#neurthotic

Dabi enjoys giving head as much as getting it, actually.  he likes the way you flinch and shudder when the burned skin on his face scrapes harshly against your sensitive inner thighs. he likes locking eyes with you across your heaving chest to watch you struggle to stay coherent, his slow grin against you exposing sharp teeth to your hopelessly overstimulated parts.

but this doesn’t stop him from plunging his fists into your hair when it’s your turn to get on your knees for him, gritting obscenities through clenched teeth and tensing tight as a bear trap as he tries to refrain from smashing his hips into your face hard enough to break your nose.  his knees cradle your head—sometimes his superheated hand cups the column of your throat to feel the bulge in it as he slides in and out.

the other thing. his body temperature skyrockets when he’s turned on, the fire inside him boiling to the surface to simmer behind his eyes and in his fingertips.  and in other places.  you better hope he doesn’t cum in your throat because it will leave burns all the way down.  (you have swallowed, once or twice, anyway—for once in his life, it left Dabi well and truly flustered, pupils so large they nearly turned his eyes black with the dopamine rush as he computed what had happened.  he probably abruptly called you a whore and then pulled you into his chest, his heartbeat slamming against your ear like a jackhammer, before getting you water and stroking your hair like he was hypnotized.)

a thousand wild horses couldn’t take this hc away from me: Dabi has a bizarre infatuation with pain.  the nerve damage leaves him with such a high tolerance that it registers as nearly orgasmic when it happens.  he’s constantly trying to get you to be rougher with him, eyes searing and delirious in the dim light as he murmurs in your ear.  “bite there again, pretty, make it bleed this time.”  “that slap won’t bruise. do it again.”  he contents himself with the darkest hickies you can suck into his damaged collarbone, but before he drifts off to sleep, or when he jerks off, the hazy images that imprint on his brain are more like you stabbing his abdomen with pocket knives or chewing his little finger off. it would be pretty hot if you killed him one day

steam hisses off of his overheated body and out of his mouth in copious white plumes when he finishes with a groan, muffled into the top of your head as he holds you. his wiry body spasms with aftershock.  if there aren’t tears streaming down your face from sheer overstimulation, and small, scuffed burn marks where his searing flesh ground too roughly against yours all over your body, he won’t be satisfied.  there’s almost never an ‘i love you,’ but this is his favorite feeling in the world— cooling down with you in his arms, listening to you try and catch your breath, your heaving chest pressed tight to his.  good luck trying to get up to pee. 

_____________________________________