🖤 ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ 🖤

But all that didn't mean Krauser couldn't have a little fun. He knew you hated to be touched, knew you hated for anyone to impose their power over you. Hell even a guiding hand to your back was cause for a few claw marks on the poor soul who tried. 

And that was exactly what Jack was expecting, some of those claws to come out, maybe even that pretty knife you keep strapped to your thigh, you were skilled but nowhere on Jack's level. Still it would be fun to gnash fangs with you. 

So he pinned you roughly into the soft oversized rug in your bedroom and waited for your strike. 

Instead you lean closer to him, pressing your pretty lips to the long jagged scar on the left first and then moving slowly, as if not to provoke a snarling dog, to the right. This one smaller, more pink as if received recently, lips lingering against the nearly numb flesh above his lip. 

He stills for a moment, rigid above you as his eyes widen minutely before narrowing back into the harsh glower you were accustomed to. His grip on your ribs tightening, bruising, as your thumb comes up to trace over the scar gingerly. 

Lovingly. 

“Thank you Jack. I appreciate it.” A soft tone, one he's heard so little from you and directed at so few. Genuine in the way you sound but women were good at that. At lying with their voice, with their whole body. 

“How much do you appreciate it?” Another dark growl, another push. The implication of his desire should spur you on, you already had a disposition to hate men. To think they thought with nothing more than their dicks or how to get more power. Yet you do not afford him this thought, of all the men the one pressing his pelvis and abdomen against yours deserved that hatred the most. 

A slow blink, your long dark lashes pressing against your cheeks, before you're leaning closer to him again. Lips pressing along his long scar, starting above his brow and if he were any other man he would have flinched. Instead he stays unmoving as your mouth moves down his face gently, pausing to press soft skin against his. Lingering around the corner of his lips, ghosting at the corner of his mouth before kissing at his cheeks. 

A soft nudge of your nose against his has him shifting his weight. 

“A lot. I really like how you make me feel safe.” Sharp claws carding through blonde hair before they gently scratch at his scalp making his grip that much tighter against you. 

Safe.

A word that has become foreign to him.

It especially wasn't one used to describe him. 

Deadly, lethal, more than I bargained for. 

Hushed whispers and swirling rumors when they thought he was out of ear shot. “Did you see how he carved that guy up? Gives me chills man” “Wouldn't wanna be on his bad side.” “Nobody has crossed Krauser and lived ya know.” 

“Is he a guard dog or a rabid dog? Either way, glad we've got the leash.” “Yea, for now.”

He swallows thickly. Choking down the warmth that tries to spread to his extremities, internally snarling over the fact that a single compliment flooded his system with dopamine of all fucking things. 

Steely blue eyes looking over your features, your half lidded eyes, your gentle gaze, the warmth there. As far as he could see there was no trickery, no ill intent. 

Still he scoffs, a smile on his lips as he chuckles brushing off the interaction, “‘m a heavily decorated ex special forces turned body guard. I better make yer ass feel safe, brat.” 

His body presses into your further, nearly his whole weight resting onto you. 

“Yea?” You giggle, a sound that makes his guts twist and his cock stir, “Gonna show me all your medals?”

Your finger twists around his one stubborn hair that always falls over his forehead, a strand you played with often. 

“Tsk. Yea brat I'll show ya.” A grunt, an accidental grind of his hips into yours as he gets up. As he leaves you exposed and belly up. This was stupid, you shouldn't be doing whatever the hell this is with him of all people, suddenly you have the urge to squirm. To snarl pretty lips, to have a delayed reaction to his aggression by showing your own tenfold. 

A part of him must sense your discomfort as he's quick to bend over to scoop you up into one arm, tossing you onto your bed unceremoniously, yet his grip on your wrist is soft as he pulls you up into a sitting position. 

“Don't move.” Another grunt before the broad man is leaving you to grip at the edge of your mattress and thwart away the thoughts of shame and regret that try to bubble up your throat. 

He returns quickly from what is supposed to be his room down the hall, although as of late he's been staying in here with you to “better protect you.” He never brought anything extra into your room, nothing more than what was already strapped to his body so you are a little surprised that he does have personal belongings. 

A small scuffed and dented metal box in his hands before his large frame sinks down to the floor between your legs. Back pressed against the four poster wooden frame of your low bed as his fingers grip tightly at the lip of the lid. 

Prying it open, the rusty hinges groaning from the sudden use. Inside were small rectangular “ribbons” and a few circular medals, your eyes catching on the pointed ends of a star. 

Like the princess you are, you grow impatient in your curiosity and lean over Krauser to get the box in your finely manicured hands. 

“Gonna tell me what they all are?” Only one or two of the circular medals stated what they were for, the rest of the ribbons, medals and the star remained a mystery. As did his ranking embroidered onto a patch of camo fabric, the other side of it were the well worn down teeth of Velcro. 

“No.” He rolls his eyes, squeezing at your calf that now rests over his shoulder. 

“Why not?” You ask with your bitchy, prissy tone when things don't go your way as you finger the “special forces” bronze medal. 

“They don't mean anything.” He scoffs and now it is your turn to roll your eyes.

“They must mean something if you kept them.” A scoff to your pretty voice, fingers moving around the objects before you come across silver. 

Rounded with type font punched into the metal, thumbs tracing over the words, the names, as a dozen or so stare up at you from the bottom of the box. 

“Dog tags.” The words slip from your mouth in a soft whisper, your mind wandering as you ponder why he had so many.  Fallen brethren? Trophies? 

You couldn't be sure. 

His large body moves quickly, faster than you can register before the box in your hands is snapped shut. 

“Like I said, they don't mean anything. Reckon the government thinks an old dog can't learn new tricks.” His smirk turns nasty, tossing the box onto your night stand before he grabs at your face. 

Fingers pressing harshly into the hollows of your cheeks forcing your lips to pucker slightly, “What do you think they do to old dogs, princess?” 

When you don't answer he squeezes tighter, far too tight as he risks bruising your face. He expects that fear again or at the very least an angry expression. 

He is awarded with a glare, sharp claws biting into his forearm. 

“What does your daddy do to old dogs? To bad strays huh?” He leans closer, nose to nose, “He puts them down.” 

He's waiting for the sting of your slap, or throb on his jaw from your nasty right hook, hell even a kick to his balls was expected. 

Not the way you furrow your brows in pity. He could fucking gag. 

Shoving you harshly away from him until your back and head hit the plush mattress with enough force you bounce.

“Gotta patrol princess. Ya better be asleep ‘fore I come back.” His voice returned to that harsh, taunting gravel before he slams the door shut to your room. 

Hours pass with nothing exciting happening inside or out of the tall stone walls your father built to keep his steadily amassing enemies at bay. Hiring the best of the best to play dragon to keep his princess safe. 

A duty Krauser fell into with no issue, whether it was keeping the daughter safe or planning a kidnapping, it all required the same lethal tact that Jack prided himself on. 

That hardened him into what he was today. 

The area is heavily guarded now, patrolled properly and with no gaps with the man Krauser kept, not to mention if someone did manage to slip through they'd have to answer to one of his many, many, traps. 

But all this well planning, all of the rumors about who was guarding you in the mouths of your father's enemies made for a dull day. 

Normally Jack would have kept himself busy by torturing subordinates or other employees under his employer to get any extra information he could get to keep himself busy. But there was something magnetic about you. 

It was why he found himself positioned behind you on all fours often. Pulling your hair, hands around your throat, claw and teeth marks on his shoulder and back. 

