#inky.dabi

“God,” he’s groaning, and you can hear his boots on the cobblestone getting louder, heavy heels colliding confidently with the ground. “You are such a fucking brat.” 

“Oh, shut up, just—”

Your voice dies in your throat as a sudden weight blankets your body, crushing the air from your lungs, Touya’s chest pressed flush against your back, his lips now at your ear. 

“Touya!” you squeal, immediately squirming beneath his body. “Get off of me!”

“What’s the matter?” he asks, a mocking pout in his voice, the question humid against your flesh. “I’m helping you, like you asked me to.”

“I wanted you to reach in next to me, not smush me and reach over top of me! Get—Off!” 

The muscles in your arms ache as you try to shove back against him, using all your might, but he doesn’t fucking budge, dead weight laying on your spine. 

“Is this the way you treat your big brother when he’s trying to do something kind for you?” 

His voice is infuriatingly calm, his question a sort of musing, as if he’s pondering a philosophical inquiry instead of being fucking annoying. 

It is a stark contrast to your voice, which is already breathless and rough around the edges, ragged from all of your thrashing. 

“Yeah, yeah, keep struggling, feels kinda good.” 

You’re about to ask him what the fuck he’s talking about, elbows still locked and bent at 90 degrees, when you feel it—something swollen and hard, prodding against your bum in shallow, rhythmic motions. 

Blood turns to ice in your veins, body gone rigid and still as panic pierces through your chest, spiked and sudden, shocking your heart into a faster gallop. Breath stalls in your throat as ice encases your brain, numbing your thoughts. 

“T-Touya-nii…” Oh, so small, so soft, so scared.

Fear sits thick in your throat, making your voice sound weird to your ears, odd, off, not your own—hollow, yet mangled. 

“Mm?” 

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You—You know what.”

“What?” he presses, derisive and condescending. “You too baby to even fucking say it?”

And despite his harsh words, spit from his tongue drenched in disgust, his lips are gentle—too gentle as they trail along the line of your jaw, stringing a garland of messy, half-formed kisses. 

“Or are you afraid to say it because you like it?” His head knocks against yours, temples bumping together. “Go on. Say stop humping me, Touya-nii.” 

“I don’t fucking like it,” you say instead, a spark of your trademark fire reigniting in your chest. “Fucking get off of me.”

“Oh, I’m gonna get off all right,” he snorts, and you roll your eyes. “The question is whether you want to get off with me.”

“The answer is no.”

“You sure about that?” His hips roll forward with conviction, slow and hard. “It’s always no at the start, isn’t it? But that doesn’t mean you don’t like it.” 

“Touya,” you whimper, the name nothing more than a pitiful whisper, trembling on your tongue. “Please, stop.” 

“Aw, begging already?” 

Dirty hands slither up your bare thighs, easily slipping beneath the pleated fabric of your skirt to curl around your hips, blunt nails biting into your flesh and keeping you pinned to the car. His movements grow a little more conspicuous, a conscious and concentrated rutting into your ass as slim fingers dip beneath the waistband of your undies, playing with the elastic.

Your eyes squeeze shut against the familiar sting of tears—you will not cry, you will not cry, you will not cry—jaw clenching as saliva begins to well up in your throat, dense and burning. 

“Niichan…” 

And you hate how fucking weak your voice sounds, the term of endearment a pathetic last ditch effort to halt this situation, a flash of anger searing through your chest. 

“Niichan’s here,” he mumbles distractedly, leaning back enough to kick at your inner ankles, steel toes sending bolts of pain shooting up your calves. “Niichan wants to feel your bare cunt on his hard cock.” 

You jerk wildly, trying your best to raise your torso, to push back against him and escape, but the large hand splayed wide on the small of your back stops you, pinioning you to the car once again.

A shiver crawls up your spine as rough fingers tug at your panties, pulling them to the side and exposing your most vulnerable parts. Touya grunts as he shifts behind you, repositioning himself and slotting his cock up against your slit, knees forcing your thighs open even wider. 

You’re still struggling, the muscles in your legs tensed and flexing as you attempt to use the ground as leverage, pitiful little sounds of effort falling from your lips.

“Fuck,” he breathes as he blankets you yet again, hips already starting to rock, working up a steady pace. “Can’t you just be good for me? For once?” 

The denim of his jeans is grating against your sensitive skin, each drag of his clothed cock leaving behind sharp little tingles snuggling into your flesh.

“No,” you growl out through gritted teeth, lids still glued shut, keeping the tears brimming in your eyes smothered. “I fucking hate you.”

You fucking hate him, but your body is already starting to relax without your permission, mollified by the familiarity his own body brings—family. 

“You hate me, yeah? And how about if I touch you here, huh?” his hand worms its way between the trunk floor and your body, two callused fingers finding your puffy clit. “Do you still hate me? Still want me to stop then?”

Yes, yes! Please, stop, yes!

Yes is what you want to say, what you should be saying, head nodding viciously, but your tongue refuses to form the word, thick pools of saliva collecting in the divots of your mouth as a shameful sob claws at your chest, breath stuttering with a hiccup.

