#like i kinda wanna write lil oneshots of ur adventures with dabi

[inkykeiji]

break my bones but act as my spine

characters: shigaraki tomura, dabi

genre: smut if ur reading for tomura, angst if ur reading for dabi

notes: i truly have no idea how this got so dang long but uh there’s a good 3k worth of smut in there so do with that what u will. quirkless!AU, tomura is a spoiled rich brat (so the same, basically), dabi is a Sad Boi™️ w tattoo’s over his fully healed + scarred skin, reader is in university, ummm please please please heed the warnings n stay safe!! 💖 title credit = 16 lines by lil peep

warnings: 18+, noncon, drug use, daddy kink (implied ddlg dynamics), size kink/size difference, graphic depictions of violence, murder, blood, possessiveness/general toxic relationships, degradation, implied dacryphilia (???), pining

words: 10k

part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four ⋆ part five ⋆ epilogue ⋆ series masterlist

synopsis:

Tomura does not share toys; he doesn’t share his candy apple red Maybach, he doesn’t share his gleaming custom chrome and silver Ed Brown 1911, and he most definitely does not fucking share you.

—

Dabi thinks he’s really done it this time. You are Tomura’s baby, his perfect little princess, and he would fight the devil himself with his bare hands to keep you happy, to keep you safe, to keep you his.

You should be in bed.

Gentle taps echo around you as fat raindrops collide with the Maybach’s windows, the sound of heavy panting and breathless little whimpers mingling with the vicious howling of the wind, so strong it shakes the car. Soaked leaves slap against glass, collected in the arms of each forceful bellowing gust and sticking to the windshield, diffusing the light shining from the already dim lampposts that line the pier.

“So fucking eager,” he chastises, chuckling a little against your lips while tiny fingers work at undoing his belt.

“Can’t help it,” you whine, pulling back just enough to show him the pout on your face. “N-Need you,”

“Oh, need, huh?”

Really, you should be in bed.

“Yes,” you whimper, tugging at the waistband of his jeans, fingers hooking in the beltloops and pulling. “Please, Tomura,”

“Ah,” long, slender fingers wrap around your wrists, catching them quickly and holding them together in one hand. His grip tightens, and you cry out as the bones grind together. “Patience, babygirl,”

You have class in five hours.  

“But I want you now,” you barely even realize what you’re saying, voice high and whiny and brain hazy with lust, distracted by the heat pooling between your thighs while you grind against his hard cock.

“Watch your mouth,” he snaps, voice stern as he crushes your wrists with his hand again, reveling in your little squeals and gasps.

“Stop! Stop, stop, please Daddy, st-stop,”

“Aw,” he chuckles darkly, rolling your wrists in his hands a little, causing the bones to grate against each other again. “But you sound so pretty when you’re in pain, baby,”

“Th-Then bruise my cervix, don’t break my—ow—wrists!”

“Excuse me? What was that?” he blinks at you in mock astonishment, ruby eyes wide. “I didn’t hear a please at the end of that request, sweetheart,” he growls out the last few words, hand squeezing again. You yelp, eyes shutting tightly against the burn of tears, whimpering out pathetic little pleads.

He finally releases and you gasp in relief, fingers moving to immediately massage your sore body and wincing when you come in contact with the sensitive flesh—you can already feel the bruises forming around your delicate wrists.

“Now, what was it my greedy little baby wanted?” his hands are sliding up your thighs as he speaks, pushing your dress up to bunch at your waist.

“I-I—” he’s got two fingers pressed against your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles into the sensitive bud through your soaked panties, forcing a soft gasp from your throat, mind blanking.

“C’mon baby,” he frowns, like he’s offended that you can’t speak. “Tell daddy what you want,”

“Want you to fuck me,” you manage to force out, the words fading into a breathy whine. “Please!” you add hastily, eyes snapping open to find him staring at you with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Please, please, fuck me,”

“Well, when you ask so nicely,” his voice tapers off into a growl as his fingers roughly shove your panties aside, two of them delving inside your dripping hole. He laughs at how easily his fingers slide in, how eagerly your cute little cunt sucks him in, clenching around him. “Such a good little slut for your daddy, aren’t you? Practically prepped to take me already,”

You nod, breathing out soft little yeses and begging him impatiently. “Pl-Please Daddy, I want it now—I can take it,”

And despite how wet you are from humping him, you aren’t nearly stretched out enough to take his thick cock comfortably. He knows this—you both know this—but he doesn’t care; if you want to act like an impatient brat, he’ll treat you like an impatient brat.

A loud hiss escapes your lips as you begin to sink down on him, little hole stinging as it tries to accommodate his girth.

“Ah-ah, don’t stop,” he chastises lightly, fingers digging into your hips the moment they still and continuing to force you down. “You wanted this, sweetheart. You’re ready for this,”

Eyes squeezed shut tightly, you nod in agreement, pressing your lips together in an attempt to silence your whimpers and breathing out harshly through your nose.

He laughs a little, a mean, sharp sound that echoes throughout the car, shaking his head. “Impatient little brat—You should’ve let me stretch you out right,”

“I can do it,” you breathe out stubbornly, eyes opening to glare at him in defiance.

The amusement fades from his eyes as they narrow, smile dropping. “That so?” he asks before thrusting up sharply, burying himself inside you in one quick motion.

You cry out at the unexpected intrusion, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder as your face screws up in pain.

“Ow, daddy,” you whisper, eyes tearing up reflexively.

“Don’t lie to me next time,” he responds flatly, coldly, as if this is obvious. Barely giving you a moment to adjust properly, he thrusts his hips up again, nails digging into the flesh of your waist as he forces you to bounce on him.

But it doesn’t take long for the burning to fade—within a few moments you’re rolling your hips on your own, sweet little moans falling from your pretty little mouth and seeping into his skin, your lips against his neck.

He’s trying in vain to meet your thrusts, and you can see the frustration collecting in his eyes, little half-baked snarls falling from his lips when he just can’t get deep enough.

“I can’t fuck you properly in this car,” he growls, grip on your hips tightening.

Your fingers tangle in the material of his shirt, pawing at him a little. “No, please, Tomu—”

“Oh, shut up,” he rolls his eyes, cutting you off. “I’ll let you cum on my cock before I fuck you right, don’t worry,”

Exhaling, your chest deflates with a soft sigh of relief.

