Violet

The gymnasium glowed with warm lights, soft music echoing through the huge room while students laughed and awkwardly danced with their families. Cameras flashed constantly for the press. U.A. had called it a “Family Gala,” supposedly to reassure the public after months of criticism about the school’s safety. The board wanted smiling photos of heroes-in-training with loving parents. Something wholesome. Something human.

You hated it.

From outside the building, the music sounded muffled through the walls. You sat curled behind the side of the gym near the back entrance, knees pulled to your chest while tears blurred your vision. Your fancy clothes felt stupid now. The big poofy dress Aizawa had bought you a week prior. You were so happy when he took you shopping, it felt so natural. Something every child should get to experience with their fathers. Everyone inside had someone. A family, unlike you. Even shotos parents had shown up somehow.

But you?

You were the rehab villain Aizawa had taken in after your arrest. The problem child. The one nobody wanted.

You wiped harshly at your eyes, trying to quiet your breathing before someone noticed.

The back door creaked open and you stiffened immediately.

“…There you are.”

Aizawa stepped outside, looking as exhausted as ever. He clearly didn’t want to be at the gala either. His tie was crooked, he looks like he drank 5 cups of coffee before the event even started.

You looked away quickly, embarrassed— trying to mask ur tears. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“That’s my line.” His tired gaze flicked to your face, then the tear stains you clearly hadn’t hidden well. “…Why are you sitting out here?”

You laughed weakly. “Kinda hard to participate in a family dance when you don’t have one.”

The words came out more bitter than intended.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Music drifted faintly through the wall between you.

Aizawa sighed quietly through his nose. Not annoyed, just… thinking.

Truthfully, he hadn’t wanted to come tonight. The whole event felt fake. Forced smiles for reporters while half the staff babysat PR disasters. He’d planned to stay long enough to satisfy Nezu and leave.

But then he noticed you missing.

“You could’ve told me,” he muttered.

“What difference would that make?”

You expected some logical answer. Some teacher response about resilience or socializing.

Instead, Aizawa awkwardly shoved his hands into his pockets and looked anywhere except directly at you.

“…Do you want to dance?”

You blinked.

“What?”

His expression twitched like he already regretted asking. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“You hate dancing.”

“I hate this entire event,” he corrected flatly. “But you’re crying behind a building instead of inside eating overpriced cake, so clearly one of us needs to make a better decision.”

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped your throat.

Aizawa held out a hand stiffly, clearly unfamiliar with this kind of thing. It wasn’t graceful or polished like the other parents inside.

But it felt real. Your chest hurt worse for some reason.

“…You don’t have to pity me.”

His tired eyes softened just slightly.

“It’s not pity.”

That almost made you cry again, so Slowly, you took his hand.

The music inside changed to something slower as he guided you back toward the gym doors. He looked deeply uncomfortable already, like he’d rather fight a bear barehanded than participate in a parent dance.

But he stayed.

And when the doors opened and people stared for a moment at the infamous rehab villain entering beside Eraserhead, Aizawa let go of your hand for a minute, so you two could get into the dance position.

Your fingers—small, slightly cold from the outdoor air—slid carefully back into Aizawa’s palm. His hand was calloused and warm, rough from years of combat training, late-night patrols, and endless exhaustion. He didn’t squeeze too tightly or say anything overly comforting. He just… held on. Steady. Present. Like he wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon.

And then, without hesitation or the awkwardness most dads might have had in this kind of situation, Aizawa stepped forward and guided you onto the dance floor.

The moment the two of you moved toward the center beneath the soft golden lighting, people noticed.

A hush settled over the nearby families—not cruel, but undeniably surprised. The rehab villain girl? Dancing? With Eraser Head?

Cameras immediately turned your way, reporters subtly leaning closer as whispers spread throughout the room. A few parents exchanged glances, some clearly confused while others already seemed to be calculating how this moment could fit neatly into future press releases about rehabilitation success and heroic reform.

Aizawa didn’t dance like a normal dad. He wasn’t graceful or naturally fluid. He had absolutely no rhythm, no ballroom experience, and definitely no idea how to properly waltz. But somehow, none of that mattered.

He moved in simple, steady motions instead. One arm rested loosely against your back, gently guiding you forward with each careful step while his other hand held yours—not stiffly formal, but not overly close either. Just enough to ground you.

The music continued softly around you, violins blending into warm piano notes that wrapped around the room like a quiet barrier against prying eyes. Aizawa hated the attention. More specifically, he hated how all the cameras were aimed at you. He knew these situations made you uncomfortable. He remembered how much you hated being stared at, judged, analyzed like some kind of experiment.

His tired eyes narrowed sharply toward one of the cameramen lingering too long.

The glare he sent was enough to make the man visibly stiffen.

Without saying a word, Aizawa shifted his position during the dance, subtly turning the two of you so his back faced the cameras instead, shielding you from most of their view.

You noticed. Of course you noticed. He remembered the way you‘d react whenever any paparazzi or interviewer wanted to talk to you, to film you and let the whole world see you. He knew you hated this.

Something in your chest twisted painfully at that realization. It felt wrong somehow—having someone care enough to remember little things about you. Having someone treat you like an actual kid instead of some cold-hearted past villain everyone expected to be dangerous, manipulative, or cruel.

You couldn’t really hold yourself together anymore.

You leaned into him.

Just a small movement at first—your forehead pressing softly against his chest as tears quietly slipped out again. Silent this time. Just quiet sadness leaking through after months of pretending you were fine. Pretending being alone didn’t bother you. Pretending nobody leaving ever hurt.

Aizawa felt it immediately. the dampness soaking lightly through the fabric of his suit where your face rested.

He didn’t tense or awkwardly pull away. Didn’t act uncomfortable either.

He simply let you cry while the two of you continued swaying to the music. One hand slowly moved upward to gently pat your back, not forcing comfort, not overwhelming you with words. Just enough to silently say „ I understand.“

I’m here, You’re not alone anymore.

At some point, you mumbled something against his chest about hating the party, not really expecting him to hear it over the music.

But Aizawa heard.

Of course he heard.

The bitterness in your voice wasn’t loud or dramatic. It just sounded tired. Exhausted. Like you’d spent the entire evening swallowing fake laughs, forced sympathy, and performative kindness from people who only wanted to feel good about helping the “rehabilitated villain kid.“

Aizawa answered honestly to your little mumble.

