#stanley queuebrick

touya loves to have you straddling his lap, chest pressed against his and head buried under his chin or resting against his shoulder as slender fingers creep up your back, drawing little nonsensical patterns, or large palms pet down your hair. he likes to feel your heart beating against his, likes to feel your gentle puffs of breath against his neck, likes to feel the way your body vibrates against his any time you speak. it sends little shocks of adoration buzzing through his veins, makes his own chest feel warm with love <3

dabi loves to spoon—and he is almost always the big spoon. it makes him feel secure in an odd sense, to have you in his arms, body completely curled around yours, almost like you’re his own stuffed animal. he especially gets this way after he’s had a rough day, and will kind of just yank you down and into his arms, manhandling you into a position where he can spoon you properly. moreover, it makes him feel useful, makes him feel like he has a purpose, securing you in his protective embrace, almost as if he’s acting as a human shield to keep you safe from the rest of the world <3

oh my god hehehehe you know Daddy sukuna wouldn’t take tolerate that kind of behaviour, that he’d catch up to you quickly, hands encircling your hips as he pulls you back into his strong chest and whispers about how bad you’ve been first thing in the morning, and you know Daddy has to punish you for that, right?, voice dropping into a growl that rumbles against your back <3

he thinks it’s so cute, downright adorable, that you thought you’d be able to get away with such an attitude, with such disrespect, even as you’re wailing out i was kidding Daddy! i was only kidding, i swear! while his large hand connects with the raw, swollen flesh of your bottom, your face half-buried in the mattress as you try to look back at him, his other hand planted firmly on the middle of your back, pinning you to the surface. it’ll always astonish you just how much his hand hurts, the sting of his palm worse than any paddle or belt he’s ever used on you, and just how intimate it feels, to have his bare flesh colliding with yours, sharp slaps ringing out among the bedroom.

she just missed him so much :( she gets worried when he doesn’t answer his phone, when it starts going straight to voicemail, when it’s hours past the time he should’ve arrived home :( because every once in a while she just needs his arms; strong, smelling of gunpowder and metal, covered in tattoos and scars; needs his sharp hipbones bruising her soft inner thighs, needs his teeth sinking into her neck and writing his name—claiming her, owning her—across supple skin in brilliant blotches of navy and grey and violet <3 every once in a while she needs to be reminded that she belongs to him as well, and that he belongs to her, too <33

they most often seep out in the middle of the night, after an exceptionally stressful day, or begin to ooze from the cracks of that meticulous mask of perfection he wears so well, after a particularly harsh disagreement with one of the two people he holds so dear, unraveling the stitching of his expertly crafted persona.

and no one notices except for the two of them, because they know him so well, know all of the little signs and symptoms that something’s off, something’s wrong, evident in infinitesimal changes in his expression and aura—the corners of his lips tugging down just a hint, the little folds of skin that form between his barely knitted brows, the clenching of his sharp jaw and grinding of pearly molars.

it’s always the same thing, always the same seven words, spoken in a quiet, hoarse voice, thick with spit and stuffed full of unshed tears: i am terrified of failing you both. ever the perfectionist and overachiever, touya always takes on a little too much, shoulders forged of steel and coated in platinum, able to withstand the immense pressure he has always placed upon himself. he’s trying his hardest, he promises in a cracked voice. he just wants the best for them, that’s all.

it takes them a moment or two to actually notice that she left, to realize that they don’t hear her normal cries and sobs of don’t! and stop!, don’t feel her soft hands struggling to worm their way between them, latching onto biceps and threading through hair as she tugs and pulls. but when they do finally notice that she isn’t watching—that she isn’t even around—they stop fighting altogether. it’s a gradual dawning on them, fists flying through the air with less force, speed slowing, growls and snarls fading to nothing other than a few grunts until the fight has halted altogether, with the two of them staring at each other in question, wondering where the hell she’s gone off to.