“Such a simple slut, aren’t you?” he breathes in your ear as you grind against him, unable to do anything other than whine and nod, face buried in the crook of his neck again. “That’s it, get yourself off using my cock,”

It’s not long after that you find yourself gasping loudly as your pussy pulses around him, little whimpers of his name escaping your throat as your body shudders into his.

He praises you through your high, telling you you’re such a good little girl, such a good little whore for him, his beautiful little cockslut.

Then he’s depositing you onto the passenger’s seat, buckling your seatbelt for you and laughing at your blissful, fucked out expression.

“Oh, come on, baby,” he says with a smirk, glancing over at you as he races through the empty streets of Tokyo. “Don’t tell me you’re giving out on me already—I’m just getting started with you,”

And, true to his word, he was, wasting absolutely no time as he practically shoves you on his massive king-sized bed and crawling over you.

Tomura fucks you raw that night. He fucks you until you’re a whining, drooling, incoherent mess, until you can’t remember anything but his name, until you’re so stuffed full of cum that it’s leaking out of you and staining your inner thighs. He reminds you that you asked for this, doesn’t let you forget how fucking needy you were, how pathetically desperate you were for him, just a short while ago in the car.

Sharp hipbones leave dark periwinkle bruises on the tender flesh of your inner thighs, and he sucks his name into the sensitive skin of your neck and collarbone, signs his name into the flesh of your hips in the shape of his fingerprints.

“I have a-a nine AM class,” you croak out as Tomura spreads your legs, gently dragging a cloth along your inner thighs, cleaning the sticky cum before it can crust over.

“I know,” he says simply, not halting his actions. Of course he knows—he’s got your entire schedule memorized.

Your half-lidded gaze drifts to the glowing numbers on the bedside table, blinking slowly as you try to make your bleary eyes focus. 6:42.

“That’s in like, just over two hours,” you whine a little, lips jutting out into a tiny pout.

“You’ll make it,” he tells you in a voice that indicates this is not open for negotiation.

And he’s right—you do make it. Practically limping into the classroom half awake, collapsing at one of the vacant desks at the back of the lecture hall, wincing as stinging pain throbs between your legs and already sending a flurry of whiny texts to Tomura.

He texts you back a few minutes later, telling you to pay attention, or you won’t be able to sit right for a week.

      ✰          ✰          ✰

Heir to the family built, family run gigantic medical conglomerate A.F.O—a corporation that owns a network of healthcare companies and several massive laboratories that specialize in conducting research in a multitude of health-related fields (the most prominent being pharmaceuticals)—Shigaraki Tomura does not play well with others. He never fucking has.

No one actually knows what A.F.O stands for, though you’ve heard several people joke that it must stand for All For One, based on the corporation’s notorious greed. There’s speculation that they’ve been experimenting on humans, heard whispers of developing questionable ‘miracle’ drugs and selling them illegally on the streets—but it’s all just rumors, you’re sure.

Besides, a company that’s so heavily endorsed by the government could never be doing something as heinous as that, right? Tomura does not share toys; he doesn’t share his candy apple red Maybach, he doesn’t share his gleaming custom chrome and silver Ed Brown 1911, and he most definitely does not fucking share you.

You’ve been with Tomura for just over a year and a half now. He insisted you move into his penthouse—which sits atop a gleaming glass condominium building that he owns—only a few months into your relationship, to which you eagerly agreed and have been living ever since.

He likes to flaunt you, likes to show you off, bring you to meetings you technically shouldn’t be present at to show all of the other men and his rivals his most prized toy, even more than his gun or car. And it’s the one thing they can never fucking have; they can’t even touch.

And you—Christ, you must be a fucking idiot to stay with someone like him, they say. Or maybe you’re just a gold-digging whore. What else would a cute, sweet little angel like you want with a man like him? Is his cock really that great? Tomura finds it hilarious, really. Because these people don’t know a goddamn thing about you. He wonders what they’d say if they could see the way he fucks you until your drooling and sobbing, or just how obscene you get when you beg to suck his cock. How would they feel then? But that’s his little secret.

Nevertheless, you’re not entirely oblivious to everything going on around you; you know what he does, at least a little. You know the company isn’t normal—there’s nothing normal about their insanely heavy security. There’s nothing normal about their shady, inconspicuous meetings, about how you aren’t allowed to be present in certain rooms with certain people. There’s nothing normal about how tightly locked Tomura’s home office is, about how his desktop requires several passwords to simply gain access to Microsoft Word.

It’s just easier to pretend you don’t, that you’re totally ignorant; you always end up in trouble for asking questions, always end up making him irrationally angry with your curiosity.

And, like everyone else, you know that he’s next in line to inherit the company and everything that comes with it, know that he’s in the process of taking over the business and already in complete control of certain sections, with his father semi-retired.

But you don’t know everything, of course.

You don’t know about what he did to that boy, the one who harassed you on campus a few weeks ago, insistently asking you to go out with him, his pathetic requests peppered with a few crude comments. As far as Tomura’s concerned, you don’t need to—you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about anything. He splattered the poor kid’s brains on the concrete of one of their old abandoned laboratories, near the edge of the city close to the bay. He was sure to do it himself, too—didn’t send any of his henchmen or thugs to carry out the order. No, he wanted to see the look on that fuckers face right before death. Tomura loves that look. It’s got to be his favourite thing about killing. People are so fascinating in their very last moments, when they take their last breath before a bullet whizzes through their skull. Their lives really do flash before their eyes; he swears he can see it reflected in the tears that cloud their vision right before he pulls the trigger. He loves seeing their deepest regrets and darkest secrets manifest on their face, those simple looks confessing a lifetime of sins and missed opportunities to him right before he sends them to the afterlife. Similarly, you also don’t know what he did to the thugs who were supposed to be guarding you just a few days ago, when he just so happened to overhear the way they were speaking about you in a disgustingly lewd manner, as if they even had a fucking chance. He made sure they didn’t.

Now, Tomura doesn’t usually do knives; he’s a busy man, he doesn’t have time for it. Knives also allow his victims more time to talk, more time to beg, and it’s one of the most annoying things in the goddamn world, as far as he’s concerned. He’d rather see the instant fear that morphs their features the moment he points the barrel of his gun at them, watching as they rapidly realize that this is it. It’s so much more fun. As such, he shot them both in the head before he cut them up into tiny little pieces, and is currently in the process of feeding them to the dogs. It’ll probably take them about a week to finish off both bodies. He decides you don’t need to know that either.