Everything burns, the blood surging through your veins spiked with humiliation, prickles erupting across your flesh as you buck involuntarily, body responding to him instinctively, instantly. 

“Go on,” he breathes, and you can feel the smile in the hot breath beading along your neck. “Tell me.” 

His fingers roll over your clit in slow circular motions—unhurried, savouring—and your back curves, hips pressing into his sinful touch. 

“Tell me,” he demands again. “Because it doesn’t fucking feel like you want me to stop.” 

Tears scald your cheeks as they finally break past your scrunched lash line, flowing down your face in hot, wide streams, nose twitching with a sniffle as your head shakes. 

“No?” he gasps, pulling back ever so slightly, as if to fully look at your profile, to absorb the whole picture. “No, you don’t want me to stop? Or no, you won’t tell me?” 

You still can’t speak, tongue useless and slimy in your mouth, head merely continuing to shake in sloppy motions as another rush of tears clouds your vision, vile mortification sinking in your chest. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong, you are both so fucking wrong, homegrown into one crooked, twisted, withering being, teeming with parasites that have left permanent festering wounds, too deep to ever be healed. 

“Does it even matter?” Touya muses to himself, nosing along the shell of your ear. “No says enough, doesn’t it, no matter which question it answers.”

The last of your resistance deflates, a silent agreement, body gone limp and molding to his own, putty in his scarred hands. 

The chuckle that wafts across your skin is dark, deep and rumbling against your back, and your head drops to the carpeted floor of the trunk, defeated. Salty tears run down your face in gleaming little trails and Touya coos, tongue unravelling from his mouth to lick a fat stripe up your cheek, sopping up tears with his flesh and replacing them with cooling spit. 

The fingers shoved between your thighs start to accelerate in their movements—a reward of sorts, for finally cooperating—Touya’s gyrating speeding up to perfectly match their pace. 

“There you go,” he pants out. “Just give in. It feels so good, doesn’t it?” 

The sob that rattles your ribs in response is nothing short of vicious, strings of spit coughed out in shimmering little webs along the trunk floor. Touya’s still cooing and hushing, nuzzling his face into your own in a crude form of comfort, a crude sort of caress. 

You’re weeping out his name in a steady string of garbled letters—a chant, a prayer, a curse, only interrupted by the hiccuped sounds he manages to pull from you as those hardened fingertips swipe over your now slick clit, your nails scrabbling against the carpet, searching for purchase.

His free hand reaches up to overlay your own, threading your fingers together, caging it in his grasp. It provides an anchor, though—something for you to grip as you’re forced to climb to ecstasy, another small semblance of sick comfort; familiar, predictable, yours.  

“M’here, m’here, c’mon, let me play with you,” the words are mumbled against your face, lips dragging them across the curve of your cheek in a vulgar imitation of a kiss. 

Your legs automatically obey his request, spreading wider as your ass pushes back into his thrusts, a petulant whine sounding in your throat at your own dismal inability to control your body. 

“Still don’t want it?”

Your head nods, then shakes, then nods again, and Touya flicks your clit with a tut of his tongue. 

“I dunno,” he hums thoughtfully, two fingers swiping along your slit, slow and deliberate. “Your pussy says something else.”

Fucking traitorous bitch. 

“She likes you better than I do,” you say, and although it’s supposed to be a complaint, spit with disgust from a screwed up face, it comes out as a lie, small and whimpered and full of shame.

“I’m alright with that.”

His fingers trail back up your cunt, petting your clit almost gently, almost lovingly, as if he cherishes and appreciates such a treasure, and your pelvis rolls toward his touch, hungry, craving more. 

He resumes his steady rhythm then, and you stay in line with him, hips rocking back and forth as you attempt to hump his fingertips, each graze sending another spark of pleasure zipping through your gut.

“That’s it, baby, yeah, yeah, yeah, fuck back on me,” he gasps out, forehead pressed tightly to the back of your skull. “Keep goin’, just like that.”

The intoxicating encouragement—so coveted, so controlled—only works to drive you further, movements speeding up in an ambitious effort to earn more praise from him, every gyration of your hips further eroding the resolve you were so desperately clinging to, revealing something sick and snivelling hiding at it’s core.

“God,” he inhales a hiss through his teeth, leaning away again to watch how you hump back against him, ass rotating in tight, fast circles, yearning cock slipping between your cheeks. 

His free hand pushes the hem of your skirt up further, forcing it to pool around your waist and fully exposing your bare ass to him. Blunt nails sink into your plush flesh, snapping tiny tangles of blood vessels beneath their grip as Touya grabs a healthy palmful of your ass, squeezing until you yelp.

“I love it when you wear such slutty little outfits—it makes it so much easier for me.” 

A sharp slap sounds, adding insult to injury as blood begins to flood the surrounding tissues, a biting sting radiating from the site. 

“They are just for me, right?” And you swear you can detect a hint of genuine jealousy in his voice, caustic and possessive. “Not for Shouto or Daddy?”