"Yeah."

A single syllable. Flat tone. No sugarcoating.

Then another pause as he continued swaying slightly on his feet.

„I hate it too," he admitted, "The whole thing’s stupid."

Theres No justification about public image or Nezu's plans.. just raw agreement from one exhausted soul to another.

You lift your head up from his chest to glance at him. Your tears stopped. You let out a exhausted huff through your nose as you looked at him in awe. Like how little girls would look at their fathers, thinking that theyre their heroes.

Aizawa looked down at you.

The golden lights reflected softly in his dark eyes, making the usual tiredness in them seem a little warmer. Your hands rested lightly on his chest, small and uncertain but present all the same.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just studied your face - really looked at you - after seeing you cry behind the building earlier.

You weren't crying now, but your cheeks were still damp and your nose slightly red from it too. Looking a little like rudolf the reindeer.

And yet… here you were.

Dancing with him like this was normal.

Like he actually was supposed to be doing this.

You lifted to tippy toes, signaling that you want to tell him something. He lowers his head so he can hear you.

„Thank you so much for buying me this dress. I feel like a real princess.“ you spoke into his ear, your voice lighter than before.

"Hm."

Aizawa's voice was quiet, but you could still hear it over the music because of how close your faces were. That small sound wasn't dismissive - it was thoughtful.

He glanced down at the dress again.

Not in a judging way.

Just... really looking at it for the first time since he bought it a week ago during an uncharacteristically soft shopping trip to that boutique downtown.

The fabric shimmered slightly under the lights.. layers of soft hues and lace, a flowing skirt that moved beautifully with every tiny step you took on his feet right now.

"I'm glad."

Aizawa's voice was low, gruff but genuine. The kind of tone that rarely came out unless it was something truly heartfelt.

He hesitated for half a second, an unusual pause from someone usually so decisive - then added:

„You look like one."

He watched your face change entirely, his eyes softened — something nobody has ever seen on Aizawa. Your sweet little smile changed his whole demeanour, your smile was similar to someone he knew. Someone he cherished and loved. He felt his heart ache— he has to distract himself from this weird sappy feeling.

Aizawa spun you gently but firmly, his movements surprisingly smooth for someone usually so stiff. The fabric of your dress flared out beautifully as he twirled you in a small, graceful circle.

„waiiiiit!“ you squealed out, a weak protest against aizawa twirling you — your dress poofing up.

And then - something rare happened.

You giggled.

A real, lighthearted sound. Not sarcastic or nervous laughter - just pure joy that slipped out before you could stop it.

Aizawa froze for half a second at the sound. He hadn't heard you laugh like this since... well... ever? Maybe not even when he first took custody of you as a legal guardian, your teacher and guidance, after rehab began months ago.

Aizawa's face did something complicated at the sound of your giggle. Not quite a smile, but his usual stern expression cracked just slightly - the corners of his eyes crinkling in quiet satisfaction.

He didn't say anything yet. Just kept dancing with you, moving through another careful twirl that made your dress flare out again like a real princess' would.

The music was still playing that soft waltz melody now - perfect for slow spins and gentle movements. Around you, other families noticed some smiling fondly at this unlikely pairing — others whispering about how surprisingly tender Eraser Head looked right now.

After the music ended, you were a little exhausted. And hungry at that.

„'m hungry.. can we finally ditch this whole event and get something to eat“ you tilt your head, putting on your best act. Batting your eyelashes at him oh so sweetly.

Aizawa let out a huff that could pass as a laugh. „Hungry?.. i dont mind if we go. I dont like this event anyway but are you sure you want to go eat somewhere with that dress on?“

„Oh yeah..“ you mutter quietly. „ill go back to my dorm to change out of my dress.. i doubt you want to eat in your suit either.“

Aizawa hummed in agreement.

You both walked towards the exit, hearing others ask where youre going

„We're getting food," Aizawa said flatly, not breaking stride as he walked toward the exit with you.

You two skedaddle as fast as you could.

One may say you could be his daughter in another universe from how alike you are.

Aizawa glanced at you as you waddled awkwardly in the poofy dress, your steps slightly stiff from the fabric's bulkiness.

„You look like a kid who stole her mom's wedding gown," he commented dryly. yet there was a smug smirk on his face.

He slowed his pace to match yours, hands tucked into his pockets as streetlights flickered overhead.

——————

Fast forward, you two are in more casual attire. Both in baggy sweatpants and hoodies, sitting in a small restaurant downtown, eating warm soba.

In all honesty there were no thoughts in your mind right now besides for the food. You took a sip before speaking up.

„Thanks for today, dad“. You said — absentmindedly as you happily ate your food.

„Dad?“

The room was dim, the soft hum of the heater filling the silence. You’d been curled up on the couch for a while, the sleep medication finally starting to take hold. Your eyelids were heavy, body melting into the cushions, the world already blurred around you. Insomnia had been a constant, gnawing companion, but tonight, the haze of drowsiness offered a rare relief.

A quiet click at the door made you stir just slightly. Aizawa returned, his figure leaning in the doorway, shoulders tense from a brutal patrol. His hair was messy, eyes dark with fatigue, and the faint scent of sweat and his usual sharp cologne clung to him. Normally, you might worry, ask about his day—but your body felt too heavy, too drowsy to do anything but watch him.

“You’re asleep already?” His voice was low, calm, but edged with that quiet intensity he always carried. You blinked slowly, barely lifting your head, a faint murmur escaping your lips. That subtle surrender, barely conscious, drew his gaze and tightened the smirk on his face.

He stepped closer, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Relax,” he murmured, fingers grazing your cheek, thumb tracing lightly over your jaw. And in that moment, all the tension left your body. You exhaled softly, eyes fluttering closed, and let yourself drift completely.

Aizawa’s lips brushed your temple, his hand moving to settle on your shoulder. “Just let me take care of you,” he whispered. The words weren’t a demand—they were a promise. And in the comfort of your drowsy haze, you trusted him completely.

He shifted you gently, so your back was exposed, fingers tracing along your collarbone, sliding slowly down your side. You shivered in your half-asleep state, body melting into his touch. The warmth of his hand, the steady, possessive presence of him, made your muscles loosen entirely.