 But, eventually, as it was bound to happen, Tomura’s relentless flaunting of you bites him in the ass, because now every crimelord in Tokyo knows who you are, who you belong to, who it would hurt if something were to happen to you.

       ✰          ✰          ✰

It’s storming the day he finds out.

Rain has been steadily pelting against the windows of the penthouse for hours now, the grey sky lighting up with brilliant streaks of lightning, followed by cracks of thunder that seem to make the whole city tremble. Water has begun flooding the streets, and a continuous stream flows down the windows, obstructing your vision and blurring the city until the buildings are nothing more than distant lumps.

Although you normally don’t mind the rain, this constant torrential downpour has set you on edge, resulting in several texts to Tomura begging him to come home early.

He doesn’t answer a single one, which is extremely unlike him—usually he was enthusiastic and eager to text you back, even if your messages were nothing but senseless whining.

This should’ve been your first sign that something was seriously wrong.

It’s just past 7PM and still raining when he barrels through the front door, slamming it open hard enough that the doorknob bounces against the drywall, leaving an ugly hole.

“Tomura!” you breathe, his sudden entrance startling you, pressing both hands over your racing heart.

He storms into the penthouse, walking directly towards you and yanking you up from your spot on the floor. For a moment, you’re terrified, quickly wracking your mind for anything you might’ve done to misbehave in the past few days—but then he wraps his arms around you and crushes your body to his chest, burying his face in your hair and inhaling deeply.

Your body freezes in total surprise, stiff and rigid in his embrace, until he squeezes you again and you finally melt into him, arms snaking around his neck and pulling yourself closer.

“What is it? What happened?” you murmur, fingers carding through the fluffy hair at the base of his neck. He groans a little at the sensation, keeping his face pressed against your skin. It’s an awkward angle, his back bent and body practically curling around yours, and there’s no way it’s comfortable, but he refuses to straighten up.

He sighs, a large breath that has his entire chest cavity expanding and pushing against you before he exhales slowly, deflating and molding to you again. He doesn’t answer, and you keep silent. He doesn’t act like this often, usually gets soft like this when he’s coming down, but he’s very clearly sober right now.

Dabi appears in the doorway then, an odd look on his face as he observes the two of you. Jin pushes past him, Chisaki following close behind, and claps his hands together loudly.

“Alright, boss, tell us why we’re here,”

“Surely you didn’t call an emergency meeting just for us to watch you cuddle,”

Tomura whips is head around, seething at his closest confidents. He’s silent for a moment, glowing crimson eyes scanning each of their faces slowly before finally speaking.

“Office, now,”

You aren’t allowed to come. Curiosity is already gnawing at you and you beg to stay, promising you’ll be a good little girl and sit quiet and pretty while they discuss whatever the issue is. But your pleading only causes Tomura to snap at you, sternly ordering you to go sit back on the floor and read your textbook and to not fucking move until he comes back out.

You obey, of course, ruby eyes watching you sharply as you flit back to your open textbook, laying neglected on the fuzzy living room rug. Tomura doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, until you sit down, tucking your knees under yourself and stealing glances at him through your lashes.

You can hear the yelling begin almost immediately but your unable to decipher the words, muffled by the heavy mahogany doors.

On the other side of those doors, Tomura’s on the verge of a full-blown breakdown. His confidents tread with caution, speaking slowly in low voices and choosing their words carefully.

They’d all received his frantic flood of texts in the group chat, informing them of a snake among their ranks.

“He’s been selling information about her!” Tomura roars, slamming both hands down against the wood of his desk, fingers splayed. “About what university she goes to, her schedule and classes—”

“And you’re sure—”

“I’m fucking positive,” Tomura snaps, glowing crimson eyes flashing at Chisaki.

“It’s not a surprise,” Dabi says in a lazy nonchalant voice. “Giran’s always been scummy,”

“Selfish, too,” Jin chimes in. “I thought we agreed not to let him near any important information?”

“Yeah, in relation to the business. She doesn’t technically qualify as ‘important information’,”

“The whole idea was to keep him on the outside, to hold him at arm’s length and only use him when absolutely necessary,” Chisaki explains.

“Besides, you aren’t exactly discreet when it comes to your—what is she to you, your girlfriend?”

Tomura’s eyes narrow sharply, the shrill ringing of his phone saving him from answering. He snatches it off the desktop and jabs a thumb at the answer button, beginning to pace behind his desk.

It’s his father, trying desperately to diffuse the situation, to prevent his son from acting rashly, something he’s admittedly never been very good at.

“I don’t give a fuck how many security guards you’ve got,” Tomura’s growling, free hand coming to scratch viciously at his neck. “I don’t care if you’ve got a fucking army of them; she’s not leaving my sight from now on,”

And despite the firm finality to his tone, everyone in the room knows this is impossible.

He can’t bring you to their corporate meetings. He can’t bring you to the lab, or to the testings. It’s more dangerous than leaving you locked away in this penthouse because, as he’s told you a thousand times, the less you know, the better.

It’s dangerous, getting involved with an intricate web of corrupt corporations that are run more like a mafia than a business. It isn’t uncommon for loved ones to be kidnapped and held for ransom, for traitors to sell information to rivals, for people to wind up murdered.

“We’ll figure something—” his father’s in the middle of speaking when Tomura hangs up, slamming his phone down so hard the screen cracks. Damn, that’s the fourth one this month.

 It’s very late when Tomura reemerges from the office, neck bleeding and hair tousled, tufts standing in all directions. He finds you exactly where he left you, curled up by your textbook on the floor, asleep.

He coos to himself—such a good girl he’s got—and kneels to wake you gently. You refuse, mumbling out nonsense as a little pout settles on your lips.

“Brat,” he laughs softly to himself, slipping an arm under your knees and the other under your neck and hoisting you up, carrying you off to his lush bed.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

The next morning over breakfast, Tomura informs you that you’ll no longer be going to school. You’re in danger, he tells you. He won’t tell you how, or why, only that you aren’t safe, and can no longer—under any circumstances—go out on your own.

You think it’s absolutely ridiculous. He must be overreacting; you know how protective he is over you, so it’s not exactly a stretch to think that he might’ve blown the situation out of proportion.

“I refuse to stop going to school, Tomura.” You tell him sternly, holding his gaze. “I enjoy what I’m studying, not to mention my friends—”

He talks over you. “Either you’ll stop attending of your own free will, or I’ll cut your fucking tuition,”

“What?”

“If you won’t stop voluntarily, then I’ll make you stop.”