“Yes, Touya-nii,” you sigh out, your actions slowing to something intentional, purposeful and hard as you grind into his cock, accentuating your answer. “They’re only for you, always for you.”

“Good,” he says, body draping over yours again, lips suddenly at your ear. “Because this pussy is mine.” 

The growl of ownership vibrates against your back, shivery dread climbing the notches of your spine, your head beginning to nod instinctively.

“Mine, and no one else’s, you hear me? If I find out another Todoroki cock has been anywhere near my cunt I will cut that cock off, I swear to Christ.” 

His voice is cold, firm, a fucking oath—a dangerous promise. There isn’t a single doubt in your mind that he means every word of what he just said.

Yes, Touya-nii, yes, Touya-nii, yes, Touya-nii! 

The agreement spills from your mouth as your hips speed up again, back arching into a perfect curve to reveal more of your cunt to him, pelvis twisted at an unnatural angle. 

It pulls a moan from his throat as the head of his cock begins to catch on your needy little hole, pulsing around nothing, begging to suck him in, to be stuffed full. 

“H-Ah, fuck, fuck.”

The denim of his jeans no longer hurts, the fabric turned slick and soaked with your arousal, making each glide of your pussy smooth, effortless. 

“Y’feel how wet you are for me, baby? Feel how much you love my cock?” 

The whine you let out is pathetic, another bout of humiliation flushing through your veins, sending pins searing through your blood. 

The muscles in your legs are beginning to tremble, fatigued from being on your tiptoes for so long, pushing up even further in a futile attempt to give him more of your cunt, calves taut and firm. 

You can feel it beginning to form in your gut, a tense, concentrated ball of fire furling in on itself tighter and tighter with each stroke of Touya’s fingers over your swollen clit, alternating between quick figure-eights and rapid, pulsing waves.

But you’re getting too goddamn loud, fucking damn it—much too loud for Touya’s liking, choked little noises of pleasure tangled with pain reverberating off the cement walls of the garage, amplified as they bounce back at you. 

“Shut up,” Touya growls, the fingers of his free hand reaching easily for the peach that started this whole fucking mess and jamming it into your open mouth as a makeshift gag. “You tryna get me into fucking trouble?” 

No, no, no, your head is shaking fervently, fruit beginning to slip from between your teeth. 

“Then keep this here,” his palm shoves the peach further into your mouth, fuzzy skin scraped by your incisors as they dig into the sweet flesh, “and shut the fuck up.” 

You’re trying! you want to wail, the sentiment reduced to a high pitched whine, a fresh torrent of tears flooding your eyes. You’re trying, but it feels too good, it’s too much, you’re too close!

The rocking of your hips has turned ruthless, muscles in your lower back cramping from being scrunched in such a position, and you hump back toward Touya with a certain voraciousness, almost as if you’re trying to fuck him through his jeans. 

It tugs another one of those coveted broken moans from his throat—so delicious, so gorgeous, and you wish you could see him, sapphire rolling back in his head, angular jaw on perfect display, prominent Adams apple bobbing with his shattered little sounds, all coming together to form a masterpiece of pure pleasure.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he gasps out, voice strained. “I want you to cum from your big brother playing with your clit. Come on, sweetheart, I know—I know you can do it.” 

A shudder ripples through your flesh, disgust and desire, and his fingers speed up, rubbing over your clit in fast motions, that ball of fire coiling more, and more, and more until finally it bursts, sending a cascade of wet heat gushing to the apex of your thighs.

Your whole body tenses beneath him, cunt squeezing violently around nothing, so much that it hurts, and you weep out some mangled version of his name, smothered by the fruit. 

“That’s it, that’s it, make a mess on niichan’s pants, you little sl-slut,” he’s nearly whining, his movements growing vigorous as he chases his own high, both hands curling tightly around your hips and forcing you to stay still, to take everything he’s giving, keeping his cock slotted flush and hard against your cunt in an effort to feel it convulsing on him.

A cry hitches in your throat as his grip strengthens, sticky fingertips burrowing into soft flesh as his hips roll once, twice, three times before he’s filling his jeans with hot, thick cum, the hands on your body roughly compelling you to rut against him through his orgasm. 

And, God, it’s so fucking hot, his thick cock throbbing almost viciously into your grinding ass as he floods his pants with cream, a curse shattering on his tongue and a tremor coursing through his form.

You’re still whimpering into the fruit stuffed between your teeth when Touya collapses on top of you, chest heaving, his scalding breaths dewy against your skin. 

Touya? Is that you?

It’s softened by layers of drywall, but it’s still loud enough to send jolts of shock buzzing through your veins, Touya’s body jerking up immediately.

“Yeah, mom,” he calls back, voice slightly hoarser than usual. “Just got home.”

Make sure you don’t leave the produce out on the counter again, or it will spoil!

“Yeah,” he shouts, exasperated, and you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Will do!”

He waits for a couple more moments, the sound of harsh, uneven panting the only noise echoing around you, your ears ringing as they strain to listen—for more instructions, for footsteps, for a doorknob turning. 

