Idk If It's Just The Filthy Degenerate In Me Or If It's The Lust For Big Hairy Men That's To Be Blamed

when you grew up as a lonely uncool girl it will never stop haunting you by the way. you will meet a cool person at a bar or the train station or at a friend's party and you can wear your most stylish outfit and striking eye makeup and you will swear that they can see through all of the facade and see the lonely terribly insecure teenage girl you used to be who desperately wanted to connect and you will swear that they know that there is like an insurmountable gap between you. this will happen forever

BREAKING NEWS

Local shithead outraged upon realizing hobbies have no age limit.

More at eleven.

how are you gonna be 31 and posting fandom content bro leave it to the teenagers

People 10 and 20 years older than me are writing your favorite fanfics, and drawing your favorite characters. You'd have no fandom without the people you think are 'too old' to have hobbies.

An Unexpected Guest

My first request, fulfilled! Thanks for trusting me with this smut drabble 💚 I hope this is what you were looking for!

WC: 1,220

Blood play, slight hand kink, explicit smut, rough sex, MDNI, Kick-Ass, Dave Lizewski

You’ve sat so long that the bathwater has become tepid, shivering as you towel off. It’s freezing out. Snow is falling in swaths, a chill pricking your skin in spite of the space heater at your feet. This is the fourth night in a row you’ve sat pretty at the edge of your bed, applying lotion to your legs in long, silky strokes in front of your window. Although your apartment sits nestled at a thick line of trees, you’ve had this feeling, this inexplicable thought in the back of your mind that someone is watching you. For this reason, you’ve left the window cracked some tonight. You told yourself it’s just to let some fresh air in. But with the bite in the air, you know the truth.

This is an invitation. 

You let your hair down to dry, exposing yourself fully from beneath your towel, the dim light of a lamp casting shadows across your form. Something moves outside. Tension tugs at your chest. 

“I know you’re out there,” your voice calls out into the room. 

You think for a moment that you’ve imagined it. That you’re simply hoping that someone is there to save you from this painfully dry spell you’ve been experiencing. Until a green-clad hand, tentative and slow, reaches to push your window fully open from out in the dark. Your heart pounds in your chest, pulsing through your extremities. 

A grin overtakes your face as a man steps through, “You’re that hero I keep hearing about,”

Dave nervously wipes the blood from his hands onto his pants, unsure of what to do now that he’s taken the leap and revealed himself to you. It wasn’t supposed to get this out of hand. He was patrolling the area a few nights prior, much as he usually does, when you just so happened to catch his eye. You’d left your curtains open as you dried off from your bath. He was transfixed from the very second he saw you. The way you glowed in the half-light of your room, body glistening, how that toy you pulled from your drawer slipped between your legs. He was pretty sure that watching you like this made him some sort of pervert, but with the way you locked your eyes onto where he was hidden in the trees, he thought that maybe you were hoping he was there. After three more nights of the same routine, he was proven right. 

“The way you say it makes me sound famous or something,” his voice holds a shaky chuckle, some cute little warble that has you ready to devour him. 

“So what are you doing watching me? Didn’t wanna come say hello?”

He gulps audibly, clenches his hands into fists, “I, uh.. I was just patrolling this area,” he clears his throat, “I wasn’t planning on coming in,”

Your gaze travels his body, at the blood that mars his suit, soaked into the material and still dripping from his fingertips. 

“Looks like you’ve had an eventful night,” you purr, “Need some stress relief?”

There’s no way this is actually happening to him. 

Things like this don’t happen to him. 

Girls like you don’t talk to him.

He nods, and you spread your legs, open yourself up with a hither of your finger. Without so much as a second thought, he stumbles to your bed, already throbbing through his suit. He drags his palms up your legs, blood spreading like the red-hot heat that stirs within him, primal and raw, arousal coursing through his veins. Unsheathing himself from his clothing, his length springs free. Fuck, he’s big. You wonder for a second if he’s even going to fit.

“I just.. You meant have sex, right?” His cock jumps when you nod your head, tilting your pelvis to receive him. 

He curses under his breath, slips himself inside of the scorching wetness of your cunt. The air is knocked from his lungs as he adjusts to how tight you are, the way you’re squeezing him, how your brows tilt in rapture at the feeling of being so full. He trembles atop you, and you guide his still-bloody hand to the hardened peak at your center, encouraging him to work you there. With a stuttered inhale and sloppy, untimed thrusts, he rubs your clit in circles, his voice climbing as you become a vice-like grip around his cock. 

“Oh, f-fuck, that feels good,” he groans, crooning and broken from his chest. 

“Give it to me,” you rasp, “C’mon, be more rough with me,”

He captures his lower lip between his teeth, marvels at how his dick returns to him slicker than before, your arousal coating him down to the hilt. Dave thrusts into you harder, delves into you with deep, long strokes, the tip of his cock nudging against the ledge within you. He isn’t sure how much more he can take before he comes undone, but he obliges you nonetheless, wraps your pretty throat in his strong, deft hand and gives you a firm squeeze. 

“Just like that! Ahh—fuck!” You moan, something long and drawn out that scoops from your chest to your head, your pupils blown-out and legs shaking.

“You like it when I fuck you?” He grits through his teeth, “Hmm? You gonna cum on my cock for me?”

He pushes his thumb into your mouth, and you suck it, laving your tongue across the pad and relishing in the metallic tang which lingers there, humming in agreement. It’s all so fucking filthy, and you want more. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he feels you unravel, the gush of your orgasm slicking down his cock. You rock against him, his index finger pressing into your clit to draw out every last bit of pleasure from this pliant little pussy of yours. 