Sex wasn't new to him but lingering after was. Staying in your bed was, limbs tangled with yours was. 

A territory he both loved and resented as he mulls over his thoughts. Finishing the last of his black coffee before he looks at his watch for the time. Well into the witching hour and highly likely that you'd finally fallen asleep giving Jack the opportunity to slip into your room. 

He could easily go back to his room to sleep but lately there was something about your skin pressed into his that made his lids heavy, that gave a proper rest. He only indulged in a full night's sleep on occasion as the last thing he'd do was get soft. Especially be made that way by a woman. 

Your door is unlocked much to his displeasure as he silently moves into your half lit room. You'd fallen asleep leaning against your headboard as if you tried staying up for him, a common occurrence you can normally achieve. But you must have overworked your eyes today, lids slipped shut, breath coming in slow steady rises. 

Jack knew you weren't feigning, not with how your mouth slightly parts, how you half cradle something in your arm. Laptop screen illuminating your bed in harsh blue light. 

He comes closer, hand moving on his own, knuckles grazing the exposed skin of your arm. Fingers moving to gently play with the necklace you always wore, the initial of your first name in 14k gold. He drinks you in for a moment, how your usual harsh features are now subdued by sleep. 

“Princess.” A gentle bite before he plans to chastise you for your unlocked door but his eyes flicker to the screen. 

Quickly he puts it all together, on the other side of your laptop his ribbons and medals are laid out neatly, pressed into cork in the order they'd lay across his breast had he still had dress blues. 

The metal box in your arm, with small oval tags once haphazardly tossed into the box now organized. The burly blonde doesn't need to guess which dog tag you're clutching in your hand on your chest. He knows it spells out a dead man's name. 

A man he killed himself in the damp heat of the Amazon all those years ago. 

Krauser, J.

A heat surges through him, racing down his veins and stinging in the soles of his feet, in the tips of his twitching fingers as he grabs for your throat roughly. 

If you weren't awake before you surely were now, roused like a startled cat, claws aiming for the face and eyes. Nicking just above his blonde brow that was unscathed before you. 

You were a fighter, he would give you that but he'd give you hell for whatever the fuck you were doing to him now. 

Scrambling his head with your hot and cold nature, your biting words, pretty moans, soft kisses and this.

“The fuck is your problem?!” A rasp that would have been a loud shout had it not been for his hand slotted over your tender throat .

“You.” Growled, guttural in sound slamming you down into your mattress beside your laptop with the confidential, unredacted, records of Operation Javier. 

“You are my fucking problem. Such a god damn entitled brat.” Grabbing at the cotton of your shorts, pulling him down, “Ya think everything is yours for the takin? Lemme teach ya about taking.” 

There it is, the reaction he's been waiting for, fear, even if it is hidden under a thick veil of rage. Rage that makes you thrash beneath him, makes your heels dig into his spine uncomfortably, has your free hand reaching for the knife strapped at his chest before his free hand captures your wrist. 

Shoving both into his large hand, pinning them to your sternum as his other hand rests more weight onto your throat. 

He can feel the thunderous beat of your heart even as you try to control your breath, trying to reign in your reactions to keep a level head. Going slack fast enough that Jack doesn't have much time to adjust his grip on your wrists. You know that his body weight against yours is too much for you to thrash off combined with the way he has your throat but it's enough for one hand to slip free, grabbing for his knife only to be caught again. 

“Ya would be into knife play wouldn't ya princess?” Giving a ghoulish smile leaning into the tip of the knife to draw blood without giving you the satisfaction of sinking it into the hilt. 

Only he would have that tonight. 

Once a few drops of blood stain your skin he twists your wrist forcing the knife from your grip as you let out a small yelp, shoving himself between your thighs met with the softest squelch when his clothed cock meets your clothed cunt.  

He watches you shudder, feels your thighs clench at his waist, his face twisted into a wolfish grin. 

“So fucked up brat.” Rutting hips roughly, nails drawing blood on his biceps, “Can't even take anything from a spoiled princess can I?” 

Pulling away enough to rip your shorts and underwear from your body, the sound of the seams popping from the force makes your brows furrow. Eyes trained on his belt as he expertly undoes it with one hand, shoving the fabric down and past his ankles. 

Shoving his thick length into your tight cunt unceremoniously, all the way down to the hilt. You make this mix of a pained and pleasured whine. Nails still weakly biting into his arm as if to reprimand him. 

He wishes you'd stop making sounds like that, faces like that, his stomach twists up. His dick twitches as you flutter around him. 

“Can't let me have fucking anything. Wanting me to act this way. Makin ya fight and scratch me like I'm gonna hurt ya.” Growled and emphasized with rough thrusts that jostle your tits so nicely. The fabric of your shirt keeps them hidden away and Krauser can't have that. Leaning back on his haunches a moment to take both strong hands at the collar. Pulling apart as the fabric screams from his brutality and exposes you to him. 

Now he can watch your golden initial bounce against your tits in time with the rough rhythm he sets. Gasping at cruel actions and the manner in which he treats your clothes and body. 

“Kr-krauser.” It's embarrassing how quickly he can make you come undone, it doesn't help that one of his hands sneaks between your bodies to rub curt circles on your sensitive clit. 

It sends electricity through your body, making you rigid as you try to starve off the hungry orgasm that comes rushing towards you. 

“What happened to I make ya feel safe huh?” He asks, another harsh thrust and a mean slap to your breast. It's enough to make your back arch into him, enough for your eyes to roll back into that pretty head as your thighs crush his waist. 

He smirks fucking you through another followed by a bruising pawing as he stills in your cunt not ready to chase his own high just yet. 

He wanted to tease a bit more, not expecting a response at all with how limp you felt in his hands now. 

But as always, you surprise him. 

“You do.” Your sharp edges worn blunt with him, that pout he loves to see, the one that makes his chest tight, “You always make me feel safe Jack baby.” 

Followed by a moan when he hits an overly sensitive spot thanks to the overstimulation he's given your pretty pussy. 

He stays motionless as you whine, weakly bucking your hips and he knows damn well that you need to be fucked stupid. But his hands have other plans, pawing roughly over your tits, your hips, the fat at your ribs that always makes you gasp and whine and act so fucking docile.  

Devolving into a type of kneading that makes you melt from his hot palms. 

“Mmmnnh.” A whiny moan, a puddle beneath him sighing contently from cock warming him and the rough pawing. 

Sucking his teeth as he realizes he's yet again given you exactly what you wanted. So much for being a scary rabid dog. 

You lean up weakly to grab his nape and force him to fall onto his forearms so you can still rest your head comfortably now. Humming as you stare up at him, thumb swiping over his scars, lingering longer on the one he claims to have gotten since protecting you. 

Another sweet sigh as you capture his lips with yours, lighting his chest on fucking fire. Making his hips buck into yours on their own. Swallowing pretty moans and giving you groans to taste in turn until he's mindlessly chasing his own release with fluttering lashes. 

Fuck you made him feel good. 

Erratic bucks of his hips as your nails bite into his nape and upper back from another spurred on orgasm thanks to him. Falling victim to your velvet walls that he pants in sticky white. 

“Fuck, princess.” He groans against your mouth, looking at you through his lashes the same way you do his. He swears he can see little hearts in your eyes and that only makes him fuck his spend into you deeper. 