“You can’t expect me to drop everything in my life just because you’ve received some vague threat!”

“Really? You didn’t seem to have an issue with ‘dropping everything’ when you moved into my fucking penthouse,” he snarls.

You blink, astonished. “Are you kidding me? That’s different—That wasn’t agreeing to giving up all my freedom, to being locked away like some sort of—”

“I’m only trying to keep you safe! How fucking dense are you?”

“Then get me a bodyguard, like a normal person would, don’t treat me like I’m some—some limited edition toy,”

But you are! He nearly says it, you can see it in his eyes. Your glare dares him to speak it, to utter those three words, but his jaw clenches instead, and he exhales sharply through flared nostrils. When he speaks, his voice trembles with the effort of keeping calm. “I can’t trust anyone, what don’t you understand—”

“What about Jin, then? Or Dabi? Or Chisaki? You trust them, don’t you? Enough to call your emergency meeting last night…”

His eyes flash at being cut off, teeth grinding together, but you have a point. Who better to guard you than one of the people he undoubtedly trusts the most, the closest thing he has to friends? He mulls over the suggestion, short nails scratching idly at his wrist as he thinks.

Dabi. Out of those three, Dabi is the most suitable choice, Tomura decides, since his workload is currently the lightest.

But Dabi fights him tooth and nail on the subject; he isn’t here to be some glorified fucking babysitter for some dumb little girl who miraculously found herself entrenched in this life, too deep to ever leave now. That isn’t his fucking problem.

Except it is, because Tomura’s technically his boss, and Tomura technically pays his paycheque.

You aren’t upset about your new arrangement—in fact, you have to work hard to hide your excitement. Dabi’s always intrigued you—you haven’t spoken to him much, too shy and intimidated by his unconventional beauty, by his very aura, but you’ve always wanted to.

Your heart thuds against your ribcage the first day he drives you to campus. Trembling hands clasped tightly in your lap, you try in earnest to talk to him, stumbling over your words as you ask him about trivial stuff, like his favorite food or what kind of music he listens to.

He answers you exclusively in three-word-sentences or nondescript hums and grunts, making it damn near impossible to hold an actual conversation with him. Thin skin is stretched taut over bony knuckles as he grips the steering wheel and glares at the road ahead of him, not once daring to glance over at you.

Dabi’s always been quiet around you, even though Tomura says he can rarely get the man to shut the fuck up. You’ve noticed, after spending nearly a year around him, that he prefers to watch situations unfold from afar, casually leaning against a wall and throwing in sly quips or clever comments every so often. Maybe it’s different when it’s just him and Tomura. You wouldn’t know.

But he’s never been this hostile before. Maybe it’s the change in atmosphere; maybe he’s more stressed out now—you are Tomura’s most prized possession, after all. Anyone would feel a little on edge to have your life practically in their palms, ordered to guard it and keep it safe.

Nevertheless, you think he’s so cool, and you desperately want him to like you—no matter how mean he is, how sharp his voice is or harsh his glare is, you do not falter in your quest to become friends. The two of you would get along well, you think, if he’d just give you a damn chance.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

Tomura’s never been a patient man. He wants what he wants when he wants it, a result of never being told no in his life.

But he doesn’t care—he gets what he fucking wants, no matter the circumstances.

And he wants to kill Giran. Immediately.

He isn’t hard to track down—despite the nature of his job, Giran is a creature of habit. He frequents the same few coffee shops around his apartment at roughly the same time every morning. Tomura gets lucky and finds the bastard in the first café he tries, takes it as a good sign, as a sign that what he’s doing is right.

Trembling pale hands curl into tight fists, blunt nails pressing deep crescent-shaped indents in the flesh of his palms as he stares at the man through the large front windows. He has half a mind to just stalk into this cheap coffee shop and shoot the motherfucker point blank between the eyes—but he knows that would cause more drama than it’s worth, and he’s already got enough stress to deal with.

Instead, he waits, sitting leisurely on the little wooden bench placed right outside the shop, trying in vain to keep from scraping his nails against his neck. A jolt of sadistic excitement surges through his veins when Giran finally exits, giddiness already beginning to build in his chest.

“Ah, Giran! So glad I caught you here,” he says nonchalantly, hopping up and clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder.

The smile stretched across Tomura’s face is anything but friendly, and Giran knows he’s fucked the moment his eyes meet ruby, shining in the morning sun.

Still, he has his dignity.

“Tomura? What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Tomura says, voice painfully indifferent as his grip on Giran’s shoulder tightens, causing the older man to wince. “We’re just gonna go for a drive,”

Giran comes easily with no resistance—he knows it would be pointless to try and fight back. His cooperation makes Tomura giggle a little, scarlet eyes glinting in anticipation.

Kurogiri starts up the Maybach, parked just around the corner, nodding at Tomura as he slides into the backseat with Giran. They drive for a while, Tomura tapping his slender fingers against his kneecaps, eager and impatient, finally coming to a halt at a deserted beach over an hour later.

The shoreline is littered with trash and other questionable items, Tomura’s nose scrunching up in disgust. It’s windier near the water than it is in the heart of the city, tufts of fluffy silvery-blue hair tickling his cheeks as it whips around in the wind. He keeps a firm hand wrapped around Giran’s bicep as he forces him to walk further from the car.

“On your knees,” Tomura says, nudging the toe of his shoe into the back of Giran’s knee harshly and causing him to collapse.

“I’m sure you know why you’re here,” he says as he walks around the older man’s body, coming to stand in front of him. “I don’t think I have to say anything, do I?”

Giran stares up at him guiltily, shoulders slumped. “Tomura, listen—”

Tomura laughs, a cruel ruthless sound. “Are you fucking serious? You had all that time to try and grovel for your life in the car, to beg and plead and cry for me to spare you, and you’re only doing it now?”

Giran’s frown deepens, tucking his chin into his chest. “I was worried you’d kill me prematurely,” he admits.

Tomura scoffs. “And ruin my white leather? Fuck no,”

“Well, then, look—”

Tomura rolls his eyes, raising a steady, strong arm and pointing the barrel of the gun directly between Giran’s eyes. “You’re boring me,” he says simply before he pulls the trigger, shot ringing out and causing a few seagulls to scatter.

He watches as Giran’s body falls to the sand with a dull thud, blood beginning to seep out of the bullet hole in his forehead and soak into the sand, staining the pristine white with dark crimson.