Your hero leans in closer to you, “I’ve cum in my hand so many times thinking of you doing this,” he pants into your ear, “God, you’re so much hotter up close when you get off,”

Head full of cotton and all other thoughts thoroughly fucked out of you, your legs wrap around his waist, caging him in.

“Cum in my pussy,” you mewl, still twitching around him.

His hands grope at your breasts, your hips, your ass, taking greedy grasps of you as if you’ll soon disappear. 

He bucks into you ruthlessly, his face buried into the crook of your neck as he attempts to stifle the needy whines and whimpers that you pull from his throat so effortlessly.

“Nngh, you feel so good. Feels so fucking good, I-I’m gonna.. I'm cumming,” The lilt at the end of his sentence has you clenching him further, milking his cock until rivets of thick, hot release splatter into your walls. 

You’re both gasping, euphoria rippling through your bodies, the pulsing of his cock and the messy, ruined noises he’s making are causing you to see colors flash behind your eyelids. You tremble there below him, quivering with a second climax you hadn’t expected to transpire just from feeling his cum pour into your cunt. 

“Hope you’ve got as much stamina as I do,” he nips at your neck, already hardening once more, “‘Cause I’m not done with you yet,”

Them: Oh, your birthday is coming up! Are you excited for a new milestone?

Me, thinking about what I'm going to be for Halloween in five months:

♡ Kissed By The Baddest Villain ♡

Link To Masterlist

WC: ~3,000

Ch 4: So Kiss Me

It’s been a few weeks since the festival, and although you’ve all spent plenty of time lately putting the newest plans for the League Of Villains into motion, you can’t get the last interactions with Atsuhiro out of your head. Nor can you stop from thinking about how Dabi felt pressed to you, how he let you grab a fistful of his shirt, the way his calloused hands felt on your back. 

If you were being totally honest with yourself, this tension you’ve been feeling—combined with not having any sex at all lately—has you incredibly pent up and sexually frustrated. This is only exacerbated by your own behaviors. You’re not entirely positive why you keep doing this to yourself, but if you see someone eating something you want a bite of (or not), you’ll look at whoever is eating it until they give you some. When the mood so strikes you, you’ll just open your mouth, lean into them, wait for whoever it is to notice and indulge you in what you’re concerned may be some sort of fetish that was unlocked.

Nobody ever denies you. 

Still, though, you’re… well, offended isn’t the right word. You don’t take offense to people not wanting to sleep with you. It’s not like they can control who they’re attracted to. 

But you’re becoming more and more wishful that someone would throw a pity fuck your way. 

Do you really want to be pitiful enough that someone has sex with you, though?

Ugh. No. That would be a huge blow to your self-esteem. You just really want to be wanted. Especially when the guys who could potentially want you are all so cute. It’s got you to the point where you’re about to pounce on whoever so much as looks at you the next time you’re alone with someone. Or so you say to yourself. You’ve literally never made the first move with anyone, and even thinking about it makes you feel queasy, the notion that they could reject you outright nearly bringing you to tears. It’s almost funny. You’ve been punched in the jaw so hard that it clicks when you chew, but you can’t handle the prospect of being turned down. You really are pitiful.

After a good long stretch in your bed, you make your way to the bathroom, rinse your face with cool water to wash away whatever horny spirit has possessed you, then go through your usual morning routine. It was your assumption that you would be facing a packed house when you entered the den, however, you walk in to see only Shigaraki sitting on the couch, hunched over and playing League Of Legends on his phone. He crumples into himself when he hears your footsteps on the old wooden floors.

“Are we the only ones here?” You announce yourself, leaning against the back of the couch to glance at the game on his screen.

“I sent everyone else out to scout for supplies. And for members of the Vanguard Action Squad if they find anyone, too,” Shigaraki mutters as he scratches absentmindedly at his neck.

Scars litter the fragile skin there in varying degrees. Some are white and webbed, shiny in the light of the room like a spider’s silk, while others are still warm rivets of healing tissue. You wonder if the scars that trail across his eye and lips are self-inflicted as well. Wonder if he’ll ever tell you the stories behind them.

“I would’ve gone to help had you asked me to,” you say with the smallest twinge of guilt for sleeping in so late. 

He shifts in his spot, crimson eyes avoiding your own gaze, his mouth formed into a tight line. 

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” 

“I just don’t want you to think that I’m not willing to pull my own weight,” 

You take a seat next to him and his breath hitches. You’ve never been this close to him before. Of course, his plan was for you both to be alone together while the others were tasked with scouring the streets, but he hadn’t expected you to be quite so receptive. Are you as touch starved as he is? No, probably not, he thinks. Everyone is always trying to touch you, feed you, talk to you. It’s as if you’ve become the household pet. The thought that he’s one of these scrubs who fawns for you this way makes him sick to his stomach. It pisses him off how goddamn pretty you are, how sweaty you make his palms, how his mind stalls when you talk to him. You're just so... frustrating.

God, why can't he ever just be normal around you?

“I said don’t worry about it. Some of us need to stay behind in case shit goes sideways,” he explains, peering at you through his mop of blue bangs. 

The glance is fleeting, unable to be held with how his stomach keeps doing flips when he looks into your eyes. 

“That makes sense, boss,” you say this in a way that’s almost teasing, your grin visible in his peripheral.

Oof.

He’s about to lose his shit.

“It’s Tomura,” 

“Mmm. Okay. Well, that makes sense, Tomura,” the way you say his name sends a fleet of shivers across his skin. 

Son of a bitch. He should’ve just let you call him boss. Why did he do this to himself? Hearing you call him by his first name is about to kill him. 

“Mind if I play some music?” You ask, already pulling up the app on your phone.