All before collapsing his full weight on you on purpose. A huff as he keeps his spent cock sheathed. Head on your sternum as your fingers card through his slightly damp hair. 

His blue eyes fall back to what caused this sudden angry, passionate fuck. Thankfully he's facing where you lost his dog tag in the fight and not your laptop. He grabs onto the small metal pendant. 

“Why did you do this?” Gravely and low but no growl, you furrow you brow before you realize what he means. 

The ribbons, the medals, looking into his past, into the men he lost. 

“It meant something once.” Firmer than you meant for it to come out, petting the curve of his skull, “It still does.” 

He feels on fire again, his throat closing up, jaw tensing, this-this feeling roaring in his chest. Clawing at his stomach demanding action, demanding a name. A label. 

Something Jack could no longer give. 

He breathes in deeply, fanning the flames unknowingly, a long breath through his nose like a dragon curled around a princess. 

He gets up, pulling himself out of you despite your whine and your weak attempt to keep him pressed to you. 

His fingers curl around the golden chain around your throat giving it a quick tug. The clasp snaps before he curls his fingers around your delicate initial, tossing his old dog tag onto your chest. 

“Now we've properly traded.” He smiles cruelly, grabbing for your torn to shreds shirt to wipe you and himself up roughly. 

Stepping into his pants, shoving the golden necklace into his pocket. 

You grab at his tag, leaning up on your arms as you stare at him. As you feel every muscle in your body start to tense, start to feel fire licking at the soles of your feet. Settle in the tips of your fingers as you reach for his discarded knife just inches from the both of you. You cannot help the sound that escapes your throat when he rises to full height. 

As before he has a sixth sense to your shifting moods, turning to press you back into the bed with one hand by your throat, the other expertly disarming you before he tosses his knife on the nightstand for now. His thumb strokes gently over your angry pulse, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he watches white hot fire flickering in your eyes. 

“Don't whine.” His nose nudges against yours, stealing a tender kiss, before his fingers tap harshly against your cheek teasingly, “I’ll be back after my cigarette, princess.”

Fat tears form on your lash line, slipping down round cheeks, falling all the way down onto the soft linen of the dress his mother gifted you. Vergil didn't see you cry often, in fact he was sure Dante would sooner cry than you. Yet here he sat, the cause of your tears, and they aren't even angry ones.

He thinks that is what makes it worse. How your face contorts into that of hurt.

In a flash you press the tea into his hand, pushing away from the plush couch rushing away from him without even a swipe of your claws.

He thinks that hurts more.

He abandons his book of poems, rushing to grab at your tiny wrist, stopping you just before you leave the large personal library. If he hadn't he knew he would have lost you somewhere on the large Sparda estate.

He isn't good with the word sorry, his brother can attest to that. Still he's racking his brain for something.

Anything.

He tries to quip to make up for the heavy air, to give you a reason to stay even if he never states his apology aloud.

"If you leave now the tea will get too cold to hold." He swallows thickly, hands sweaty, "Which means your sugar cube won't melt properly for your half."

"Wouldn't that be great for you? Not having to share or wait." It's supposed to come out as a hiss, instead the pitiful tone pulls at his heart strings.

"Apologies." He cannot believe he blurted that out, it feels raw and awkward on his tongue, worse yet the confession that comes after, "I really enjoy spending time with you, I should not have teased you about that."

You rip your wrist from his grip, he's used to you being temperamental but he doesn't want this. Doesn't want you to leave and he read his book of poems alone. He loves the afternoons the two of you share, pouring over the pages of Blake.

"Then you better put the sugar cube in it now." Turning around, wiping at your pretty eyes, "Otherwise it will be too cold and I will leave."

"Of course, princess."

He heeds your warning as the two of you press into the couch as the sun bleeds in through the glass, warming the tops of two small heads. Stirring the spoon to melt the cubes, taking a sip with a grimace. Passing you the tea back to hold and to have while he taps his finger subtly and slowly on his thigh where you can't see. It only takes four before you ask to turn the page.

One

Two

Three

Four

Four slow twitches of his fingers, the smell of sulfur clinging to his skin. Still he takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before his sapphire eyes open. Pain throbbing in his dislocated shoulders, suspended in cold chains before an empty throne.

Yamato at his feet, lying in wait, not yet broken and neither was he.

Mundus could cut away pieces of Vergil endlessly and still he would never be able to rid Vergil of you.

In every part of his being there will always be you.

"I will rid you of your burden, I will cut away your human heart, your ego. There is no need for such things." Mundus presses his large pointer finger into Vergil's chest, sapphire eyes glued to his in defiance.

One

Two

Three

So here you stand with your sewn together backpack, black velveteen fabric well worn, eyes replaced with loving x stitching and one of the cat ears long since gone. It's belly swollen and full of treasures clinking together, whispering their thanks to you as you shift through the garbage in the contaminated zone. Spiked gas mask snug against your face as it filters the rancid air while you fixate on the items in the pale moonlight.

No need for you to be too vigilant considering no one was ever out this far, at least no one with half a mind. Trash beasts, raiders or vandals would be the most company you'd get and even then that was few and far in between the major cities of the Abyss. You spent the majority of your time under the haze of the stinking trash listening out for the loudest jinki, the most angry, resentful, growling thing before your ears perked.

Body on instinct dropping to the ground before you hear the footsteps and then the voices.

But most of all the jinki.

“Boss…”

“Don't.” Sharper than any knife you've held, gaze sharper still as it turns onto the goon that follows. You can't see from this distance, everything mostly a blob and their voices barely carry out to you. But even if you could hear them all you can focus on is the loud humming coming from the poorly sewn together jacket on the man's broad shoulders.

I can help comes the soft whisper from the pile of trash, your fingers digging into the heap, dark power snaking from one piece to another as if being passed along before you finally land in a doll. Hair burnt off and ripped out, missing both arms, a leg but thankfully she still had one good eye.

The doll lies close to the two men, unblinking gaze fixated on them as you close your left to see better.

One is skinny, lanky and with long tightly woven dreads, fingers covered in claws that retract to rings as he falls into step behind the much larger man with dark midnight hair.

Dreads’ jinki are loud, hard to ignore, muttering endlessly between themselves in gravely rasps. Hissing, agitated sounds over one another as it morphs into a quickening slurred babble, almost as if paranoia drives their conversation.

The second is wrapped around the broader man, dark black and filled with so much power it hums. Loudly, to the point it begins to drown out the rushing blood in your ears, drown out every thought as the buzzing continues to grow. He adjusts the jacket and it preens before back to the constant almost nauseating drone.

You want that fuckin jinki.

“Boss I couldn't get the sky person but-” Dreads attempts again to get a word in edgewise before he's interrupted by another pointed tone.

“You failed did you not?” Cold dark eyes look over his shoulder as they continue to walk along the tall trash heap, much taller than them as the duster jacket held together by large staples and stitches steadily hums.

Dreads doesn't answer, crazed eyes dropping to the junk underfoot in shame.

“Twice.” Dreads flinches as if struck but the broad man doesn't move an inch. Nothing more than a turn of his head as a shadow slinks from the jacket, up his throat and cheek trying to snake over his eye before a portal opens up in front of the boss. Illuminating them both in a washed out ethereal glow before he steps through.

Dreads waits outside, gritting his teeth until bone grinds against bone, tick in his jaw that creaks before the voice in the swirling void calls out.

“Come.” And Dreads obeys like any good dog.