“Ew,” Tomura’s mouth screws up in repulsion. It’s messy, but a sleazebag like Giran won’t be missed—Tomura will be surprised if he’s even reported missing at all. He looks up and nods at Kurogiri, who returns the action in affirmation before getting to work on the cleanup.

Truthfully, Tomura wishes he had the opportunity to torture the poor bastard—it’s what he deserves for even thinking of putting your life in danger—but he’s short on time these days.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

Dabi’s beyond annoyed to find out that you’re not nearly as sensitive as you look. Your extreme persistence is beginning to get under his skin, and he hates the way that, most of the time, you have valid points. You’re both into the same type of movies, fans of the same indie director, possess the same kind of twisted humour (you would have to, he thinks, to be dating Tomura)—and, truth be told, Dabi’s never been more thankful for the ink covering his cheeks, because he most definitely does not blush when you begin gushing over his favourite golden age sci-fi authors, geeking out with him over Asimov and Clarke.

Still, he fights it as hard as he possibly can. He tells you just how much he can’t fucking stand you on the daily. He insults you relentlessly, calls you stupid, a dumb bitch, spits out the word princess in the most patronizing voice you’ve ever heard.

It comes out most often as a snarl or a sneer hurled at you, but you can’t but respond with cute little giggles or a roll of your eyes.

“Why are you laughing?” he eventually asks, curiosity getting the better of him. You smirk, not looking up from your notebook.

 “Because anything you’ve said to me so far is nothing compared to some of the stuff Tomura’s said to me” Why are you with him? He wants to ask, the question tickling on the tip of his tongue, but he knows you hate being asked, so he swallows it. He knows your love for Tomura is genuine; he sees it in the way you lay his head in your lap, carding gentle fingers through silvery-blue tufts of hair when he’s coming down particularly hard, sees it in the way your tiny hands tenderly and inconspicuously pull his fingers away from his neck or wrist, intertwining them your fingers instead, not saying a word.

“You really are a brat, y’know that?” he says instead, clearing his throat.

“Mm,” you hum affirmatively. “So Tomura tells me,”

And while Dabi may be irritated at being assigned such a demeaning job, he isn’t fucking blind. He knows how hot you are, and he can’t lie; he does love those cute little dresses Tomura buys you, just an inch too short to be considered decent. He can see your ass cheeks when you bend over, can see the beginnings of the adorable frills and lace that line your cute panties. You must be doing it on purpose—you want him to look, right? Why else would you bend over like that, or wear such pretty undies, if not to be ogled at by him?

But the more time he spends with you, the more he begins to understand why Tomura keeps you around, aside from the fact that you probably give amazing head. Girls like you are rare. So precious, just begging for someone to take advantage of them. They need someone to take care of them, to protect them, to give them purpose. They need someone to serve. And although it isn’t a normal day unless Dabi’s asked you if you’re ‘fucking stupid’ at least three times, it is wearing you down, just a bit. Yes, Tomura’s said much worse to you, but those moments are infrequent. This is unforgiving, everyday, constant abuse—it would wear out even the emotionally strongest person.

But you know you’re wearing him down, too, when you begin to pull reactions other than glares from him. When you get him to smile, or chuckle, or speak more than a few words. So you persevere—really, what else are you supposed to do? You see him more than Tomura at this point, and that fact makes your chest ache.

 Sometimes you hold hands. Sometimes he lets you snuggle up against him after your readings are done, often falling asleep before Tomura gets home. He keeps an arm thrown around your shoulders or a hand splayed on the small of your back when your out in public, always keeping you close. He tells himself that it’s just his job; he’s just doing his fucking job when he lets you lay your head in his lap after a long day, when he pets your hair and traces nonsensical patterns on the skin of your arm, that’s all.

 But, Christ.

Dabi’s furious that you’re able to evoke such strong emotion in him without seemingly trying—emotion he’s never felt before, emotion he doesn’t have a name for, emotion that rages out of his control almost immediately. He feels like he’s killing himself every time he tries to reign it back in, fighting against himself beginning to prove to be more effort than it’s worth.

He can’t stand feeling this powerless, this uncharacteristic lack of command over his own body he’s experiencing a stark contrast to the precision and authority he’s used to.

And alright, sure, it takes you longer to break than Dabi originally thought it would, but you do break, eventually.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

It’s always the tiny things that seem to do it, that end up being the last straw. The things that slip out subconsciously, the things that are undoubtedly raw and honest, not the insults so carefully crafted and purposefully hurled at you.

The two of you are walking towards Dabi’s gleaming Audi after your last class of the day. Dabi’s eyes are burning from lack of sleep, his skin crawling from being unable to smoke on school premises, his ears ringing from sitting in on all of your lectures, way at the back in a hoodie and sunglasses, listening to professors drone on about things he already fucking knows and staring at the back of your head. You chatter on animatedly, oblivious to Dabi’s sour mood.

He’s only half listening to you, really. But your high pitched voice and your shy, cute giggles peppered between your words as you recount the spectacularly romantic weekend you had with Tomura grates on his nerves in just the right way, forcing the frustration that’s been bubbling up in his chest all day to erupt.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t have the energy to pretend to like you today,”

It kind of just…slips out of his mouth. He isn’t even thinking about it, about the words he’s actually saying, about the sharp, cold tone he uses, coated in acidic jealousy.

Your voice cuts off the moment the words leave his mouth, and your feet stutter a little, causing you to trip and stop in your tracks. You open your mouth with the intention of questioning him, but a soft, hurt sound is all you can seem to manage.

He turns towards you, heaving a sigh. He can see the tears building in your eyes, casting a thick gleaming shield across them. You swallow hard, jaw clenching as you struggle to hold them back.

Dabi opens his mouth with the intention to apologize, but he can’t seem to find the words either. You’ve just about reached the car; a few more steps and you would’ve been there.

Dabi doesn’t know what to say—despite the fact that his heart feels like it’s crumbling to ash in his chest with each of your tiny, quiet sniffles—so he juts his chin out, looking away, and says monotonously, “Get in the car.”

You stare at him for another second, like you’re having trouble processing the situation that’s currently unfolding. Dabi doesn’t want to make a scene, but the unfamiliar, inexplicable, and quite frankly, annoying feeling in his chest gives way to more anger, and he snaps at you.

“Are you deaf or just stupid? Get in the car,”

That does it. You hiccup a little, blinking in astonishment at the unbelievable audacity, and the tears finally escape your eyes, rolling down your cheeks in pairs. Your chest hitches, and you clench your jaw again, ducking your head and pushing past Dabi roughly to yank the car door open and then slam it shut.