“I don’t care,” his tone falters a bit with these words. 

You don’t know what’s come over you. Really, you don’t. Maybe you’re ovulating, maybe the exasperation has gnawed at what’s left of your common sense, maybe you just really want to dip your toe in the water. You can’t be certain. All you know is that the song you pick is Kiss Me by Sixpence None The Richer. His facial expression doesn’t change, still flat in affect, eyes only snapping open when the lyrics begin. He nearly dusted his phone upon hearing them.

“Have you ever danced before?” The question is mostly rhetorical. 

You’re pretty aware that he more than likely has not, in fact, danced before. Most villains don’t indulge in those manner of frivolous activities, namely when they have quirks like his. But you don’t mind. You’re used to dangerous quirks, dangerous situations, and dangerous men. 

“Dancing is stupid,” He scoffs. 

It’s his heart that’s being stupid right now, though. It won’t stop beating so hard and fast. Is he coming down with something? This is just a song. A really dumb one at that. There’s no way kissing is so good that someone would sing about it. 

. . .

Probably.

“So you wouldn’t want to dance with me, then?”

He holds a gasp within his mouth.

Are you asking him to dance with you?

Tomura.exe is no longer responding. 

Anticipation blooms in your gut while you wait for him to answer, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. 

“I didn’t say that,” He sets his phone down, eyes owlish and large, anxiously tapping his index finger against his knee. 

If this were anyone else, his answer would be a firm and resounding no. But there’s something about you that makes him repulsively soft and compliant, a weakness he wasn’t aware of previously that he’s not nearly as desperate as he should be to eradicate, a feeling that’s red and raw and alive. And although he hates how easily you have him wrapped around your finger, he doesn’t necessarily want it to stop. This sensation is new, and strange, but oddly pleasant.

Without a word, you smile at him, lifting off of the couch and offering him your hand. He stands on his own instead, refusing to look up from the floor, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Hastily, he pulls a pair of gloves from his pocket, stitched with black leather, and slips them on to cover the last two digits of each hand. 

“Just.. watch where you're touching,” he mumbles, “the gloves could slip or something,”

“I’ll take my chances,” you giggle, grabbing him by the wrists. 

You pull him closer, positioning one gloved hand to your hip, another at your shoulder, and he lifts his pinkies for added security. 

You grin sweetly, eyelashes fluttering, “See? It’s easy,” 

He makes a tiny, choked sound, the noise catching in his throat as the song ends, leading to Fade Into You by Mazzy Star. His pulse is thundering through his veins, echoing in his skull like a war hammer. He’s going to melt with how febrile and balmy he’s become. This is made worse when you stumble over your own foot, lunging forward, your cheek now pressed against his. 

“Sorry,” the apology is somewhat strained, “I’m not the best dancer,”

His staggered breaths can be heard clearly in your ear, tickling your skin, warm and whispy. It makes you realize just how much you long to be held. Having heard no complaints from him, you keen in closer, both of you smoldering in the heat of one another. He swears this pit in his stomach has to be the music. It’s influencing him with all this acoustic guitar strumming.

There’s a shake to his voice when he asks, “Why are we dancing if you’re so damn bad at it?” 

“Because it’s nice to be close like this,” the timbre sits low in your chest.

You run a lock of his hair through your fingers, hands clasped at the base of his neck. He feels like he might be dying. The only other time he’s experienced an adrenaline rush like this is when he’s just gotten the holy hell beat out of him in a fight. It’s making him nervous and stiff. 

You’ve turned in so many circles that you end up with your back flat against the wall, and you chuckle at this, thoroughly amused. He hasn’t registered just yet that it’s time to stop spinning, so he continues the movements until his elbows scrape the wall, eliciting a quiet grunt from him. With a breathy laugh, you pat his arm, and he swallows thickly at the way your eyes sparkle, how they crinkle up with your smile. He feels weird. Like this isn’t really happening to him. It knocks the wind from his lungs, has him squeezing at your waist with eight trembling fingers, biting into your soft flesh, grinding you harder into the wall behind you. Tomura has you inadvertently caged in, his ragged breaths fanning the sensitive junction of your neck, the firm muscle of his thigh pressing at your center as he makes an attempt to steady himself.

And you, unintentionally, from weeks of being pent up, let out a hushed whine when his leg grazes you. Shocks of neon are sent from your core until you’re pressing your thighs together to quell the ache that’s settled there, eyes heavily lidded before they bolt wide at the realization that you’ve practically moaned at this contact. Mortified, you’re overtaken by the crimson heat of embarrassment, cheeks pinched dark and ruddy.

He simply stares in lieu of a response.

You’re sweating bullets, perspiration clinging to your shirt, the heady whimper that spilled from your throat playing on a loop in your head. You wish more than anything that a gigantic meteor would come crashing through the wall and crush you to death. Or hell, even just a pea-sized one, right through the back of your skull. Even if it didn’t kill you it could possibly lobotomize you enough to where you at least don’t care about the cosmic horrors beyond your comprehension that you’ve just brought upon yourself. Sure, Shigaraki would still remember—but you’d be too deceased or brain injured to think about it any more. 

Tomura freezes in place, a deer in the headlights. He has no idea what to do. That sound you just made.. It did something to him. More than what looking at porn does. Somehow, it’s very different having someone up against him, the noise that came from you so genuine, less campy than the ones he’s heard online. He shoves you away as if you’ve scalded him, the memory of the way your eyes bored into his only a minute prior burrowing its way under his skin. 

“What the fuck was that?” He pants, shuffling backwards, hot flushes of panic washing over him.