The portal disappears in a matter of seconds leaving you to count all the way up to sixty before you will the doll to move. Legs of inky black jutting out where plastic limbs once were, slinking towards where the portal appeared. Lurking around what looks to be a base now that you're really paying attention only to come up empty in your search for an entrance.

Tapping your fingers as you think. Whoever had the portal jinki couldn't always be available right? Plus the big scary boss man didn't seem the type to rely fully on one person especially since one of his goons already proved a failure so there had to be a hidden entrance somewhere.

The doll wanders aimlessly for hours by your command until you spy it, the smallest flutter of a breeze coming from the pile. Kicking your feet as you think of just how good that jacket will feel swallowing up your frame even more so than the stocky build it sat on.

Having the doll wait idle until you see yourself approaching through its dingy glassy eye. The plastic lid and long singed lashes flutter shut as you come to squat near the item. Let your fingers curve over her skull feeling the fuzz of worn down faux hair.

“Thank you.” A breathy whisper before you release the item, letting it rest against the wall where it would surely blend in with all the other discards from Heaven. Sharp claws slipping under the metal pulling harshly waiting for the hinges to whine from the strain of resisting the lock.

It's up high, well above your head before you're pulling your bag off of one of your shoulders. Digging around for the perfect tool, an old ornate letter opener. You use your gift to sharpen the bread to a deadly point, reaching on tiptoes before the blade connects with the lock. Yanking it towards your body and it slices through the metal with ease and the door yawns open. You return the jinki and your mask to your backpack before you wander around the base.

Following the sound of the hum and ignoring the loud slow beat that faintly reminds you of a heart beat. Ignoring the pacing, the clinking of tools, the hiss of pleasure, the electric charge as a comb brushes through hair because all you can hear is the all consuming hum.

Sneaking into a dark room, pitch black and giving your eyes a moment to adjust to the tiny flecks of moon light let in from the small holes in the walls. Holding your breath as you listen, pushing down the hum to hear the deep slow breathing of the man who owns the jinki. Once you've determined he's asleep you tiptoe into the room in a rush spying the dark item hanging on the back of a chair.

“Hello.” A breathy whisper to the jacket as your fingers brush over the fabric, the feeling vibrates in your very marrow and it makes you smile manically. It's heavy even if it is half stitched and stapled together, thick and yet you think you wouldn't overheat under the sun.

Lifting it gently from the chair slipping one arm through makes you a little light headed, the shadow sneaking up your throat in a curious purr. Crawling up your jaw as you go to put your other arm through and when the jacket is fully over your shoulders you sigh slowly. You can smell the previous wearer, a mixture of musky sweat and well worn leather warmed by the sun, it makes you feel good. Relaxed. So you nestle deeper and the shadow comes out further. Caressing over your lips as it starts to work its way up to cover your other eye, slowly, so slowly, the jacket begins to wear you.

Large rough hands slip under the shoulders of the jacket, smooth over the thin fabric of your t-shirt as the coat is pulled away from your body. The shadow retreats.

For now.

You turn to look over your shoulder, face half shrouded in shadow darker than night, the jacket still trying to cling to you. But your focus isn't on the purring from the fabric, it's on the tall broad man who stands behind you. His dark midnight hair is messy from sleep, more strands falling over his forehead than before, eyes dark and cold as they bite into you despite the gentle touch at your back.

He's shirtless himself, clothes mostly discarded at the foot of the bed, only the jacket was placed with care.

You reach around you, grabbing onto his thick forearms with sharp claws, nails hardened with a razor's edge. For whatever reason you hesitate, let it barely poke his skin and only small droplets bead to the surface.

“Careful.” His voice is deep and dark from disuse, having been in a deep enough sleep, it gives him even more of an edge. He leans closer, face impassive and frozen like any marble statue you'd seen in books discarded from the heavens. It is as if he's studying you, pulling the coat away from you gently, slowly and the shadow whines as it returns to the black fabric it came from, “What are you doing here?”

“Your jinki called me.” A half truth, mostly it just hummed from its own great power but the way it whispers to you now, to pull the fabric back up and have the high collar protect your throat gives more truth to your statement. Moving your hands from his skin to avoid a fight, fisting the opening of his jacket almost nervously.

Even after a long stretch of silence he doesn't reply, if he's dissatisfied or pleased with your answer you cannot tell, face still stone cold as his unblinking eyes stare down at you.

“I just love well worn things.” You unclasp your hands from around the opening of the jacket and let him peel it from your frame, “They have so much to tell me.”

The sound is soft and breathy like a confession in mass and it stills his movements. His hands stopping at the crook of your elbows now with the jacket half on and the shadow fully gone. You freeze, pulling in a shallow breath to hold.

You expect to be taunted, laughed at or struck, since that's what normally happened when you claim you could actually hear what the jinki said. Because even among the rejects you didn't belong. Too sharp, too quick, too loud, too cruel or too much. Always always too much until only the jinki liked your company.

Or maybe they just tolerated you since they couldn't move, it's not as if there was anyone else to hear them.

He cradles your jaw, tilting you up to face him instead of looking at the floor.

“There is no shame in that.” His tone and intense gaze soften minutely, missed in the dark as you stare back up at him.

“There isn't?”

“No.” He allows his hands to move on their own, allows his thumb to swipe over the apple of your cheek, “Is that not how jinki becomes jinki?”

Sliding over your throat, fingers slipping under your collar to notice you don't have a com necklace, that you acted alone, tracing your smooth skin. Engulfing and squeezing at the tender column before slowly grazing your cheek and palming the curve of your skull.

“How things and people become precious? Because they are loved?” Monotone as he delivers his lines and you're still too mesmerized to move, “Even if they are discarded by the Heavens and the sky people.”

“What's a sky person? I heard you two earlier. Is it that boy with the cleaners?” You blink up at him owlishly and he sighs deeply. Returns to his task of taking his jinki off of you, following down your exposed skin with his rough palms before gently placing it in your lap for now. You wrap your arms around it like a hug, bringing it to your chest as you watch him. He picks up a clean white button up, leaving a few open at the top before his muscular thighs slip into dark pants.

“No one saw you slip in, little stray?” He asks, holding out his hand towards you, reluctantly you place the heavy duster in his hands. He flips the dark fabric around as he slides his arms into it. Adjusting it just so and now the high collar of his jacket frames his jaw.

“No.” He helps you to your feet from the chair, “I heard them. They're noisy.”

“Hmm.” He hums, fingers slipping under the straps of your backpack earning a jolt from you when he tries to remove it, “Don't worry. You want to stay right?”

You take a step back and like a patient predator he doesn't move.

“Be close to my jinki? Since it loves to hum such sweet songs to you.” He stands as if there were a rod in his back, speaks with little to no emotion and if you were being honest he scares you a little.

Yet at the same time, when he lifts his arm in a silent invention, you step forward. Slipping your arm under his to press your face into his chest. His shirt smells like clean linen and his skin still smells like well worn leather in the sun with that bit of sweat that you hope clings to you.

The jinki purrs its approval before going silent when his arm wraps around you, pulls you closer in an uncharacteristic notion. A part of you thinks this is a farce, that he has other plans for you, that he knows affection, false promises you'll fall for, and patience are how he can trap the feral cat that is you.

“Would you like to be mine, stray?” He's tilting your chin to look into his eyes again, fingers tight on your jaw as he stares down at you with dark rich eyes. Even with your suspicion of ulterior motives your tongue moves all on its own.