“Shhh… relax,” he murmured again, brushing your hair aside, lips close enough that you could feel his breath. You did, finally, let go. Your eyelids closed fully, the last conscious thought slipping as the medication and his calm presence pulled you under.

Even as you fell asleep, his hands didn’t stop. Fingers slid beneath your shirt, teasing, brushing over your bare skin, pressing softly against your nipples. You whimpered quietly in your sleep-dazed state, back arching just slightly into his touch. Aizawa’s smirk deepened, dark and possessive.

He lowered himself, hand slipping under your loose shorts, tracing over your folds with deliberate, slow pressure. He let out a sort humm. „No panties? Dirty little thing you are.“ he whispered into your ear. You shivered, small, muffled noises escaping your lips, entirely lost in the haze of drowsiness. Even asleep, your body responded to him, hips tilting as if begging for more, and he chuckled low.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. “So obedient..”

His fingers curled expertly inside you, thumb circling over your clit, while the other hand steadied your hips. You shivered again, muffled whimpers, body reacting in ways your conscious mind would have never allowed. He teased, pressed, and stroked, letting you melt against him completely.

When he finally pressed himself against your folds, nudging at the entrance with deliberate patience, your body jerked slightly, groaning softly in sleep-drenched pleasure. He entered you slowly, filling you fully, letting you adjust while he watched every reaction—every tremble, every soft whine—even as you slept through it all.

He moved with steady, possessive thrusts, hips grinding into your ass, hands holding you securely. You murmured softly, body trembling, but eyes still closed, fully surrendered. “Shhh… just let me,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “I’ve got you.”

Even as your body shivered with each motion, as he pressed deeper and moved with deliberate, careful pace, you remained asleep, fully trusting him. Your back arched, legs pressing instinctively, small, muffled cries slipping from your lips. He groaned low, moving faster, fingers curling inside you, thumb brushing over your clit, and you convulsed slightly, caught between sleep and sensation.

Finally, he sank fully into you, filling you completely, hands gripping your hips possessively. The release came for both of you, his groan low and rough, your body shivering in overstimulation even as your eyelids fluttered in sleep.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, fingers brushing your hair back. “Sleep now, good girl,” he murmured, voice soft but possessive. “I’ve got you. Always.”

And as you finally drifted fully into sleep, exhausted and satiated, he held you close, body pressed to yours, satisfied in the quiet intimacy of the room—the world outside fading, leaving only the warmth of him, and the trust you had placed in his hands.

The motel room smelled like burnt sugar — that faint caramel scent that always came with his flames when he held them back just enough not to scorch. The lights were off, save for the flicker of a single candle sitting on the bedside table. He hadn’t lit it for ambiance.

You were already stripped down to your underwear, chest rising and falling a little too fast as he leaned back in the chair across from the bed — legs spread, cigarette dangling lazily from his lips as he stared at you like you were dessert.

“On your knees,” he said.

Your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. His voice had that effect — lazy but laced with threat. Dabi stood, sauntering close, towering over you. He pinched the candle wick between his fingers, flame flaring to life like it was nothing.

You swallowed. He smirked.

“Gonna be a good girl for me?” he drawled.

You nodded, thighs pressing together for friction. He clicked his tongue.

“Use your words, doll.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “I’ll be good.”

“Better be.”

He tilted the candle, letting a slow ribbon of molten wax drip over his thumb first — testing the temperature. Then his hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

“Don’t flinch.”

You tried — you really did — but when the wax hit the curve of your collarbone in a sudden, hot sting, your body jolted. A sharp gasp tore from your lips.

Dabi laughed — low and delighted.

“Oh, that’s pretty,” he murmured, watching the wax cool against your skin. “Do it again.”

He tilted the candle again — this time over your chest. Each droplet hit like fire and ice — burning for a split second before solidifying, sealing the heat against you. You whimpered — thighs trembling.

Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes — more from overwhelming sensation than pain. Dabi noticed immediately.

“Well, well,” he purred, crouching down so you were eye to eye. His hand dragged up your cheek, thumbing away one of the tears just to smear it across your skin. “Melting already, huh?”

Your breath hitched — half from embarrassment, half from how hungry he looked seeing you like this.

“I— I’m fine,” you whispered.

“Oh, I know you are,” he said softly — mockingly tender. “If you weren’t fine, you’d be telling me to stop.”

He tilted the candle again, this time letting the wax drip slow across your sternum — right between your breasts. Your body trembled, tears slipping freely now. Dabi’s grin widened.

“Yeah… that’s it. Cry for me.”

You whined, face flushing hot as the wax kept coming, each drop wringing a new sound out of you. The sting, the warmth, the way he watched you like he was devouring every second— it was too much and not enough all at once.

He set the candle aside finally, hands immediately moving to trace the hardened wax on your skin — pressing into it, cracking it slightly to make you shudder.

“God, you look wrecked,” he said with a groan. “And I haven’t even touched your pretty pussy yet.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Dabi noticed.

“Oh no,” he said, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. His eyes were burning — hungry blue. “Don’t hide it. Show me how wet that pain makes you.”

Your breath caught.

And slowly… you opened your thighs.

Dabi’s answering smile was wicked.

“Atta girl.”

Your thighs parted slowly — hesitantly — but Dabi didn’t miss a thing. His gaze dragged downward, lingering on the damp spot spreading across your underwear. His grin was all teeth.

“Knew it,” he rasped. “You fucking love this.”

He shifted forward, pushing you gently back until you were seated on the edge of the mattress. Before you could settle, he had two fingers hooking under your waistband, dragging your panties down your thighs in one smooth motion.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate. “Can’t tell if it’s from the wax… or how wet you are.”

His thumb brushed against your inner thigh — feather light — just to watch you twitch. You tried to stay still. Failed.

He chuckled, low and delighted.

“You trying to behave?” His tone was mocking. “That’s cute.”

His hand slid up — and finally, finally pressed right between your legs. His fingers slipped easily through your slick heat, coating them instantly. You gasped, hips jerking up into the touch.

Dabi moaned softly under his breath.

“Fuck… listen to that,” he murmured, dragging his fingers slowly upward until he circled your clit in lazy, torturous strokes. “She’s fucking dripping. Over a little hot wax.”

Your face burned. Another tear slipped free.

He caught it with his thumb — but instead of wiping it away, he smeared it across your cheek again.