“I.. I didn’t mean to, i-it just came out, I…” you keep yourself flat against the wall as you attempt to stammer your way out of this.

Your saving grace is the rest of the league slamming open the door to the bar and trudging inside, your Uncle Kagero and a man quite literally bulging with muscles following in tow. 

“We’re back from doing your bidding, Shigaraki,” Dabi states, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tattered pants. 

Mr. Compress tuts at the state of you, “What have you been doing to Yumemi while we’ve been away? She looks frightened,” he coaxes you away from the wall, brushing the loose hair from your clammy face, “You’ve scared her, Shigaraki. Shame on you!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Tomura grits through his teeth, “We were listening to music, and she.. hit the wall, or something, I don’t know. Then she.. there was this noise…” his voice trails off into the ether, and you bury your face in your hands to hide your shame. 

“Oh no! Mimi, did you hit the wall too hard? Is there blood?” Toga’s attitude changes on a dime, licking her lips at the last word as Spinner sets down his much-too-massive sword to check on you. 

“Want me to take a look at it?” He offers with concern in his voice. 

“I’m the one who should be looking at it, I was here when it happened,” Shigaraki counters, his upper lip curled into a scowl. 

“Well I’m the one who actually knows how to repair skin. I should be the one checking her out,” says Dabi as he cracks his knuckles in preparation. 

“Nobody’s checking her out,” Atsuhiro adds curtly, “Unless you’d like me to, Yumemi,”

Everyone is being so kind and caring about your wellbeing. 

Little do they know you’re just fucking disgusting. 

Guilt curls in your belly, hot tears threatening to spill out onto your cheeks, stinging at the corners of your eyes.

Giran crests the entryway, lit cigarette casting a trail of smoke through the room as he tells the group, “I’ve seen Yumemi take a Glock to the head. She’s fine. Just a brat,” he tousles your hair like you’re still a snot-nosed toddler, then points to the hulking blonde beside him, “Brought you guys someone for your action squad. He’s got a hell of a quirk. Muscles that just keep regenerating, super strength, ability to manipulate said muscles. You interested?”

“They call me Muscular,” the man interjects, his voice booming over the rest. 

No shit, you think to yourself. But judging by the ratio of chest to skull you’re assuming wordplay isn’t exactly his strong suit. 

“We could use a strength quirk,” Shigaraki says, “And really anyone who’s able to follow directions,”

“You got it, boss. I’m able to knock any heads you need me to,”

The room disperses for the league to discuss the VAS plans further, your uncle pocketing his fee and slipping what he owes you into your pocket as he takes his leave. 

“You good?” He asks, voice low enough to be concealed. 

“Yeah.. I’m fine, I just… I hit the wall,” you toe the floor with the tip of your shoe as you speak.

“Well, call if you need me. I may not be your favorite uncle, but I’m here,”

“Quit fishing for compliments, old man. You know you’re my favorite uncle,” you pause to think for a few beats, “Actually, you’re my only uncle,”

His eyes widen, “Did something happen to Tom?”

“I mean, he’s alive, just dead to us. Did nobody tell you aunt Linda divorced his cheating ass?”

“He cheated on Linda?” His voice kicks up with his question, “Who the hell would cheat on Linda?"

“Yeah, well, she’s single now. Want her number?”

“Yumemi, she lives in New York. When would I even see her?” He leans against the doorframe as he speaks, puffing on his unfiltered cigarette. 

“She comes to visit a few times a year. Enough times for you to get yourself some Uncle Strange, at least,” you jest with him, and he sucks in a breath until his cherry burns to a nub. 

You laugh as he exits without so much as a goodbye, waving you off, muttering something to himself about how your parents raised such a weirdo. Now that you’re alone, Muscular glances down at you as if you’re a little mouse in his path. You know that look. You don’t much care for it, either. The guilt you felt mere moments prior has fled your gut, replaced instead by a nefarious lurching, a general sense of unease. 

“Pleased to meet you, sweetheart,” he extends his hand to you, massive and meaty, which you take to your chagrin. 

Time to bring back that polite and professional facade.

“Please, call me Nyx,” you introduce yourself.

“I heard someone call you Yumemi earlier. That your name? It’s real pretty,”

You shiver, frozen in place, your eyes mapping out every single safe person in the room. In no world are you ever sexually frustrated enough to put yourself in harm’s way with a man like this. 

“I go by Nyx professionally,” your explanation is held someplace behind your teeth as you fix your gaze to the floor. 

“Got pretty eyes, too. Lemme just—“ he captures your chin with his index finger and forces you to look up at him, “There we go. Yeah, you’re cute. You got a room here?”

Shit.

You don’t know his real name, you don’t have a weapon, everyone is distracted, and he is fucking huge. Even with your instincts telling you to run, you can’t make yourself flee. Too many things could go wrong. This guy is strong to the point that he could break your arm if you so much as struggled to get away from him. Your eyes dart to your cohorts. They’re huddled together, voices low, distracted. 

“N-no, thank you, I’d prefer to stay out here. They might need to speak with me about the plans,” there’s a shake in your voice that you try to conceal from him, but to no avail. You seem small and afraid.

“Doesn’t look like they need you,” Muscular coos, pulling you close to him by your waist. 

You let out a squeal, and he shushes you, pinching your cheeks until your lips form a pout. With hands that are dwarfed against his body, you smack at him, grunting, attempting in vain to escape from his clutches. 

“That’s cute,” he chuckles darkly, “C’mere, tiny thing,”

He picks you up like you’re absolutely nothing, pressing his lips to your own in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. He tastes like beer, tongue snaking past your lips to swipe at your own. Tears make tracks down your cheeks as you manage to part from him just enough to cry out.