To his utter infuriation, Dabi’s little outburst does fuck all to relieve any of the tension in his chest. Instead, it makes it worse.

Dabi spends the drive home biting the skin on the inside of his cheek and sneaking glances at you, curled up in the passenger’s seat facing away from him, your phone cradled in your small hands, thumbs flying over the buttons.

Dread floods his body as his mind races with all of the possible texts you could be sending, and who you could be sending them to.

You cry the entire way home, mostly silent tears with the occasional soft sob getting caught in your throat. You’re out of the vehicle the moment Dabi pulls into his designated parking spot, stumbling a little and not bothering to try and close the door behind you, barreling straight into Tomura’s waiting arms.

“Fuck,” Dabi groans, head tipping back against the seat and squeezing his eyes shut. He can already feel a headache beginning to form at his temples, anticipating the hefty lecture awaiting him.  

Tomura catches you easily, concerned eyes searching you face quickly as you wail, “D-Daddy!”

“What is it?” his large hands rub up and down your arms comfortingly, deep frown etched into his face. “What’s got my baby so upset?”

You try to say it, to force that bastard’s name out of your mouth, but all you’re able to emit are more soft sobs. Tomura coos, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you against his chest. Little fingers curl in the material of his cotton dress shirt and pull, needing him closer. He hushes you gently as you nuzzle your face into his chest, hiccupping a little while a hand rubs soothing circles into your back.

Tomura had received your texts, all jumbled together and barely coherent. They had sent him into a frenzied panic, resulting in his pacing next to his parking spot in the garage, anxiously awaiting your return.

He glares at Dabi over your shoulder, brows pushing together and eyes narrowing. Dabi stares back at him blankly, still sitting in the driver’s seat of the car, the passenger door still wide open.

“Alright, alright, shh,” he tightens his hold on you just a little. “I’m here, princess, I’ve got you,”

Dabi watches as the two of you walk away, staring at your back for an unnecessarily long amount of time, waiting until you disappear behind a corner, then slamming his head back against the headrest.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters to himself, eyes slipping shut.

He thinks he’s really done it this time. You are Tomura’s baby, his perfect little princess, and he would fight the devil himself with his bare hands to keep you happy, to keep you safe, to keep you his.

And now, for whatever inexplicable reason, you’re on the verge of a total mental meltdown, or something. Dabi doesn’t understand how, out of all things, this is the one that finally breaks you. It doesn’t make sense to him, hurts his head to think about it too much, feeling like his mind has been overstuffed with ideas, speculations, and questions—all white noise at this point, staticky and incoherent.

It’s back—the feeling of his chest being ignited with fire while his lungs simultaneously fill with water—and he quickly searches through his pockets for those little blue pills that’ll make it stop. A few moments later, his phone buzzes with a text from Tomura, instructing him to come up to the penthouse and wait.

 Tomura doesn’t get the chance to interrogate Dabi about the incident until you’re fast asleep, tucked into his plush bed with one of your favourite plushies hugged against your chest.

“What the hell happened?” Tomura asks slowly, voice calm and even as he stops a few feet away from Dabi, who’s sitting by the massive marble fireplace with his phone in his hand.

He sighs, keeping his gaze on the fire as he speaks.

“I said something I shouldn’t have, I guess,”

Tomura’s eyebrows knit, his eyes narrowing. “The fuck did you say?”

Dabi’s sharp jaw clenches once at Tomura’s tone, but he keeps his voice cool and composure collected. “I told her I didn’t have the energy to pretend to like her today,” he finally looks over at his boss, flickering orange flames casting dancing shadows on his face. “I didn’t expect her to take it so fucking personally, though,”

“Of course she took it personally!” Tomura explodes, marching towards the couch and placing both hands on the arm, leaning forward to sneer. “You know how sensitive she is,”

“She’s a baby,” Dabi rolls his eyes.

“She is a baby—my fucking baby,” Tomura growls. “And I expect you to treat her with respect, not to be a goddamn asshole,”

“I didn’t join this organization to babysit your fucktoy,” Dabi snarls, standing up.

“You’ll do whatever the hell I tell you to do, because I am the fucking boss of this organization,”

Dabi glares at him, exhaling harshly through flared nostrils. Tomura stares back, raising an eyebrow in question, a silent inquiry daring Dabi to test him.

Sapphire burns into ruby, and a tense silence settles between them. Tomura smirks when Dabi finally breaks away with a huff, and it takes every ounce of his self control not to punch that smug grin off of his boss’ face.

“I’ll apologize tomorrow,” he says flatly, eyes darting back to Tomura’s face for a moment.

“You better find a way to make it up to her before her class at noon,” he says matter-of-factly, tone casual despite the threat.

Dabi’s molars grind together, but he nods once; just a quick, sharp motion of his head, before exiting the penthouse.

Dabi tries hard not to think about why his simple words upset you so much, but the thoughts creep up into the back of his mind as he lays in bed, glaring up at the ceiling. Surely you don’t feel that deeply for him, do you? He’s scum, his opinion shouldn’t even matter to a perfect little princess like you.

So why did you get so offended? Why did you cry the entire way back to the penthouse? Why are you so angry with him, enough to not even want to see him, let alone speak to him?

He drifts off with these questions circling his mind, jumbling together into one giant question mark that sparks the tiniest hint of hope in his chest.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

It only gets worse from there. That teeny, tiny spark he forgot to snuff out, to vehemently crush with the toe of his boot, begins to grow, and soon it’s a raging fire in his chest, alighting his entire body, spreading fire blazing through his veins.

And he has no authority over it. For a while, he doesn’t even know what it is.

He tries to ignore it, he tries to stay as far away from you as he can even when you’re stuck in the same room, to keep interaction to the bare minimum, but it only seems to make this—this thing—hungrier, to viciously aggravate it.

It quickly becomes overwhelming; Dabi doesn’t have the patience to deal with this, and he’s going to accidentally off himself soon if he doesn’t find a way to cure this insatiability because—because it breaks through the drugs, rips its claws straight through his high, invades his mind with a vengeance and fills it with thoughts of you.

