine prompts by sending more than one.

「 SQUEEZE 」 : for sender to rest their hand on the receivers thigh , giving it a squeeze .

「 LINGER 」 : for senders touch to linger on the receiver.

「 MASSAGE 」 : for sender to give receiver a massage .

「 LOTION 」 : for sender to rub lotion into the receivers skin

「 SLIP 」 : for senders hand to slip between the receivers legs.

「 TUG 」 : for sender to tug on the receivers hair

「CLIMB 」 : for sender to climb into receivers lap

「PULL 」 : for the sender to pull receiver into their lap

「BITE 」 : for sender to bite the receiver ( include the location )

「 MARK 」 : for sender to leave hickies on receiver

「 BARE 」 : for sender to undress in front of receiver

「 HELP 」 : for sender to help receiver undress

「 GRIND 」 : for sender to grind against the receiver

「 HOT 」 : for sender and receiver to share a heated kiss

「 OOPS 」 : for sender to accidentally send receiver a risqué image.

「 CHIME 」 : for sender to purposefully send receiver a risqué image.

「 WHISPER 」 : for sender to whisper something suggestive in receivers ear

「 HOLD 」 : for sender to hold receivers throat

「 THROW 」 : for sender to throw receiver onto the bed

「 PRESS 」 : for sender to press receiver against a wall and kiss them

「 CAUGHT 」 : for sender to catch receiver pleasuring themselves

「 LIGHT 」 : for sender to touch the receiver with a feather light pressure.

The words wash over him like warm water, perhaps bringing to mind a bath Edward had once drawn for him when he had stayed with him in his apartment that year, or maybe like honey poured slowly, something thick and soothing and soft settling somewhere deep inside of him, in the hollow places that he had spent around three decades subconsciously filling with self-loathing and doubt.

Ed fills those hollows now, even with his trembling voice, his eyes desperate, and his hands fisting the sheets as though he's holding himself back from something. Ed, who looks at him like he's something precious rather than something wrong or pitiful, a man who calls him pretty bird and means it with every fibre of his being.

It still bewilders him sometimes. The sincerity of it. The way Ed's voice cracks around the word beautiful as though the truth of it is too much to contain. Oswald has spent his entire life being called many things ━ freak, penguin, cripple, weirdo, creep ━ and he has learned to wear those names like armour, to twist and sculpt them into weapons, but Ed had taken bird and made it something tender. Ed had looked at his twisted leg and his hooked nose and his pale, blotchy skin and decided, in spite of it all, that he was lovely.

Only Oswald has ever known him, truly known him, known his innermost thoughts, his feelings, the ones nestled within his heart, not the ones he pretended to wear on his sleeve. Beneath everything, beneath the Riddler, there was something untouched by any other soul. Something intense, fragile, honest and terrifying all at the same time, and Ed could never bring himself to face that truth, not until Oswald. In fact, it often felt as though Oswald had created this honest, pure existence inside him. 

And if someone were to tell him that this was his soul, it would only make sense that Oswald was its origin, that it never would have come to be without him, and Ed feels it in the way heat flares inside him whenever he is around Oswald, in the way the passion he otherwise only knew in a theoretical, work-related manner, suddenly blazes with a fiery motivation for Oswald, and Oswald alone.

If that was his soul, then it belonged to Oswald, it always had, and Ed will always offer it to Oswald willingly, happily, readily. He carried it with such care and attention, like it meant the world to him, like Ed meant the world to him, as if someone like Ed was worthy of this kind of love, so warming, so soft. Whatever other people described to feel, it would never measure up to this, to what they had. It would never compare.

Pretty bird. The name does things to him he could never explain with words. If it had come from anyone else, he would have doubted the sincerity of it, and once, not too long ago, he would have bristled defensively at the likeness. Bird. Weird. Freak. They were all words that had been thrown at him his entire life to demean him, but he believed Ed when he called him pretty, and bird had just become something endearing, a pet name, a fondness because he knew Ed didn't think of it as a symbol for some perceived deformity he must have had, instead quite the opposite.

He leans his cane against the wall beside the door frame, discarding it without another thought as he moves towards Ed without it. He feels its absence in the ache that radiates up his twisted leg, but it's a secondary thought to the entirely different kind of ache Ed brings him, one that is warm, insistent, and oh-so-terrifyingly welcome.