But mom has gone back to whatever it was she was doing, the state of the groceries already forgotten, and then Touya’s leaning over you again, his face so close that his forehead nearly bumps against your own. 

“Look at me,” he growls, a hand expertly knotting itself in the hair at the back of your head and yanking, ensuring your gaze stays trained on him. “You say a fucking word about this to Daddy and I swear to God, I’ll make sure you never step foot in this house again, you hear me?” 

Your head is nodding before he’s even finished speaking, a fresh pair of crystalline drops blooming at the corners of your eyes, nose twitching with a sniffle. A dirty hand pulls the peach from your mouth, the ache in your jaw suddenly becoming apparent, the hinge stiff and sore as your mouth begins to close. 

Touya glances at the fruit in his palm, now bearing deep little indents strung in two crescents, and smirks to himself, deliberately ripping out a chunk of sweet flesh from where your teeth had been buried. 

Peach juice dribbles down his chin, sapphire eyes sparkling as he watches you.

It’s soft, tired, scared, and your arms automatically squeeze, holding him impossibly closer. 

“Yes, Touya,” you murmur, planting a kiss in tousled ivory. “You are still the prettiest boy I’ve ever known.” 

“In the world?” 

“In the whole universe, baby.” 

It’s an answer accepted with silence, his only response a wobbly nod into your body, punctuated with a trembling kiss. 

He no longer asks you to prove it to him like when you were younger, when he still didn’t believe you, couldn’t believe you, needed that physical proof—an explicit display of divine devotion. 

He no longer has to. 

You don’t ask him what prompted these thoughts, what inky demon curled its claws through the gaps in his ribs and yanked him down into such desolate darkness, pouring poison into his ears, leaving it to ferment, to fester in his brain. 

In the moment, it doesn’t actually matter—not when he’s drowning in his own mind, memories bubbling up with the fresh burns blooming across his skin, healthy flesh gnawed away at as the burns spill past the barrier of staples. 

No, what matters is that you help keep his head above the surface, that you snuff out a full-blown crisis before it catches flame, your body his only tether, strong arms wrapped tightly around your torso, just a hint shy of painful. 

This question is only ever uttered under the protective veil of the night, at 3AM when the darkness is the heaviest, potent enough to consume the question seconds after it’s uttered, to blot it out and swallow it down and burn it up in the rising sun, hours later. 

That is the only time Touya deems it safe to be vulnerable. Even then he barely gives you more than jagged little shards, leaves you to try and fit them together into some coherent picture, but you never push—you’ll never push. You will merely offer him up an eternal space to shove these vulnerabilities, should he wish to take it. And you, well, you will hold them in your tender hands, in your bloodied heart; you will keep them safe behind clenched knuckles and cages of bone. You will allow them to just be without feeling the need to judge or mend; you will accept them wholeheartedly, readily, always making room for more.

And it’s not just about appearance, this question, even though you know those new wounds consuming his skin are a source of agony, of fear, a physical manifestation of the deterioration of his mind stamped across his flesh for all to see.

It’s about everything, every single fucking part of him: the flaws that are becoming more and more apparent, strengthened and striped back, bare and raw, with each encounter that brings him one step closer to his ultimate goal; the insecurities that are written into his genes, passed down through several generations, faulty codes and wicked DNA. 

Is his soul still the prettiest you’ve ever encountered? Is his mind still the most fascinating, the most beautiful? Is he still your favourite person, favourite anything, in the entire world? 

Yes, yes, yes. The answer is always yes.

Flame-hardened fingertips find your clit, his movements effortless and leisurely as he begins to massage circles into the rapidly swelling nub. A gush of warmth rushes to the apex of your thighs, bathing his fingers in an embarrassing amount of arousal. 

And, oh, he felt that. 

Dabi snorts, fingers pausing their pursuit to tap together, audibly slick and sticky, pins of humiliation sprouting across your cheeks at his arrogant amusement.

“Cute.”

This is normally how it starts—a nightly routine at this point, performed dutifully in the hazy glow of the television, old set wading through fuzzy static. But he takes his time tonight—really, that should’ve been your first indication that something was seriously off, something was wrong—and you, blissful and ignorant, allow yourself to drown pleasantly in the feeling of his fingers, in the wet warmth of his lips dragging along your skin as he whispers out sinful sentiments, streaking your flesh with rapidly cooling saliva. A wicked chuckle wafts across the trails, sprouting chills as it goes, huffing out something mean and haughty about how easy you are for him, and he thinks you could cum from just his voice, probably, huh?

You think so, too. 

“Yes, yes,” you’re babbling out, head tipped back against his shoulder nodding in messy little movements, pelvis bucking to punctuate each affirmation. 

You’re totally lost in it, the ecstasy he creates whenever he touches you—pure pleasure that perfectly complements the paramount pain which inevitably follows when he finally takes what’s his, a flawless pair of sensations that come packaged as an inextricable deal—back arching against his chest as your hips press down, a feeble attempt to catch your clit on his slippery fingertips, breathy little moans huffed from your mouth with every compression of your ribs. 