“Mmf—Stop it!” You smack him across the face, a red welt left in the wake of your hand. 

“Just take it, bitch!” He hurls insults at you, calls you ungrateful, and you shriek as he lifts at your top. 

In the blink of an eye, Tomura is prying you from Muscular’s vice-like grip. The league has sprung into action, each member an equal degree of furious. Dabi’s hands blaze blue and hot, Mr. Compress preparing a few teal beads betwixt his fingers, Toga wielding a knife and bearing her teeth. Twice creates two doubles of himself to aid Tomura in holding Muscular back, and though they’re not half of the brawny man’s size, they hold their own well as Tomura lands a four-fingered grip around Muscular’s wrist.

“Listen here, bitch,” Shigaraki passes you to Spinner, who brandishes twin swords, crossing them in front of you so that he can hold you firmly to his chest, “We paid good money for you, so you’re going to use your quirk for our cause. You’re gonna go help out the Vanguard Action Squad and fuck up all those little hero brats because that’s the transaction we agreed to. But I swear, you will meet your demise by my hand should I see you so much as breathe near her again,” he clamps his hand harder, tapping his pinky finger, carmine eyes shining, “Do you fucking understand me?”

Muscular grits his teeth so hard you can hear them grinding, nodding his head, infuriated that he’s been bested by a twerp like Shigaraki. 

“Answer me, or I’ll dust you right where you stand,” Tomura’s voice is low and gravelly, tight with contempt, raw. Oh, how he’s itching to destroy him.

Muscular sucks at his teeth before he relents, “I understand,”

“So you have a brain after all,” Tomura releases him, “Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind,”

Before Muscular can process a response, Kurogiri warps him through a portal he’s opened up from the floor, and you delight in the screams that are pulled from his throat during his descent. 

“The nerve’a that fucker,” Spinner speaks into the crown of your head, “Can’t believe he would do something like that right in front of us,”

“I’m sorry I didn’t take care of myself,” you say to the room, locking eyes with Spinner, who sheaths his swords.

His heart flutters in his chest, accompanied by an ache over what’s just transpired. 

“It’s not your fault, Yumemi,” he tells you softly as he cards a hand through his magenta hair.

“He took you offgaurd in the comfort of your own dwelling. It was a dirty trick,” Mr. Compress adds on, patting your shoulder. 

Twice and his duplicates comfort you at either side, praising you for doing your best—then calling you a coward, which you elect to ignore in favor of his previous statement. 

“We should’ve been more attentive,” Shigaraki rasps, “It’s on us, not you,”

Dabi growls, prying you away for himself, “Why don’t you just stick with me from now on? I’ll make sure nothing like that ever happens again,”

Toga giggles, “Let’s go find Muscular and stab him to death in his sleep. That way, he can’t do this again ever, ‘cause he’ll be dead!” 

“That’s a better plan than having her tagging along with Dabi,” Spinner huffs.

“And what would you do to protect her, call Master Splinter? She’s safer with me than she is with any of you idiots,” Dabi bites back, heating up against your skin. 

You let out an exhausted sigh, strangely comforted by their bickering.

Mr. Compress opens a container of strawberry Pocky, removing his mask to make direct eye contact with you, the knot at your center tightening. You open your mouth, sounding off with a little “ah” to signal what you want from him. He asserts his dominance amongst the others by placing the biscuit onto your tongue. The rest grumble with discontent as you chew, blushing, eyes soft and warm. 

Yeah. 

You’re back on your bullshit already.

♡ Kissed By The Baddest Villain ♡

Link To Masterlist

WC: ~3,000

CW: dirty talk, heavy petting, fem dom. Proof read but no beta.

Ch 5: Practice Makes Perfect

Today is different than most days, in that you and one other individual have been tasked with pulling the information out of a couple of guards who may have overheard a conversation about UA high school. One person is to come with you for your own protection, the “muscle” so to speak, while the others hang back at the hideout. You get why they need only two people for this mission. Sending in the entire league would be messy, difficult to coordinate, and would more than likely blow your cover due to the lack of stealth involved. There isn’t much of a reason for them to muddle things up that way when Kurogiri can warp them to your location at the drop of a hat. That part is no mystery to you. 

What you don’t understand is why you’ve entered the den to see everyone drawing straws over who had to escort you to the location. 

“Looks like you’re comin’ with me today, doll face,” Dabi’s voice trails hotly through his teeth as he shows you the short straw he’s drawn. 

The others are all quiet, tempering their pissy attitudes, which you mistake for their relief that they don’t have to babysit the weakest link in the League Of Villains chain. It’s not lost on you that you don’t offer much in the way of capabilities compared to the others. Sure, your quirk is useful, and you have many positive attributes which you’ve cultivated throughout your entire life spent in villainy—however, you’re aware that you aren’t super agile, or strong, or even particularly able to defend yourself outside of who you’re using your quirk on. And now Dabi has, quite literally, drawn the short straw and must perform as your defense himself. How humiliating.

Dabi flips his middle finger at everyone behind his back as you two walk out the door. 

He gets to spend essentially the entire day with you now. 

Fortunately, the pair of you are stealthy enough that the guards don’t hear you coming. You aren’t what you would consider to be a graceful person, nor are you particularly light on your feet, but you know how to avoid getting caught. You’ve seen too many others get their asses handed to them making even the faintest of noises trying to get to your parents, so you’re aware of what to listen for, where to position your feet, what to avoid. This makes it so easy to sneak up on these two that it’s almost laughable. They’ve been left out here like sitting ducks. 