“There she goes,” he whispered. “My pretty little crybaby.”

You whimpered — torn between shame and arousal. He could tell. He loved it.

“Don’t hide it,” he said, pushing his fingers inside you without warning. Your back arched as he filled you — knuckles deep — curling up until your breath came out in a sob.

“Yeah,” he growled, watching you fall apart on his hand. “Cry on my fingers.”

He thrust slow at first — deep and deliberate — his other hand moving to your chest. His fingers ran over the hardened wax on your skin, pressing against it until it cracked. You squirmed at the sensation — pleasure blending with a sting as he began to peel it away, strip by strip.

The contrast was overwhelming — his fingers fucking into you, his other hand scraping heat from your skin, your tears spilling faster with every wave of sensation.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his own voice unsteady now. “Leaking everywhere. Can’t handle how good it feels, can you?”

You shook your head, another sob tearing from your throat — but your hips were grinding desperately against his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers.

He leaned in, breath hot against your ear.

“Say it.”

You blinked through tears. “S-Say what—”

“Say pain makes you wet.”

Your lungs seized. Your face burned. But your body… clenched around his fingers so tightly he groaned.

You swallowed hard.

“…Pain makes me—wet—”

“Louder.”

“P-Pain makes me wet—!”

“That’s my girl,” he snarled — and slammed his fingers faster, relentless now, peeling the last of the wax off your chest with rough, possessive strokes.

You shattered — crying openly now, sobbing his name as your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, soaking his hand, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

Dabi didn’t stop. If anything, he fucked you harder through it, grinning like a devil.

“That’s right,” he rasped. “Cry for me while you come.”

Your orgasm was still rippling through you when Dabi suddenly pressed the heel of his palm hard against your clit, fingers still buried deep inside you.

You jolted — overstimulated instantly — grabbing at his wrist like you meant to stop him. You didn’t.

“W-wait— Dabi— too much—”

“C’mon,” he rasped, voice tight with restraint. “Give me one more.”

You shook your head — but your hips were already stuttering against his hand, helplessly riding the pressure. Your tears smeared across your cheeks, hiccuping breaths escaping you as he ground his palm in slow circles.

“You can take it,” he growled. “I just watched you cry all over me. Don’t tell me you’re shy now.”

His pace didn’t quicken — it deepened. Firm, steady, wrecking you on purpose. Your vision blurred again. Your legs started shaking.

“Dabi— Dabi I—”

“Yeah,” he whispered, licking his lips as he watched you unravel. “Come on, doll. Be a mess for me. Soak me.”

It hit so suddenly you couldn’t even brace — your whole body snapped tight, and then burst as your orgasm ripped through you violently, gushing around his fingers with a wet slap against his wrist.

Water spilled down your thighs — dripping onto the sheets below. You choked on air — crying, trembling, overwhelmed.

Dabi’s eyes widened — pupils blown wide with hunger.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, sounding almost reverent. “Look at that. You squirted for me.”

You hid your face with your hands — mortified. He clicked his tongue.

“No hiding,” he said, catching your wrists and forcing your hands down. “Show me your face when you make a mess like that.”

You flushed hard — still shaking. He smirked.

“Good girl.”

He pulled back, wiping his drenched hand on your thigh casually, then reached for the candle sitting beside you — flame still flickering.

Your eyes widened. “W-Wait— I— I can’t—”

“Oh?” He tilted his head lazily. “Too shy to hurt me?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “I just— what if I—”

He stood in front of you, grabbing your hand and wrapping it around the candle base. His other hand went straight to his belt, unbuckling it with zero hesitation. His pants fell loose around his hips — cock hard and flushed, already aching for friction.

His voice dropped, low and sharp.

“I said pour it.”

Your heart hammered. “But—”

He crushed your hesitation with one sentence:

“Make me feel what you felt.”

Your breath caught.

He tilted his chin up, exposing the scarred plane of his chest — purple staples glinting in the candlelight. His abs were clenched already in anticipation, chest rising heavy with need.

“…You want it?” you whispered.

His grin was feral.

“I need it.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. Slowly, hand trembling, you tilted the candle.

The first drip of wax landed on his collarbone.

He shuddered.

Not in pain.

In ecstasy.

A harsh breath punched out of him — his head tipping back, lips parting.

“Oh— fuck.”

You froze — stunned.

He laughed breathlessly — shaky. “Don’t stop now. More.”

You swallowed — blushing hard — but tilted the candle again.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip—

Each hit made his muscles tense beautifully — his cock twitched with every drop, precum spilling down his length. He was enjoying it. More than you expected.

“More,” he rasped. “Don’t be sweet. Burn me.”

Your hesitation broke.

You poured — not delicate drops this time, but a steady, hot stream down his chest, watching his skin tense and twitch beneath it.

Dabi moaned.

Low. Guttural. Real.

His hand snapped up, catching yours, guiding the wax lower — down the slope of his abs — stopping just above where he was aching for it.

“Good girl,” he panted, chest heaving. “Fuck— you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You stared — wide-eyed, flushed, breath trembling — suddenly addicted to the sight of him falling apart.

Dabi’s eyes lifted, blazing with raw heat.

He sat back against the headboard, legs spread wide, cock flushed and twitching against his abdomen — wax still cooling and flaking across his scarred chest.

“Climb up,” he ordered. “You’re not getting away with just watching me suffer. You’re gonna ride me while I’m still burning.”

You swallowed hard, pulse stuttering.

“I—”

“Now.”

His tone left no room for hesitation. Hands trembling, you swung a leg over his lap, straddling his thighs. The heat radiating off his body was overwhelming — both from his quirk and from the molten anticipation between you.

His fingers dug into your hips as he positioned you over his cock, the head brushing your entrance — slick and sensitive from your earlier release.

“Sit,” he growled.

You sank down slowly — inch by inch — whimpering as he stretched you open, your walls clenching tight around him. His head fell back against the wall with a guttural groan.

“Fuck— that’s it. Take it. Deep as it goes.”

You bottomed out fully, thighs trembling on either side of him. His cock pulsed inside you — thick, scorching hot, perfectly angled against the sweetest spot inside you.

You sat there, shaking — overwhelmed.

Dabi didn’t let that last.

He grabbed the candle still in your hand.