“Yes.” Breaking free of his grip to hide your face in his chest again, his heart rate is slow, unhurriedly, and soft while yours roars. This attraction is odd and magnetic when you usually shoved people out of your life, yet here you stood stepping into his shadow most likely becoming just another one of his disposable goons.

“But only for a little while.”

Vergil often detested booking hotels during or after jobs, finding the need for human commodities as a frivolous expense. However, a year of adjusting to civilian life and the last two weeks on the road for this pesky mission, he didn't object this time when you proposed the idea of a night in, already imagining a hot shower and room service. Despite the sideways looks you two got from reception, the keycards were secured and your filthy forms made it up to your designated floor. The room was beige and simple, but it was clean, safe, and quiet—which is all either of you could ask for after such a demanding job. 

You stepped in first, coat slinking off to be hung up in the wooden closet by the door. As Vergil bolted the chains, he attempted to follow suit, a wince of pain making my scrunch his features.

“Here, let me,” you mumbled as you turned to help. Stubborn as ever, he stepped back and scowled, the sting of pain revoking his manners.

“I am more than capable of—”

“Let me do it.”

Vergil’s features wilted at your tone, losing his bite and dropping his arms to let you have your way. It’s not that he didn’t trust you, but more than he had gotten so comfortable in your presence that he often tried to find ways of still establishing his individuality. He refused to be seen as anything less, but it was hard to uphold his stuffy values when you doted on him with the utmost sincerity. As you pulled his coat off, Vergil watched you over his shoulder, ocean eyes wordlessly conveying gratitude despite the wrinkle in his brow. With the leather jacket off and away, you could see the slits in his vest where the demon you two had vanquished struck a few good blows in. Led to the edge of bed, he sits down and waits til you’re sat behind him before he starts at the vest’s fastenings. 

“It’ll all heal, you know,” he grunts between words, the lining of the vest slowly peeling away from bloodied skin. “I can’t imagine why you feel the need to fret over surface cuts.”

Even so, you watch his back muscles ripple as the vest is shed, reopening the wounds as it peels away healing skin. The inside of the vest was, well, disgusting. Bloodied, with pieces of his flesh stickered onto it, due to the duration of having it on working against his regenerative abilities. You make a face at the nasty sight, sighing as you toss the vest away to the floor.

“Any longer, and we would’ve had to cut you out of it. Again.”

Only a hum of acknowledgement—or dismissal—rumbles back to you. Sliding off the bed, you pad to the adjoined bathroom and wet a rag. You study your own battered appearance in the mirror as the water runs. Dirt darkened your skin, caking into some of the cuts. You looked rough, but never as bad as he usually did; he would never allow you to fight harder than him, to be in harm’s way when he could stand as a shield for you. That wasn’t to say he doubted your fighting abilities. In fact, the only reason you two had partnered up was because of the respect he had for you. But, as emotions and attachments grew, Vergil found it harder to watch you limp and writhe in pain after jobs, much preferring to take the brunt of the damage. 

You find your way back to him, seeing him already tending to his wounds himself. He expunges saliva onto his fingers to rub into the cuts, the skin already rebuilding itself as the saliva encourages the swelling to fade—an old trick he learned from a demon many moons ago. Passing the damp towel over his back, he makes a sound in the back of his throat, tense as he goes still for you. Vergil watches silently as you rub away grime from his skin, eyes following the patterned route your hand made with the rag. The rhythmic motions lull your own thoughts away from the present, mind drifting to planning out the next courses of actions after returning from the job. A touch to your face summons you back, eyes focusing to find his already trained on you. Vergil’s thumb swiped over the bone that cradled your eye, gently smearing away a streak of blood.

“Where’d you go?” His voice came out tentative, as if worried his disturbance would upset you. His eyes searched yours to attempt to steal a peek behind them, wishing he could read your thoughts.

You shake your head gently, lowering the rag. “I’m here.”

His stare remained courteous, yet you could tell he wanted to pry, ever the attentive partner. Instead, though, the half-demon sighs from his nose and lets his features soften.

“You fought bravely tonight. I’m beside myself, with how well you’re beginning to carry yourself in battle. I often must force my reflexes to heed and allow you to take point, as you have earned that right,” Vergil’s throat bobs with a faint swallow, finger tips still tracing the side of your face. “Thank you, for being by my side.”

Praise from Vergil is always genuine, and it never fails to make you feel singular. Your eyes crinkle slightly as a smile warms up your tired face. “The blood loss is making you sentimental. But, it’s nothing, really. I love you, and I love fighting with you.”

“And I love you, very much,” He lets his hand slip down to your shoulder briefly before sitting himself up and facing you properly. “Enough to feel compelled to take care of you, now that I am no longer bleeding to death.”

A huff of a chuckle leaves him as he stands, hand pulling you along.

“Up. A shower would do us good.”

—

Between the food in his stomach and the robe warming his aching body, Vergil felt like he could melt through the mattress. He watched the back of your head while you ate, preferring to observe the way you chewed french fries over whatever nonsense you had put on the hotel TV. As much as he enjoyed the rush of endorphins he got from demon hunting with you, he found the quieter part of himself started to crave this kind of intimacy more. There were no expectations or watchful eyes—just the certainty of company and the solace it brought him. 

As you licked salt from your fingers, a calloused hand yanked you back towards the headboard. Giggles filled the room as Vergil pulled you to him, his own mouth latching onto the greased fingers with a shake of laughter. Despite weak protests of faux disgust, you didn’t try very hard to stave off the attack, practically letting his coil around you. Long, lean legs cage you in as he releases your fingers, only to bite at your wrist. 

“Nuh-uh—you can’t leave now.”

“Get off of me, you freak,” you snort and squirm against him, lamely trying to wriggle free amidst the play-fight. He cares little for your insult, mouthing his way up your arm instead. Laughter mingles between you two until a moan makes you still, hips lips suctioning to a spot on your neck. Blood rushes to the area as he sucks on the tender skin, staccato breaths from his nose puffing over you as he laughs at your complicity.

“That’s all you got? No more verbal abuse or grabbing?” He unlatches from your neck to peer down at your face, flashing imperfect teeth in an exultant smile. 

You start to give quick excuses, only to be shut up by a desirous kiss. Your limbs betray you, turning to jelly as he shifts against you, tongue knocking for entry. You greet it with enthusiasm, only to fail at returning the kiss once a hand parts your legs. Eager fingers pet at the growing heat of your sex, gentle despite the obvious intent. When you've proven too pliant to kiss back, he trails his lips back down to your throat, teeth threatening to break the skin. 

Vergil pushes off your robe enough to grant him skin-to-skin contact, his own slipping open and exposing an already hardening cock. Deep inhales against your skin fill his senses with your scent, only encouraging him to keep going and feed the need for connection. The hand between your legs alternates between familiar circles and strokes, knowing exactly what rhythm gets you worked up enough without pushing. As you arch into his hand in response, he grinds into from behind, the head of his length rubbing against your ass for much needed friction. Your breathing hitches as your gut twists with approaching, lazy pleasure, head lulled back into him as you welcome the onslaught. Compared to the grit of demon-hunting, this was easy bliss, and you had no problem giving into the temporary gluttony. 

Just as your body was about to fall over the peak, his hand withdraws to rest on your hip. A mewl of denial slips out from you as you rut against nothing, painfully close to coming. “God—, Vergil, wait—”

“Patience,” Vergil’s body vibrates with a laugh, low and taunting in your ear as he sucks on the lobe. His hand slides up your front, fragrant with your sex, and holds your chin taut. “I will not deprive you, sweet girl. I merely wish to be selfish, just for a moment.”