Because he’s popping pills like they’re fucking candy now—so high he can’t move, breathing slow and shallow, barely able to keep his head up or his eyes open, which has resultingly thrown you into a bit of a panic more than once, pushing at his shoulders to loll his head back, straddling his lap and holding his face between your tiny hands, then slapping his cheek a few times and asking him what he took. He knows it’s gotta stop when he overhears you tearfully begging Tomura to do something, damn it!, your pleads peppered with cute little hiccups. He knows it’s actually serious when Tomura decks him in the jaw hard enough to dislocate it, once for making you cry and then again for being a fucking idiot. Tomura threatens to cut him off if he can’t do his job right; he doesn’t care when or how Dabi gets high, but he at least has to be functional enough to protect you if anything were to happen. Begrudgingly, Dabi knows he’s right.

He’s furious when he finally comes to terms with his true feelings. He’s pissed off at himself, for even allowing this to happen, and he’s pissed off at you, for being the sole cause.

But it hits him slowly, a lazy build up of emotions he ignores until it’s too much, until it demands his attention, until it’s engulfed his entire being and he physically can’t neglect it anymore. It isn’t like the movies, or those trashy romance novels. It isn’t after some sort of big, significant moment shared between the two of you. It isn’t a sudden onslaught of feelings, hitting him like a bus or a ton of bricks.

No.

It’s a dawning realization that creeps up on him in the middle of the night, while he’s laying alone in bed, when he can’t get your stupidly pretty face out of his head, harassing him every time he closes his eyes. It’s an awful, terrifying feeling in his chest, when he finally decides to face it head on, instead of deferring it with pretty little blue pills and white powder.

It’s panic that claws up his throat as he realizes that he can’t—he can’t control it. He has no control over it. He’s had no control over it, this entire time it was growing inside him, festering and feeding off of his sanity like some fucking parasite.

It’s a weight on his chest, pressing down slowly, a little more each time you run into his arms, until its crushing his lungs, until he can’t fucking breathe, until he’s gasping for air and clutching at his own sheets in the dead of night, alone.

It’s nausea, it’s a toxic mixture of bile and acid rising in his throat, choking him, it’s his eyes burning as he desperately presses his thumbs into them until he’s seeing stars, his chest hiccuping silently.

The nights are the worst. At least when he spends them with you, this demon you’ve sprouted inside of him stays relatively dormant. It’s sated when you’re around, your very presence calming it down. He feels like he can breathe again when it’s just the two of you, and it’s fucking pathetic.

He hates it. He hates you, for creating it, for controlling it without having a goddamn clue that you do.  

But sometimes, at three in the morning when the city’s quiet and the winter winds howl down vacant streets and Tomura’s working especially late, Dabi becomes marginally softer, he slips up. He lets you drag your fingertips over his scarred skin, idly tracing the magnificent ink staining his arms. He gazes at you with this odd look in his eyes—something you can’t quite describe properly, something you don’t seem to have the words for—that makes your heart flutter a little. He’s so pretty, with cobalt eyes and a permanent smug smirk, long delicate eyelashes and high cheekbones, a sharp jaw and inky hair that contrasts starkly against smooth milky skin.

He laughs when you tell him, a husky, quiet little chuckle that makes your stomach drop.

“You’re one to talk, princess,”

You find yourself thinking about those words, about this moment, a lot. His voice was the gentlest you had ever heard it, and when you sleepily attempted to press for more, he denied you softly, telling you it was time to go to bed while carding his fingers through your hair. You have half a mind to wonder if you dreamt it—there’s no way he actually said that to you, right?

But you know, deep down in the pit of your stomach, that it happened. You almost wish it were a dream—it would definitely make dealing with the weird, inexplicable feelings it always stirs up in your chest a hell of a lot easier.

And yet, you’re blissfully unaware of the power you hold over him, the authority, the will to make the monster inside bend at your every beck and call. You’re fucking oblivious.

But Tomura isn’t.

Tomura’s known Dabi for too long, knows Dabi better than Dabi thinks he does.

Tomura may be a selfish brat with anger issues, but he isn’t fucking stupid. He’d have to be blind to miss the way Dabi’s eyes soften when he looks at you, when you call his name or giggle innocently at something he said.

And as much as Dabi would like to say he isn’t, he’s a creature of habit. Tomura knows his behaviour, all of his mannerisms, inside and out. So of course he’s going to notice when they change, even if it’s slow, subtle, gradual.

But when Dabi’s voice softens as he bids you goodbye, a gentle ‘princess’ slipping from his lips as he responds to your goodnight—well, Tomura sees red.

Tomura was already pissed off about the nickname, hated the way Dabi used it in such a disrespectful, mocking way, but the first time he hears it fall from Dabi’s lips in an almost tender manner, a stark contrast to his usual sharp tone—God, he’s fucking furious.

“Have a good night, Dabi!” you’re saying as you pull open the door, giving him a cute little wave.

“Yeah, sleep well, princess,” How dare he.

The moment the door shuts you find yourself slammed up against it, wincing as your head bounces off the thick wood.

“D-Daddy?”

He answers by crushing his lips against yours, trapping you between his body and the door as rough hands slide up your thighs, taking your dress with them.

The kiss is anything but romantic—it’s fierce and fervent and it borders on vicious. His teeth sink into your bottom lip and pull, ripping a surprised cry from your throat.

“I need these off. Now.” He’s growling against your lips as his fingers push through the flimsy, delicate lace of your panties, creating holes big enough to hook his fingers through and tugging harshly. The material yields to him easily and the elastics snap, then he’s quite literally tearing them off your body.

He discards them, dropping them on the floor carelessly in a little heap of ruined white lace, while his free hand shoves itself between your thighs, two fingers pushing into you without any warning.

“Tomura!” You gasp, eyes squeezing shut at the burning sensation as your little cunt struggles with the sudden intrusion. He growls in response, pumping his fingers a few times before pulling away completely.

You’re about to ask what the hell he’s doing when you hear the telltale clank of his belt buckle.

“Wait—”

“No.”

He doesn’t have time for fucking prep—he’s too impatient, knows you can take it, needs to feel your pussy stretching around his cock now.

You squeal and wiggle a little against the door, trying to get away as he pushes the head of his cock in, convinced he’s going to positively rip you in half at this rate.

“Ah, st-stop,” you whimper, squirming and pushing on his shoulders. “It hurts,”

“Shut up,” he spits at you, not once halting his actions. “Don’t act like you don’t love the pain,”

You cry out sharply as he bottoms out, little hole pulsing as it tries to accommodate his girth. You feel full—so full, too full, and you whimper out the word, head coming to fall against his shoulder, eyes shut tightly.