“You’re not just gonna sit pretty,” he rasped. “Move. And pour.”

Your breath hitched.

“I— at the same time—?”

He smirked darkly.

“That’s an order.”

You lifted your hips — feeling every inch of him drag through your soaked walls — before dropping back down with a wet slap that made both of you groan.

“That’s it,” he hissed. “Again.”

You bounced on him — slowly at first, then faster, your breasts bouncing, thighs trembling with the effort. Every thrust rubbed raw pleasure through you — your clit grinding against his pelvis perfectly each time you sank back down.

“Now the wax.”

Your hand shook as you tilted the candle.

Hot drops spilled across his chest again — and onto your fingers, making you gasp at the sting.

Dabi moaned — rough and raw — thrusting up into you hard enough to make you cry out.

“Yeah… fuck yeah,” he panted, watching you through half-lidded eyes blown wide with lust. “Burn me while you bounce on my cock. Use me. Ruin me.”

You moaned — louder than before — your shy hesitation drowned by the thrill of power and submission all tangled together.

You poured more — trails of hot wax dripping down his abs, pooling at the base of his cock where your bodies met.

It made him twitch inside you — made you clench around him violently.

He snarled.

“Faster.”

You obeyed — riding him harder, the sound of wet skin slapping filling the room. The wax cooled and cracked against his skin while heat bloomed between your legs with every thrust.

Your vision blurred — pressure coiling again deep inside you.

“D-Dabi— I’m— I’m—”

“Do it,” he growled, grabbing your hips and slamming you down harder. “Fuckin’ soak me again. I want you to squirt all over me this time.”

His thumb found your clit — pressing hard.

You screamed.

The orgasm exploded through you — violent and uncontrollable — liquid gushing around him as your body convulsed helplessly. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, legs shaking uncontrollably.

Dabi laughed — hoarse and wild — chest rising as wax flaked off in pieces.

“Look at you,” he breathed, thrusting up into your overstimulated heat as you trembled around him. “You just baptized me in it.”

You slumped forward — boneless, panting — but he wasn’t done.

With a broken snarl, Dabi slammed you all the way down onto him and kept you there, forcing you to take every inch as his fingers dug bruises into your hips. You felt him throb inside you — hot and heavy — just before he jerked against you and spilled deep, heat flooding your core in thick pulses. You could barely breathe with how full you felt, his forehead pressed to yours as he held you still, groaning low like he was trying to brand the moment into you. Even when he was done, he didn’t pull out — he just stayed there, buried to the hilt, like he owned the right to keep his cum where he’d put it

U.A. after hours was usually quiet — empty halls, lights dimmed, the hum of old AC buzzing through the vents. Most teachers went home after long days of grading and wrangling teenagers.

But not you, Hizashi, or Aizawa.

You had stopped by Aizawa’s underground faculty lounge to drop off some mission reports. Hizashi tagged along — loud as ever — insisting he’d “keep the energy up,” whatever that meant.

Aizawa was sitting on the couch, dark eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, capture weapon wrapped loosely around his shoulders like a scarf. You placed the files on the table, and before you could even step back, he grabbed your wrist — tired… but possessive.

“Stay,” he muttered.

Hizashi grinned from across the room. “Awwww, Shouta’s feeling clingy tonight.”

Aizawa didn’t even look at him — he just tugged you down into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You flushed, straddling him, hands on his chest. You could feel how warm he was beneath his black shirt. His fingers dug into your hips — silently asking. Silently demanding.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Hizashi was leaning back against the wall, amused, golden eyes flicking between you and Aizawa with growing interest. Not mocking. Not shocked. Curious.

“Should I head out?” Hizashi asked — but there was no real intent to leave. His grin was sharp. Hungry.

Aizawa finally looked at him, steady and unbothered.

“No. Watch if you want.”

Your breath hitched.

“Only watching,” Aizawa added firmly, squeezing your hip. “No touching.”

Hizashi raised both hands in surrender, smirk carved across his lips. “Scout’s honor, babe. Wouldn’t dream of stealing your pretty thing.”

Your pulse thundered as Aizawa pulled your mouth down onto his, kissing you slow and heated, deliberately sloppy — because he wanted Hizashi to see.

Aizawa’s lips were soft but unyielding against yours, tongue sliding into your mouth like he planned to take his time — slow, deep, possessive. His hands were already under your shirt, rough thumbs brushing up your sides before cupping your chest and squeezing deliberately, like he wanted Hizashi to appreciate the view.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, head tipping back, and that’s when you saw him.

Hizashi had already undone his belt, one hand lazily pumping his cock, the other braced against the wall. His grin was gone — replaced with something darker, eyes half-lidded and molten gold.

“Fuck…” he breathed, voice low and needy. “Didn’t think you’d actually let me watch, Shouta.”

Aizawa didn’t spare him more than a glance. “Didn’t say I’d put on a show. I said watch.”

Then he grabbed your thighs and ground your hips down against the hardness straining beneath his sweats — slow and deliberate. The friction made you whine, fingers curling in his hair.

“Look at him,” Aizawa murmured against your throat, lips brushing your pulse. “Let him see how good you sound for me.”

You obeyed — head turning just enough for Hizashi to watch the way your lips parted, breath catching as Aizawa rutted up against you.

Hizashi’s chest rose sharply, his strokes getting quicker. “You’re fucking unreal,” he groaned, eyes glued to the spot where Aizawa’s hands held you firm. “Ride him, baby — let me see you fuck yourself on his cock.”

Aizawa clicked his tongue. “Always so loud. Can’t even shut up while jerking off.”

But his grip tightened — guiding your hips faster, encouraging the grind. His cock pressed perfectly against you through the damp fabric of your underwear, sending sparks of pleasure through every nerve.

Hizashi’s breaths were getting louder, syncing with yours. “God— look at the two of you. Fuck. If I’d known you were hiding this every night, I’d have crashed more grading sessions.”

You moaned — head falling forward onto Aizawa’s shoulder.

Aizawa tilted his head, lips brushing your ear. “Ignore him,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “Only focus on me. Only I get to touch you. Only I get to fill you.”

Hizashi let out a shuddery noise of approval, fisting himself faster. “Fuck yes — tell them, Shouta. Claim ’em.”

Aizawa’s breath came hot. “I intend to.”