With one more nip to your ear, he releases your jaw to guide his cock behind you to your warmth. His breath ghosts over your shoulder as he pushes himself in, silver strands of hair tickling your cheek. Vergil hides in the privacy of your neck, thankful you’re unable to see the look of relief on his face as he bottoms out. Your hips urge him to move with little syncopated rolls, walls throbbing around him from the previously stunted release. If you two were home, and the day hadn’t been so long, he might’ve prolonged the moment, dragged out the denial til you were sputtering tears for him to kiss away. But, god, you were so tight, and so very warm—he couldn’t fight it.

“Oh, I missed you, missed this,” the words come out muffled against your skin, his hands returning to your hips to grind into you. Calloused hands flex against the supple flesh of your hips, adjusting his grip as he works up to a steady pace behind you. The hotel bed moans with you as you stretch back towards him, jaw slacked as the coils of an orgasm curl back up. Vergil pokes his head out to accommodate your head leaning back, opting to watch your lashes flutter. 

As his fervor increases, he snakes a hand under your thigh and lifts your leg, allowing for more room to accommodate his size. The kisses pressed into the side of your face draw you back to the world of the living, foggy eyes opening to find him. You’re greeted by a blissful smile, Vergil planting a kiss under a dopey eye. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know. You can come, it’s okay; I won’t stop you.”

JACK KRAUSER breaks you through brute, merciless force. You really decided to pick this fight, huh? Good. He was bored anyway. You seriously looked at that scarred, hulking mass of muscle and thought, “Awe, I can push his buttons for a little while?”

Wrong move.

Krauser doesn't have time for your attention-seeking behavior and he's going to make sure you never forget who's in charge.

He'll grab you by the hair, yank your head back, and spit in your mouth before you can squeak. "You wanted my attention, sweetheart? You've got it." He forces you to stick out your tongue. Pinching your cheeks in the palm of his rough, calloused hand so he can check to see if you swallowed.

“Good girl. At least you can do something right.”

He degrades you with every breath, stupid slut, bitchy little brat, some of his favorites, rolling off his tongue so casually it’s as if he's talking about the weather. But of course there has to be praise too, but there’s always a twisted edge to it. "You know what? I think you like being put in your place. And I fucking love it.”

He marks you ruthlessly: hickies blooming purple across your throat like a choker, teeth sinking into your shoulder, bruises forming under his grip. He teases you, tells you did so well, only to edge you and mock you when you whine, tears dribbling down your cheeks. His scarred face twisting into a grin each time he ruins your orgasm. When you're too dumb to speak, too broken to fight, he laughs. Jack’s large hand holds your jaw up so he can push his cock down your throat. All you can do is look up at him with big teary eyes and gargle pathetically.

The low, gravelly sound of his laugh vibrates through his chest. "There she is. Finally found a way to shut that smart mouth."

He'll toss you a towel, maybe a bottle of water if he's feeling generous.

As if your night couldn’t get any worse, fat, heavy drops of rain splatter against your head, your arms a measly shield from the downpour. You’re drenched in seconds, but its better to hide your tears from any nosy passersby that might glance your way. 

You think its close to midnight. Your phone died hours ago, so you have no real way to tell, save for the pitch blackness that surrounds you. You don’t get spooked easily, but your gut churns with every lonely, soiled step you take. And then a savior comes: green haired with matching eyes, a scar running down the length of his cheek, a smile so genuine you actually deflate a little from the tension coiling around your body when he rolls down the window. 

“Midoriya?” You blurt out when you finally blink away the rain that’s rolled into your eyes, swiping the back of your hand against your cheeks. You had class with him last semester, you think. He typically sat in the front of class, and the only reason why he was so recognizable was because of the shock of green hair, and those gnarly scars on his hands that you always wondered about whenever he’d raise them to answer the professors questions. He smiles at you, kind and bright, almost as if he was surprised that you remembered him. 

“Yeah,” he hums, bright eyes soft in the darkness of the night. “Need a ride?” 

On one hand, of fucking course you want to say yes. Its in the middle of the night, pouring down, and you’re too far away from your apartment off campus to not have blisters on your feet by the time you make it home. You want to say yes, to take him up on his offer, if to just get out of the rain for a few minutes. But on the other hand…

It was always something about Midoriya that made you just a bit uneasy. He seemed nice, for the most part, very smart and observant, but you think that that’s where the problem lays; his observance. You two didn’t interact much when you had class together, but it was almost as if every single time he looked at you, he was always, somehow, seeing through you. Maybe he just had those kind of eyes; big and rounded, almost unnerving when looked at for a second too long, made the more primal part of your brain scream predator. Midoriya never actually did anything to make you feel so uneasy, besides his usual look at you whenever the two of you crossed paths. 

But something deep within the pit of your belly tells you that you are being hunted by something foreign, by some large apex predator that hasn’t yet revealed itself to you, but you know it lingers over your shoulder every time you think that you’re safe. You know you’re probably wrong, that its probably just anxiety gnawing at your gut from the missing pairs of clothes from your hamper, from the lock on your apartment door that was broken a few weeks ago, from the way your car wouldn’t start despite it being in pretty good condition, forcing you to be out here, in the dark, in the rain, all by your lonesome. 

So you say yes, because you’re afraid it would be more rude than anything to decline the offer from the nice guy in your class, the guy who always had extra pencils, and didn’t mind tutoring those who struggled a bit with the course work. You say yes, and you think nothing of it when he offers you a blanket he so conveniently already has stored in his backseat and wrap yourself inside of it. You say yes when he turns the heat on and offers you what seems to be unopened water bottle, guzzling it down despite the almost bitter aftertaste twang that coats your tongue. You say yes when he offers to take you home, despite your eyes growing so heavy, despite how he heads in the direction away from your home, despite how you never actually told him where you lived, before your head lolls to the side and you’re sleep within minutes. 

…

Waking up is an almost taxing affair. Everything hurts, and is so heavy, and your tongue feels like sandpaper in your mouth. You groan, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand as you blink them open, squinting despite your lamp being set on its lowest setting in the corner of the room. You pause for a second, heart ticking up nervously as you search your surroundings, ready to panic, before you settle ever so slightly. 

You’re…in your room, which shouldn’t be so weird and off-putting, except for the fact that you don’t remember getting here, nor telling Midoriya where you lived. You don’t remember much, honestly, after getting inside of his car, and you want to panic at the thought that maybe he’s kidnapped you, except you’re laying under your sheets, and you’re looking at the familiar posters on your walls, the desk in the corner that holds your makeup and laptop, and yet—

And yet, it almost feels as if everything is wrong, as if everything has been slightly shifted to the left, and your body can’t quite keep track with the changes. You go to sit up, and that’s when you feel it, around your ankle; the padded cuff, pink in color, and fluffy on the inside to—

“Keep your skin from chafing,” Midoriya finishes your internal thought (how the fuck did he know what you were thinking?) as he walks into your room, and that’s not your hallway that you saw behind him, so how the fuck is this your room? Your heart kicks in your chest as he makes his way inside of your room—but its not quite your room, is it? The longer you stare at it, the more you take in the subtle changes, the differences that he couldn’t quite replicate; your desk chair had a chip on the bottom left leg, your sheets had needed to be washed because they still smelled of the juice you had spilled the day before and these smell of fresh detergent, you didn’t clean your dresser this morning and forgot to put away the new lotion you got, and its not there anymore. 