And then, Dabi smashes it all to bits. 

“Don’t look now,” he murmurs, lips vibrating against your ear, dark and deep. “But we’ve got an audience.” 

Your eyes fly open, frantic as they dart around the dim room, only illuminated by the old television, bathing a small swath of the room in a faded, flickering blue. The glow is weak, radiating outward to barely outline the other shapes in the room, but you’d have to be blind to miss the pair of rubies, illuminated in the darkness. 

“Oh my God!” you gasp the moment your stare connects with his, legs instinctively snapping shut, desperate to preserve the shreds of your decency. 

“Hey,” Dabi says, voice stern, clit caught between his thumb and forefinger. “I didn’t say close.” 

A yelp cracks in your throat as his fingers pinch and twist, bolts of pleasure-tinged pain shooting through your core, and your legs instantly yield, muscles relaxing as they drift open again.

Revulsion flushes through your veins at the sound gurgled at the back of Tomura’s throat, eyes trained on the apex of your thighs. 

“Pretty, ain’t it?” Dabi breathes, and for a moment his facade of cool condescension slips, awe bleeding into his voice as he gazes down at your cunt, his cunt, glittering in the television flare.

A grunt of agreement is all he receives in response, Tomura’s palm busy cupping his cock through his jeans. 

“Da-bi,” you whine, neck twisting to try and hide your face in his throat, feeling raw, exposed, to Tomura’s ravenous eyes. 

You swear his stare has teeth, swear you can feel it gnawing away at your flesh, tearing skin from bone with sharp incisors and swallowing you down.

“Oh, come, now,” Dabi tuts his tongue in mock admonishment. “Don’t be rude, baby. This is our Leader, don’t you know?”

You do know—you know very well, actually, have caught your supposed ‘Boss’ glaring at you too many times than you’d care to count, blunt and unabashed in his imprudent scrutiny, refusing to break his stare even after he’d been caught several times in a row during a single instance. 

It freaks you the fuck out, and Dabi knows this, has beared witness time and again to your complaints about Tomura’s creepy behaviour, lamenting about how you’re sure he wants you gone, how he looks at you with such an intense hatred it scathes your skin, how his eyes leave a film of grime coating your body, always itching to scrub it off beneath scalding water. 

Originally, you thought he wanted to murder you, but now you’re not so sure. Had you been misinterpreting his staring this entire time?  

“What do you think, Boss? You like her panties?” Dabi’s fingers dimple your flesh as he urges your thighs open further, revealing the cotton pink panties that have since snapped back into place due to your wriggling. “I think they’re just the cutest.” 

Dabi hooks an index finger in the gusset of your undies and pulls the material taut from your body, arousal-drenched fabric shimmering almost delicately in the light, highlighting to Tomura just how soaked they are. They snap back wetly against your cunt a moment later, but Dabi’s finger stays curled in the garment, yanking it upward so it accentuates the contours of your cunt—all your dips and curves, lips and bumps.

Tomura says nothing, but his laboured breath hitches in his chest, ribs shuddering with it as he forces it from his nose, palm accelerating its motions. 

“What about her pretty pussy?” Dabi continues, eyes flicking up from his work to stare at his Boss through strands of ink. “Wanna see it again?” 

A singular, sharp jerk of his head, down then up, that unblinking, unrelenting stare never straying from the most intimate part of your body.

Another whimper wavers in your throat, your head shaking in response, but Dabi ignores you, two bent fingers tugging your panties to the side, revealing your bare cunt to Tomura once more. 

And you’d be a fucking liar if you said the sound your Boss makes when he sees it again—something caught between a whine and a mewl—doesn’t make your stomach swoop almost violently, hummingbirds fluttering in your gut. 

“Look, look a’this.” 

Callused fingers resume their previous ministrations before you had been so rudely interrupted by your unwanted and unwelcome guest, two hardened fingers grinding slow, firm circles into your clit. 

Just like that, you’re putty in his hands again, body relaxing beneath the touch of its keeper, safe in the throes of pleasure, safe in his arms. Your head tips back against his shoulder again, leaving your clavicle and bosom on full display—neck bared to the predator, submissive—chest hitching delicately with the noises Dabi manages to pull from your throat. 

Dabi’s fingers flatten, gliding down your slit in one smooth stroke to spread your lips, revealing your quivering little hole to Tomura. He allows his Boss to admire it for a moment, lets thoughts fester in that sick, sick head, before his fingers press together again, then dip into your body. 

“Look at how gorgeous she looks, stretching around my fingers like that,” Dabi says as his fingers continue to push into your cunt, deliberate and steady, watching the way your body swallows past each knuckle until he’s buried as far as he possibly could be. 

His digits curl suddenly, hard knuckles pressing into that swollen patch of tissue he knows so well, a cute little cry slipping from your lips as a delicate shudder of pleasure courses through your form. It builds for a moment, smouldering cinders beginning to kindle into a small flame as Dabi massages circles into that special spot, his name an airy plead on your tongue. 