And with one firm tug, he was pushing your panties aside, sliding two fingers between your thighs — rubbing you open while holding eye contact with Hizashi.

You could barely breathe.

One man touching you.

One man watching you.

Aizawa’s fingers eased through your slick folds, spreading you open like he had all the time in the world. But his voice — low and rough against your ear — told a different story.

“You’re already soaked,” he murmured. “From what? My touch… or the fact Hizashi’s watching?”

You barely managed a sound, somewhere between a whimper and his name. Your hips were already rocking into his hand like instinct.

Hizashi groaned from across the room — stroking himself faster, gaze locked on where Aizawa’s fingers disappeared between your legs. “Fucking hell. She looks like art from here. Dripping all over your hand just because I’m looking at her.”

Aizawa clicked his tongue. “You think she cares about you right now?” He curled two fingers inside you without warning, drawing a breathless cry from your lips. “She can barely breathe.”

Your body arched, hands clutching at his shoulders. His fingers were slow but deep, pressing harshly against that spot that made your legs tremble. You were already close, embarrassingly fast — and Aizawa could feel it.

“You’re going to come all over my fingers already?” he asked, voice cruel but soft. “In front of him?”

Hizashi’s breathing stuttered. “Shit— don’t tease her, just—”

“Quiet,” Aizawa snapped without looking at him, fingers plunging harder. “You’re lucky I’m letting you watch.”

Hizashi whimpered — actually whimpered — hand working himself desperately now, precum slicking his fist.

Aizawa leaned in close to your ear. “Say it,” he whispered. “Tell him who’s making you feel good.”

You were trembling, hips jerking helplessly as his thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit. His voice was a command — irresistible. Your lips moved before your mind caught up.

“You shouta! Mnhh… ohh”

Aizawa’s teeth grazed your neck in approval.

Hizashi let out a guttural moan, head tipping back against the wall.

“Fuck— you two are gonna kill me—”

Aizawa slowed his hand suddenly, pulling back just enough to leave you clenching around nothing. You gasped, desperate for more — but he held you still.

“Not yet,” he muttered, voice dark with hunger. “You’re gonna come while I’m inside you — and he’s going to watch every second of it.”

Hizashi let out another broken sound — almost a plea.

“Shouta, please…”

Aizawa’s tired eyes flicked up, locking with Hizashi’s — and for a moment, neither of them breathed.

Then he spoke, voice soft but deadly.

“Get a chair.”

Hizashi obeyed instantly — stumbling to grab one and dragging it right in front of you, sitting with legs spread, cock flushed and leaking.

Aizawa shifted beneath you — lifting you slightly. You felt him press the head of his cock against your entrance, thick and hot and impossible to ignore.

You trembled in his lap. Hizashi stared openly, panting.

Aizawa’s grip tightened on your hips.

“Eyes on me,” he told you.

“Eyes on her,” he told Hizashi.

And slowly— agonizingly— he pushed inside.

Aizawa’s cock stretched you open inch by inch, forcing your body to accept him slowly — deliberately. He didn’t rush. He made you feel every second of it.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as your mouth fell open in a silent moan. Hizashi’s breath hitched sharply.

“Holy fuck… look at how she’s swallowing you,” he groaned, fisting his cock faster. “You see that? She’s trembling just from you sliding in.”

Aizawa’s hands clenched bruisingly tight around your hips, keeping you still once he was fully seated inside you. His voice was low, ragged around the edges.

“Stay just like that,” he murmured against your ear. “Let him see how tight you are around me.”

You whimpered softly. Your body was already desperate to move — to rock, to grind, to chase the heat building inside — but Aizawa held you pinned on his lap like a doll.

Hizashi’s chest rose and fell rapidly, golden eyes glued to where your bodies were joined. “You gonna make her beg before you move, Shouta?”

Aizawa tilted his head just enough to meet Hizashi’s gaze — slow, controlled, dangerous.

“She doesn’t need to beg.” His fingers traced lazy circles over your hip. “She already knows who she belongs to.”

The words hit harder than his grip. Your throat tightened, a needy sound slipping free despite your attempts to swallow it down. Hizashi laughed breathlessly.

“God, listen to her. That sound— you’re killing me, both of you.”

Aizawa finally lifted you — just an inch — before dragging you back down onto his cock. The friction made you gasp, heat blooming deep in your belly. He did it again — another slow, heavy thrust — forcing you to feel everything.

“Shouta…” Hizashi groaned, stroking himself faster now, hips jerking into his fist. “Please— can I—?”

Aizawa didn’t even look at him.

“No.”

Hizashi froze, breath stuttering. You felt a shiver run through him just from being denied.

“You don’t get to come yet,” Aizawa said calmly, lifting you again and grinding you down just a little harder. “You’ll come when she does. Not before.”

Hizashi whimpered — openly, shamelessly — thighs tensing as he forced himself to slow his hand.

Aizawa’s lips brushed your jaw. “Hear that?” he whispered. “Even he has to wait on you.”

Then, in one smooth shift of his hands, he lifted you higher — and slammed you down onto him.

You cried out, head snapping back. Hizashi moaned with you, stroking himself wildly but not daring to finish.

Aizawa thrust up into you again — harder. “Let it out,” he growled against your neck. “I want him to hear every sound you make.”

You rode his cock helplessly now — hips moving on instinct, legs trembling as heat coiled inside you. Hizashi was gasping in time with every thrust, like he was the one getting fucked too.

You could tell he was on edge, fighting to hold back.

Aizawa knew it too.

His voice was a dark promise.

“When she comes,” he said lowly, “you come.”

Hizashi’s eyes glazed. “Shouta… fuck… please—”

And Aizawa slammed up into you again — pushing you to the brink, refusing to let you fall alone.

You were so close that you couldn’t think—could barely even breathe—every thrust from Aizawa punching breathless sounds out of your lungs. Your body was burning, trembling, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

“Shouta— Shouta— I’m—” you gasped, barely able to form words.

“Say it,” he growled, thrusting up harder, angling perfectly until your vision blurred. “Say who’s making you come.”

Your climax hit like a live wire snapping. Your whole body locked up around him, back arching as you cried out loud enough to echo in the room. Your cunt clenched desperately around Aizawa’s cock, milking him, holding him deep as pleasure tore through you.