Your quirk only works on one person at a time, so Dabi handles the larger of the guards as you work on his counterpart. First thing he mentions is his Grandma. Yeesh. It feels kind of fucked up to do him this way, but he’s not cracking in dreamland, so you’re going to have to use dear old granny as leverage. It takes over an hour for him to finally relent, but it does eventually do the trick. You almost want to say sorry for the things you made him see. Grandma’s melting eyeballs don’t exactly just leave your thoughts once they’ve been shown to you. 

Regardless, you got the information you needed. UA is planning a training camp for the upcoming season when the new recruits are in. That’s plenty of time to get the Vanguard Action Squad together and even more time to plan. The others will be pleased with what you’re bringing back for them. 

“Think Shigaraki will be happy with what we were able to get from those guys?” Your attempt at smalltalk appears to be falling flat as Dabi rolls his eyes. 

“Dunno,” his timbre is smoky and low, “Don’t really care, either,”

He comes closer to you as your footsteps echo throughout the alley, warmth radiating from him to an alarming degree. There’s always heat coming off of him, but this time, he’s absolutely sweltering, leaving scorch marks in his wake. It’s concerning to say the least. 

“You seem warmer than usual,” you say, slowing your pace.

“I just watched you make some motherfucker see his grandma burning in hell and you’re worried about me being warm?” He replies sardonically.

Your gate pauses, brows flexed.

“I'm serious. I can feel you from all the way over here. Did you get hurt?” You ask him, searching his form for any obvious signs of damage. 

He looks to the side opposite of you, pale skin becoming flushed, “No more than usual,”

You grab his hand, leaning against an old brick building to examine the areas most affected by his flames. The touch feels something akin to sensual, your fingers tracing over the lines of his palm, eyes narrowed in concentration as your lips part to reveal the smallest click of your tongue. He taps his foot anxiously, tugging slightly to encourage you to drop his hand. This touch is too much. Too much, and not enough. 

“Quit worrying about me. It’s nothing. My hands just get kinda hot when I use my quirk for too long, and that guy was a fighter,” 

“You have blisters here. I saw you touch the pavement you’d heated up, so I figured something like this would happen,” your brows pinch, “We should really run some cool water over them. It’ll help,”

“Psh. That won’t do shit, doll. Might as well kiss it better if all you’re gonna do is ru—“

The words catch in his throat as you lift his hand to your mouth, pressing a soft peck to the center of his palm. You smile up at him as if you’ve done something simple, mundane, like you changed a coffee filter so he wouldn’t have to. 

“Better?”

He can feel the entire world coming to a screeching halt. His eyes are so wide you’re worried they may be about to pop out of their sockets entirely, his whole body bristling, voice faltering in choked stutters before any syllables can string together into a coherent thought. After several seconds of regaining his composure, he jerks his hand away from you, stuffing it into his pocket, the healthy skin of his cheeks bright pink. 

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just go,” he murmurs under his breath. 

Fuck. He’s such an idiot. Why didn’t he kiss your hand back or something? Why can’t his heart calm down enough to sweep you off of your feet? Now you’re both heading back to the bar where all of those other puds are going to fumble over your attention just like he is right now. 

One day they won’t, though. 

One day, someone is going to grow a set of balls, and ask you out. 

Dabi’s eyes linger along your body, taking in the curve of your waist, the way you look in those leggings you’ve poured yourself into. Goddamn. If a member of the league doesn’t ask you out, someone on the street sure as hell will. 

“Hey. Yumemi,” his voice cuts into the air, dense and ice-cold, a stark counter to his raging heat. 

“Hmm?” You turn to look at him. 

Your hair is all caught up in the wind, eyes hazy and aglow, like moonlight coming gauzy through the treetops. 

“Don’t dress like this again,”

His command has you taken aback, a gasp caught behind your lips, the small bubble of air clinging to the roof of your mouth. 

“And why is that?” You cross your arms as you question him. 

He watches the way your hip pops out when you become irritated, your attempts to thwart his comment only adding to how adorable you look. Your lips are pursed and nudged to one side, brows lifted in annoyance, one leg jutted out to keep him from walking any further in front of you. Dabi averts his gaze, cutting his eyes to the ground to keep from letting your irises burn holes into his own.

“C’mon. Don’t make me say it,” he swallows the lump in his throat. 

Just tell her she looks good. 

Just tell her she looks good. 

Just tell her she looks good.

“You… I don’t like when you’re dressed like that,”

Sweet Mary mother of my ass, why is that what came out?

You scoff, “You sound like my father. I’ll tell you the same thing I tell him—get over it,”

The rest of the trip home is silent, aside from the arsenal of screams running through Dabi’s head.

When you arrive back at the bar, you’re immediately slinking into your room, giving a polite wave to the rest of the group. Toga follows suit, grinning at Dabi on the way. 

“What did he do?” She asks, taking a seat next to you on the bed. 

“He told me he doesn’t like when I’m dressed like this,” you sigh deeply, “Straight up told me not to dress like this again. Can you fucking believe that, Toga?”

Her smile bears the points of her fangs when she says, “I can believe it,”

“I just… I don’t understand,” you fall back, exasperated, “I’ve actually asked them if they dislike me, and they’ve said that they don’t. Then they do things like this. They tell me they don’t like how I dress, or jump away if I show any sort of even friendly affection, and they’re constantly fighting any time I’m around. I think they’re just trying to spare my feelings or something,”

Toga smoothes the pleats of her skirt, tossing around the dichotomy she’s faced with: the internal struggle within her of whether or not to let you in on the secret game she’s been playing. Fortunately for you, she can’t keep a secret to save her life, even if said secret is partially her own. It’s a truth she knows for gospel. She’d might as well share it.