And, oh, that pathetic little sound of disappointment you emit when he pulls his fingers free from your greedy cunt is so precious, a coo falling from his lips, an apologetic kiss pressed haphazardly to your temple. 

Slick-coated fingers wiggling, Dabi lets your arousal catch in the dim light—showing it off to Tomura, no doubt—before bringing them to his mouth, lips puckering as he sucks both of them to the back of his throat, a groan vibrating around them at the taste of you. 

“God,” he’s breathing, after he has made an obnoxious show of licking his fingers clean. “She tastes so fucking good.” 

Something akin to a growl rumbles deep behind Tomura’s sternum and Dabi’s head quirks, an eyebrow raised.

“Oh?” Sapphire scans the man hunched in the dingy corner, indifferent, mouth just barely screwed up in a grimace as if Tomura is the most pathetic thing he’s ever seen. “I’m sorry, did you want a taste?” 

“Dabi…” you whimper out, a timid warning. 

“What?” he looks down at you. “Don’t you think our Leader should get a taste of your sweet cunt?”

“No,” you squeak, the denial honest and automatic, a swift slap delivered to your folds a second later.

“Didn’t I just tell you not to be rude?” he speaks over your resulting yelp, his condescending voice full of mocking devotion to his leader—sugary sweet artifice, a stark contrast to the sharp, stern scoldings you receive when you’re disrespecting Dabi.  

“She didn’t mean that,” Dabi brushes off nonchalantly, attention returning to Tomura. “Why don’t you come lick her cunt?” 

Tomura’s stare breaks away from your body for the first time, eyes flicking up to Dabi’s to confirm that this is okay, that this is allowed, that it isn’t all just a joke. He must find whatever answer he’s looking for, because then he’s scrambling off his barstool with such fervour that the metal legs teeter, rickety against the hardwood, and he’s falling to his knees between your legs, practically smushing his face against your core. 

A horrified squeal falls from your lips, entire body cringing from his touch, but Tomura doesn’t seem to care—not how you feel, not what you think, not why you’re reacting in such a vicious way—purely concerned about chasing his own pleasure, your aversion merely an added bonus. 

But he doesn’t even lick it—you’re not sure if he even gets a taste at all—opting to simply rub his face against your pussy like some sort of depraved fucking animal, his nose nearly dipping into your hole, a high, needy whine shattering in his throat. 

It’s revolting to watch, Tomura practically burrowing into you as the heels of his hands shove gracelessly at the waistband of his jeans, finally managing to wrestle them down far enough to get his cock out, flushed a pretty cherry red, a thick smear of pre-cum already glazing the head. 

He’s got a fist wrapped around it instantly, scalding pants exhaled into your cunt as his hand moves, jerking himself off with such intense vigour it’s almost violent, each hard stroke upward yanking another moan from his chest. 

They vibrate against your slit, his mouth smushed to your opening in some sort of crude imitation of a kiss, his hot breath only adding to your wetness. 

It’s already difficult to tell what’s yours and what’s his, which rush of heat is coming from your gut or his tongue. It’s teasing in the worst fucking way, your hips involuntarily squirming in Dabi’s lap, his hard cock pressed into your ass nothing more than a cruel temptation, a taste of what you can’t have—yet.

To your petrified humiliation, Tomura notices your little micro-thrusts, a groan heavy on his tongue as his free hand clamps down on your hip sans pinky, blunt nails biting into supple flesh, and forces you to rut harder into his face.

A sticky squeal of repugnance cracks in your throat, face screwing up as your legs try to kick free of him. 

But Dabi’s right there to neutralize you, strong hands pinning your thighs down to his, forcing them to stay stretched wide, your feet flailing aimlessly. 

“Shh, shh,” Dabi hushes you, and you whine, neck twisting to bury your face in his shoulder. 

“He’s so gross,” you whimper, head shaking a little. 

“I know, I know, but you’re doing so good for us—such a good little toy for us to play with, aren’t you?” 

And despite the subject matter, Dabi’s words are soft, consoling, a pacifying slave that mollifies your distaste to something dull and dense, sitting heavy in your belly. 

You just want to be good for him. You will be good for him. 

“Look,” Dabi’s shoulder shrugs, an attempt to nudge you from your hiding spot. “Look at how insane your cunt makes him.”

He sounds almost proud as he watches Tomura attempt to drown himself in you, cheek nuzzling into your own, guiding your attention to between your thighs.

As much as you’d never fucking admit it—especially not within Tomura’s immediate vicinity— Tomura’s potent desperation is kind of hot in a grotesque sort of way, so horny he can’t even find it in himself to try and eat you out, his own pleasure his only priority, his dirty nails so deeply embedded in your skin that they’ve broken the thin barrier, blood puddling around the indents of his fingerprints. 

It’s impossible to deny the power this instils in you—the power Dabi has technically granted you—heady and intoxicating as it courses through your veins, setting your nerves ablaze, body turned hyper-sensitive. 