“Fuck—fuck—” Hizashi choked out, tearing at his hair with his free hand as he watched. “Shouta—please— please let me—”

Aizawa held you down on his cock, forcing you to feel every pulse of it. His voice was ragged now, control slipping, breath hot against your shoulder.

“Now,” he ordered. “Come.”

Hizashi didn’t even last a second—he practically sobbed as he came hard into his fist, hips jerking, cum splattering across his thigh and the floor as he moaned helplessly. His eyes were locked on you, pupils blown wide with raw desperation.

But Aizawa wasn’t done.

Before your aftershocks could fade, he grabbed your hips tight—too tight—and thrust up into you again.

You gasped—overstimulated, raw, but unable to protest. Your body welcomed it, gripping him greedily, trembling with every deep push.

“Shouta— it’s— ah— too much—” you whined, barely able to hold yourself upright.

“I know,” he grunted, voice harsh, thrusts growing sloppy now. “Take it. You can take it. You’re mine—”

The last word broke as he buried himself deep one final time, hips pressed flush against you. His whole body shuddered as he groaned into your neck—hot, low, and wrecked.

You felt it—felt every pulse as he filled you with thick, hot release, spilling deep inside you.

You whimpered at the fullness, overstimulated and bliss-drunk, clinging to him as his cum flooded you, warmth spreading through your core.

Aizawa didn’t move. He stayed inside you, breathing hard against your skin, hands still holding you protectively—possessively.

Across from you, Hizashi was still panting, flushed and trembling, cum streaking his hand and thighs. His eyes were blown wide and hungry even after release.

A slow, shaky grin spread across his lips.

“…Can I crash grading nights more often?”

Aizawa didn’t even look at him. He just exhaled against your ear.

“You move into this chair,” he muttered lazily, “and I’ll make you watch again.”

Hizashi’s breath hitched.

You swallowed, still trembling around Aizawa’s cock.

And somehow… you felt your body ready for more.

It’s stupid how quiet U.A. gets after dark

Most teachers go home. Lights turn off. Hallways go still.

But Aizawa never leaves when he’s supposed to — and tonight, neither do you.

You’re supposed to be reviewing incident reports with him. Supposed to be professional. But the tension has been thick for weeks, ever since that one too-long look, that one brush of his hand against your hip that neither of you acknowledged.

Now it’s close to midnight, stacks of paperwork ignored, and you’re perched on the edge of his desk, swinging your legs idly while he stands between your knees — pretending to read a document, but his eyes keep flicking down to your mouth.

You catch him staring. Smirk.

“Something wrong, Aizawa?”

He sets the paper down. Slow. Deliberate.

“Lock the door.”

You barely get the latch shut before he’s on you.

He grabs your waist and hauls you back against the desk, lips crashing onto yours in a kiss that feels like restraint snapping. His hands are rough, urgent — fingers sliding under your clothes like he’s been imagining this for far too long.

You gasp when he drags your underwear aside and sinks two fingers into you without warning — thick, deep, curling just right. The sound you make against his mouth is embarrassing and desperate.

He groans into your lips, breath ragged. “So fucking wet for me already… knew you would be.”

You clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer, but he’s already grinding against you — the hard outline of his cock straining against his pants. He’s not even trying to hide how badly he needs this.

With his free hand, he yanks open his belt and shoves his pants down just enough, wrapping his fist around himself. He strokes slowly while his fingers pump into you, and the combination — the slick slide inside you, the obscene sound of his hand working his cock right against your thigh — makes your whole body tremble.

“Look at me,” he growls when your head tips back.

You force your eyes open.

His hair’s falling into his face, mouth parted, flushed and hungry.

“Mine,” he mutters, voice low and possessive as he fucks you with his fingers harder. “All fucking mine.”

Your legs shake. His thumb finds your clit, circling lazily — too slow, too gentle, like a warning.

“Come for me,” he orders, squeezing his cock a little tighter as he says it. “Come while I’m inside you — wanna feel you lose it all over my fingers.”

You do. Hard.

Your body convulses, clenching around him, sticky and hot and loud, and his jaw locks as he watches, pumping himself faster, desperate now.

“Fuck—” he rasps, leaning forward till his forehead presses to yours. “Gonna make a mess all over you.”

And he does — thick, hot streaks spilling across your stomach as he groans through gritted teeth, still pumping his cock while his fingers remain buried inside you, holding you right on the edge like he’s not ready to let you go.

It takes a moment for either of you to breathe again.

Then, without pulling his fingers out, he murmurs against your ear — voice dark and soft:

Day 6 — outdoor sex & intoxication w Beast dazai

Day 7 — blindfold with Gojo

Day 8 — Webcam w Toji

Day 9 — Exhibitionism w Geto

Day 10 — CNC w Beast dazai

Day 11 — Somnophilia w Aizawa

Day 12 — Kneeling with Fyodor

Day 13 — Dildos w Keigo

Day 14 — Omega verse and choking with Sukuna

Day 15 — Semi public sex with Keigo

Day 16 — Remote control with Dazai

Day 17 — Messy sex & service kink with Nanami

Day 18 — Dom/sub and genital torture with Choso

Day 19 — Creampie with true form Sukuna

Day 20 — Mirror sex/Dubcon with Dabi

Day 21 — Forced orgasm & monsterfucking w true form sukuna

Day 22 — Gunplay with Beast dazai

Day 23 — Biting/Praise kink with Nanami

Day 24 — Anal sex with Sukuna

Day 25 — Double Penetration with Gojo and Geto

Day 26 — Cuckoldry & lingerie w Aizawa & Hizashi

Day 27 — Pet play with Aizawa

Day 28 — Multiple orgasms with Chuuya

Day 29 — full body bondage & body worship w aizawa

Day 30 — Breeding//Degradation with true form Sukuna

The night was thick with heat, the sheets tangled and soaked with sweat as Aizawa’s hands roamed your body, rough but tender at first. His lips pressed soft kisses along your jaw, breath warm against your skin, that rare softness in his tired eyes making your heart flutter. You bit your lip, teasing, and whispered breathlessly, “Daddy…”

The word hit him like a shot to the gut. His eyes snapped open, darkening instantly, lips twisting into a growl. But instead of pulling away, you felt him press closer, cock already hardening, straining beneath his pants.