“Yeah?” he breathes, beginning to move his hips. “Only daddy can stuff you this full with his cock,”

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding in agreement.

He sets a brutal, bruising pace almost immediately, only stopping to pick you up and allow you to wrap your legs around his waist so he can get deeper.

“My little whore, pretending that you don’t fucking love it when my cock stretches your little cunt,” he grunts. “Already so wet for me, soaking my cock,”

You moan—soft breathy sounds that get caught in the back of your throat with each one of his harsh thrusts—and nuzzle your face in his neck, embarrassed by the obscene squelching.

“Y’know, it’s not nice to lie to daddy like that,” his voice is strained now. “Good little girls don’t lie to their daddies,” he punctuates his words with deep, hard thrusts, the head of his cock nudging against your cervix each time, drawing out pained little gasps and whimpers from your lips.

“Didn’t lie,” you whine, muffled by his shoulder. “Promise. It did hurt,”

“But you fucking love it,” he repeats. “Gushing so shamelessly all over my cock,”

Heat floods your cheeks and you whimper and nod.

“Tell me,” he demands in a hoarse growl, hips beginning to pick up speed again. “Be a big girl and use your words,”

“Yes, I love it,” your eyes are beginning to roll back in your head, breath hitching in time with each sharp snap of his hips. “I-I love it s-so much,” you gasp out as teeth sink into your neck, pussy clenching around him as he breaks the skin.

He bites hard enough to draw blood, sucking harshly at the wound as he cums.

Christ, he’d tattoo his name all over your fucking body if you’d let him. But he has to settle for hickeys sucked into your dainty collarbone and bruises in the shape of his hands and fingertips. They fade way too quickly, but God does he love giving them to you. And you, his perfect little baby, love receiving them, even if you whine a little.

You’ve barely caught your breath when he’s carrying you to the bedroom, tossing you on the bed and ordering you to shed the rest of your clothing before climbing on top of you.

Settling between your thighs, he sits back on his heels, using his knees to spread your legs open wider. Strands of silver-blue hair stick to his forehead and his neck, his large hands firmly gripping your hips and pulling you towards him, forcing you to sit up and straddle his thighs.

Reaching between your bodies, his hand grips your pussy, still leaking with his cum.

“Who does this belong to?” his voice is low, crimson eyes dark as they search your face.

“You,”

His hand squeezes, a small broken whine sounding deep in your throat. “That’s right. This,” he squeezes again. “This is mine, do you hear me?”

“Yes,” you moan, rolling your hips into his hand, greedily grinding your clit against his palm. “Yours, forever,”

His eyes hold yours for a moment, chest still heaving a little with his labored breathing. “Mine,” he whispers before crashing his lips against yours, needy and desperate, a mess of teeth and tongues.

He alternates between fucking you hard and fast, cockhead slamming against your cervix; and burying himself to the hilt, grinding his hips slowly against yours, sharp hipbones digging into the silky skin of your inner thighs.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he pants out in encouragement after you emit a particularly loud squeal of his name. “I want the whole fucking world to know who’s making you feel this good, I want—” a deep, guttural grunt interrupts him. “I want the whole fucking world to know who you belong to,”

He wants that bastard to hear you—he’s sure Dabi can, living only a floor below the penthouse, in the building Tomura owns. He wants his ears to ring with the sounds of your wanton moans of Tomura’s name, from your high-pitched cries and breathy little whines.

He counts it as a win when, around four in the morning, the front door below the penthouse slams shut so hard it shakes the walls.

But he doesn’t stop then. No, he wants him to come back to the sound of you still being fucked out of your mind, crying for Tomura’s cock, crying because of Tomura’s cock.

He’s absolutely ruthless. He fucks you until you’re both trembling messes covered in sweat and saliva and cum, until you’re sobbing into the pillow, little fingers curling in the sheets so tightly your skin is stretched taut over your knuckles, until your throat’s raw from the sounds he’s now forcing out of you, until you’re on the verge of passing out, vision fading in and out of focus.  

“I want you to tell me that—” a low breathy moan cuts him off. “That no one could fuck you better than I can,”

You’re so fucked out you can barely comprehend what he’s saying, but then a hand tangles in your hair and pulls harshly, yanking your head back, and you gasp.

“Tell me,” he says, and although it’s a command, his voice is quivering as if he needs to hear this, needs to hear you utter those little words or he’s going to fall apart at the very seams.

“N-No one could ever—ah—ever f-fuck me better than you do,” you manage to stutter out, intoxicated by intense pleasure and pain, your brain going numb.

“You’re goddamn right no one can,” he growls in your ear, panting a little. “Never fucking forget that,”

He thrusts once, twice, and then he’s spilling himself into you, filling your little pussy to the fucking brim with hot cum. You cry out, eyes rolling back at the sensation, whining out little yeses as he pulses inside of you, as he forces a final orgasm from you.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

He’s in love with you.

It isn’t right, but Dabi’s never been one for the rules—he isn’t concerned with the relative morality of the situation (if he were, he’d be able to convince himself that he’s better for you—would treat you better, love you better, fuck you better). It’s more that he doesn’t have the patience to deal with the hassle it’ll cause; Tomura’s already ridiculously protective over you, and if Dabi were to present himself as competition, well…It’s more work than it’s worth and, anyway, it’s not like he has a chance in hell with you.

But he’s sick of these feelings driving him up the fucking wall. He genuinely considers quitting, weighing his options, the pros and cons, for a solid hour or so before arriving at the conclusion that it wouldn’t be worth it. As much as he can’t stand the brat—or, more accurately, can’t stand the feelings you evoke in him—the perks and paycheque are too good to give up over something so childish and trivial.

He exhales deeply, raking both hands through his hair. Fighting himself has proved to be exhausting and an absolute waste of time, so he decides he’ll just have to fucking deal with it. To learn to live with it

It gets easier with time, to just feel these emotions and let them wash over him passively, working hard to not fixate on them or ignore them—to just let them be.

It is what it is. He’ll always feel like his chest is decaying from the inside out when he watches you skip happily into Tomura’s arms, when he listens to you moan Tomura’s name in the middle of the night and make those pretty little breathy sounds, when he holds you tightly against his body and hushes your sobs after Tomura does something fucking stupid.

But he can’t leave; he can’t leave you alone with this psychopath, wouldn’t be able to even if he wanted to, his very presence inexplicably drawn to yours, attracted—no, addicted—to your very essence much too strongly, an impossible bond to break. He’ll just have to accept it.