“Where am I?” You whisper, tongue stuck and peeling from the roof of your mouth. You can’t breathe, and you’re not sure whether or not you’ve taken in a full breath since you opened your eyes. Midoriya stands at the foot of your bed with those same kind eyes, except now, you’re not sure whether they were kind or just glazed over with a look that always promised ruin for you. You want to cry but your entire body has seized in its spot on the bed, with the three pillows behind you, and that one stuffy you were gifted as a child that you brought with you when you moved out. 

“You’re home,” Izuku says softly, his eyebrows knitting as if in confusion. “Remember? I found you out in the rain, and I brought you home. You were so exhausted, that you fell asleep in the car, and I had to bring you inside.” 

“This isn’t my home,” you answer back as soon as he tries to put on that disarming smile, but you see through it. You see the sharp canines that he tries to hide behind plush lips; you see your jugular hanging from the corners of his red stained mouth. “Where the fuck am I?” You ask a bit harsher this time, glancing down at where your leg is cuffed to the base of your desk, giving you just a bit of wiggle room without being too free. 

Midoriya doesn’t say anything for a long while. He just stares at you for a moment too long, his wide forrest green eyes assessing before he smiles softly. He moves toward you, and you flinch back, scooting away until your back touches the headboard behind you, knees brought to your chest, but he doesn’t mind the scurrying, the bit of chase. He only sits on the side of the bed, much too close for comfort, lays what is meant to be a reassuring hand on your leg, that trembles beneath his hot touch. 

“I figured,” he murmurs, using his free hand to brush away a stray eyelash from your cheek, smiling ever so softly when you flinch again, but do not try to attack him. Progress, he thinks, progress already. “If I made your new home stylized after what you were familiar with, then that would make the transition easier.” 

You want to vomit. Your stomach turns at the gentleness in his eyes, at how he seems to swoon every time he touches you and you don’t go to claw his eyes out. Belatedly, you realize that you’ve been swapped out of your rain soaked clothes, that you’re dressed in your usual wear of just a pair of cotton panties and a tee shirt that’s a size too big on you. You want to lash out, to run and scream and bite and hide but—but you’ve always be keen to freeze on the spot whenever bad things happened. You want to cry, you want to do all of these things, but you can only sit there, stiff and numb, when Midoriya begins to trail thick fingers up and down the length of your calf. 

“Please let me go home,” you whisper in a hiccup, your body finally starting to kick to life, barely so, as the tears begin to swell. Midoriya frowns, shushing you when the first sob starts, swiping away a stray tear that runs down the curve of your cheek. The contact, for some reason, makes you cry even harder, despite his gentleness with you. Midoriya coos softly as he brings you into his chest, cradling you as you cry and sob and hiccup, wetting his shirt, clinging to the sides of it in a tight grip. 

“Oh, my poor baby,” he sighs, shuffling and rearranging you until he’s brought you fully into his lap, until you hide your face in your captors neck and sob so greatly that he has to rock you gently to subside the ache. “You already are home.” 

That only makes you cry more, but Midoriya is so patient with you. Its sweet, really, the way he brings your legs into his lap until you’re curled into the tiniest ball against him. How he smooths a hand over your hair and kisses at your forehead and temples. How he swipes a heavy palm against your cheeks to wipe away the tears, and shushes you when the sobs make your entire frame quake. 

When your crying finally quiets, he pulls away ever so slightly, bending his neck down so that he can look you in the eye. He cups your chin between two thick fingers gently, guiding your gaze to his, until all you can see is his concerned features, twisted up in pain at your ache. 

“Do you feel better now, angel?” Midoriya asks softly, softly rubbing at the skin of your chin with his thumb. You look so cute like this, he thinks, with your eyes all red rimmed, and your lips swollen and puffy, and that pathetic little look you always get when you’re so close to giving up. Its adorable, really. 

He doesn’t let you go until you give a reluctant nod, but that’s not the truth, it is so far from the actual truth that you want to shout at him that you want to go home, to your real home, that you want to get the fuck away from him or beat the shit out of him, or it doesn’t really matter as long as he is a million feet away from you. But you don’t say anything, don’t do anything except sit there as stiff as stone as he brushes his lips against yours in what’s supposed to be a gentle first kiss, in what really is the first step in your assault. 

But you don’t fight back. You never really have, and Midoriya knew this about you, learned it all in the time he spent watching you for so, so long. You’re a sweet, pathetic little thing, really; how could he let you stay in a world that always treated you so cruelly? How could he sit back and watch the world trample over you without a second thought, and watch you just roll over and take it every time? You deserved better than to be treated like that, and he could and would always treat you so, so much better. 

He told himself that he would wait until you were better adjusted, but he just can’t. You’re looking up at him with those sweet, doe eyes, with that trembling bottom lip, your hands gripped so tightly in the front of his shirt, that he doesn’t think you’ve realized just how tight you’ve been holding onto him for this long. Its a sign, he thinks, a sign that you need him to stabilize you, that you need him to hold onto in order to ground you, that you need him, that you need him, that you need him. 

Midoriya rearranges you until you’re propped up against your pillows, wordlessly hands you your childhood stuffy, and you realize that this isn’t some carbon copy, but the actual stuffy from when you were so little, that one of the button eyes had to be replaced and didn’t quite match the other. You stare at the beloved thing, unaware of the way Midoriya makes his way down, down, down until he’s gripping your hips to gently scoot you down ever so slightly. He parts your thighs, and doesn’t fuss when you try to snap them back closed, his hands firm but so kind against your heated flesh. 

“Please,” you whimper, already aware of what’s going to happen, terrified that you won’t fight back as hard as you should, terrified that you already know that your fight died the moment you woke up. 

“Shh,” Midoriya hushes you, lowering his face and lifting your shirt until he’s met with the crotch of your panties. “Just let me make you feel better, okay, baby?”

Whatever protest you might have said dies in your throat the moment Midoriya kisses you over the expanse of your underwear. Its a soft kiss, featherlight, just barely enough to make your hips twitch in response. You watch the ceiling, pick apart the patterns that should have been there in your own apartment as he kisses you and kisses you. 

He licks a broad expanse up the entirety of your cunt through your panties, his mouth and tongue hot against you. You squirm from the feeling, trying not to make a single noise, but Midoriya keeps licking and licking at you until your panties stick to your lips uncomfortably. And even then, he continues, pursing his lips, opening your thighs wider, to find your clit through the wetted fabric, wrapping his mouth around the throbbing thing until you inhale sharply. 

“There you go,” he whispers against you, and you hate yourself for peeking down between your legs, know that the sight will haunt you for the rest of your days, despite how it makes arousal pool from your empty hole. Midoriya looks drunk, almost, in between your legs. You never realized how wide he was, until the burn of your inner thighs screamed at you, the more he pressed you open, until your knees were damn near touching either side of the bed. His eyes are low and hazy, bright green focused solely on you, on your pouting mouth and twitching nose to keep from letting the pleasure escape you. His tongue lolls from his mouth, his lips wetted from where he licks and licks at your cunt through your panties until the slick outline of your lips is clear. 

“Do you like it when I lick your pussy, baby?” Midoriya asks softly, kissing at the slickness of your lips, making you whine in response. He knows that’s the most he’ll get from you, and he doesn’t mind, knows that his baby is still so shy. He hates to make things worse, hates for you to feel more embarrassed, but he can’t help himself when he peels your panties away from your cunt, moans under his breath at how your slick connects and slaps against your lips when he folds the fabric away. 