“Don’t say that,” he snarled, voice thick with warning—but there was something else underneath. A hungry, dark fire blazing in his eyes.

You smiled wickedly, loving the effect you had on him. “Why? You like it?”

The warning turned into a low, guttural growl as he grabbed your hips, dragging you flush against him. His breath hitched, and you could feel the growing hardness pressing relentlessly against your thigh. “You wanna play with fire, brat?” His voice was rough, dangerous, and you knew you were already burned.

Before you could answer, his arm shot around your neck, sliding under your jaw, locking you in a tight, possessive headlock. The pressure made your breath catch, a delicious mix of control and need exploding inside you.

“Punishment,” he growled, voice thick with lust. “For calling me that.” And all you hear is him unbuckling his belt.

His hips slammed forward hard, pounding into you with brutal force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with your gasps and his harsh, ragged curses. The headlock held you perfectly in place, every thrust controlled, every movement violent and precise.

You cried out, fingers tangling in the sheets as he fucked you like he was fucking away every ounce of frustration bottled inside him. The heat of his body, the tight grip around your neck, and the filthy words dripping from his mouth pushed you higher and higher.

“Say it,” he demanded between hard thrusts. “Tell me you’re mine, brat.”

Your voice was ragged but desperate. “I’m yours, Daddy. Fuck me harder, please.”

The moment you called him that, something inside him snapped—his grip tightened, his cock throbbed painfully, and he slammed into you even harder, fucking you so fiercely your head spun. You were gasping, moaning, utterly fucked stupid by the raw force of his need.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he growled, teeth grazing your neck. “You’re mine. You’re my fucking brat, and I’m gonna fuck you so stupid you won’t remember your own name.”

He pulled your hair roughly, forcing your head back as he pounded into you with ruthless intent. The headlock didn’t loosen; it held you captive to his every filthy thrust. You felt every inch of him, hard and relentless, driving deeper and deeper until your whole body trembled with need.

Your climax crashed over you like a storm, body shaking violently as he kept fucking you through it, relentless and unforgiving. Your mind went blank, every thought wiped away except for the overwhelming, all-consuming pleasure.

He growled low, his own release ripping through him as he fucked you hard one last time, sweat and heat mingling in the small room as he spills his warm seed deep inside you. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark and heavy with satisfaction.

“You’re mine,” he hissed, voice rough and possessive. “And don’t you forget it.”

The city’s on edge — sirens wailing in the distance, broken glass crunching under the boots of heroes trying to push the crowd back. Every spotlight is trained on the ruined entrance of the bank, where Dabi stands like he owns the place — blue fire flickering lazily in his palm, licking at the marble floor.

And pressed tight against his chest — his so-called “hostage” — is you, trembling in his grip, but not nearly as afraid as you look. Your wrists are pinned above your head by a single burned hand, your breath coming quick as Dabi’s lips graze your ear.

“Poor little thing,” he drawls, voice dripping heat and cruel promise. “All these heroes out here — all these good little cops — and you’re stuck here with me.“

You shiver when his nose brushes your neck, but there’s no mistaking the way your thighs press together, desperate for more friction. He feels it — grins against your skin.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, loud enough for the nearest heroes to hear. “You want them to come save you?”

Your eyes flick over the line of heroes crouched behind cars and makeshift shields. Their faces are tight with rage and embarrassment — and something that makes your stomach flip. You feel Dabi’s hand tighten on your hip, the heat from his quirk licking at the waistband of your ruined skirt.

“Answer me,” he says, more growl than words now. His free hand slips lower, dragging up the inside of your thigh. “You want them to drag you away from me?”

You swallow, lashes fluttering. The answer’s there — in the way you push back against him, breathless, mouth falling open when his palm cups you over your panties.

“N-no,” you whisper, just loud enough to carry. Dabi laughs — a raw, low sound that makes the nearest rookie hero flinch.

“Atta girl.” He turns his head, eyes flicking over the line of flashing blue lights. “Hear that? She’s not yours anymore.”

Someone yells “Dabi! Let her go! This is your last warning!” — but Dabi’s already hooking his fingers into your waistband, tugging the scrap of fabric aside.

“Keep watchin’ then,” he calls back, voice mocking as he slides his fingers through your slick heat. You gasp — sharp, shocked, hips bucking right into his touch. He grins against your temple.

“Look at you,” he purrs, voice rough. “Drippin’ for me where everyone can see. Think they’re gonna be able to save you when you’re grinding all over my fuckin’ hand like this?”

You try to bite back a moan but it’s too late — his fingers are sliding inside, curling deep, thumb rubbing circles that make your knees buckle. He keeps you pinned tight against him with an arm around your waist, the blue flames dancing at your feet like a taunt to any hero brave enough to step forward.

“Please— Dabi—” you gasp, eyes rolling back when he pumps his fingers harder. Your words carry over the quiet horror of the police radios and the angry shouts from the line of pro heroes.

“Say it louder,” Dabi growls against your ear. “Tell them who you belong to.”

Your head drops back to his shoulder, lips parted, sweat sticking your hair to your cheek. “You— I’m yours— please— Dabi—”

“That’s fuckin’ right,” he snarls, grinding the bulge in his jeans against your ass as he fucks you on his fingers. “You’re mine — you hear that?”

Someone yells “Take the shot—!” but no one dares fire when his flames whip up in warning, searing the ground around you in a blue ring of heat.

“Go ahead, heroes,” Dabi spits, fingers curling deeper, the wet slap of it echoing obscenely in the tense street. “Try and take her from me.”

You cry out when you come — legs trembling, slick dripping onto his knuckles as your whole body shudders against him. Dabi licks the sweat off your jaw, eyes glittering with that dangerous light.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he purrs, dragging his wet fingers over your lips before licking them clean himself. He presses his half-hard cock against your ass, the threat clear in the way he ruts slow against you.

“You wanna show ’em more, sweetheart?” he whispers, low and filthy. “Or should I drag you inside and finish what we started?”

You whimper, nodding, hips rolling back to meet him — like you don’t care at all that the whole city’s watching.

Dabi smirks at the line of frozen heroes, blue fire sparking at his fingertips.

“Better luck next time, heroes.” He sweeps you off your feet like you’re nothing, carrying you back into the ruined bank — the shadows swallowing you both, leaving only the heat of his flame and the echo of your soft, desperate moans behind.