Love is a feeling that comes naturally when Ed thinks of Oswald, it's an emotion that rules his soul in regards to the other man. He is full of it as he tries to focus on Oswald's eyes when he puts the cane aside, trying to fight the blurred vision of his eyes, to force his way through an obstacle he cannot change simply to see the object of his most utter devotion and the subject of all his dreams. It gets easier as Oswald trudges closer, and for a split second, Ed worries about the hurt he may be feeling in his leg, the struggle he knows Os carries whenever he walks without the cane, but it doesn't seem to deter the bird at all as he comes to a halt before Ed. Love becomes, very quickly, secondary to the devouring feeling of carnal adoration when Oswald stops and sinks down, to his knees, something so strange in contrast with the way Ed has always viewed him. Admiration was what drove him to approach the Penguin in the first place, and it had persisted over the years, grown, into something more personal, into the kind of admiration one holds for a divine being. It takes Ed's breath away each time he's beside Os, and it makes this entire situation feel intoxicatingly intimate.

Stairs. It's been several years since the injury, and with each one, the prospect of stairs, even the ones in the mansion at home, became more and more daunting. Such a day he's had, exhaustion worsening the ache of the old, tender, ruined musculature in his leg long before he made it to the top of the stairs.

When he gets there, he makes a beeline straight for the bedroom ━ their bedroom ━ the one he and Ed had been sharing together for close to a year now. He's sure he would find Ed there; he's already checked the parlour and the living room, and Edward would have left him a note or even a text message if he had gone out, so he knew he must be here, at home.

He hates that he couldn't be there, he hates the game of Gotham he had to play, the humouring Miss Falcone's idea of a "date" and without Ed, the day had been exhausting in more than one way, in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion, nothing to do with the ache in his leg. He's spent hours smiling through Sofia Falcone's transparent attempts at charm, her delicate little probes disguised as casual conversation. She thought she was so clever, and she clearly thought Oswald was just another man she could wrap around her finger with a flutter of lashes and pretty a dress that fitted her just the right way.

The thought was soon to make him laugh, as soon as he got back to Ed, his intention was very much to tell him every detail of his day, the absurdity of Miss Falcone's appearance in Gotham, her innocent daughter's act, her attempts to woo and befriend, something he's so certain will make for a shared chuckle between them.

There has never been a moment in his life, from the second Ed had met Oswald, where the other man was not the most beautiful vision he could possible imagine, his features engraved in Edward's mind as the epitome of all things breathtaking, and even with every morning that passed where he woke up beside Oswald, it never changed, if anything, Ed simply grew more convinced of it, and there was not a single thing or person who could shake him in this belief, and attempting to do so would only mean devastation for the poor soul who would try it.

Extremely Self Indulgent USFW Scenarios... Add +Reverse to reverse any scenario! Revamped!

[Haunted House] : Sender and Receiver sneak off to make out (and maybe more!) at a haunted attraction.

[Hot Tub] : Sender and Receiver begin getting handsy in a hot tub.

[Massage] : Sender gives Receiver a massage. Receiver begins to become aroused.

[Clothed] : Sender and Receiver frot desperately while still clothed.

[Club] : Sender and Receiver meet in a nightclub and begin dancing together sensually.

[One Bed] : Sender and Receiver are forced to share a bed. While spooning, one (or both) become aroused.

[Dreams] : While sharing a bed, Sender has a wet dream and begins grinding against Receiver.

[Footsy] : Sender initiates a game of footsy under a restaurant table that ends in a clothed footjob for Receiver.

[Alive] : Sender is surprised to find Receiver alive and the two have relived sex.

[Confession] : Sender and Receiver have sex in a Confession Booth in a church.

[Tease] : Sender pays for a private dance from Receiver at a strip club.

[Doctor] : Sender is Receiver's doctor, and "takes care of them" more personally.

[Spank] : Sender spanks Receiver jokingly. Receiver is into it.

[Choke] Sender asks Receiver to choke them.

[Fingers]: Sender sucks on Receiver's fingers.

[Rip]: Sender rips open Receiver's shirt.

[Push]: Sender pushes Receiver's underwear to the side rather than taking them off.

[Wedding Night]: Sender and Receiver barely make it back to their hotel room after the wedding reception.

[One Night Stand]: Sender and Receiver meet in a bar/club/etc and go back home together for what they think will be a one time encounter.

[FWB]: Sender and Receiver agree to hookup on a purely FWB basis.

[Caught]: Sender catches Receiver masturbating and offers to help.

[Mommy]: Sender calls Receiver "mommy" in bed.