“Such a pretty little thing,” he whispers, tugging your panties down your legs until you are rid of them. You throw your head back, hiccuping a little gasp, a moan, when he fully engulfs your cunt inside of his mouth, humming loudly at the taste. You cover your eyes with the back of your arm, the other holding your stuffy tightly to your chest. 

“Please,” you whimper once more, and you’re not sure if its a cry for him to keep going, or to stop, anymore. Midoriya continues, anyway, gripping your thighs so tightly in his palms that you fear they may bruise by tomorrow. He slurps loudly at your hole, before pulling back to spit on your cunt, lapping up the mixture of his drool and your arousal into his greedy mouth. 

His lips find your clit and you can’t help the cry of pleasure that escapes you when he suckles it inside of his mouth. His eyes flutter shut, as if in euphoria from your taste, from your clit spasming against his tongue, as if the way your hips grind against his face brings him just as much pleasure as it does you. 

Your orgasm washes over you quicker than you realized, your entire body coiled tight until it snaps, and the cry you let out is guttural. In a sense, you hope you’re loud enough that if someone were close by, they could hear you, could rescue you. But the way you moan his name, you doubt anyone would think that he was doing anything besides giving you the best pleasure you’ve ever felt in your life. 

“Deku,” he mutters against you, tongue still lapping at your hole, drinking you up. You’re sensitive now, hips jerking wildly, until he has to hold you still, hold you down against the bed, forcing you to take his pleasure. “Call me Deku, baby. Please? Can I hear you say it?” 

You shake your head, tears springing to your eyes as you clutch your stuffy harder against you, throwing your arm away from your face as you hold onto the pillows beneath you for stability. You feel like you’ve been flipped upside down, like your belly is pulling you in every direction as he continues lapping at you, flicking your clit with his tongue until your entire lower body shakes. 

“Please, angel, I wanna hear you say it,” he pleads, mouth encompassing your pussy as he looks up at you from underneath his lashes, his lids heavy and low as he sucks and sucks at your clit until you think he may be pulling your soul out through the swollen thing. This time, you feel your orgasm creeping up on you, both too slow and too fast, so overwhelming and breathtaking that you can’t help the tiny whimper that escapes you, 

“Deku, please, I can’t.” 

He groans just as loud as you do when you cum, with his tongue in your hole and his eyes rolled far into his head. Your teeth grit against the onslaught of pleasure as he keeps licking at you, and you finally find it in yourself to weakly try and push his head away. Deku relents after a minute, after he hears your pathetic little hiccuping cry, and finally detaches himself from your pussy. Strings of your slick and arousal connect him, and he licks them away, despite your little hiccuped cry and the tug of his hair. 

“So good, baby, you did such a good job,” he praises you, sitting up on his knees to devour you in a kiss. This time, you do kiss back, and you blame the endorphins being sent to your brain from the nonstop pleasure you just experienced. His lips taste of you, and you don’t think you can breathe when he presses his tongue into your mouth. 

Its sloppy, the kiss, full of spit and tongue and teeth as you bite at him until he bleeds, and he only runs his tongue along your canines harder to taste the copper. When he pulls back, you’re breathless, your stuffy grasped tightly in your hands, the other wrapped loosely in dark green locks. Deku takes you in for a second, slightly lifts your shirt until your perked up nipples are exposed, and he chuckles softly when you try to cover them with the stuffy. 

“Such a cute little angel, aren’t you?” He whispers against your mouth. You can feel him undoing his belt against you, and the panic rises ever so slightly once more, but he must be able to taste it in the hesitance of your tongue against his. “Just the tip, okay? Alright?” 

And even then, just the tip looks to be too much. You pull away to look between you, eyes widening at the sight of his reddened cock, thick and curved toward his stomach. Its a fat thing, with forking veins that make it look even more intimidating, and you find yourself blurting, 

“You came,” you mumble, taking in the thick spurts of white that cover his leaking tip, that muddle and sticky in his pubes. “You came while eating me out.” 

He has the nerve to look a bit flustered, and chuckles under his breath a quiet, yeah. You can only watch as he scoops some of the cum that he’s covered in, rubs it against his fingers until they’re coated in it, and slides them against your puffy cunt. You jerk at the feeling, gasping under your breath as he covers you in his scent, in his spend. He does it again and again until you’re both sticky with it, until he slides the entirety of his first finger inside of you, covered and coated in his cum still, and you belatedly worry about whether or not its enough to breed you. But all thoughts escape your head when Deku sits on his knees before you, looking up at you with wide, hazy eyes as he fists his cock at the base and hovers it over you. 

“Just the tip, yeah, baby?” He kisses you before you can answer, and nudges your puffy hole with the fat tip of his cock. You suck in a shaky breath, eyes clenched shut as you prepare yourself for the otherworldly stretch. It burns, just a bit, as he presses just barely inside of you. 

“You gotta make some room for me,” he tells you against your mouth, cupping your cheek despite the fact that its still covered in cum and your slick. You want to cringe away but he holds your mouth against his own, as he nudges forward again and again until the fat head of dick presses inside of you. You groan, folding in on yourself as much as you can, whimpering against his mouth as he tongues at your teeth. 

“Too big,” you whine, pressing at his lower belly with your free hand, sticky with cum, walls of muscle flexing beneath your touch. Deku only shudders at your voice, at your touch, at the warm wrap of your cunt around him. 

“Its just the tip, angel,” he whispers, before pulling back and thrusting shallowly inside of you. You scratch at his belly, the other hand clawing at your stuffy, trying to catch your breath as he fucks you with just the tip. He moves from cupping your cheek to rubbing at your swollen clit, inhaling shakily when you thrash beneath him from the sensitivity. “Doing so good for me, angel.” 

Your teeth grit, your eyes fluttering open and shut, blearily watching the way Deku jerks his cock off with the tip inside of you, the other hand rubbing almost achingly sweet circles against your clit. Its a lewd, disgusting sight, the both of you smeared in his cum, and yet you don’t think that the tears that escape you are all from panic and fear. He stands on his knees, eyes focused on where his thick head rests inside of your warm cunt, how he fists the shaft again and again, how your clit swells under his fingers until he’s sure you’re both about to cum. 

“I love you, angel, you know that?” He whimpers, eyes squeezed shut for a solid second before he’s forcing them open to watch the way your face crumples at his confession, how your cunt tightens around him at his words. “From the first moment I saw you, all those years ago, knew you were the love of my life.” 

When you look back at the memory, you try to convince yourself that you came as hard as you did, not because of his words, but because of his incessant thumb on your clit, the spasming of his cock insides of you. Deku follows only seconds later, chest heaving as he curls around you, stroking his cock until it erupts inside of you, thick ropes of cum filling you up until it leaks from around his thick head, spilling down the curve of his balls to muddle in the sheets beneath you. Neither of you say anything for a long time, both of you trying to catch your breath as he presses gentle kisses up and down the entirety of your throat. 

“I’m not on birth control,” you whisper, still clinging to your stuffy, eyes focused on the unfamiliar pattern of the ceiling above you. Deku doesn’t say anything for a long time, before he lifts his head, his smile gentle and kind and sweet. He kisses you softly on the mouth once, twice, grinning when he feels you kiss him back ever so slightly. 

“I know.”