“Mimi, listen. They’re my best friends. I know them better than I know anyone else. But since you’re my best friend, too, I’m gonna be real honest with you,” she exhales sharply, eyes glinting, the steel in her gaze enough to cut you open, “They wanna bang you and don’t know what to do with themselves,”

“W-what?!” Your voice squeaks, startled to the bone, and you nearly jump from the bed in response.

“Mhm,” her voice ticks up at the end of her phrase, “Half of them have never even kissed a girl and I bet none of them have had any relationships at all. I bet Dabi hasn’t even had sex before. I know Spinner and Shigaraki haven’t. I asked once and they got all defensive. But they’ve all been after you since day one. I’ve been watching it all from the sidelines. I’m surprised that I kept it to myself for this long, I usually can’t,” She rolls around on your bed in a fit of giggles with the way that your expression gives way from confusion to shock. 

You smear your face with both hands.

“So what are you gonna do?” Her voice is laced with something heavy and eager as she leans in to inspect your face more closely.

“I.. I don’t know. I’ve never been in this situation before,”

“You could always make them make the decision for you,” 

“Meaning…?”

Toga balls her fists and places them at her chest, closing her eyes, “If it were me, and this were Izuku and Ochaco, I would jump all over them. We’d all kiss and cuddle and do other relationship things,” golden eyes flicker open, “But you have something I don’t,”

“I do?” Your face screws up with the question.

She nods her head, “Subtlety,”

“Subtlety.. Hmm… Oh,” your eyes snap wide, “subtlety,” 

Alright. Yeah. You can be subtle.

You’re nervous when entering the den, Toga grinning broadly behind you, her mouth stretched impossibly taut across her face. The butterflies are overtaking your belly when she skips over to the couch, leaving you to your own devices. You make your way to the kitchen for a much-needed glass of water, desperate to ease your nerves after the news you’ve just received. It’s a small room sequestered in the back of the bar with little in the way of appliances, snug, hardly a facility at all. The oven is half the size of what you’re used to and the refrigerator is so minuscule that it sits atop the counter, which Mr. Compress is leaning against, his mask already removed to eat an onigiri.

“My, Yumemi, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” he tells you between bites. 

“Sorry, I just.. uh…” you think back to what Toga told you a few minutes prior, wrangling in some confidence as you join him at the counter, “Dabi said something to me earlier,”

“Of course he did,” Atsuhiro scoffs.

He pats your hand, the scarlet of his glove the same as the heat festering within you.

You swallow hard.

“Yeah. He said he doesn’t like the way I dress,”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,”

You look at him through your lashes, “Do you like the way I dress?”

He stiffens—in more ways than one—at the husky tone your voice has taken.

Time stretches on, the tight quarters closing in, stirring you up even more.

“I.. I think you always dress quite well,” he says after several heartbeats, and you hum to yourself, pleased with the red hue of his face. 

With a quick glance over his entirety, and a note to yourself at how well his figure is cut in his attire, you open your mouth, lolling your tongue out to receive some of his food. He knows the drill by now. Knows that his compliance has always been appreciated but not required. However, tonight, it feels like much more of a demand. It feels as though he’s the subservient role this time. 

Atsuhiro pinches the pickled plum from his onigiri between his thumb and index finger, and instead of allowing him to drop it into your mouth, you lick it from his fingertips. His breath hitches at the back of his throat. What is happening? You’ve always been so ingenue, and now you’re sucking at his fingers? 

You are absolutely beyond enjoying this. You release his fingers with a pop, and he grips the counter with both hands, eyes wide and near-frantic. Toga was right. They don’t know what to do.

“Anything else you wanna feed me while we’re in here?” The look you give him borders on smug. 

You fucking love how flustered he is right now. 

God, you should’ve tried this weeks ago. 

“L-like what?” The question shakes from him like a branch in the wind. 

You lean into him, a surreptitious flicker in your gaze, “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Let me know when you do,”

Atsuhiro lets out a jumble of sounds not too dissimilar from a sentence as he crumples further against the countertop. It isn't terribly often that he's left without words. In fact, he could count on one hand how many times that's been the case. But never has it taken him quite so offgaurd. This encounter has been intense.

You saunter out of the kitchen, leaving him there, wide-eyed and sweaty. 

Holy shit. 

Holy fucking shit. 

That felt… really good. 

————

You can’t sleep for the rest of the night. You’re too pent up, too high off of the experience from earlier. The way he looked at you, the wilderness in his eyes, the way the perspiration dotted his brow—it’s too much for you to handle. You can’t quiet your mind enough to rest. So here you are, watching TV in the dead of night, pleading with the universe for more. The rest of the league is, to your knowledge, asleep. But the universe has heard your plea. Spinner emerges from his room, somewhat shocked to see you still up and about. 

“O-oh, Yumemi, hey. Are you having trouble sleeping, too?” He stammers, voice strained. 

“Yeah,” you pat the spot next to you on the couch, “Care to keep me company?”

Spinner shuffles in his place, then nods gently, forgoing whatever had initially led him into the den to sit with you. He keeps himself pressed to the farthest side, sunk into the crux of the arm, hands clasped together and knee bouncing, anxiety seeping from his every pore. 

“What, uh.. What’re you watchin’?” The words don’t come naturally to him, the stress apparent in his tone. 

“Mmm, nothing too interesting. I’d rather talk to be honest,” 

“To me?”

“If that’s okay,”

“Y-yeah, of course, I just… uhm, what did ya wanna talk about?”

“Well, Toga said something really interesting to me earlier,” you scoot closer to him, and he tenses, his stomach folding in on itself. 

His throat bobs with his swallow, “She did?”