Shameful little moans keep prying past your lips with each coerced roll of your hips, stubbornly refusing to be smothered by the tongue pressed hard to the roof of your mouth, clawing their way past your hard swallows as you try to shove them back down your throat. 

Because Tomura’s face feels so fucking good; because Tomura’s face is drenched in your slick, his nose a nice, slippery nub to grind your swollen clit on, tufts of silver plastered to his forehead, saturated in you.

Ruby stares up at you from between your legs, practically glowing with desire in the weak light, something almost religious in his gaze, a gluttonous sort of worship gaping in his pupils. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he’s gasping with each of your sweet little sounds, sweaty fingers flexing on your hip as they readjust their grip, strength commanding your pelvis to move faster. His fist speeds up to match the movement and you whine, a shiver of disgust rippling your skin.

It’s a horrible combination, repugnance clashing with rapture to putridly mix in the pit of your stomach, bile rising as sparks of pleasure sear through your gut. It’s fucking embarrassing, to be so affected by something so vile, your hands curling around Dabi’s wrists as you resist the urge to push Tomura away. 

“Y’think you could get off like this, baby?” Dabi asks, drawing your attention back to its rightful owner, his voice equal parts sultry and patronizing. “Just from humping his face?”

“No, Dabi,” you whimper, eyes squeezed shut against the burn of watery humiliation. “Want your cock, only your cock!”

“Jesus Christ,” Dabi breathes, pretences cracking beneath your potent, raw desire. “I’ll give it to you baby, swear to fuckin’ God I will, as soon as this freak is done using you.” 

“Oh, please, please-please-please!” 

Tomura inadvertently adds to your symphony of imploring with his own answering whines, nose burrowing into your folds as he shoves his face further between your thighs.

“I think he could get off on just that,” Dabi spits, mouth screwed up with revolt, but you can feel his cock throbbing against your ass, just as eager. “Fucking pathetic.” 

“Shut up,” Tomura growls into your cunt, but it sounds more like a plead than an order. 

“Hurry up, Boss, or I’m gonna fuck her in front of you and not let you finish.”

“Fucker,” Tomura seethes, but the word is tattered, edges gnawed away by intense pleasure. 

Despite Tomura’s aversion to being told what to do, his hand speeds up impossibly faster, a sick squelching echoing throughout the room and wow, how the fuck does he produce that much pre-cum?

“C’mon, baby, be a good girl and help the needy little virgin out,” Dabi says, sounding bored.

But you can hear it, the tremors of irritated impatience worming through his command, hips jerking in messy little movements—an automatic reaction, starving with lust—unintentionally edging himself.

And you obey him, because of course you do, cloaked in his addictive authority. You swear you can feel the electric pops of pure power crackling around him in a spiky embrace, nipping at your body before seeping into your flesh, invading your veins and invigorating your blood, another rush of warmth pooling in your gut. 

Delicate hands find those silvery-blue tufts, palm smoothing over them once before your fingers sink into his strands, knuckles buried, nails gently scraping against his scalp as you push his face further into your cunt. 

Your hips begin moving with purpose then; quick, powerful gyrations as you deliberately ride his face, the hand on the crown of his head holding him still while you use him like he’s your own personal toy. 

“Come on, Tomura,” you moan, edges of your words turned airy, teetering on a whine. “Cum for us, Boss; make a nice, big mess for us.”

It’s easy for Dabi to tell that you’re not truly into it—your voice is too high, your words sugary-sweet with artificial lust, your motions too exaggerated to be real—but it’s all Tomura needs, really, to have him exploding all over himself with a cracked groan, his free hand seizing on your hip, nails digging further into the wounds they’ve gouged as thick ribbons of cream streak his black jeans. 

Spitting a hiss through clenched teeth, your entire body jolts then tenses from the pain, resisting the urge to shove at Tomura again as he cums, and cums, and cums. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe, equal parts impressed and horrified, unable to look away at the seemingly endless amounts of cum this man is producing, expression twisted up somewhere between awe and disgust.

Tomura’s still heaving even as his cock finally begins to soften, body collapsing forward to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, eyes slipping shut.

His breath is hot against your skin, leaving a perpetual damp patch, his pants knotted with whimpers, hips twitching weakly.

But you barely feel it, hardly notice Tomura still clinging to your body at all, all attention solely concentrated on the hot, hard lump pressed flush to your ass, throbbing, aching, silently begging. 

Another surge of slick floods the apex of your thighs, a discontented little whine slipping from your lips as you shift in Dabi’s grasp, impatience growing by the millisecond. 

because he loves that sharp gasp of surprise, that sheer unadulterated bolt that courses through your body—shock in the purest, prettiest form—that jolts you from your blissful slumber almost violently; skin shuddering, eyes snapping open, when he shoves two dirty fingers into your ill-prepped cunt. 

it’s his favourite sound in the world, he swears it is, swears he would bottle it up and keep it close to his heart if he could, swears he would wear it around his neck like the cutest, daintiest little noose, tethering him to you. 

but this is the next best thing, he supposes. 

your eyes slip shut again, so tightly they crinkle the corners and furrow your brow, and a whine of his name spills from your lips; first in frustration, then again all wispy and dumb when he curls his knuckles against that plush spot buried deep inside of you—that spot he knows so well, that spot he discovered, then claimed as his own. 

yeah, not so irritated now, are ya, y’little brat. 

no, you’re not. you’re sighing out his name in time with the pumps of his fingers, all melty and stupid and oh-so-cute, knotted with his honorific and seeping into your lace-trimmed pillows in little threads of drool. you’re grinding your ass back against his hard cock as you pathetically hump his palm, indulging him as his hips rut into your plush flesh, pre-cum steadily leaking through his thin pyjama pants, staining plaid in dark wet patches.