“Mhm. She said you’ve never kissed anyone before,”

“What?! Fuck, Toga—“

“Is it true?”

From Spinner’s neck to his face washes in a pretty shade of pink, “I mean..” His eyes dart around the room before he relents, “Y-yeah. I guess so,”

“You could practice on me if you wanted,”

The room falls silent aside from the thumping of his heart, pulse in his hands, his mind scrambling to regain sentience.

“This.. This is… D-did Dabi put you up to this?” He cannot fathom a world in which this is an actual offer. 

From you. 

“No,” you say softly, placing a hand on his bicep, the twitching of his muscles able to be felt through his hoodie, “I just thought that, y’know, maybe you wanted to kiss me. For practice. It doesn’t have to be anything serious,”

“I h-haven’t ever—I—well, I-I don’t—“

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want me to be your first kiss,” in spite of feeling somewhat dejected, you understand if this isn’t how he wants his first encounter with a woman to go. Maybe he wants his first kiss to be more meaningful than what you’re offering him right now.

“It’s not that!” He jolts, “I just.. I won’t be very good at it if.. i-if we do,”

So Toga hadn’t steered you wrong. 

It really is all of them that are interested.

You giggle, “That’s why it’s practice,”

Spinner attempts to muffle a yelp as you climb atop him, straddling his waist, plush thighs caging him in. 

“Ready?” You ask him, patting his cheek.

He shakes fiercely enough that he can feel his bones rattling, barely able to finish nodding before you close the space between the two of you entirely, and he lets out a little grunt in surprise with the way that your body slots against him. You ghost your lips across his, plant your hands onto his heaving chest, his heart beating so harshly you can feel it beneath your palms. Gently, you lave your tongue into his mouth, careful not to overstimulate him. A curse leaves him as you part to see the look on his face, and you’re glad you’ve done so. His eyes are heavy, glassy, almost pained that you’ve separated from him this soon. He licks his lips, tasting what’s left of you, his breaths shallow, quick and noisy as a camera’s shutter. 

He’s a fucking mess. 

For the first time, you can sense the prowess of your sexuality coursing through you, neurotoxic, electrifying. 

“Are you finished, or do you think you need more practice?” You catch your bottom lip between your teeth, run your fingertips down his neck in featherlight strokes. 

“More,” he gasps, “I n-need more practice,”

Satisfied with his answer, you press your mouths into a deeper kiss, one that’s hungry, heavy, hot. Naturally, he lets you take the lead. You devour the opportunity with great rapture. He moans into your mouth softly, tentatively, as if he’s struggling to keep these sounds from gushing out of him. It’s cute. Especially when he hovers two shaking hands above your hips. 

“Touch me. Let me hear you. It’s all part of the experience when you kiss like this,” you whisper into the corner of his mouth. 

“Okay, I’ll—ahh—“ his voice cuts into a groan when you lower yourself further onto his lap, and his hands instinctually grip your waist, claws pricking at the skin on either side. 

“See?” You grind up and down the straining length that throbs in his sweatpants, “Doesn’t that feel better, Spinner?”

He tosses his head back onto the couch, his hair mussed behind him, and ruts into you in sloppy, inexperienced movements. 

“Can.. Can you call me Shuuichi?” The words come out so faint that they’re barely audible. 

You grin, grazing the length of his cock so that it rubs your aching clit, and he chokes on a whine that tumbles from his throat. 

“Does it feel better, Shuuichi?”

He melts at the sound of his name, eyes fluttering, brow tilted up into an expression that can only be described as euphoric. All he’s able to muster up is yet another nod of his head, barely holding on to the ever growing tension that’s building within his core. You’ve become incredibly aware of how close he is to cumming in his pants, so you ease the heavy petting, focusing more on the tangle of teeth and tongue that your kiss has evolved into. You nip at his lower lip, eliciting something between a growl and a groan from him. 

Spinner is already almost there. He’s right on the edge, panting, whimpering, cock pulsing against the pressure betwixt your thighs as he trembles and grips your hips fervently. You have a few options. You could let him cum in his pants, watch him unravel here underneath you. Then there’s the next selection of you escalating things, riding him outright, maybe sucking him off. He feels big through his clothes, and though you’re sure he wouldn’t last long, you’re pretty positive he would be a good fuck. 

Or…

“Well, Shuuichi,” you part from him with a wet smack of your lips, plopping back onto the cushion opposite to him once more, “That’s what kissing is like,”

He clutches his still-heaving chest, hair thoroughly ruffled, his currant eyes half-lidded and glazed with desire. 

His mind having been properly disconnected from his body, he asks, “Could we practice more?”

With great difficulty, you stifle a snicker, catch it in your mouth before it can touch the air around you. He really wants you. It was so easy to get him there, so fucking hot to see how pent up you can make him. You want to fuck him. You really do. 

But you want to play with him a little more before you get there.

“Another time. We’ll practice more later. I think I’m gonna go to bed right now, though. Night, Shuuichi,” you say this as nonchalant as you can, traipsing to your room, listening intently at the way he exhales slowly and deeply to calm himself as you exit.

You really like the art of subtlety.

Just read your hound dog fic and God DAMN! It is so good (presentation Michael when my hands find your neck)

Aahhh a fellow hound dog stan!!! Thank you anon for also wanting that dawg in you 🙏 Mic's just got such shit disturber energy, he has to fulfill that primal need to scream

This hit home, and I think it will resonate hard with all my creative friends, here. You are amazing and brilliant and I BEG YOU to keep creating!! ❤️❤️❤️

𝖂𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖘𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖑𝖞?

𝕿𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖆 𝕭𝖎𝖙𝖊

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