“touya-nii,” you whimper, back arching a little, nipples peaked through the thin cotton of your camisole. “stop, stop.” 

this is the routine almost every time, practiced and perfected through night after night of rehearsals, and you play your part flawlessly; effortless and enticing and full of emphasis, because you know he gets off on it—the no!s and wait!s and don’t!s, sometimes spit from your lips, sometimes dribbling out the corner of your mouth, only heightening the whole sordid affair.

because you’re just as fucking sick as your big brother is. 

he can’t stop, don’t you know?

it’s all your fault, he’s telling you, voice caught somewhere between accusatory and mocking. if you weren’t such a slutty little tease, nii-chan wouldn’t have to do this. 

but it’s all just a game; he knows you love it just as much as he does, knows you’re just as depraved as he is, because your actions don’t match your words, you bad girl, the rolling of your hips encouraging the rocking of his own, one of your free hands threading itself over his and guiding it to your breast, bony knuckles pressing into a soft palm as his fingers flex around supple flesh.

if you didn’t love it, if you didn’t want it, then why would you prance around the house in those short, short little dresses? the ones that fan out when you twirl to your music in the living room or ride up when you bend over while cooking in the kitchen, gifting anyone within the immediate vicinity (your vile siblings and their prying eyes) a coveted glimpse of the silk and lace clinging delicately to your cheeks; the ones that are an inch or two too short to be considered wholly decent, and the ones Daddy has repeatedly told you to stop wearing around your big brothers—especially the eldest. 

“m’sorry, touya-nii, m’sorry, m’sorry.”

no, you’re not, but that’s okay. he isn’t, either. 

at least you have each other.

your other hand snakes between your tensing thighs, cupping his own, little fingers layering larger ones as they try to speed up his motions, push his digits deeper, fuck you harder, give you more. 

these trysts never last long enough, though; no matter how hard he tries to lengthen them, to savour them, you’re both too eager, too hungry for one another, cumming too quickly in the dead of night as your bodies tremble together, as names shatter on tongues in sharp whispers and limbs seize and tangle and fuse into one.

it’s always so fucking messy, your cunt clenching around your conjoined fingers, slick dribbling down his knuckles in thick dollops to pool in his hand, to settle in the lines of his palm and streak his inner wrist in pretty shimmering streams.

it’s always so fucking messy, his grunts hot and humid against the nape of your neck, forehead pressed to the crown of your head as his cock throbs, filling flannel with copious amounts of burning, sticky cum—so much it seeps through the material to soak your scrunched panties, so much it dries in a hard glaze, welding lace to your ass. 

you don’t ever dare to wash it off, clean it away, eradicate the evidence, instead allowing each other’s pleasure to stain your skins, wearing it like a mark of honour, a claim of ownership, barely visible when it dries into something firm and translucent, but there nonetheless. 

his fingertips continue to flutter against that swollen spot until ripples of overstimulation are shuddering through your flesh, until your little hand is wreathing around his syrupy wrist and nails are biting into his flesh and tugging, tears beginning to bead your lashes.

only then does he chuckle and pull his hand free, knuckles hooking in an attempt to scrape your walls, a heavy coat of your arousal glistening on his fingers. 

“you cum so fucking much for your big brother,” he growls in your ear, lips wet against the cartilage, voice tapering off into a whine. “look at how wet you get for me.” 

two of his fingers flatten against your cheek and then swipe, slow and hard and thorough, smearing a thick film of your slick across your face, from the tip of your temple to the corner of your mouth, back and forth and back and forth until it’s been rubbed into your skin. 

callused fingertips push past your parted lips, weighing down on your tongue and cramming themselves into your throat, forcing you to taste yourself—to taste him, painted in you; spicy nicotine and heady salt.

“you’re fucking disgusting,” he pants out, but his pupils are gaping, watching as your gorge yourself on your big brother’s flesh, lips puckering and cheeks hollowing as your tongue curls around his knuckles and tries to siphon him further down your throat. 

a whine splinters in his chest as he pulls his extremities free from your voracious grip, slathered in spit, viscous cords strung between his knuckles as he spreads them apart. 

“yeah, you’re real fucking sick, y’know that?” 

“you made me like this, nii-chan,” you breathe out dreamily, already drifting back into sleep’s welcoming embrace, body going lax in his arms and snuggling back against his chest. 

yeah, he fucking did.